To Free a Spy Page 12

  He opened another beer, looked up Abbas Mozedah in his laptop and dialed the number in Paris. Abbas operated a consulting engineering firm as a front but his zeal was for fighting terrorism and plotting against the ruling regime in Iran. Warfield had had several occasions to share information with Mozedah over the past few years and had a high degree of confidence in the Iranian.

  “Cameron Warfield!” Mozedah’s voice was deep, foghorn quality.

  “Probably woke you. What is it there? Six in the morning?”

  “You know I never sleep, Cameron. No time for that, but tell me, how are things at that summer camp of yours?”

  Warfield chuckled although he was not in the mood for it, and managed to return the volley. “Calling to see if you’re still playing hide-and-seek.”

  They small-talked for a minute and Warfield got to business. “Remember the Russian army general I told you about? Aleksei Antonov?”

  A moment’s pause, then, “Years ago.”

  “Received a message from him. He retired but I guess he has intelligence sources there. Says there’s going to be a movement of bomb-grade uranium out of Russia.”

  “Surprise, surprise. In what quantity?”

  “Six, eight kilos if Antonov is right.”

  “To where, Cameron?”

  “Middle East, Antonov says. Nothing more specific.”

  “Who is doing this?”

  “Supposedly a Russian physicist who used to make their nukes at Arzamas-16.”

  “You doing anything—officially I mean?”

  “Contacted the FBI. They knew about it from one of their own sources. They say the Russian will be making a practice run to see if anybody’s watching.”

  Abbas groaned.

  “Yeah, that’s the problem. Try to confirm.”

  “I will do what I can, Cameron.”

  “Hurry.”

  * * *

  Abbas called back late the following afternoon, catching Warfield in his office at Lone Elm. “You are on to something here, Cameron. Looks like Antonov is correct about the uranium shipment.”

  “Talk to me,” Warfield said, sitting up in his chair.

  “Seth is behind it.”

  Warfield whistled. “Seth again,” he mumbled, thinking about the legendary broker of death and destruction. The terrorist known as Seth was believed to be protected by Iran. He was an independent broker, arranging deals for terrorist groups with their own agenda. He didn’t often carry out terrorism himself but his name was associated with high-profile bombings against Americans and U.S. interests abroad and at home, including the failed Christmas Day underwear bomber over Detroit. His work to date was nothing of the magnitude of 9/11 but by concentrating on less ambitious projects he managed to often stay below the radar. Still, his notoriety gave him access to large cash reserves with which he could buy American spies. Harvey Joplan crossed Warfield’s mind again. “Who’s Seth selling the stuff to?”

  “Not sure yet, but we do know this Russian’s name: It is Boris Petrevich. He will go from Russia through Georgia, cross into Turkey at the border gate at Sarp, and then cross from Turkey into Iraq at the Habur border gate where two of the guards on the Iraqi side of the border have been recruited for this operation. We do not know where he will go from there.”

  “Anything else?”

  “When the Russian moves, he will have the uranium. No dry run.”

  “You’re sure of your source?”

  “That would be Hassan, the brother-in-law of Seth. And yes.”

  Warfield shook his head. “C’mon Abbas!”

  “I know, I know what you are thinking, Cameron, but listen to this first. Hassan’s sister was murdered—this I know. Hassan believes it was Seth who had her killed. She was Seth’s wife. Hassan is appearing to go along with Seth’s claim that he was not involved so he can stay close to him. Wants to be sure nothing happens to Seth until he has proof. Then Hassan wants him all for himself. Seth is a hero to the world of terrorism, but as a human being he’s despised even among his closest allies.”

  “If you’re satisfied, Abbas, I buy it.”

  “No need for worry, Cameron.”

  “When will it happen? The uranium movement.”

  “An answer I do not have yet, but I will find out. I have sources close to this, Cameron.”

  “Close?”

  “Inside Russia. Yes. We are making progress there.”

  “Find out everything you can.” Warfield wished he could recapture those words. It was a stupid thing to say to someone like Abbas.

  “Of course, Colonel Warfield.”

  “Sorry, Abbas.”

  Abbas feigned irritation with a deep groan, then said, “Not to worry, Cameron. I am the same way. I will call you when I have something.”

  * * *

  Warfield punched in Fullwood’s number and got a receptionist who demanded a lot of details. He was surprised when Rachel Gilbert came on the line.

  “Colonel Warfield. Again.”

  “Okay Rachel. I don’t give up easily. For what it’s worth to the Bureau, I’ve got confirmation the uranium is traveling on the Russian’s first trip. It will not be a dry run.”

  “Colonel Warfield, I don’t mean to be rude but I have orders.”

  “Look, Rachel, nobody benefits from this kind of standoff. You’re the deputy director over there, second in command, which must count for something. This is intelligence I will stake my own reputation on in the intel community. You going to stand behind the stupid decree Fullwood made because he doesn’t like me?”

  Gilbert took a deep breath. “You don’t know the director very well if you think I could change the plan on this operation without his knowledge. He’s all over it. And I think he has done some well-poisoning.”

  Warfield now understood. Not only were Rachel Gilbert’s hands tied, Fullwood was preparing others within the intelligence community in case Warfield went to them. Warfield was still thinking about this when Gilbert continued.

  “I think it will be better if you don’t call here again, Colonel Warfield.”

  * * *

  Warfield told the receptionist to hold his calls and spent the next hour weighing his options. If it came to a showdown, Fullwood had the cards stacked in his favor. Warfield could go to the president but that would put him on the spot and there would be only losers in the ensuing battle of egos, while the Russian Boris Petrevich carried out his nuke-smuggling mission unimpeded.

  Warfield leaned back and surveyed the goings-on outside his window. Half a mile away Macc and a couple of his men were giving instructions on evasive driving. A cloud of dust rose from a pair of Abidingos in the distance, the new vehicle that replaced the Humvee. He felt like saying to hell with it and joining them.

  * * *

  Next morning, Warfield was back on the phone to Abbas. “I’d like you to put someone on the smuggler every step of the way.”

  “How do you want this carried out?”

  “You said he will make the trip on the ground. Tail him with a Geiger. If he’s carrying uranium there’ll be leakage. Might show up on his clothes, car, if you can get close enough.”

  “FBI. Will we run into them?”

  “Hope they don’t figure out what you’re doing but I’m not going to worry about that. If Petrevich is hot, stop him before he crosses into Iraq. But wait until the last second, in case the FBI decides to take him on their own. If they do—and I hope to God they do—we’re home free and your men are out of the picture.”

  “Of course. And if they do not?”

  “In that case, and if you know Petrevich has the stuff on him, it’s your baby. Do what you’re comfortable with. You know the risks. You okay with that?”

  “You can sleep tonight, Cameron. I know what to do. And we want to stop this operation as much as you do.”

  * * *

  Jalil flipped through the stack of colorful Turkish blankets, pulled one off the shelf, studied it for a minute and dropped it into his shoppi
ng caddy. The store was crammed full of Turkish products from jars of olives to photographs of the country’s landscapes to woven straw baskets. In the time Jalil had been there he’d looked at everything at least once and worried that if Boris Petrevich did not show up soon, the store personnel were going to become suspicious. The Russian must have made another stop along the way. The thought occurred to Jalil that he and his two partners sent by Abbas Mozedah may have miscalculated: Petrevich may not stop at this border store at all, and it was the last one before the Habur crossing point. This was their first and last chance to confirm that Petrevich was transporting nukes.

  Zayed’s resonant, calm voice broke the silence in Jalil’s radio headset. “He’s approaching the store now.”

  Jalil glanced out the window and saw the black Volvo he and Zayed and Salim had followed since it exited Russia. Petrevich had wasted no time forging southward across the bleak Russian landscape, through the city of Volgograd and on to the border with Georgia. Abbas’s Russian contacts had tracked him that far—using three different cars in an effort to prevent Petrevich from becoming suspicious. Salim, Jalil and Zayed picked up the Volvo there and shadowed it through Georgia and Turkey to the fuel stop and retail store where Jalil now stood as Petrevich fueled-up.

  When Petrevich entered the store Jalil worked his way over to where he stood at a news rack. The Geiger-counter inside Jalil’s back pack was set at maximum sensitivity and as he walked past the Russian, the headphones began to click. It was the sound he had heard at the university where Abbas Mozedah had sent the three of them to learn about the Geiger-counter from his contact there. When the Russian went to the restroom Jalil signaled Zayed to check his car.

  “The car is hot,” Zayed said into Jalil’s earphones a minute later. “I will tell Salim.”

  * * *

  Salim stood on the narrow concrete island to the side of one of the checkpoint kiosks at the Habur border gate on the northern Iraqi border and held his AK-47 at the ready. As cars and trucks took their turn through customs Salim wondered how much time he had before one of the other guards realized he wasn’t one of them. He had edged into the more prominent position at the border gate a minute ago when Zayed signaled that the Volvo was on its way and confirmed that the Russian was to be stopped. Salim knew it would have been safer to take out the smuggler somewhere else, but because they had to give the American authorities the opportunity until the very last second to do the job, that course of action was not possible.

  The black Volvo was now the fifth vehicle back in the lane to Salim’s left, practically lost among the sea of trucks backed up at the border gate. Unless the FBI were there somewhere and took their own action he would do the job Abbas sent him to do before the Russian was inside Iraq and out of their reach. If Petrevich made it across the border safely, the Iraqi insurgents would be protecting their new assets: The Russian physicist Petrevich and his uranium, the critical component for a deliverable weapon of mass destruction. If the Russian had to be killed, it had to be on the Turkey side where the Iraqi border guards could not take possession of the uranium.

  Salim thought of his two young sons and hoped they would live long enough to enjoy peace. He believed in what Abbas was doing and wanted to work with him as long as he could hold a gun. Today would not be the first time he killed, if it came to that. People from his part of the world learned killing when they were young. Maybe what he was about to do would at least slow the accumulation of nuclear materials by terrorists in the Middle East.

  Salim tried to appear normal. A Turkish guard wearing a lieutenant’s uniform and dark glasses seemed to be paying him a lot of attention but turned away when Salim looked at him. Salim ran through his escape plan one last time and glanced at the Iraqi guards, who were said to be working in tandem with Petrevich, a few meters beyond the first checkpoint. They too would be watching for the black Volvo and would try to take possession of its precious cargo. That would mean taking out Salim, too, when they realized who he was—but by then he would have disappeared behind a kiosk and the approaching vehicles. Salim knew there was no promise of safety today, but then no such promise ever existed in the fight against forces who would destroy the world to accomplish their own objectives. He tried as hard as he could to steady the trembling in his hands.

  Petrevich was now second in line to show his credentials to the guard inside the kiosk a few meters from Salim. There was no mistaking the car. He would wait until the Russian was cleared and about to drive away through the checkpoint. If the FBI were there, they would have acted by then. If not, then Salim would spray the windshield of the Volvo as he counted off the seconds—one…two…three. Then in the ensuing pandemonium he would escape to safety using backed-up cars and trucks for cover. His work there would be complete.

  Salim’s eyes narrowed as the memory of the blood-covered body of his younger brother in an earlier operation flashed through his mind. Seconds to go. The trembling calmed. The Russian pulled into position. Moments now, unless the guards decided to do a thorough search on the Volvo. No, they waved him on! It was time. Salim was the final barrier.

  Salim had stood with his weapon cradled in his arm so he would not have to attract attention by raising it before firing. Now he placed his finger against the trigger. Before he squeezed it the nightmare he had not planned for became reality. Someone in the lane to his right recognized him.

  “Salim! What are you doing there? In that uniform?”

  * * *

  Salim had little time to wonder who had recognized him and the guard wearing the dark glasses didn’t wait for an explanation. He opened fire and Salim’s head fragmented. He flew backwards, his arms and legs dancing to the automatic rifle’s deadly tune, onto the hood of a car in the other lane. All of the guards were distracted for a moment before the hydraulic barricades in each lane had been opened, and by then the Volvo was safely inside Iraq.

  * * *

  Minutes later Abbas received the sorry news that the mission had failed. Jalil and Zayed escaped but his long-time friend and fellow-warrior Salim was dead. He fought the tears that welled up in his eyes as he looked out onto the Paris street in front of his office. Terrorists had won the battle but they had not won the war.

  * * *

  Earl Fullwood sat in his corner office on the seventh floor of the J. Edgar Hoover Building and read the report delivered to him minutes earlier. The crossing took place at Habur as expected. A Bureau operative got caught in the crossfire and was killed but the imposter guard who tried to shoot the Russian got it too. When he finished reading, he pulled out a new cigar and stuck it between his teeth. A trace of a smile hit his lips.

  Fullwood dialed Paula Newnan’s number. Newnan could get him in to see Cross on short notice. Now, by God, he had a case to take to the president, and Cross had no choice but to back him. Fullwood couldn’t prove anything on Warfield, but he didn’t need to. After all, he was Earl Fullwood, the director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the greatest investigative organization in the world, and it was time to reclaim the prominence he’d lost at the hand of Cameron Warfield.

  CHAPTER 9

  The others were standing around in the Oval Office chatting with Cross when Warfield arrived at seven-forty-five that morning. Earl Fullwood looked away when he saw Warfield enter, so, as Warfield thought when Paula had called, the meeting was about the Habur border incident. Fullwood no doubt had asked the president for the meeting and it was about Warfield.

  The only man in the room whom Warfield didn’t know walked over and introduced himself as Bill Reynolds. “I work for Quinn,” he said.

  “Cam Warfield.”

  “I’ve wanted to meet you. Guess I never thought it would be in the Oval Office.”

  “Good to see you, Bill. Quinn coming?”

  Reynolds shook his head. “Out of town.”

  President Cross looked at his watch and everyone took the cue. Otto Stern, Fullwood, Bill Reynolds, the president and Warfield seated themselve
s around Cross’s maple table. Warfield ended up directly across from Fullwood.

  Cross kicked it off. “Okay, Earl, let's get it going. What is this national security crisis?”

  Fullwood looked straight at Warfield. “Well, Mr. Pres’dent, since the Kunnel is here, I’ll let him tell you. Seems like he’s maintainin’ his good record of interferin’ in the Bureau’s business.”

  How in hell did this guy ever become head of the FBI? Warfield thought. His fantasy was to grab Fullwood by his fat neck and choke the bastard until his eyes popped out, but some degree of civility was required in the presence of the president and anyway Fullwood wasn’t worth it. Why waste time and energy with that kind of ignorance and arrogance?

  Warfield indicated that he wasn’t going to respond to Fullwood, and President Cross told the FBI chief to move on. Fullwood told his version of the Turkey/Iraq border incident from the day the Bureau first knew of it up to the Habur shooting incident. The Bureau had the Russian under their watch all the way from Russia, through Turkey right to the Iraqi border. Even had a man there at the border gate posing as a Turkish lieutenant. The Bureau was gathering data on the Russian so they could pick him off on his next run, when, according to their intelligence, he would be in possession of the stolen uranium. The John Wayne shootout, as Fullwood called it, rendered that future operation impossible. Fullwood was in full stride. He talked louder and louder, paused for drama and resumed with a quiet, “Thanks to Kunnel Warfield here, the Russian has been alerted.”

  “And the consequences are…?” Cross asked.

  “He’ll find another way to get that uranium to wherever it’s going in the Middle East! Forget about catchin’ him doin’ it next trip, Mr. Pres’dent. It’s a done deal for their side. It’s over.”

  Warfield saw the trap Fullwood had set. Whether or not Fullwood believed the dry run story was not important: His objective was to put Warfield in a scenario that would force Cross to get rid of him. Petrevich, to Fullwood, was incidental by comparison.

  Cross said to Fullwood, “Why did you think there would be no transfer on the Russian’s first trip, Earl?”