Countdown to Midnight Page 4

  His smile widened slightly at the memory of watching Dmitri Grishin’s bullet-shattered corpse drift out to sea. That one small, perfect act of treachery had freed him to pursue his deepest ambitions . . . and simultaneously provided the wealth he required. In little more than a year, he’d built up a deadly and efficient organization—luring many of Russia’s best-trained special forces soldiers and intelligence specialists away from its vaunted Spetsnaz commando groups, its foreign intelligence agency, the SVR, and its military intelligence unit, the GRU, and into his own service. Poaching so many of their best people hadn’t won him any friends in Russia’s Ministry of Defense or its official intelligence organizations. But he didn’t really give a damn.

  After all, thanks to MIDNIGHT, the audacious covert operation he’d first conceived, and to the irreversible strategic changes it promised to unleash on an unsuspecting world, Pavel Voronin had become, as he planned all along, President Zhdanov’s indispensable man.

  He turned at a discreet knock on his office door. A specific tone chimed, indicating the visitor waiting outside was his top deputy, Vasily Kondakov, a former colonel in the GRU. He tapped a small icon on his smartwatch, disengaging the door’s security lock. It buzzed open and Kondakov hurried in carrying a manila folder. Nearly as tall as Voronin, the ex-intelligence officer was balding and wore a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles.

  “Well?” Voronin snapped.

  “Our courier from the team in Vienna just arrived,” the other man told him. He held up the folder. “With Skoblin’s full report on the Khavari . . . affair.”

  Voronin hid his amusement. In more than a decade of service with the GRU’s notorious Unit 29155, agents under Kondakov’s direct command had been responsible for the deaths of a number of dissidents, defectors, and even foreign nationals deemed dangerous to Russia’s national security. Despite that, he was still oddly squeamish, preferring vague euphemisms like “affair” to blunter, more accurate terms like “hit” or “murder.”

  He sat down behind his desk and gestured Kondakov into the lone chair on the other side. “And?”

  The other man frowned. “As ordered, Skoblin and his people took Khavari off the board. Quite permanently.”

  Voronin nodded. The Iranian shipping official had been under suspicion and surveillance for some weeks. His sudden attempt to arrange what was clearly a covert rendezvous while part of a delegation to an OPEC conference in Austria had triggered the quick decision to kill him. With the final preparations for MIDNIGHT so close to completion, it was imperative to seal any potential security breach. “So what’s the problem, Vasily?”

  “Khavari managed to make contact with an enemy agent before they were able to silence him,” Kondakov answered.

  Voronin’s lips thinned in irritation. He leaned forward. “Then I assume this agent is dead, too?”

  “Unfortunately not,” Kondakov said grimly. “Somehow, he evaded the team’s best efforts to eliminate him. He even took out one of our own people, one Skoblin had posted to guard the northern exit from Kitzbühel.”

  “Took out how?” Voronin demanded.

  “Skoblin’s team found our agent dead on the road,” Kondakov replied. “He’d been shot four times, at point-blank range.”

  Voronin sat back. His jaw tightened. “And has this mysterious paragon of mayhem been identified?”

  “Not yet,” the other man admitted. He opened the manila folder and slid several photographs across the desk. Taken through the scope of Skoblin’s sniper rifle and his spotter’s binoculars, they showed only part of the unknown agent’s face. Making identification even more difficult, dark-tinted ski goggles hid the man’s eyes and part of his forehead. “Thanks to your authorization from the president, we can run these pictures through the SVR and GRU databases without giving them the whole story. But I do not expect definitive results.”

  Voronin took one of the photos and studied it briefly. He saw Kondakov’s point. It would be almost impossible to match these partial images with that of any known enemy operative. From what little they had to go on, Khavari’s contact could be working for any one of half a dozen Western intelligence agencies. He said as much aloud.

  Slowly, Kondakov nodded. He tapped the best photo of the bunch, one that captured more of the man’s profile. “He might be American,” he said hesitantly. “There’s something about that jawline—”

  “Working for the CIA?” Voronin said with a snort. “Or one of their other intelligence groups?” He shook his head dismissively. “Not likely, Vasily. I doubt any of their people could have acted so swiftly and ruthlessly against Skoblin’s watcher. The American spy agencies are too risk averse. They frown on the use of unplanned violence by their officers, do they not?”

  Again, the other man nodded. The fictional depictions in so many films and thrillers of CIA officers singlehandedly taking out enemy spies and terrorists were a source of private amusement to those in Moscow, who knew how tightly their rivals’ hands were so often tied.

  Voronin looked more intently at the photo Kondakov had singled out. “The Israelis, on the other hand, aren’t such old women. They are not at all afraid to act decisively when necessary,” he mused softly. He glanced up. “And Israel is already locked in its own long-standing covert war with Iran. That gives them a strong motivation to cultivate a traitor like Khavari.”

  “You think this man could be Mossad?” Kondakov asked.

  “The Mossad. Or a member of the Sayeret Matkal,” Voronin said, referring to the special forces unit controlled by AMAN, Israel’s military intelligence service. He leaned back in his chair. “Taking everything into consideration, it’s the most likely possibility.”

  “So what now?”

  “Tell Skoblin’s team to institute tight surveillance on the Israeli embassy in Vienna,” Voronin ordered. “I don’t want those people able to make a move without us knowing about it. That’s essential in case they try to penetrate MIDNIGHT’s security again—by going after another of Khavari’s government colleagues, for example. We can’t risk further security breaches. Not this late in the game.”

  Kondakov looked worried. “It might be better if we turn that task over to the SVR or GRU,” he suggested. “Close surveillance operations are manpower-intensive. And if any of their people are spotted and identified, we might be able to pass it off as just a routine intelligence-gathering effort.”

  “Absolutely not,” Voronin said coldly. “Calling in your old comrades or those clowns in the SVR would mean briefing them on the potential gap in our operational security. Right now, President Zhdanov trusts us completely. Which is why we’ve been given a completely free hand to carry out MIDNIGHT as we see fit. Naturally, there are many small-minded men in our government who are jealous of our growing power and influence. They would jump at the chance to discredit me and the Syndicate. So I have no intention of affording them any such opportunity.” His eyes hardened. “Is that clear, Vasily?” Hurriedly, Kondakov nodded.

  “Then you tell Skoblin that I want this matter handled entirely in-house,” Voronin directed. “With our own people and our own resources.”

  “And if they spot the agent Khavari spoke to?” Kondakov asked.

  “I want him terminated,” Voronin said harshly. “Without hesitation. Without delay. And without any more mistakes.”

  Four

  Winter Park, Near Orlando, Florida

  A Few Hours Later

  Nick Flynn turned off a quiet residential street and drove up a long, private drive shaded by rows of tall palm trees. Through more trees ahead, he caught the dazzle of sunlight reflecting off the placid waters of a small, almost circular lake. He followed the driveway around through a half loop and parked in front of a two-story mansion overlooking the lake. Complete with red roof tiles imported from Barcelona, muted yellow stucco walls, dark wood trim, tall, arched windows, and a wrought-iron entry gate leading to the main door, it would have looked perfectly at home in Spain.

  Built in the early 1920s as the Florida winter retreat for a wealthy New York banking family, Avalon House now had different tenants. Weathered bronze plaques mounted near the main entrance told visitors the building currently housed the Concannon Language Institute, the Sobieski Charitable Foundation, and Sykes-Fairbairn Strategic Investments. Their faded, old-fashioned lettering conveyed the impression of stolid respectability appropriate to organizations founded in the late 1940s.

  Flynn suppressed a smile. In truth, of course, none of the three were really respectable at all . . . at least not in the sense that most people would use the term. They were actually front organizations for the Quartet Directorate—some of the many different groups created to conceal its clandestine recruiting, training, and operational activities. Avalon House had been deeded over to Four by one of its founding members, an heir to that same prominent New York banking family. He’d served in World War II as a member of Office of Strategic Services, the OSS—the precursor to the CIA. At his recommendation, the mansion had been converted into the headquarters of Four’s American station.

  At first, Flynn had thought it was odd that the Quartet Directorate had decided to locate one of its major operational centers so close to Orlando. Once known for orange groves and as a refuge from harsh northern winters, the area was now a tourist mecca more famous worldwide for Disney World, Universal Studios, other big theme parks, and sprawling vacation resorts. A private intelligence organization seemed completely out of place in such a setting. But gradually, he’d figured out the shrewd reasoning involved.

  Even seventy-plus years ago, Washington, D.C., and its environs had been crawling with U.S. intelligence and law enforcement agencies, foreign operatives, prying journalists, and political busybodies. The situation had only grown worse in the intervening decades. Amid D.C.’s toxic maelstrom of intrigue, spies, and counterspies, it would be virtually impossible for the Quartet Directorate to operate undetected. In contrast, Orlando—especially with its recent emphasis on global tourism and business and travel—was an ideal location for a covert group that wanted to avoid drawing inconvenient official attention. The region’s bustling international airport also offered good connections to and from virtually anywhere in the world, like the flights that had brought him back from Milan via London’s Heathrow the night before.

  Finally, from Flynn’s personal perspective, Florida’s warmer and sunnier climate was a huge plus. Between duty in Alaska’s far north and his aborted mission to Austria’s Tyrolean Alps, he figured he’d already seen enough snow and ice to last a lifetime.

  He pressed the buzzer firmly and looked up into the surveillance camera mounted overhead, allowing its biometric sensors to scan the contours of his face and confirm his identity. After a moment, the door swung open, revealing a brown-tiled foyer with a large reception desk. More doors on either side led deeper into the building. At the far end of the foyer, a wide curving staircase swept up to the mansion’s second floor.

  A petite Korean American woman sat primly behind the reception desk. In her stylish red blazer and cream-colored silk blouse, she appeared completely unthreatening, but Flynn knew that was only an illusion. Though strands of gray streaked her dark hair, she was still trim and remarkably fit-looking. More to the point, however, Gwen Park had spent years running intelligence and counterterrorist operations in some of the most dangerous parts of Southeast Asia’s drug-infested Golden Triangle before taking over as the chief of Avalon House’s small security detail. Among other hidden talents, she had a reputation as a crack shot and was said to be death in high heels in hand-to-hand combat.

  “Welcome back, Mr. Flynn,” she said briskly when he came inside. The front door closed automatically behind him. “How was your trip?”

  “Somewhat more eventful than I would have liked,” he admitted.

  Her eyes flickered in barely concealed amusement at the wild understatement. “So I heard.” She nodded toward the nearest interior door on the right. “Mr. Fox is expecting you.”

  “Do I get a blindfold? Or just a cigarette?” Flynn asked wryly, pausing with his hand on the doorknob.

  A tiny smile danced at the edges of her mouth. “Neither, I suspect,” she told him with mock severity. “Please keep in mind that our limited operating budget doesn’t allow room for frivolous luxuries.”

  Flynn shot her a grin and strode through the doorway and down a short hallway. There was another closed door at the end, this one marked: sykes-fairbairn strategic investments, carleton frederick fox, managing director. Pulling his shoulders back straight, he rapped once and went straight in.

  The office beyond was small and furnished very simply, with just a desk, a couple of comfortable chairs, and an inexpensive-looking desktop computer. Its most prominent feature was a large window that opened onto a lush tropical garden full of bright-colored flowers. Fox, a thin, middle-aged man with graying hair, turned away from the window. Bright eyes gleamed knowingly from behind a thick pair of wire-rimmed glasses. Except for those eyes, anyone meeting him for the first time would have assumed he was just the boring money manager or anonymous midlevel government bureaucrat he so often pretended to be.

  “Take a seat, Nick,” the older man said quietly as he crossed the room and sat down behind his desk.

  Flynn obeyed. Despite his plan to be oh so cool and casual, he caught himself sitting almost at attention.

  Fox smiled. “Expecting a reprimand? Or something worse?”

  “Well, yeah,” Flynn admitted. “After all, I can’t exactly claim to have covered myself with glory on this assignment.”

  Fox snorted softly. “Glory isn’t something we care much about in Four,” he said mildly. “We’re far more interested in people who can obtain the intelligence we need . . . and get out alive, if that is at all possible.” He peered at Flynn over his glasses. “Based on the fact that you appear to be breathing, I’ll take that as a significant mark in your favor.”

  “I may be breathing, but Arif Khavari sure isn’t,” Flynn pointed out tightly.

  “True,” the older man agreed. He shrugged his narrow shoulders. “Then again, since the enemy—whoever they may prove to be—clearly mounted a maximum effort to eliminate our Iranian friend, that is scarcely surprising. In the circumstances, I consider the fact that you got off the mountain alive, and then escaped the larger trap set for you, to be something of a miracle.”

  “Maybe,” Flynn said. “But if so, it was a miracle with Laura Van Horn’s name written all over it.”

  A half smile sleeted across Fox’s face and then vanished as quickly as it had come. “Laura can be something of a force of nature in a tight corner,” he concurred. He leaned back. “Judging by the fact that the Austrian authorities haven’t reported finding any more dead bodies littering their scenic slopes and highways, I think we can safely assume the motorcyclist she killed was, in fact, a member of the opposition hit team . . . and not some unfortunate local police officer in the wrong place at just the wrong time.”

  Somberly, Flynn nodded. Sure as he had been that Laura’s split-second decision to shoot the man who’d pulled them over was justified, it was still a relief to have that confirmed. Unlike the CIA, the UK’s MI6, France’s DGSE, and other government-run spy services, the Quartet Directorate’s agents had no safety net, no mythical “license to kill,” to protect them from imprisonment or even execution if they overreacted on a mission.

  “What about Khavari?” he asked.

  “His body was discovered earlier this morning, Kitzbühel time,” Fox said. “By members of the ski patrol checking the slopes before they opened. Apparently, it had been dragged into the woods to delay any premature discovery.”

  Flynn nodded grimly. The men who’d killed the Iranian would not have wanted to trigger a police inquiry, not while they were still hunting him. “Has there been any official word on his death yet?”

  “Tehran is blaming the Israeli Mossad for what it calls ‘the cold-blooded murder of a patriotic Iranian government official,’” Fox replied. “The Austrians aren’t saying anything at all, except that the matter is under investigation. And that they remain confident of eventually making an arrest in the case.”

  Flynn heard the skepticism in the older man’s voice. “Which you think is bullshit?”

  Fox nodded again. “Quite probably.” The corners of his mouth turned down. “Even if the Austrian government suspects the truth—that Khavari was killed because he had turned against the regime—it won’t want to risk provoking a diplomatic firestorm by interfering in what could be considered Iran’s own domestic affairs . . . however messy they might be. It might be a different matter if any of its own citizens had been hurt or killed, but, as it is—” His shoulders rose and fell expressively.

  “Khavari’s murder will be swept under the rug for the sake of political convenience,” Flynn finished bitterly.

  Fox eyed him closely. “Yes.” He cleared his throat gently. “Which leaves us with the challenge of making sure his death has meaning. Something in those fragments of intelligence he was able to pass to you before being shot must explain why Tehran or its allies were so desperate to silence him. Otherwise, if they simply believed he had turned his coat, why not wait to arrest and interrogate him once he flew back to Iran?”

  “Makes sense,” Flynn acknowledged. He took a moment to organize his thoughts, and then gave the other man a precise account of the strange story Arif Khavari had relayed. Nothing about it seemed to yield an obvious explanation. Why was Tehran so determined to make so many extensive and odd-sounding modifications to a single oil tanker? And why cloak the project in such tight secrecy and over-the-top security?

  When Flynn finished, Fox sat back with his eyes half-closed, obviously thinking through what he’d just been told. “Is it possible the Iranians plan to use this ship, the Gulf Venture, for large-scale smuggling operations?” he speculated after a moment, leaning forward again. “As it is, the Revolutionary Guards already run huge quantities of weapons, missiles, and other contraband to various terrorist groups and their other allies, like Syria and Venezuela. But the addition of a hundred-thousand-ton vessel would enormously expand their capabilities. You could cram a lot of lethal cargo aboard a ship that size, enough to supply any number of bad actors around the world with up to a year’s worth of munitions, explosives, and arms in a single smuggling voyage.”