Cold amusement flickered in Pavel Voronin’s pale eyes. President Zhdanov, Shirazi, and all the others involved in this plan were convinced that MIDNIGHT was the answer to their prayers. And so it was. Left unsaid was the reality that it would also pave his personal path to even greater wealth and power.
One
Shadows cast by the setting sun stretched across a long, winding ski trail bordered by snow-dusted pines. Down in the narrow valley at the foot of the mountain, the Kitzbüheler Horn, lights were beginning to glow — outlining the streets and buildings of one of Austria’s most popular and charming Alpine villages. The forested heights of another peak, the Hahnenkamm, the Rooster’s Comb, climbed skyward on the other side of the town. Curving white trails crisscrossed the slopes of that mountain as well. Kitzbühel was the center of one of the largest ski areas in the Tyrolean Alps, attracting crowds of competitive skiers and the world’s jet-setters during the winter months.
Nicholas Flynn came gliding around a curve in the trail and turned to a quick stop off to one side. His skis sent a little curl of loose powder pattering downhill. He raised his goggles briefly, squinting down the slope ahead. This late in the day, the light was going flat, making it difficult to spot any bumps or dips along the surface. Fortunately, this was a trail designed for intermediate skiers, and not one of the steep, rugged runs favored by experts or amateurs with lots of medical insurance and a death wish.
He looked across at the Hahnenkamm. One of the sheer twisting and turning trails he could see was known as the Streif, the Streak. Since 1937, it had been the site of the World Cup’s most challenging race. Skiers plunging down the run’s two-mile length routinely topped more than sixty miles an hour — with nothing between them and a catastrophic crash but their own skill, agility, and experience.
Flynn felt a wry grin tug at the side of his mouth. Fighting hand to hand against Russian Spetsnaz commandos and parachuting into winter storms was one thing, but there was no way in hell he’d ever be crazy enough to believe he could handle a race on something like the Streif. “After all, a man’s gotta know his own limitations,” he murmured. As a kid growing up in mostly snowless Central Texas, family winter vacations to Colorado and Utah had taught him enough to make it downhill without face-planting… and to realize that any thoughts of hurtling straight down the local equivalent of a double black diamond slope were purely delusions of grandeur.
Fortunately, he wasn’t here to show off. Far from it, in fact.
About a hundred yards farther along, Flynn spotted another skier pulled off on the same side of the trail, apparently taking pictures of the spectacular views with his cell phone. The other man’s white parka, dark green ski pants, and red knit cap signaled that he was Flynn’s contact for this clandestine rendezvous. Arif Khavari was a high-ranking official in Iran’s state-owned shipping company. He’d come to Austria as part of an Iranian delegation to an OPEC meeting in Vienna. A short ski excursion had given Khavari a chance to escape the constant scrutiny of his compatriots and their official security detail.
Flynn glanced back the way he’d come. There were no other people in sight. The lifts would close at four o’clock, and with the light fading and temperatures falling fast, most skiers were already headed off the mountain to get ready for a busy evening of après-ski drinking, dining, and dancing in Kitzbühel and the even smaller neighboring villages. Satisfied for the moment that they were as alone as it was possible to be in a public place, he swung around and skied down to join the Iranian. He stopped again a few feet below Khavari — not far from the edge of the woods lining the trail.
The other man, shorter by a few inches and dark-eyed, looked nervous.
Flynn donned a friendly smile. “Excuse me?” he asked, in plainly American-accented English. “Can you tell me the time?” He nodded over his shoulder. “I’ve got a business call at five, but I’d still like to make one more run down the mountain if I can.”
Khavari made a show of checking his phone screen. “The Hornbahn gondola stops running in minutes,” he said hurriedly, rushing through the agreed-upon recognition phrase selected for this rendezvous. “I do not believe you could reach it soon enough to ride back up.”
“Too bad, but I guess those are the breaks,” Flynn answered with a shrug, finishing the protocol. He allowed his easy smile to tighten just a bit. “Okay, Mr. Khavari, now that we’ve confirmed our respective bona fides, maybe you can clue me in on just why you needed to see someone in person instead of communicating through the usual secure channels. We can’t take a lot of time here.” In the shadowy world of espionage and counterespionage, any face-to-face contact was highly risky, no matter how many precautions those involved took. It was something that should be done only when absolutely necessary. And keeping any meeting as short and to the point as possible was one way to minimize those inevitable hazards.
The Iranian swallowed hard. “You represent your decision-makers in Washington?” he asked quietly.
Flynn nodded, opting for discretion over the absolute truth. If Khavari was under the mistaken impression that he was in touch with an official U.S. government intelligence agency, so much the better for operational security. What the Iranian didn’t know couldn’t be forced out of him if the Revolutionary Guard’s goons ever figured out that he’d turned against the regime.
Besides, Flynn thought dryly, up to about a year ago, he had been working for the government — as a captain assigned to U.S. Air Force intelligence activities. Unfortunately, acting boldly to salvage things when the CIA’s own people screwed up not just one but two of the agency’s sketchy covert operations in a row turned out to be a really bad career move. The bureaucrats at Langley needed a scapegoat to blame for their own blunders. And Nick Flynn, a junior military officer without a drop of influence in D.C.’s political circles, must have seemed perfect for the part.
So he’d been laid up under guard in a military hospital, recuperating from his last brush with one of the CIA’s “brilliant” plans, when the mysterious Mr. Fox arrived to recruit him to join what the older man had modestly described as a “little private intelligence outfit.” Months later, after intensive courses to further hone his language, espionage tradecraft, and weapons skills, Flynn had come to understand that the Quartet Directorate — commonly referred to as Four by those in the loop — was actually something considerably larger and more important. This mountainside rendezvous with Arif Khavari was his first solo operational assignment for his new employer.
“I have a friend; a good friend,” the Iranian said, lowering his voice even further. “Like me, he secretly despises the corrupt men who are ruining our country.” He hesitated briefly before going on. “First, you should know that we both love our nation and our people. We are not traitors. The insane mullahs in Tehran and their evil servants are the real traitors.”
Flynn nodded his understanding. No one except the utterly mercenary or sociopathic could find it easy to break faith with his or her own native land, no matter how vile its current government might be. He fought down an urge to hurry the other man along again. Spooking Khavari or unintentionally insulting him now would do more harm than good.
“My friend is a naval architect,” the Iranian went on. “He works at our state-owned shipyards west of Bandar Abbas. Recently, he approached with me strange news about one of their current projects. Strange and disturbing news.”