The DCI stared at the satellite image in silence for several moments. Then he turned back to Demopoulos. “Does this story of yours come from the Israelis, Phil?” he asked. His tone was skeptical.
“No, sir,” the analysis chief said. “At least not directly. This information was relayed to us through a small private security firm with corporate contacts in the Middle East.”
“Relayed from who, exactly?” Horne asked sharply.
“We’re not quite sure,” Demopoulos admitted. “But our best guess is that what we’re hearing probably originated with one or more of the various Iranian dissident groups. There’s also a possible connection to that Iranian official found murdered in Austria a couple of days ago. He worked for their state shipping company.”
Horne’s lips thinned in irritation. “The man the Iranians claim was assassinated by the Mossad, you mean?”
“Jerusalem has unequivocally denied any involvement in his death,” Demopoulos said carefully.
Horne snorted. A scowl settled on his jowly face. He looked down the table at Reynolds. “Can you confirm any of this material, Miranda?”
She saw the way the wind was blowing. Horne might be a career diplomat by training, but he was a political animal by inclination. He’d climbed the ladder steadily over the years by attaching himself to rising stars on the political side of the State Department — appointees who moved up in successive administrations to more and more powerful positions. Whenever these men or women looked around for a trustworthy subordinate, they always found Charles Horne waiting, eager and willing to do their bidding and happy to toe the chosen party line.
At this moment, the president and his advisers were orchestrating a major diplomatic push to lure Iran “back into the community of nations.” They faulted previous administrations for treating the Islamic Republic as a pariah state. Tehran’s isolated rulers, they argued, would respond more positively to carrots — trade deals, relaxed sanctions, and renewed arms limitation negotiations — than to insults and threats. So the last thing the new DCI wanted to do now was go to the White House with worrying new intelligence about Iran’s possible plans and intentions.
Miranda Reynolds thought very quickly. Two recent blown covert operations in a row — one in Libya, the other in Alaska — had painted a target on her back. So far, she’d kept control of the Operations Directorate by pulling political strings herself… and by not so subtly reminding those above her that she was one of the few women in the CIA’s top echelon. For the moment, no one wanted to endure the media frenzy that could result from firing one of Langley’s pioneers for women’s equality. But making an enemy of Horne now by siding with Phil Demopoulos might easily tip the balance against her.
No, she decided, she had nothing to gain here. Especially since the reports passed to the Analysis Directorate seemed so vague and open to different interpretations. Certainly, nothing about them suggested any level of threat to the United States or its interests that might make this situation a hill worth dying on.
“Confirm these fragmentary reports? No, sir. I can’t,” Reynolds said firmly, ignoring the surprised look on Demopoulos’s face. “None of our own sources inside the Iranian government have reported anything about this mysterious oil tanker project. Not a peep.”
Left carefully unstated was the inconvenient and rather embarrassing fact that the CIA only had a few agents inside Iran. Or that none of them were based anywhere near Bandar Abbas. Left equally unstated were her growing suspicions that a significant number of the Iranian nationals her officers had recruited as sources were actually double agents for Iran’s own Ministry of Intelligence.
“I see.” Horne looked satisfied. He turned back to Demopoulos. “I don’t think this tanker business is worth pursuing further, Phil.” He shrugged. “More likely than not, it’s just a wild rumor planted by Israeli or Arab hardliners. Or by Iranian no-hopers feverishly imagining we can be tricked into supporting some lunatic effort to overthrow the government in Tehran.”
“But—”
The DCI rode roughshod over Demopoulos’s half-hearted attempt to object. “Whatever sort of changes the Iranians are actually making to this ship, one thing’s sure: it can’t stay hidden forever. And if this converted tanker really does pose a genuine threat to our national security, I’m quite confident that we can stop it cold when the time comes.” He shook his head. “I won’t condone jumping at shadows on my watch. And there’s certainly no justification here to jeopardize one of the president’s top foreign policy initiatives by going off half-cocked.” He stared hard at Demopoulos. “Is that understood?”
Reluctantly, the analysis chief nodded. “Yes, sir. Completely understood.”
Watching the uncomfortable byplay through narrowed eyes, Miranda Reynolds made a mental note to have one of her staff discreetly dig into who was really feeding Demopoulos these juicy morsels of intelligence out of Iran. She didn’t buy the obvious fairy tale he’d spun for Horne. Material like that coming over the transom via some unnamed self-styled private security firm with connections in the Middle East? Not in a million years. No, she thought coldly, someone else was pulling the strings here. Someone who was poaching on her turf.
Six
Lieutenant Colonel Dov Tamir handed over his phone to the stern-faced guard posted at the entrance to the embassy’s secure intelligence room. Personal electronic devices of any kind were strictly forbidden inside. By definition, any information shared in the small, windowless room was classified at the very highest level.
He joined the handful of others who’d already arrived. Besides the ambassador himself and his chief of staff, they included the section heads responsible for consular affairs and trade. Together with Tamir, they formed the executive core of Israel’s diplomatic mission in Vienna.
Tamir nodded politely to the ambassador and the others and took his seat. On paper, the square-jawed former paratrooper served as Israel’s military attaché to Austria. But he wore another hat, one with far more significance at this urgent security briefing. Within the Israeli Defense Forces, the IDF, he was also a member of the Secret Liaison Unit — a group responsible for coordinating special operations with the Mossad and allied foreign intelligence outfits.
Rivka Amar was the last one to arrive. Lean and wiry, with short, curly dark hair, she was the Mossad officer attached to the embassy. She operated covertly under diplomatic cover, masquerading as a junior consular official. Once she was inside the room, she signaled the security guard to close and lock the door behind her. It latched shut with an audible click.
The ambassador waited until she took her place and then asked, “Well, Rivka, what’s the situation?” He looked understandably worried. Requests from the Mossad for emergency, top-secret meetings never involved pleasant news.
“Over the past forty-eight hours, we’ve detected signs of an around-the-clock, close surveillance operation being mounted against this embassy,” Amar said crisply. She touched a control on the keyboard in front of her. A monitor lit up. “Cameras we’ve covertly placed to cover every avenue of approach have confirmed our initial suspicions. Every person entering or leaving here is being monitored by unknown operatives using a variety of means — mostly by direct observation on foot or from vehicles, but also by at least one miniaturized aerial drone.”