“Remind me what NRO has flying over that part of the world.”
Foley answered without referring to her notes. “USA161 will pass over again in seven hours. Mentor 6, an Advanced Orion bird, covers that area as far as SIGINT goes.”
Advanced Orion, or Mentor, was a class of spy satellite run by the National Reconnaissance Office. Unlike the Keyhole satellites in low earth orbit, which overflew a given location twice a day, Mentors were parked at various spots approximately twenty-two thousand miles above the earth’s surface in geostationary orbit, gleaning signals intelligence such as telephone, radio, and television from an assigned location.
“We’re working on the feed from the last USA161 pass so we’re ready to do comparisons immediately.”
Ryan made a note in his folder. “Let’s get a couple more Sentinels overflying Mashhad.” He turned his gaze to Air Force Lieutenant General Jason Paul, chairman of the joint chiefs. His background was in intelligence. He was a steady man who thought more than he spoke, and Ryan greatly respected his opinion. “Any new glitches in command and control?”
“No, Mr. President,” General Paul said. “The Agency has logged several thousand hours in Iranian airspace. They suspect, but do not appear to know, the birds are up there.”
In 2011, Iran claimed to have wrested control of an RQ-170 Sentinel that had violated its airspace. In truth, there had been a glitch on the U.S. end. The stealth technology rendered the bird invisible to Iranian radar, and they’d been unaware of its presence until the computer glitch. Unfortunately, they had been prepared to exploit it once they were. They also claimed to have reverse-engineered an RQ-170 of their own called the Saegheh, or Thunderbolt, but had yet to demonstrate they could utilize their clone to any effect.
“Very well,” Ryan said. “I’d like pros and cons of both missile strikes and aircraft sorties within the hour. Let’s be ready to act when the KH 161 or one of the Sentinels gives us actionable pictures.” Ryan pushed away from the table. “Mary Pat, I’d like to see you in the office.”
“How about the medication for the Iranian boy if his father flips?” Ryan asked, once they’d returned to the Oval. Both carried cups of coffee from the Navy mess.
Foley sat down in her customary spot on the couch. “From the sound of things, he’s suffering from cystic fibrosis, specifically, the F508del mutation. The illness is controllable with new drugs, but they are extremely expensive — to the tune of two hundred ninety thousand dollars a year here in the States. We’ll use PL110 to get the family in the country and to pay for the medication.”
Among other things, Public Law 110 was used to fund what was essentially the CIA’s version of the witness protection program. High-value assets could be given new identities, backgrounds, and, in the case of Ibrahim Yazdani, necessary medical treatment.
Ryan gave a low groan. Helping a gravely ill child was a laudable thing. The chance that he might have to withhold that help if the father didn’t play ball made his bones hurt.
“It’s up to them now,” he said. “So you’ve had a little time to mull. I want to hear a pro’s thoughts on Erik Dovzhenko.”
“Mommy dearest, Zahra Dovzhenko, was a KGB counterintelligence officer until the collapse of the USSR.”
“You ever go up against her?” Ryan asked. “Back in the day when you were in Moscow?”
Foley shook her head. “I heard plenty about her, though. She was a savvy operative. Azeri by birth. Had a bit of a reputation as a vindictive drunk. Her jacket says she was pretty eaten up with the job. Drank, fought, and screwed a lot when she was younger. Reputation of a cowboy. Volunteered for all sorts of dangerous stuff.”
Ryan chuckled. “Sounds like somebody else I know.”
“Hey,” Foley said, acting incredulous. “I was a nice drunk. And except for interludes with Ed, my knees could have held an aspirin in place, they were so firmly closed during that portion of my career.”
“I meant the reputation for being a cowboy.”
Foley’s eyes sparkled with a grin. “I know. I just like to see you blush. My point is, having a superspy for a mother could not have made for an easy childhood. Just like here, intelligence work in Russia is a family business. Not too much of a leap to think mommy pushed him that direction.”
“His father?”
“An academic,” Foley said.
“One of those,” Ryan said, an academic himself.
“Anyway, if he was pushed into a career he didn’t want, it would explain his motivation for turning.”
“Or it could mean he’s an extremely sophisticated operative, setting a trap that will blow up in our face.”
“Maybe,” Foley said. “But they’ve been in Iran awhile now. I think it would have blown already if it was going to.”
“Let’s hope so,” Ryan said.
“Foley took a sip of her coffee. “Your son’s a smart guy, Jack. No one pushed him into this business. He’s got the genes for it, and the drive.”
She sighed, closing her eyes for a moment as if deep in thought.
“What?” Ryan asked.
“Doesn’t this remind you of the old days, when we were getting Colonel Mikhail Semyonovich Filitov out of the Kremlin?”
“They don’t make them like CARDINAL anymore,” Ryan said.
“I was thinking about that,” Foley said. “Maybe they do.”
56
Reza Kazem set the technical manual on the ground, weighting the pages down with a stone against the wind, and looked over the hood of the nearby missile transport vehicle at the approaching Bell 206. Kazem smiled serenely, not because he was happy to see the helicopter, but because he needed the practice.
Ayatollah Ghorbani could not help himself. Though he would stay in the rear of the aircraft, out of sight to the dozens of men working on the missile launcher and transport/erector vehicles, his presence was still a distraction of monumental proportions.
Kazem found Ghorbani to be a necessary evil, a means to an end. The cleric put on a pious face, issuing fatwa after fatwa, extolling the virtues of Iranian manufacturing while decreeing all things Western an abomination before Allah. He instructed his officers in the IRGC to utilize only Iranian-made helicopters such as the Shahed, while he trusted his own safety to nothing other than his personal Jet Ranger.
It was these little things that made Reza Kazem hate the man, but hate him he did.
He patted the sidewall of the huge tire on the missile transport truck as he watched the helicopter land at the edge of the rocky clearing a hundred meters away. No, it would not be long at all. He whistled over the two men he’d chosen to drive the gargantuan vehicle. They’d been eating soup from foam cups that they dropped on the ground immediately when he summoned them.
“You have the coordinates?” he asked once they’d scurried to him. Neither was yet thirty years old, the crystal surety of youth unmarred by the skepticism of age and experience.
“We do,” they said in earnest unison.
Kazem wondered what these earnest young dissidents would have thought had they known that the leader of the Council of Guardians, a man second only to the Supreme Leader himself, was on board the approaching helicopter.
“Take a squad of the others and move this truck to the caves,” he said. “Wait there until tonight, when the American satellite has passed overhead, and then proceed to the coordinates.”
The two men gave curt nods. “Yes, Agha Kazem,” they said, using the Persian honorific similar to “Mister” in the English-speaking world.
Ayatollah Ghorbani’s helicopter beat the air, throwing up a cloud of dust and gravel as it settled in. Reza Kazem sniffed, gathering up the patience he’d need to show deference to such a prig. On one side of the clearing, Dr. Sahar Tabrizi, the Iranian-born genius of astrophysics, checked and rechecked one of the two Russian missiles that had become her pet projects.