The Scorpion's Gate (16 page)
Across 7th Avenue, a civilian-looking couple kissed on the sidewalk. They were actually both master sergeants assigned to a littleknown unit from Fort Belvoir in northern Virginia, the 504th Counterintelligence Battalion.
Upper Pepper Street
Cape Town, South Africa
“
W
ell, I can see why they call it Table Mountain—it’s flatter than a flounder,” Brian Douglas mused aloud, looking out the top-floor window and stretching after the long flight from London. “Magnificently beautiful city.”
W
ell, I can see why they call it Table Mountain—it’s flatter than a flounder,” Brian Douglas mused aloud, looking out the top-floor window and stretching after the long flight from London. “Magnificently beautiful city.”
“That’s why I love this location, it has such a nice view,” Jeannie
Enbemeena replied as she came back into the room with a handful of papers. She was a thirty-something, short, and highly attractive black woman from Natal who had been with SIS for six years. For two years she had been running the small South Africa regional services and support office for British intelligence, out of a Cape Town property with no obvious connection to the embassy in Johannesburg. “Never been here before, Mr. Douglas?”
Enbemeena replied as she came back into the room with a handful of papers. She was a thirty-something, short, and highly attractive black woman from Natal who had been with SIS for six years. For two years she had been running the small South Africa regional services and support office for British intelligence, out of a Cape Town property with no obvious connection to the embassy in Johannesburg. “Never been here before, Mr. Douglas?”
“First time. I’m an Arabist, you know,” he said, taking the false documents that Jeannie handed him. “What do you do, Ms. Enbemeena, may I ask, when you are not creating legends and playing hostess for wandering Arabists?”
“I keep an eye on the Malay mosque down the street. We’ve tied some of the regulars there to an al Qaeda spin-off that was plotting to blow things up in KL and Singapore. The lot here did a small bombing spree two years ago at the American Express and Barclays”—she smiled—“but I went to school in Durban, and our boys there did a good job on your papers and back story. I would believe it. You are now Simon Manley, recently in the fruit-and-nut business and seeking a reliable and cheap source of pistachios. Where else but Iran, pistachio capital of the world?”
“And how does Simon the nutter get from here to there?” Brian chuckled.
“We fly you to just outside Durban on an air taxi we own, no questions asked. Then you will be driven to the main Durban airport, where you catch the once-a-week flight on Emirates to Dubai, have a two-hour layover in the duty-free, and then Iran Air to Tehran, where Marty Bowers meets you on the other side of Customs,” Jeannie said, reading from her notes.
“Marty who? Meets me? I am operating solo on this—no one from the Tehran station is even to know I’m in country!” Brian exploded at her.
“Cease fire!” she shot back. “Jesus, mate, don’t kill the waitress for the chef ’s faux pas. London told us to send someone from Durban base who could be part of your cover story, to be there just in case, precisely because you won’t be going into the embassy or seeing any one of the boys and girls who work at the station there. “Marty Bowers’s regular cover is that he runs an import warehouse in Durban. We’ve made him one of the investors and partners in Manley Fruits and Nuts. He will not get in your hair at all. He’ll probably spend most of his time as a tourist. London orders.” Her smile returned.
“London.” Brian Douglas sighed. “Only London could come up with Manley Fruits and Nuts, the perfect oxymoron. Is Simon Manley’s passport and picture in the South African government’s database?”
“Of course, we have hacked all of their databases and inserted your life story. Now, then, Simon Manley, you are bald with a monk’s collar of gray hair and you have brown eyes and glasses,” Jeannie said, walking into the next room. “So if you will follow me, Mr. Manley...”
Two hours later, the full head of sandy hair was gone, the newly exposed scalp was tanned, the blue eyes had become brown, with tortoiseshell frames for the glasses, and slight bits of flesh-colored material had been attached to the nose and ears with a powerful epoxy resin glue. When Brian Douglas emerged from the back room where the disguise technician had worked wonders, Jeannie Enbemeena was startled. “Goodness, why it truly is Simon the nutter,” she said. “I don’t have a need to know, but may I ask why we had to do all of this to you? You were, if I may say so, a rather goodlooking man.”
“You’re right. About the part that you don’t have a need to know,” Brian said while rubbing his suddenly bald head. “But there is some chance that Tehran has my face on file, and with the new facematching software that’s commercially available, they just might figure out who I really am before I depart. That would be bad for the nuts, in more ways than one.”
7FEBRUARY 11
U.S. Navy Base
ASU—Bahrain
“
T
hat’s the LNG tanker over there, Mr. MacIntyre. The Japanese are flying in a new crew and hiring some heavy-duty tugs to pull her out. That’s pretty shallow water where she ended up.” Captain John Hardy, NAVCENT J-2, was talking into the headset mike and pointing at the LNG
Jamal
as the Osprey, the Navy’s V-22 tiltrotor, lifted off from the ASU helipad. The two enormous rotor were facing straight up, making the aircraft operate like a helicopter. It moved out over the water, shuddering as it transitioned from helo to aircraft, the giant rotors turning 90 degrees to a horizontal position. “The Pentagon tried to kill the Osprey program so often they ought to have renamed it the Phoenix,” Hardy joked, “but don’t worry, we’ve had thousands of hours of successful operations now and only six or eight crashes.”
T
hat’s the LNG tanker over there, Mr. MacIntyre. The Japanese are flying in a new crew and hiring some heavy-duty tugs to pull her out. That’s pretty shallow water where she ended up.” Captain John Hardy, NAVCENT J-2, was talking into the headset mike and pointing at the LNG
Jamal
as the Osprey, the Navy’s V-22 tiltrotor, lifted off from the ASU helipad. The two enormous rotor were facing straight up, making the aircraft operate like a helicopter. It moved out over the water, shuddering as it transitioned from helo to aircraft, the giant rotors turning 90 degrees to a horizontal position. “The Pentagon tried to kill the Osprey program so often they ought to have renamed it the Phoenix,” Hardy joked, “but don’t worry, we’ve had thousands of hours of successful operations now and only six or eight crashes.”
“This is one hell of a windshield tour, Captain. Many thanks.”
“Well, the admiral said you come highly recommended, Mr. MacIntyre, and he said to tell you he was sorry he couldn’t be here when you arrived. He left you this personal note. I think it says he wants to see you when he gets back from CONUS, if you can wait around a couple days.”
The Osprey circled around the LNG. “She looks very well guarded,” Rusty MacIntyre said, hitting his push-to-talk button, which was dangling on the cord below his helmet.
“She is. Two Bahraini patrol boats and three of ours, plus divers, plus helos, plus a Bahraini army detachment on the shoreside approach. We’re not taking any chances. She’s still loaded with frozen gas.” Hardy seemed to shake as he mentioned the gas. “If they had blown her, the fireball would have taken out most of the base.”
“So who were ‘they,’ Captain? I’ve heard a few different theories,” Rusty said as the Osprey flew over the line of U.S. ships tied up at the dock below.
“The SEALs captured some of the terrorists alive. They were Iraqis, apparently seeking belated revenge for the U.S. occupation. Anyway, that’s what the Pentagon thinks,” Hardy replied carefully.
“But I hear they were Shiites, so they weren’t likely to be retaliating for Fallujah. Possibly working for the secret police, the new Iraqi Muhabarat?” Rusty suggested.
“Could be,” the captain said, looking over his sunglasses, which had slipped down his nose. “That’s what my source believes, the one who tipped me to the terrorist attack. She says it was definitely not Islamyah. In fact, she says it was Islamyah that
told
her about the attack. All I know is, the guys we caught were Iraqis.”
told
her about the attack. All I know is, the guys we caught were Iraqis.”
“Iraqi Muhabarat, which is under the tutelage of the Iranian Revolutionary Guard and its Qods Force . . .” MacIntyre said, looking down on the LNG tanker, now directly below the helo.
“Like I said, Mr. MacIntyre, could be, but the Pentagon thinks that they are Iraqis related to al Qaeda, related to Islamyah, even if you and I know there
are
no Shiites in al Qaeda of Iraq.” Hardy pushed his sunglasses back up.
are
no Shiites in al Qaeda of Iraq.” Hardy pushed his sunglasses back up.
MacIntyre looked straight at his tour guide. “Whoever it was, I suspect they will try again. Are you planning any new security measures?”
“Of course,” Hardy said, smiling. “We are also planning to put most of the force to sea soon for a major exercise. With the base pretty empty, they may hold off for a while.”
“Yeah, Bright Star, coming up this month,” MacIntyre said, letting the Navy intelligence officer know that he was privy to the plan. “Doesn’t it seem a little unusual to strip the Gulf of assets for an exercise in the Red Sea, especially if it’s the Iranians who are stirring things up here?”
“Above my pay grade, sir. Or, at least not my area of specialization,” Captain Hardy answered as the Osprey got up speed and headed out into the Gulf. Hardy stared out the side window of the V-22. “On the other hand, that ship out there in the haze is my area of specialization. She’s the
Zagros,
the Iranian navy’s big destroyer, Sovremenny II–class, made in Petersburg. Rigged out with antiship and antiair missiles, and all sorts of listening devices.” Hardy handed the pair of 7×35 binoculars to MacIntyre.
Zagros,
the Iranian navy’s big destroyer, Sovremenny II–class, made in Petersburg. Rigged out with antiship and antiair missiles, and all sorts of listening devices.” Hardy handed the pair of 7×35 binoculars to MacIntyre.
“That is a big ship,” MacIntyre said, focusing the glasses. “What’s she doing so close to Bahrain?”
“My educated guess is that she’s monitoring our communications, visually checking out the movement of our ships as they come out of port, and probably putting a few divers over the side with undersea sleds to check out the coast. Our SEALs chased a few away last week.”
“Checking out the Bahraini coast, Captain, underwater? Now, why would they be doing that, do you suppose?” MacIntyre asked, handing back the glasses.
“I hear we got SEAL Team Six doing the same thing over in the Red Sea for Bright Star. It’s what you do before you conduct amphibious landings. Make sure there’s nothing underwater that will hang up your landing craft.”
“The Iranians got any landing craft?” MacIntyre asked casually as the Osprey flew down the side of the
Zagros
and Iranian sailors on deck waved up at the funny-looking U.S. aircraft.
Zagros
and Iranian sailors on deck waved up at the funny-looking U.S. aircraft.
“Shitload of them. Karbala-class LSTs, homemade. Hovercraft. Semisubmersible gunboats. You name it.” Hardy smiled at MacIntyre. “They exercised all of them at once a few months back, successfully invading themselves. Their landings in Iran were unopposed.”
“So you’re saying they’re planning for landings in Bahrain? Any idea when?” Macintyre asked.
“I do intelligence, Mr. MacIntyre. That means I do capabilities, not intentions. Everybody wants Intelligence to be fortunetellers, but that’s not our job. But in terms of their capabilities, I’d say they should be at maximum readiness in a week or two.” Hardy let his words hang for a minute and then added, “But I don’t know what they have in their sights, sir.” The V-22 banked and headed toward the Qatari shoreline. “Off to our left is the world’s largest source of liquid natural gas, Qatar, also home to U.S. Central Command’s forward headquarters. It’s a lot more valuable than Bahrain, but who knows, the Iranians may just be doing a drill, just like us.”
Rooftop Restaurant
The Ritz-Carlton Hotel
Manama, Bahrain
“
M
s. Delmarco? Rusty MacIntyre. Sorry to be late,” he said, holding out his hand. “I was getting a little aerial sightseeing tour and kind of lost track of time.”
M
s. Delmarco? Rusty MacIntyre. Sorry to be late,” he said, holding out his hand. “I was getting a little aerial sightseeing tour and kind of lost track of time.”
Kate was waiting at the bar. “That’s all right,” she said, closing a book. “It gave me a chance to finish. Here, you might want to read it,
The World at Night,
by Alan Furst. All of his books are about Europe in the late 1930s, about how average people, little people, know that a war is coming but they can’t do anything about it. They all get swept up in it. Pretty convincing stuff.”
The World at Night,
by Alan Furst. All of his books are about Europe in the late 1930s, about how average people, little people, know that a war is coming but they can’t do anything about it. They all get swept up in it. Pretty convincing stuff.”
“Maybe I should read it,” Rusty said, accepting the book. He tried to guess her age and thought she was about his own age, give or take a couple of years. She had a presence, style.
“So that was you in the Jules Verne contraption thing that landed at the Navy base a little while back? You do have courage. Yes, you can see a lot from up here.” Delmarco slipped off her stool. “I’m starving. Let’s get a table.”
The maître d’, who seemed to know Delmarco, seated the two at a corner table, where they could see in two directions out to the Gulf. “I understand you did see quite a lot up here recently,” Rusty said as the waiter appeared with menus.
“Yes, just lucky, I guess,” Kate said, smiling innocently. “It was one hell of a story. You must have been on live with CNN for over an hour. But it wasn’t just luck, was it, and you didn’t just happen to be at the bar here. You were the one who called Captain
Hardy with word that the attack was under way.” Rusty put down the menu and stared at Delmarco.
“Johnny has a big mouth. That sort of talk could get me killed,
Mr. MacIntyre.” Delmarco’s voice had dropped an octave. “Don’t blame Captain Hardy, I just guessed and happened to be
right,” Rusty almost whispered across the table. “When Brian Douglas suggested you were someone I should see while I was out here, I figured you were more than the usual American foreign correspondent. And I was right about that, too.”
The waiter brought a small mezza of tabouli, hummus, olives, feta, and baba ghanouj to start. A U.S. minesweeper made smoke
and pushed off from a dock below.
and pushed off from a dock below.
“Well, I figure Brian Douglas is more than the usual British Embassy petroleum whatsit himself, especially if he knows the deputy
director of... What is your title again, Rusty?”
director of... What is your title again, Rusty?”
“Intelligence Analysis Center. We’re the writers, the sifters, not the spooks. Brian and I met at a petroleum research conference in
Houston last year,” MacIntyre tried lamely.
Houston last year,” MacIntyre tried lamely.
“Right,” she said sarcastically. “Where is he, by the way? He hasn’t returned my calls in days. I need to return something to him.”
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