Protect and defend (4 page)

There were a lot of obstacles Garret could overcome, but the wife of his candidate caught on film having sex with a Secret Service agent was not one of them. Garret showed the photos to Mark Ross, Alexander’s vice president on the ticket. Ross nearly lost his mind, but after a good thirty minutes of a profanity-strewn tirade, he composed himself. He was not prepared to quit so easily. He had fought too hard to see his lifelong ambition destroyed by some little slut. Ross had contacts from his days at the CIA and as Director of National Intelligence. He went to work on finding a way to neutralize the problem, and in less than a week had reached a deal with a very shady expatriate named Cy Green.

Now it had been a little more than sixteen months since the attack on the motorcade that had killed Jillian Rautbort and fourteen others, including the Secret Service agent who had been sleeping with her. Garret had deluded himself into thinking that his role in the entire matter had been that of a bystander. He had neither condoned nor criticized the plans that had been set in motion. He had merely followed orders.

Garret remembered the shock and surprise he’d felt when the bomb attack had worked. The press, the public, even law enforcement bought the entire thing. A splinter terrorist group took credit for the attack on the motorcade, and the hunt was on to track them down. The voters rallied behind Alexander and Ross and several weeks later they rode the tide of sympathy to victory. Everything was going smoothly up until the week before the inauguration. That was when Mitch Rapp, Langley’s top counterterrorism man, had somehow managed to track down the assassin who had detonated the car bomb. In just a few short days, everything they had worked so hard for began to unravel.

Just days before the inauguration the two men who had helped them pull off their miraculous come-from-behind victory disappeared, never to be seen by anyone again. That was unnerving enough, but mild compared to the shock Garret felt when he received the news that Vice President–elect Ross had died of a heart attack the morning of the inauguration. In the Oval Office, of all places. Garret knew Ross had a history of heart problems, but he found it hard to accept the timing of his departure. He had no real evidence that Rapp was to blame, but the odds of all three conspirators dying in the same week were impossible to swallow. Garret’s gut told him the CIA was behind the entire thing, but he was hardly in a position to run to the authorities or the media. He left Washington and promised himself that he would never return. A year later, however, he was already rethinking that decision.

He missed manipulating the media and the voters. He missed outfoxing the Republicans and watching them complain about his dirty tactics. President Alexander’s people were courting him as if it was a foregone conclusion that he would run the reelection bid that would begin in a little over a year. No man in the history of the republic had ever managed three successful campaigns. Being the first, and likely only, man to do so would be hard to refuse.

Garret threw the sheet off himself with no regard for his wife lying beside him. He placed his feet on the floor, grabbed the edge of the recessed bookshelf, and stood. As was his habit, he was buck naked. He began walking across the cabin toward the open door. A strip of lights along the floor illuminated the way past the bathroom. Garret used the onboard toilet as little as possible and never for a simple piss. One of his other defining traits was that he was cheap, and he’d be damned if he was going to pay the extortionate rates the marinas charged to pump his waste tanks.

He reached the door that led topside and undid the lock. As he climbed the steps he thought of the adrenaline rush he got from running a presidential campaign. Maybe it was time to get back in the game. Surely, if they were going to kill him they would have done it months ago.

Garret stepped into the spacious cockpit with careless confidence, blinded by his own lack of patience. It was simply unthinkable to him that anyone would wait to do anything. He walked over to the port side and along the narrow passageway that led down to the swim platform. Reaching out with his right hand, he steadied himself against the side of the boat as he moved down the steps. His knees and back were stiff. When he reached the expansive platform he turned immediately to his right as he always did.

Garret moved his toes to the edge and grabbed hold of himself. He flexed his knees several times and let out a yawn while he waited for his prostate to release its grip on his bladder. As he was looking out across the bay at the lights of the small town, he noticed a slight tremor beneath his feet. He started to turn his head to look over his shoulder, but before his head moved more than an inch a gloved hand clamped down on his mouth. A startled scream leapt from his throat but never made it past his lips. Garret felt the warmth of the attacker’s breath on his right ear and then he heard a voice. It was a growl, barely louder than a whisper, and it sent shivers down his spine.

“One fucking peep, and I’ll snap your neck like a toothpick.”

Adam Shoshan rounded the corner with his cart and counted the paces. To his satisfaction the long barren hallway was empty. He located the faint pencil mark at waist height and unfolded his small footstool. Reaching under the cart, he retrieved a metal box and yanked the wax paper off the back, exposing a sticky surface. After looking over both shoulders, he limped his way up the stool and pressed the device firmly against the wall, securing it in place. With no time to spare he folded up his footstool, set it on top of his cleaning cart, and was off.

Shoshan’s mission had evolved in ways no one had predicted. He had been sent in as a spy in the most classic sense of the word. His mission was to surreptitiously collect intelligence on the Isfahan Nuclear Facility and nothing more. No unneeded gambles or risks were to be taken. He was to monitor who came and went and at what time. He was to build dossiers on the key scientists, and most importantly he was to ascertain the capacity of the centrifuge facility buried deep underground. Almost as an afterthought, the air force weighed in with one request. If it was possible, they wanted to get a look at the blueprints of the facility. After all, they would be the ones who would be called on to destroy it, and the more they knew about where to drop their bombs the better their chances were of succeeding.

Shoshan was under strict orders to move cautiously, take his time and make sure he passed on accurate information. This was not to be a quick in-and-out operation. The ops people back at Mossad anticipated he would be in country for a minimum of one year. Shoshan accepted all of this with a sense of duty and honor. Every time the maniacal Iranian president appeared on television and expressed his desire to see Israel consumed by a nuclear fireball, Shoshan was reminded just how much was riding on his ability to sell himself as a Persian.

He blended in and did his job. He cleaned toilets, washed floors, and kept his eyes and ears open. At first he had been extremely cautious. Surprise inspections were not unusual and the security people were unusually hard on the newcomers. The small room where he kept his cleaning supplies was tossed twice in the first month. This caused the already cautious Shoshan to be even more careful. After the second month he learned that the guards inspected his closet not to look for evidence of espionage, but to pilfer supplies. In the passing months Shoshan got to know them better and their suspicion of the newcomer dissipated. In a breakthrough that no one could have predicted, it was Shoshan’s lifelong hobby of tinkering with all things mechanical and electric that would prove to make the difference.

Shoshan was cleaning the guards’ break room one day when he happened to overhear the men complain about the poor reception of the television. He asked them if he could take a look at it, and they consented. After a quick inspection Shoshan located the problem and fixed it with a few turns of his screwdriver. In the eyes of the guards this elevated him to near-godlike status. In no time at all he was fixing broken TVs, microwaves, radios, and pretty much anything with a circuit board. Word spread quickly that the new janitor was a very handy man to have around. Even Ali Farahani, the head of security, came calling. The hot summer months were upon them, and Farahani’s air conditioner was not working.

Shoshan went to Farahani’s house and located the problem. He ordered a part and the following weekend installed it free of charge. Farahani was very grateful and asked Shoshan if there was anything he could do for him. Shoshan said there was, and showed the head of security his storage closet at work. In addition to the cleaning supplies, brooms, mops, and buckets, the room now contained haphazard stacks of household appliances that were waiting to be fixed. Farahani was at first enraged, thinking that the janitor was being taken advantage of by the other employees. Shoshan assured him that was not the case. He had no family to go home to. They had all been lost in the earthquake. The work helped him pass the lonely hours in the evening. What Shoshan wanted from Farahani was permission to stay after his shift was over so he could work on the appliances. Not only did Farahani give him permission, he found the janitor a much larger, unused storage room on the third sublevel where he could set up his makeshift repair shop. At the time, Shoshan knew he had reached a critical breakthrough, but he had could have never dreamed just how advantageous this single move would turn out to be.

In the months that followed, Shoshan spent many evenings and weekends at the facility. He explored the corridors by day while pushing his cleaning cart from one room to the next. The guards now paid him only a passing glance as he came and went with boxes of tools, circuit boards, batteries, tubes and all of the other stuff he needed to stock his repair shop. It was during this time that Shoshan got to know Cyrus Omidifar. Omidifar was the chief engineer for the entire facility. He was the man who made sure everything worked properly. The power plant, the elevators, the ventilation systems, the plumbing, the guts of the place, it all fell under the purview of Omidifar. Like Shoshan, he loved to tinker with things.

At first Shoshan did not grasp the importance of Omidifar and all that he oversaw. Shoshan was too busy focusing on the scientists and nuclear program to stop and think about the actual bricks and mortar, or in this case steel and concrete. That all changed one evening when he went to visit Omidifar in his aboveground office. There on the table was a set of blueprints for the entire facility. Shoshan remembered the request from the air force targeting specialist and immediately cursed himself for not having his tiny digital camera with him. He stood over the prints, trying to grasp as many details as possible while his friend finished up a phone call.

When Omidifar was done he joined Shoshan at the table and announced, “An impressive feat of engineering…isn’t it?”

Shoshan agreed.

“It is designed to act as a series of nets.” Omidifar flipped the top page over and revealed a side elevation of the ground floor. “The top floor is two meters thick with six interlaced layers of rebar. If the Americans drop their bunker-buster bombs, we are very confident this first line of defense will stop them.”

Shoshan wasn’t so sure. Before going in country he’d been told that the Americans had their best military minds developing a new series of bunker-buster bombs that would get the job done. Shoshan looked at his friend. “And if it doesn’t?”

Omidifar shrugged. “There are three more floors the bombs would need to penetrate. They are not as thick as the first floor, but they don’t need to be. The first floor will stop or slow even their heaviest bomb. If one happens to get through, it still has to penetrate three more floors. Each of them one meter thick with interlaced rebar. The only way the Americans could destroy this facility would be to use a nuclear weapon, and they would never be so reckless.”

“What about the Jews?” Shoshan asked. He’d learned to take a perverse joy in playing role of Jew hater.

The question made Omidifar pause. He was a practical man not prone to spewing anti-Semitic remarks. “I am not so sure about the Jews. I advocated conducting this entire operation in secret, but our fearless president likes to taunt our enemies. Now we have made ourselves a ripe target.”

Shoshan smiled and nodded. His eyes returned to the print and his inquisitive mind went to work, not as a spy, but as someone who was endlessly fascinated by how things worked. “How did you support all this weight?”

Omidifar flipped several pages to a new sheet that showed a different cross-section of the facility. “We basically built an underground skyscraper. There is a steel skeleton that supports the entire structure.”

That was when it hit Shoshan. He had never been allowed access to the fourth sublevel where the reactor and the centrifuges were located. He had assumed it was built into or under the bedrock. From the air the facility was impervious to all but a nuclear strike and despite the hawkish attitude of some, Shoshan felt that neither the Americans nor Israel would play that card. Isfahan was a city of over a million people. There was no way either country would drop a nuclear weapon in the vicinity of so many civilians. If Shoshan’s instincts were right, however, no air strike would be needed. Something far simpler could cripple the entire facility. As Shoshan looked at the prints on that afternoon he paid particular attention to the size and gauge of the steel that had been used. By the time he left Omidifar’s office a new course of action was forming in his mind. Shoshan was ready to make the transition from spy to saboteur.

Months later Shoshan was struck by the irony that the destruction of the Twin Towers was what opened his eyes to the facility’s central weakness. He did not think of the towers in their pre–9/11 form and the way they dominated the southern tip of Manhattan. He didn’t think of them as piles of rubble and twisted steel. His mind fixated on a five-second clip of each building as it collapsed under its own weight.