Grim’s expression grew tentative. “We need to be careful. We can’t run in there and cry wolf.”
“I know,” Fisher said. “But the Saudis need to suck it up and understand what’s at stake here.”
“I agree, Sam, but we can’t forget that the Saudis are a very proud people. We lose credibility as an organization and as a nation if we’re not absolutely sure about this. We know Abqaiq is a likely target. We have three Iranian ships that ported at Dammam within our time frame… but I’m concerned that’s not enough for us to impose our will on them. We can alert them, sure, we’ll do that, but I know you’ll want to go in, and I know they’ll want to handle this themselves.”
Fisher looked at Charlie, who shrugged.
Briggs pursed his lips. “Iranian ships stop at that port all the time.”
“We only need to be wrong once,” said Fisher. “And that’s not good enough for me. I’d rather piss off the Saudis and cry wolf than play games. We need to be there. We need to inspect anything that goes through there ourselves.”
“But if we just had a little more,” Briggs said. “Because you’re right — we only need to be wrong once. And if we’re sitting there at Abqaiq and a bomb goes off someplace else…”
“We need more?” Fisher asked, raising his voice in frustration. “All right, damn it, I’ll get us more.” He whirled and rushed off toward the infirmary.
As he opened the hatch, a dark thought crossed his mind: He could use Kobin to lie for him.
Fisher was not prepared to tiptoe around political interests. That wasn’t happening. Not on his watch. Kobin would make up a story. Charlie would falsify the contacts. It’d all look plausible to Grim and Briggs. He understood their reservations, but he didn’t have to agree with them. Abqaiq was the target with the highest strategic value. That was a fact.
Then again, maybe Fisher was more like Kasperov than he cared to admit: a man with a conscience.
Damn, what was he thinking? He couldn’t do that to his team. They deserved better.
He’d take up the Russian’s offer. Kasperov still had contacts. While it was true Grim had kept much of the intel away from him in the interest of national security, they didn’t need to hand over much: A nuclear device might have been smuggled into Abqaiq, and did any of his contacts know anything about that or could they confirm any connection to the processing plant?
After giving the man a capsule summary, Fisher sighed and said, “Can you help?”
“I need a computer,” Kasperov said.
Fisher called Charlie, who came down with a laptop and remained there, watching.
“Damn, you’re calling him,” said Charlie.
“Yes, I am,” Kasperov answered, speaking in English for Charlie’s benefit.
“And you know where he is?”
“Of course, I’ve always known. He’s been right hand, ace in hole, as you say, for long time. He is at risk right now, but I think he will understand.”
Fisher caught sight of a name on the screen: Kannonball.
Kasperov was in an encrypted chat session with his former employee, and they were now chatting in Cyrillic.
“Can you read any of that?” Fisher asked Charlie.
“Not really.”
“They’re typing too fast. Mr. Kasperov? What’re you saying?”
“I’m letting him know about problem.”
“What’s he saying?”
“Several of oligarchs have GRU agents on payroll now, and Kannonball has hacked into GRU network. He says one GRU agent sent to Dammam with orders to intercept another agent on ground. No IDs yet because information wasn’t being transmitted until pursuing agent arrived on target.”
“What’s this about?”
“It’s about one agent killing another.”
“They’re cleaning up a mess.”
“Exactly.”
“On whose order?”
“Kannonball thinks maybe President Treskayev or Izotov from GRU ordered execution.”
“Who does the rogue agent work for? One of the names on our list?”
“Correct. Recently hired. Rogue agent might be at port to receive shipment.”
That left Fisher puzzled. “Why would they do that? If the agent is caught, that pins it back to the oligarchs. They’re taking a big risk.”
“Oligarchs would hire Iranians, yes. Train them, yes. But trust them entirely with something like this? No way. They would demand agent oversee operation, agent on suicide mission who either knows about bomb or does not.”
“I think he’s right,” said Charlie. “And if that’s the case, then maybe we’ve got enough.”
“I’m taking this to Grim,” said Fisher. “It’ll have to be enough.”
Within seconds he was back in the control room and sharing the news.
And when he was finished, Grim took a moment to mull it over, then said, “I’m proud of you, Sam.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re making sure we have more evidence before we move.”
“Yeah, well, you and Briggs are right. It helps.”
She nodded. “The truth is, my gut was already telling me Abqaiq is the target, and yes, I said we have to be careful, but I think I would’ve pulled the trigger right there.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“No. But I’m glad I didn’t say anything — because it seems like we’re rubbing off on each other.”
“Yeah, finally. In a good way.”
She smiled at him.
He smiled back.
She glanced away. “Okay, awkward moment. I’ll call over to the processing plant right now.”
Fisher headed over to Briggs, unable to repress his smile. “Let’s get packed.”
32
With Abqaiq finally ID’d as their next destination, the pilots filed for the city’s local airport, only to discover that the lone runway had been abandoned fourteen years prior and was no longer usable. The processing plant did boast an active helipad intended for medevac and visiting Saudi royal family tours. Consequently, Fisher and Briggs chartered a small, four-passenger Bell 206 JetRanger helicopter from Dubai, a trip that took approximately 2.5 hours. They set down on the northwest helipad a few minutes after sunset. Their pilot would wait for them for the return trip out, but he warned of bad weather on the way.
They were met by Prince Al Shammari, a heavyset man in his forties dressed in a brown woolen thawb flowing in deep creases to his ankles. On his head was the traditional small white cap called a taqiyah. The cap prevented his much larger scarf-like ghutra from slipping off. The long ghutra was bound by a doubled black cord fitting tightly across his forehead. When visiting an Arab country, Fisher sometimes chose to dress like the locals, but when he didn’t, conservative clothes were the order of the day. Fisher and Briggs wore simple business casual shirts and slacks — one size too large because beneath them were hidden their tac-suits.
Shammari was already waving his hands and booming a welcome from across the well-lit pad. In addition to his security duties he was the assistant interior minister of the country and had been educated in California, so his English was excellent, if not tinged by a little Los Angeles slang. Grim had warned Fisher that he was a devoted technophile, addicted to his social media outlets and smartphone, and he’d demanded that Fisher videoconference with him before they met in person.
As Fisher climbed out of the chopper, he crinkled his nose over the strong scent of crude oil. He’d heard from those who worked around such facilities that the stench eventually vanished because you became used to it, not that it ever truly went away.
Shammari was accompanied by two squads from the Special Security Force. These were highly trained and heavily armed counterterrorism troops wearing permanent scowls and desert camouflage utilities. They cross-trained with special forces from all over the world, including Navy SEALs. The entire party had arrived in four Humvees whose diesel engines chugged behind them.