Whiplash (27 page)

Baku, Azerbaijan
Twelve hours later

F
OR NEARLY TWO THOUSAND YEARS
A
ZERBAIJAN IN THE
southern Caucasus had been little more than a vassal state, the rump end of kingdoms whose capitals lay hundreds and even thousands of miles away. The high desert and rich hills had seen more than their share of conflict, while the people who lived there had fought countless times to rewin their independence.

The land’s austere beauty was part of the problem. The mountains that marked three of Azerbaijan’s borders seemed to beckon adventurers, and no one who saw the calm sea at its east could withstand the temptations of the mild climate and lush vegetation nearby. At times it seemed as if everyone who came to Azerbaijan wanted to rule it.

With the collapse of the Soviet Union in the 1980s, Azerbaijan had gained independence from its most recent ruler. And with the increased demand for oil and minerals in the years that followed, the country prospered. Its deepwater oil fields offshore were the envy of the world; vast resources lay untapped, making it potentially one of the most important producers in the twenty-first century.

Baku, the capital on the Caspian Sea, had become a boomtown since independence, fueled not just by oil riches, but by the disposable income of Russian oligarchs and mafiya types, who found its mild weather, newly built nightclubs, and relaxed attitude toward wealthy foreigners extremely welcome. Baku had its old, center city, an ancient core bounded by medieval walls that seemed not to have changed in hundreds of years. But much of the city was very new, buffed by flash. There was chrome on everything, cars and buildings, even people. Money flowed freely in new Baku, attracting other money, drawing the good and ill it always draws.

Even so, the man at the marina was dubious when Nuri and Danny arrived to pick up the boat. It was 8:00
P.M
., and all of his employees had gone home for the day. The only reason he had stayed was the prospect of receiving twice his normal fee for leasing the craft.

Still, the money wasn’t quite enough to stop him from asking questions.

“Why so late?” he asked as Nuri began counting out the hundred euro bills.

Cash had been his first stipulation.

“It’s not late,” said Danny. He’d slept on the plane from Khartoum to Egypt, but those two hours represented all the rest he’d had in the past two days.

The marina owner took the hint and stopped asking questions. Holding the euros was reassuring. He fanned through them and decided it was none of his business what the two foreigners wanted to do with the boat.

As long as it was back in one piece.

“By Thursday evening, yes?” said Nuri. “To your dock.”

“With a full tank of fuel.”

“Yes. A full tank of fuel.”

“If it fails to return—”

“It’ll be back,” said Danny.

“If it fails to return, you will be responsible for replacing the entire vessel. The credit cards will be charged.”

“Of course.”

The owner fixed Nuri with his gaze. He had pegged the black man as an American—he had the unspoken arrogance all Americans carried—but this one was harder to decipher. His English was not like the other man’s, or like the American who had first contacted him about the possibility of leasing the boat. And he used euros, a European’s first choice of currency. But he was too dark to be an Englishman. He certainly wasn’t French or German.

“If I have to replace the fuel,” said Nuri, “I want to make sure that’s filled up now. To the brim.”

“Of course it’s filled up.”

“Show me.”

“There’s no need.” The boat was not, in fact, filled to the brim, or even three-quarters of the way up. A fact the owner was well aware of, since he had used it just that afternoon. “If there is a discrepancy, we can settle it when you get back. Don’t worry. Take the boat.”

“I want you to come with me and check,” insisted Nuri.

“No, no, go—I’ll take your word. Write it down. I have to see my wife. If I’m not home soon, she’ll call her mother and they will start talking. Then I will have much trouble.”

“How full you figure it is?” Danny asked as soon as he and Nuri were alone on the dock.

“I’d guess somewhere between half and three-quarters,” said Nuri.

It was closer to half than three-quarters, but they had already arranged for more fuel, along with a second boat that was waiting for them about a mile down the coast. Hera and Flash were there as well.

Danny and Nuri sped southward, blowing some of the carbon out of the engines as they went. The boat was a Phantom 21, sporting a massive engine and capable of somewhere around 75 knots—expensive to lease but well worth the price. They touched fifty knots before throttling back to enter the marina at a controlled speed.

Standing on the dockside waiting as they approached, Hera did her best to keep her mouth shut, trying to block the remarks that came into her brain from traveling to her tongue. Danny and the others had been cold to her the whole trip, through Egypt and on the flight here. Even Flash, who talked to everyone and was everyone’s friend, barely spoke to her.

Separation from Whiplash was inevitable. It wasn’t fair, she thought—she had done her job, and done as well as anyone else. But that’s the way it was going to be.

As long they didn’t blame her for McGowan’s death. She knew it wasn’t her fault. She hadn’t been anywhere near him and she’d done her job. Getting stuck in the prisoners’ pen wasn’t her fault.

“All right, Whiplash, let’s go,” shouted Danny as he nudged the boat next to the dock. “Hera, you’re with me.”

She tossed down their gear bags and jumped into the boat. Nuri, meanwhile, clambered out and got into the second boat, a Sunseeker with twin Mercruisers. Not quite as fast as the Phantom, but no slacker, either.

“We gonna race?” said Flash, handing down a pair of jerry cans filled with fuel.

“Let’s just get across the Gulf in one piece, all right?” said Danny. “Nuri, we’ll stay in touch.”

“Yeah. What are we going to do if Tarid doesn’t get on that plane?”

“Then we’ll definitely have a race on the way back,” said Danny, gunning the throttle.

Pentagon

B
REANNA PICKED UP THE PHONE A SPLIT SECOND AFTER IT
started to ring.

“Breanna Stockard.”

“Jeffrey Stockard,” replied her husband.

“Oh, it’s you.”

Zen laughed. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

“I’m waiting for a call.”

“An important one, I bet. You have your serious voice on.”

“All my phone calls are important,” she said.

“Even the ones from me?”

“Especially yours. It’s just—I’ve been waiting for you to call all morning.”

“It’s beyond morning. A half hour beyond,” he added. “I thought we were having lunch.”

“Oh, crap!”

Breanna looked down at her computer. The alarm noting lunch was buried under eight windows, half of which she couldn’t even remember opening.

“Guess it’s off, huh?”

“I forgot all about it. I lost track of the time. I’m sorry.”

“You need a secretary,” said Zen.

“I have a secretary.”

“Where is she?”

“Lunch.” Ms. Bennett had in fact reminded Breanna that she had an appointment before leaving.

“So: We having lunch, or not?”

“No. I can’t. I—I have to get something cleared up.”

“What you were working on last night, huh?”

“Something along those lines.”

Breanna wanted to talk about the situation but couldn’t—she and her husband had agreed that they wouldn’t discuss anything involving national security on her side, and party politics on his. While they occasionally bent the rules, Zen would have immediately ended the conversation if she began talking about the mission.

It was too bad. There was no one whose opinion she trusted more than her husband’s, especially when it came to dealing with the Washington bureaucracy.

“It’s all right,” said Zen. “I’m a little squeezed myself. I have an appointment with the President at one. Which means it’ll be about two when I get in there.”

“You’re seeing a lot of her lately. Should I be jealous?”

“Ha. I’m her favorite thorn. In the side or elsewhere. You going to be home for dinner?”

“Yeah.”

“Because Teri’s thing is tonight.”

“Which thing?”

“Concert thing. Spring concert.”

“Oh right, right, right.”

“I’m missing a reception at the Korean ambassador’s home for it,” said Zen, as if this was the greatest sacrifice in the world. Zen hated receptions, and wasn’t very fond of the Korean ambassador, either. “So you better show up.”

“I’m showing.”

Breanna looked at the windows on the computer. She had a lot to do, but it was difficult to focus on any of it while the Whiplash mission was under way. She knew she had to separate herself—and yet she couldn’t.

Maybe it would be better to go over to Langley and work from there. At least she wouldn’t be checking the secure message system every few seconds, and looking at SpyNet, and checking the news…she could hook directly to MY-PID and get regular updates.

Her secure sat phone beeped. It was a call from Danny, asking for an update.

“Zen, I have to go,” said Breanna, barely getting the words out of her mouth before hanging up.

Approaching the Iranian coast

I
T WAS A LITTLE OVER
250
MILES FROM
B
AKU TO THE COAST
of Iran. The speedboats made the trip in just over four hours, dodging a small patrol craft operating out of Babol.

The Voice gave them directions the entire way. Danny still felt it was intrusive but he was beginning to think of the system as a personality, rather than a computer. It definitely acted differently than any computer he’d ever dealt with before.

Technically, MY-PID was simply the sum of its various
connections and databases. The programmers had kept the interface portion extremely basic, using techniques and routines developed and tested at Dreamland. Most of these, at their very core, were barely more sophisticated than the routines that worked GPS units, or the so-called personal assistant bots that gathered Web and media feeds for smart phones. But the sheer volume of the data available to the system and the algorithms it used to sort through them shaped the MY-PID’s interaction with users in the same way a human personality did.

The Voice was like a brainy, overknowledgeable kibitzer, an egghead that could be extremely valuable, but at the end of the day was still an egghead. In many ways it reminded Danny of Ray Rubeo, though the computer wasn’t quite as full of himself as its real-life analogue.

They were already in Iranian waters when Breanna called, using the Voice’s communications network.

“Danny, your subject is on his way to Tehran,” she told him.

“Roger that. We’re like zero-two minutes from shore.”

“I see.” Breanna paused. “I thought you were going to hold until we were positive he was in the air.”

“Schedule is a little tight, Bree. We have a bus to catch.”

“Acknowledged.”

“You wish you were out here, huh?” said Danny. “It sucks sitting behind a desk.”

“How’d you guess?”

Her voice had made it obvious. “I know exactly how you feel,” he told her.

“We’ll trade notes when you get back.”

“Deal.”

The Voice warned that a car was approaching on the road a few yards from where Danny wanted to land. He cut his speed, drifting to let the vehicle go by before moving closer to shore. As he coasted, he looked back for Nuri. Though the boat was only a mile or so behind, Danny couldn’t see it; the night was too dark and it was too low to the water. The
engines were plenty loud, but the hum from his own craft drowned them out.

“Trouble?” Hera asked. It was practically the first word she’d said since they left Baku.

“It’s just a car. We’ll let it pass,” he said. “You ready to use your Farsi?”

She told him, in Farsi, that she was as ready as an old woman to bake a cake—an expression her Iranian grandfather had used to indicate that he was willing to do whatever had to be done.

The Voice translated for him.

“Simultaneous translate to Farsi,” Danny told the computer. “As long as it’s chocolate.”

He repeated the words as the Voice reeled them off.

“Your pronunciation is off,” said Hera. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s a joke. I like chocolate cake.”

“Oh.”

“You don’t have much of a sense of humor, do you?” he said.

“I laugh at things that are funny.”

As Nuri’s boat slipped in alongside, the Voice reported that two more cars were coming down the road.

“I don’t want to wait too much longer,” said Nuri. “If we miss that bus, we have no way of getting to Tehran until morning.”

“Agreed,” said Danny. “We’ll go in after these pass. You ready, Flash?”

“Born ready, Colonel.”

“Nuri let a soldier drive?” said Hera.

“Boats are easy,” said Flash. “You should see me with a motorcycle.”

“Maybe you’ll get a chance with the bus,” said Danny.

“I’m game.”

Hera scoffed.

“You like driving motorcycles?” asked Danny.

“I have to be honest, Colonel,” said Flash. “I’ve never driven one.”

“No?”

“Chief Boston was going to show me in Sudan, but we didn’t get a chance.”

“It’s practically a requirement for Whiplash. We’ll have to teach you.”

“I’m ready whenever you are.”

“One more thing,” Danny told him. “Don’t call me colonel anymore. We have to stick with our covers.”

“Right.”

“Boss, anything like that is good.”

“Right.”

While they waited for the cars, Nuri sat on the deck at the rear of the cockpit, rehearsing his Farsi. He had spent much of the trip practicing with the Voice. Iran’s native language had never been particularly hospitable to his tongue. While the Voice could help with vocabulary, Nuri was still having fits with the pronunciation.

“Vehicle three has passed,” said the Voice.

“Let’s get in while the gettin’s good.” Danny slid the engine up out of idle, gave it a quick jolt, then dropped the throttle back again.

The Voice steered them past a group of rocks to a shallow shelf at the sea’s edge. The wind had died to almost nothing. Danny handled the boat easily, stopping just short of the shore, where the water was shallow enough that he didn’t beach.

Flash had a harder time. Just as he drew his boat up to the Phantom, the bow hit a submerged tree trunk. They pitched hard to port against the other cruiser.

The impact caught Hera by surprise, sending her to the deck.

“Watch it,” she said, scrambling up.

“Sorry.”

“Let’s go,” said Danny. “Hera, grab the line.”

She went to the side of the boat. Nuri, still somewhat distracted, climbed out to the bow and tossed the lead to her.

“Can’t we get any closer to shore?” he asked Flash.

“Man, I’m just hoping I didn’t beach us.”

Nuri sat and took off his shoes and socks, then rolled up his pants. He didn’t want to be too wet when he got on the bus. He had another change of clothes, but they were packed in the suitcase, which would be brought along by Danny and Hera later.

He put his foot over the side tentatively, dipping it in the water. It was colder than he expected.

“Best to just get in,” he said aloud to himself, easing down. His teeth started chattering. He held his shoes above his head and walked toward dry land.

The water was nearly three feet deep and came up to his waist, soaking his pants and the bottom of his shirt.

“Damn,” he muttered.

He pushed away from the boat, took a step, then slipped on the mossy bottom, dunking his entire body.

“You better grab the suitcase and get some backup clothes,” said Danny.

“Have Flash get it,” said Nuri, squeezing out his drenched shirt on shore.

Flash had his own solution. He stripped off his pants and held them over his head as he waded first to the other boat for the waterproof luggage, then to shore.

“Tell me next time so I can close my eyes,” said Hera.

“Next time I sell tickets.”

“You got the boat?” Danny asked Hera.

“Yeah, they’re tied to us.”

“Go ahead, get in.”

“I think you ought to pull it off the tree or rocks or whatever first. Make sure they’re not hung up.”

“If they are hung up, we’ll need their engine, too,” said Danny.

“It’ll float higher without me in it.”

“Just do it.”

Hera jumped into the other boat.

She was just one of those people who would always want
to do the opposite of what anyone else suggested, Danny thought.

He started reversing the engine on the Phantom 21. The line between the two boats grew taut—then snapped.

“How can it be so wedged in there?” Hera asked. “We’re not even hitting anything.”

“Get everything out and into our boat. Maybe it will float a little higher.”

There wasn’t much in the boat except for six jerry cans. Only four had fuel in them. Hera brought them over while Danny retied the line, doubling it this time. They got the other boat to nudge back, only to have it hang up on another submerged piece of the tree. The rope held, but the boat wouldn’t budge.

“The gods are screwing with us,” said Danny. “You take the helm here. I’m going across. Don’t do anything until I tell you.”

Because of the time constraints, the plan called for Nuri and Flash to head for the bus at the nearby stop. The bus would take them to another line that ran to the airport.

Danny and Hera would stash the boats a few miles away at a marina. Then they’d catch another bus to Tehran, arriving several hours later with the gear. Depending on where Tarid went—Nuri was betting on Tehran itself—Danny and Hera would immediately get a hotel room and start making other arrangements to support the surveillance mission.

Ashore, Nuri changed and checked his watch. They had fifteen minutes to walk the mile to the bus stop down the road.

“Flash and I have to get moving,” he said as Danny settled behind the wheel for another try. “We’ll take the bags with us.”

“Hold on, hold on,” said Danny. He revved the engine and shouted to Hera to pull backward. The boat didn’t budge.

“Danny, we’re going,” said Nuri.

“All right,” he said. “You’re better off with them anyway. In case we’re late.”

Nuri had changed everything but his shoes, deciding that his boots would look too American. He squished with every step.

“Car approaching,” warned the Voice.

“There’s a car,” Nuri told Flash, starting off the road.

“Maybe we should hitch.”

“You have an explanation about why we’re here?”

“We went for a midnight swim.”

“That’s not going to work in Iran. Come on—there are some bushes we can duck behind.”

I
T TOOK
D
ANNY AND
H
ERA ANOTHER HOUR TO GET THE
S
UNSEEKER
unstuck. By then they had no hope of making their bus.

“What’s Plan B?” asked Hera over the radio as they finally got the two vessels pointed toward the marina. The Voice tied her team short-distance unit into its communications circuit.

“We grow wings and fly,” said Danny.

“How come you can be a wiseass, and I can’t?” snapped Hera.

The remark caught Danny off guard.

“I wasn’t being a wiseass,” he said.

“What do you call it?”

“It was kind of a joke.”

“But I have no sense of humor.”

“You’re being awful sensitive,” he said.

“If I’m going to get canned, I want to understand why.”

“We’re going to get a later bus,” said Danny coldly. “There’s one that passes four hours later.”

“So we just wait? What if they need us?”

“If you have a better idea, I’m all ears.”

“Why don’t we see if we can rent a car?”

“There are no car rental places. Not even at the marina.”

“Then let’s steal one.”

Danny had considered it earlier, but decided that even the slight risk wasn’t worth taking if they could simply ride on the bus. Now, though, he saw the long gap as a potential prob
lem, leaving him no way to back up Nuri and Flash for hours if something went wrong.

“All right,” he said. “If you can jump a car.”

“With my eyes closed.”

H
ERA HAD LEARNED HOW TO DEFEAT ALARM SYSTEMS AND
jump cars long before she joined the CIA, though the details of her training were glossed over on her résumé.

The problem was finding a vehicle to take. Danny had chosen the marina because the Voice’s analysis of activity there showed that it was nearly always deserted after evening prayers, and tonight was no exception. That meant no one was there to ask questions as he and Hera lifted the suitcases from the boats and rolled them up the dock. But it also meant there were no cars in the parking lot. Nor were there vehicles near the houses or on the road leading up to the small village nearby. The houses were small and battered, and didn’t even look occupied.

The village was centered around a very small mosque. Structures leaned up against it on all sides; these were more stalls than buildings, painted and repainted, covered with tarpaper, and lean-to roofs. Half of them had not been used for years. The others were small stores and stands where a variety of goods were sold when the owners took the time to open them.

Beyond them sat the bus stop, a post on the main road. There were more houses on the other side of the highway. These were modern structures, far larger than the ones in the village. The owners were more prosperous than the people who lived in the village, though none were considered rich, even for Iran. The real money and power—as in most places, they tended to go hand in hand—lived in the hills overlooking the seaside.

“There’s something over there,” said Hera, pointing to a battered pickup truck. It was a late nineties Toyota, easy for her to jump.

“Looks like it’s their only vehicle,” said Danny, examining the property. “I’d hate to take somebody’s only car.”

“You can’t have a conscience in this game, Colonel. It’ll eat up your gut.”

“Go.”

Danny took the bags and walked with them over to the bus stop. A few minutes later Hera drove up at the wheel of a late model Hyundai Genesis.

“I saw a house with two cars in the driveway. This was the fancy one,” she said, rolling down the window.

Danny brought the bags around the back.

“I have to change,” said Hera, running over to the bag. She pulled out the long dress and scarf, covering her black jeans and shirt. The outfit was somewhere between conservative and fashionable, typical of younger women who lived in Tehran, but had strong ties to tradition.

“You better drive,” she told Danny. “Women usually don’t when they’re with a man.”

“I intend on it,” he told her, adjusting the seat so he could fit his knees under the dashboard. He made a three-point turn and headed down the highway, in the direction of Tehran.

“How far we going?” Hera asked.

“That bus stop at Karaj, I guess. It’ll only be a half hour or so from there.”

“Why don’t we just drive it all the way to the city?” she asked. “We can get there before Nuri and Flash.”

“Let’s not push it.”

“There’s no traffic. Which means no police,” she insisted.

“The briefing I heard said there was the possibility of roadblocks.”