Shakedown Page 4

  A slug shattered the edge of the Norton’s fairing, causing Garrett to swerve, sending the Norton’s back wheel into a side spin. A less experienced rider would have lost control, but Garrett kept his beloved bike upright.

  Motorists in their stopped vehicles began telephoning the Fairfax County Police to report that a man clinging to the top of a speeding plumbing truck was shooting across the highway at a motorcycle policeman.

  A Fairfax patrol officer a quarter of a mile ahead heard the dispatcher’s report. He could see the van racing toward him along the left shoulder. Switching on his blue lights and siren, he pulled his car to the left, blocking the van’s path.

  Rather than slowing, the van’s driver sped up. Ramming speed. Hoping to knock the police cruiser out of the way, just as he’d done to the Chevy Cruze. The police officer jumped clear and drew his weapon. He opened fire.

  One of his rounds struck the driver’s face. He slumped forward, dead. The van bounced like a pinball, back and forth, off vehicles on one side and the chain link fence on the other as it continued racing toward the squad car, driven by momentum and the dead driver’s foot, still pressed on the gas pedal.

  The van hit the squad car with tremendous force. A horrific sound. Metal ripping through metal. The van’s front wheels climbed the side of the parked police car. It came to rest at a 45-degree angle, its front axle on the police car’s flashing roof lights. The collision shot the gunman from the van’s roof into the late-afternoon sky as if he were a circus performer being fired from a cannon. He flapped his arms wildly before his body fell, hitting the ground hard atop the subway train tracks in the highway median. His right arm flopped against the third rail. Six hundred and twenty-five volts rocketed through him, shaking his body uncontrollably. An oncoming engineer couldn’t stop in time. The train ran over the gunman, dragging his body underneath its cars.

  The gunman’s gruesome, spectacular death—captured on the camera phones of dozens of onlookers—diverted attention from Garrett, who took the Glebe Road exit off I-66. He drove onto Fairfax Drive, through a yellow traffic light, turned left onto a side street, and entered an underground parking garage.

  By the time a police helicopter and emergency vehicles reached the crash site, Garrett was entering Uncle Julio’s Mexican. He ordered at the bar and watched a live newscast of the mayhem. The plumber’s van had been stolen earlier that day, a breathless local television reporter declared. Neither the driver nor passenger had been identified. Cell phone footage taken by motorists caught the gunman being thrown into the air and hit by the speeding train. Viewers were warned about the gruesomeness of the recordings. Additional cell videos showed a brief clip of a motorcyclist speeding away. The Norton’s small license plate couldn’t be read.

  Garrett ordered a Dos Equis, ate two enchiladas, and lingered at the bar for another hour, nursing a single-malt whiskey, before calling an Uber, leaving his Norton parked underground.

  It was late by the time he entered his condo. The adrenaline rush that had flooded into him had dissipated. He felt the low that always came after the high.

  Garrett walked into his bedroom, got down on his knees, and reached under his bed. It took only seconds for him to find the pill bottle that he’d duct-taped there.

  He tugged it loose from its hiding place and held the brown prescription container in his right palm. Oxy. Was it still potent?

  He stared at the bottle. Shook it. Listened to the capsules rattle inside.

  Garrett returned to the living room, carrying the pill bottle with him. He flipped on the local news just in time to hear a reporter at the crash scene.

  “The driver and passenger have been identified as—”

  The men’s names didn’t matter. It was where the reporter said both were from. Iran.

  Why were they trying to murder him? Garrett could think of only one explanation.

  Nasya Radi.

  Seven

  The captain of the Drakon, Israel’s most modern Dolphin 2–class submarine, stared at the sonar screen.

  “It’s a mistake,” he said. “Check again.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Tap, tap.

  “It’s showing a Soviet Romeo-class diesel-electric submarine. One hundred percent certainty, our computer says.”

  The captain checked the computer data bank for himself. Discovered that a total of twenty Romeo-class submarines had been built between 1957 and 1961, when they were immediately replaced by nuclear submarines. Egypt was the only remaining Mediterranean country still on record as owning the Russian-manufactured ships. All other boats had been decommissioned, scrapped, or converted into training vessels.

  “Speed?” the captain asked.

  “Twenty knots submerged.”

  “The computer says Romeos have a top speed of thirteen.”

  “Sir, it’s doing twenty.”

  “Then it can’t be a Soviet Romeo. What’s its course?”

  “Aegean Sea.”

  “Possibly the Papanikolis,” the captain said. He did a computer comparison.

  Papanikolis, Greek navy submarine, length 213 feet, 3 inches, beam 20 feet, 8 inches. Soviet Romeo-class, length 251 feet, 3 inches, beam 22 feet.

  “Sir,” an aide said, “Haifa reports all of Egypt’s Romeos are accounted for and docked in Alexandria. All reportedly inactive and under repair.”

  “Check again,” the captain ordered his sonar operator.

  Tap, tap.

  “Sir, it’s gone.”

  “What? That’s impossible!”

  “It’s not there any longer.”

  Later that same day

  Julian Levi studied the report for a third time. Big Jules, which is how he was known in intelligence circles, was a thorough man. A necessary trait for the director of the Mossad. A naval report about appearing-and-disappearing submarines would not usually find its way onto his desk. But this was the third sighting by an Israeli vessel of what appeared to be a Cold War relic performing at speeds that exceeded its original capabilities. Every sighting had been in Greek waters near the Turkish straits that led into the Black Sea—home to Russia’s Mediterranean fleet and its newest “stealth” submarines.

  For much of the Cold War, Soviet submarines had been much noisier than their Western counterparts, making them easier to identify and, if necessary, destroy. In the 1980s the Soviets managed to import technologies from Japan and Norway that they used to build Akula-class attack submarines that equaled US naval vessels in acoustic stealth. The Russians now had a new submarine class—the Borei—that used sound-dampening rubber coating to significantly improve its ability to hide. The West had become alarmed when a Borei-class submarine disappeared in Atlantic waters in 2018, armed with enough nuclear firepower to fire seventy-two nuclear warheads—each ten times more destructive than the bomb dropped on Hiroshima—at targets nearly six thousand miles away.

  What puzzled Big Jules was why the Russian navy would undertake retrofitting a Cold War relic with stealth technology when Romeo-class submarines had been obsolete as soon as they were manufactured.

  Big Jules swept his right hand across his chin, a habit that he had developed when he had a beard. He had been forced to shave after the doctor spotted melanoma and wanted his skin clear and easy to examine. He turned to Isser Dagan, his second-in-command. “Well, what have we learned?”

  Dagan was physically the opposite of his boss—rail-thin, weighing less than a hundred and fifty, a good hundred pounds under Big Jules, whose six-foot-four-inch frame carried the extra weight well.

  “This ‘ghost submarine’—if it exists at all—does not appear to be part of the Russian fleet based in Sevastopol,” said Dagan.

  “Covert, an off-the-books operation? What does Ivy Tower say?” Big Jules was referring to the code name of one of the Israelis’ best assets, a high-ranking GRU general in the Russian Ministry of Defense in Moscow.

  “He confirmed that it’s not connected with any military service.”

&n
bsp; “A covert operation?”

  “Anything is possible, but it’s unlikely that Ivy Tower would not be aware of it.”

  Big Jules studied the report about the most recent sighting again, as if it contained some hidden clue to the puzzle. “A submarine has to have somewhere to go,” he said. “A port.”

  Dagan removed a map from a file he had brought with him and offered it.

  “What am I supposed to see?” Big Jules asked.

  “During the Cold War, the Soviets constructed a top secret submarine base outside Sevastopol,” Dagan explained. “It was buried four hundred feet inside Mount Tavros to protect it from a nuclear attack. Seven medium-size submarines were protected by a hundred-and-sixty-five-ton blast door. Of course it became useless with the development of bunker-busting bombs capable of penetrating its natural protection.”

  “You suspect this is where the Russians are hiding their ghost submarine?”

  Dagan peered over his half-glasses. “The last Soviet submarine left the base in 1992, when the Soviet Union disbanded. You will recall that all former Soviet Black Sea ports were surrendered to Ukraine, only to have the Russians reclaim them when they invaded Crimea to prevent the pro-Western Ukraine government from allowing NATO to use them.”

  “I don’t need a history lesson,” Big Jules replied impatiently. “What was the fate of this base?”

  “According to the locals, it remained abandoned until its neighbors persuaded the Kremlin to open it as a museum glorifying Soviet sea power. They believed it would attract tourists.”

  “A doomsday Harry Potter World,” Big Jules remarked.

  “No tourists came, and the base was presumably sealed tight until four months ago, when it was bought by a Turkish salvage company. Trucks began arriving at night. Dozens of construction workers from Azerbaijan.”

  “What did the Americans say?”

  “Nothing. When I asked, neither the CIA nor NATO showed any interest.”

  “The Turkish salvage company?”

  “Paperwork in Moscow shows the government sold the old base to a straw firm in Ankara, along with all of the mountain’s contents.”

  “So it is part of some covert operation.”

  “I don’t believe so. Russian president Kalugin personally signed off on the transaction and is listed in the paperwork. If it were covert, he wouldn’t be so blatantly involved.”

  Big Jules grunted. “If Kalugin signed off on it, it would be to line his own pockets. He’s a mamzer who surrounds himself with a big crowd, but not a human in sight. He would sell every inch of Russian soil and every Russian child to be ground up for meat if he could pocket a single ruble from it.”

  “Our people have traced this straw company through sixteen more shells in five countries.”

  “And who was at the end of this trail?”

  “We don’t know. It currently ends in China. Whoever bought the base doesn’t want to be identified. But we will continue to search.”

  Again Big Jules swept his massive paw across his chin. “I want you to send someone to this base. Learn if this ghost submarine is operating from it, and if so, who’s behind it and this base.”

  “Chiram Yosef is in the region.”

  “He’s a good man,” Big Jules said. “I served with his father in the Paratroopers Brigade.”

  A knock. Big Jules’s personal assistant asked for permission to join them.

  “You’ll want to read this,” he announced. “It’s a copy of a letter that our embassy in Washington received by regular postal mail. A letter written by an Iranian physicist who has been murdered.”

  Eight

  Saeedi “The Roc” Bashar busied himself while his daughter, Tahira, finished her morning prayers. She still believed. It was her mother’s influence. When she rose from her prayer cloth, he looked away from the McMillan TAC-50 sniper rifle that he was working on.

  “Did you sleep well last night?” he asked her. “I heard you walking around.”

  “I had a nightmare,” Tahira Bashar quietly answered. She was embarrassed.

  “Was it the Iranian?”

  “It is of no consequence.”

  “Then why did it trouble you?” He knew his daughter well enough to know when she was hoping to avoid his questions.

  “Are you ready for coffee?” she asked.

  “First, tell me about your dream.”

  “Yes, it was the Iranian.”

  “Tell me.”

  “We were at the elevator. You had just stabbed him, but after you turned to leave, he rose up from the floor and grabbed my leg. I screamed, but you didn’t hear me. He would not release me. I couldn’t get away.”

  The Roc did not respond. Instead, he turned his attention back to the sniper’s rifle. There were no commercial sniper’s rifles that could be broken down for easy transport and hidden in a briefcase, despite what was seen in movies. He was customizing the McMillan to fit such a case.

  “Time to eat,” he said.

  Tahira went quietly into the galley kitchen in the two-bedroom Paris flat that she’d rented. She was happy they were in the Montmartre district. She’d read that it had once been home to Pablo Picasso, Georges Braque, and Amedeo Modigliani. She liked to learn the history of the neighborhoods where they lived. It gave her a feeling of connection, even though they rarely stayed anywhere longer than three weeks. Pay rent for a month. Always cash. Leave early without leaving traces. It had been this way ever since the deaths of her brother and mother. Always on the run.

  The flat when they first arrived had smelled of stale cigarette smoke, which she’d been unable to wash away. It was a minor annoyance.

  Like most other historic Paris buildings, their apartment was in a six-story stone structure constructed between Napoleon’s reign and World War I. Her father had insisted it have access to the roof. She had admired its tall ceilings and was sorry both of its fireplaces had been sealed. It was nicer than the apartments they generally rented. From her window, she could look out into the working-class neighborhood that edged the rue Ordener.

  She fixed his Arabic coffee, spiced with cardamom and unsweetened, just as he liked it, and returned to the main room, where he was still laboring over the long rifle. Marking where he intended to cut it into pieces. She served his coffee hot. That was how he wanted it. He took a sip. Smiled approvingly. Only after serving him did she return to the kitchen to pour herself a cup.

  “Coffee in the morning reminds me of you and Mother,” she said, returning to the table. “Mother would wake me to wash for prayers and chores, and later I’d see the two of you outside with coffee and fattet hummus.”

  “Before the Jews murdered her,” he said, continuing to work on the rifle.

  “It was back when you still prayed,” she said.

  He made eye contact, and she lowered her eyes. She knew her comment had angered him. There was a time, immediately after the deaths of her mother and brother, when he would have slapped her for being insolent. But time had turned him—or was it her age, and the fighting skills that he had taught her?

  She resembled her mother. Slim. Athletic. Strong. The same dark features, high cheekbones, only her hair was cut short, like a boy’s. She knew he didn’t approve, but he had allowed her some choices. She had just turned twenty. She knew he would have been more comfortable if she had been a boy. But the Jews had killed his son. She didn’t need prodding to hate Jews and their American surrogates. All Palestinian children living under the Jews’ oppression knew who their oppressors were. Despite her gender, he’d trained her to be a soldier, and she had accepted that fate to please him. Still, preparing to kill someone and actually committing the act were not the same.

  As he watched her, the Roc quietly wondered how much longer she would remain a subservient daughter. He’d struggled to balance his control over her with the need to prepare her to survive on her own if he were killed. His biggest fear—if he died—was that she would not continue to fight against their enemies. If that ha
ppened, he would have failed as her father. Her nature as a child was kind, and that had been more difficult to redirect. Under other circumstances, he would have encouraged her to study medicine, as he had. But that was before. Now he worried about her unlimited access to the internet, where she could be seduced by corrupt Western teachings. Having her help him kill the Iranian had been the first in a long series of preparatory steps.

  He watched her sitting across from him, taking a sip of her coffee. Blowing across the liquid to help cool it. “Tell me again about how you and Mother met,” she said.

  “What does your dream mean?” he asked. He favored a slightly altered version of the Socratic method, taught to him by his professor father when he was a child living on the West Bank. The caveat. At the end of each of his conversations with her, he would tell her what she should conclude.

  “It was just a dream,” she said. “It means nothing.”

  “Then why did it keep you awake? Are you troubled by guilt?”

  “The Iranian was a traitor. A lover of Jews,” she replied. “He deserved to die.”

  It was what he’d expected her to say. What she had been taught to say. Yet . . .

  “Do you remember when we were a happy family?” he asked.

  “Yes, Papa. When you worked at the hospital, saving the lives of our people.”

  “And what happened? Have you forgotten?”

  “How could I ever forget? I was playing with my cousins when the Israeli bombs came.”

  “You would have been with your brother and mother otherwise. You would have been slaughtered too by the Jews. This you must remember.”

  “Yes, Papa.”

  “Remember your brother’s face. Remember your mother’s face. Remember how they looked when you arrived with your aunt and found me frantically digging through the concrete of what had been our apartment. Our home. It is their faces that you must see in your dreams at night. Not the face of an Iranian traitor who was no different from the Jew who dropped the bombs.”