Текст книги "Splinter cell : Blacklist aftermath (2013)"

Автор книги: David Michaels

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“Here’s what we’re thinking,” Charlie continued. “And I ran this by Kasperov and he agrees. The oligarchs might’ve gotten an idea from something based on Kasperov’s work.”

“What idea?” asked Fisher.

“One of his clients is a company called NGP. They’re the world’s supplier of neutron generators for what these guys call neutron porosity oil well logging.” Charlie regarded his computer screen. “That’s what I’ve been looking at here—pics of those generators.”

“What exactly do they do?” asked Briggs.

“Basically, engineers use these suckers to record the composition of the ground around oil wells. And that information is usually classified.”

Fisher nodded. “So how’s our boy Rahmani fit into all this?”

“Six weeks ago NGP shipped a generator to Iran. That’s pretty routine since Iranian engineers are always scouting out new oil fields. It’s the name on the customer’s invoice that blew my mind: Abu Jafar Harawi.”

“One of Rahmani’s known aliases,” Grim added.

“That’s right,” said Fisher. “Unless it’s another guy with the same name?”

“We don’t think so. The Special Activities Division has a contact in Iran, a MOIS agent who flipped. This guy ID’d Rahmani in Iran, and he confirmed that he saw Rahmani two days prior to that shipment. Rahmani was there and he took possession.”

“They’ve got a hundred pounds of enriched uranium, along with a neutron generator,” Fisher began, thinking aloud. “Are they using that generator to help build a bomb?”

Charlie shook his head. “Not help build it, but use it to act as a booster agent.”

“Back up,” said Grim. “I put out a BOLO to all our allies on that NGP shipping crate, and one of Israel’s Mossad agents played a hunch. He took a trip over to Natanz, which you’ll recall is Iran’s premier nuclear enrichment facility.”

“Oh, man,” Briggs said. “This sounds bad.”

“No kidding,” said Charlie.

“The shipping crate should’ve been found at an oil field distribution depot, but yeah, it wound up in Natanz,” Grim said. “So let me posit this: Our Russian oligarchs helped the Iranians obtain the neutron generator because they’re building a simple uranium target-ring type bomb using the stolen material from Mayak. It’s definitely not a newer plutonium implosion device because the facility at Natanz doesn’t have an airtight lab or room. Plutonium’s a bitch to machine and work with. Just ask the Russians at Chernobyl all about that.”

Fisher exchanged a look with Briggs as Charlie picked up where Grim left off:

“So they’ll use this off-the-shelf neutron generator to pump in a stream of slow-moving neutrons to boost the bomb’s nuclear yield. If they’ve done their homework and surrounded the uranium with a good tungsten carbide tamper to act as a neutron reflector as well as delay the explosion of the reacting material, then they’ve got a cheap, Walmart-style version of a working nuke.”

“Is the generator still there?” asked Briggs.

“We think so,” said Grim.

“And here’s another theory,” added Charlie. “The Iranians could use the generator, so they can list it within a larger shipment—”

“Which would help disguise the bomb,” Fisher concluded.

Charlie shrugged. “It might, but we don’t have a clue what they’re using for a trigger—meaning we don’t know what the finished bomb will look like.”

Fisher nodded then turned to Grim. “Potential targets?”

“Historically, the Iranians don’t directly engage in terrorism; they use proxies like Hamas and Hezbollah,” she said. “A bulky gun-type nuke warhead won’t fit on the tip of an aerodynamic missile, so Israel’s not the target. But, consider this: The market value of Iranian oil is inversely proportional to the flow of Arabian oil, and that Arabian oil is sitting just across the Strait of Hormuz.”

“So you’re thinking an oil well,” Fisher said.

“Or at least some place that would routinely receive neutron generators as part of a larger shipment. The Iranians do the oligarchs’ dirty work and both parties score big.”

“All right, I follow you so far,” Fisher said. “But now this has me thinking—we confirmed that the Iranians were not involved with the Blacklist Engineers. So what makes the Russians better partners?”

“I’m not sure, but I bet the oligarchs have been working with the Iranians on this for a lot longer than we realize. The Iranians stood by and watched Sadiq and his Blacklist Engineers initiate their plan, and they observed us and targeted our weaknesses,” Grim said. “And maybe they found in the oligarchs a better-connected and –financed ally who could pull off a theft like the one at Mayak. Maybe there were political or ideological differences between Sadiq’s people and the Iranians, and the outcomes may not have benefited Iran.”

“Maybe they thought Sadiq was an asshole,” said Charlie.

Fisher repressed a grin and nodded.

Ollie called from his station. “POTUS on the line.”

They turned their heads to the overhead screen, where President Caldwell offered a curt greeting. “I’ve been on the phone with President Treskayev all afternoon. We just showed him the video you took.”

Fisher narrowed his gaze on her. “Did you ask him if he had any suspicions about this man Chern?”

“I did. And he wouldn’t talk about that. He’s says the oligarchs on our list must’ve been tipped off and fled, but all the intel assets in Asia and Europe have been alerted. When I informed him about the neutron generator and Natanz, he flatly denied that any Russian citizens would be involved. I told him that for a veteran politician he was acting rather naïve.”

“I agree,” said Grim.

“Honestly, though, he’s not my biggest problem right now. Israel’s Knesset is debating a preemptive air strike on the Natanz facility, and the country’s air force has already slipped into our equivalent of DEFCON One. Now this whole thing could turn into a Middle East powder keg.”

“Sounds like we’re going to Iran,” said Fisher.

Caldwell sighed in frustration, then finally nodded. “If I recall, you know your way around there, at least Quds Force headquarters, anyway. You’ll have my help.”

Grim was at the SMI table. “If we fly into Baghdad, we’re still looking at an eleven-hour road trip.”

“HALO jump?” Fisher asked.

Grim shook her head. “They’ve got some serious antiaircraft guns. There’s just no good way to get there. It’s smack in the middle of the desert.”

“We’ll work it out,” Fisher assured the president.

But they were wasting their time—

Because not six hours later, as they cruised over the Atlantic, Grim heard back from one of the Mossad ground agents assigned to be their eyes and ears on Natanz.

He breathlessly reported that one of his colleagues had been in a struggle with a perimeter guard and that both men had died. Just before his death, the agent had photographed traffic coming in and out of the facility—government cars, military vehicles, and various delivery trucks.

Even more importantly, he’d moved in close to a loading dock and had captured something large and draped in tarpaulins being transferred into a tractor trailer. The agent died before he could transmit those images, which were found stored on his camera.

“That has to be it,” Grim said. “They couldn’t attach the neutron generator in the field.”

“So they’ve built their bomb,” said Fisher.

Grim nodded. “And now it’s gone.”

31

FISHER balled his hands into fists as he scanned the data passing across the SMI’s display.

“I’m doing everything I can,” Grim said, clutching the edge of the table. “It’s just the photos weren’t very clear. We got no markings off the trailer. I talked to NCS, and they’re willing to send in a drone, but it might be too late. Satellite was out of range but it’s back up now. We’re still backtracking everything that came out of Natanz. We’ve got eyes on all shipping out of Iranian ports, we’ve alerted field ops on the ground there to provide HUMINT. I’ve just queried the SMI for primary targets, calling up those sites that’ve already used neutron generators—”

“Which is pretty much every oil well in the entire Middle East,” Fisher said.

“Not all of them,” said Grim. “But it’s a long list. The SMI predicts that they’re transporting the weapon south, toward Kuwait and Saudi Arabia.”

“All right, let’s go with what Charlie said—biggest bang for the buck. What oil well target would have the most repercussions on the American economy—because that’s what this is about, right? The oligarchs are trying to weaken us through a virus, a dirty bomb attack, and by taking out an oil target to jack up the price of their own crude and destabilize the entire market.”

“Sorry to interrupt,” Charlie said. “But we’ve finally received permission to land in Dubai. That should put us within range of potential targets. I’ve notified the flight deck.”

“What’s our ETA?”

“About twelve hours.”

“Damn, it’ll take them barely five hours to reach the coast,” said Fisher.

“And we’re not sure exactly when the tractor left Natanz, so it could be there already,” said Grim. “One among hundreds of tractor trailers moving in and out.”

“Flight deck,” Fisher called. “I need you to fly so fast the wings melt off. Do you read me?”

“Roger that, Sam. Best possible speed until the wings melt off.”

Fisher nodded and glanced to Grim. “Be right back.”

He headed to the infirmary, where he pulled Kasperov aside and spoke in Russian. “We were going to drop you off at Dulles, but time’s against us. We’re making a detour.”

“That’s all right. I assume I’m very safe here.”

“I guarantee that.”

“So it’s good we remain—but not for much longer. I do want to see my daughter. For now let me know if I can help with anything else.”

“I will.”

“Mr. Fisher, I’m sorry it’s come to this. The oligarchs do not represent the Russian people, only a tiny minority, like your so-called one percent.”

“I know. And the irony is, you and the rest of them, you got your money after the Soviet Union collapsed, so you were free to pursue greed at any cost.”

“Just like America?” Kasperov asked. “As if to say your Congress isn’t controlled by big businessmen?”

Fisher hesitated. “They’d never resort to this.”

“You don’t know that. Some men will do anything.”

“But not us, right? Not you. You did the right thing—and in my line of work, I don’t run into many people who have a conscience.”

* * *

ELEVEN hours and fifty-eight minutes later they landed at Dubai International Airport.

Fisher had barely slept, and Grim had refused to leave the SMI table, even as dark circles had formed under her eyes and a pot of coffee had slowly emptied behind her.

More tractor trailers had been followed, shipments examined. Three different helicopters that had left Natanz had also been tracked. Keyhole satellites, drones, and ground assets had come up empty. Fisher decided he had nothing to lose by calling on Kobin.

“Hey, asshole.”

Kobin snorted. “I thought we loved each other now.”

“I filed for divorce.”

“Nice.”

Fisher lifted his chin. “I need information.”

“What else is new?”

“Your guy find out anything on the Snow Maiden yet?”

“Still waiting on him.”

“Follow up. Right now we got a shipment out of Natanz we need to find.”

“Don’t be coy, Fisher. I know what you’re looking for. I eavesdrop on everything.”

“Then you already got something for me.”

“What the fuck? You think I got a guy in every city? A guy in Iran for God’s sake?”

“Why not? You sold weapons to the Blacklist Engineers. You didn’t care about that.” Fisher scowled.

Kobin took a step back, thought it over, opened his mouth, hesitated, then finally stammered and said, “Look, I got one guy down in Bandar Abbas, but that port’s pretty far south. Not sure why they’d send the container all the way down there. I’ll give him a call, but listen, I don’t think I have shit on this one. Wish I did.”

“Make the call.”

“Okay. And hey, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking.”

Fisher almost smiled. “You actually have brain cells left?”

“Seriously, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

Fisher frowned.

“You know. For everything. The past is the past. I think we make a great team.”

Fisher took a step toward Kobin, staring him down. “You know what I think? I think it’s all about you. You’re not sorry. You’re just saving your ass here. What you’ve done for us is good. You helped us find Kasperov. Thank you. But let’s agree to just use each other and keep the apologies and this fantasy you have about joining our team out of the equation. Right now you’re a consultant—and that seems to work. Okay?”

“Damn, I’m just trying to make nice over here. Not exactly in a good mood, are we?”

“You make nice by calling your buddy.”

Fisher left the man standing there by the servers. Yes, Kobin had been a great help, but his abduction of Sarah and desire to have Fisher killed meant that no amount of “making amends,” “earning his keep,” or anything else could fix what he’d done. Ever.

Before returning to the control room, Fisher took a moment to calm himself. That bastard had set his blood to boil, and he knew he’d take it out on the team if he didn’t let go.

After a deep breath, he started forward. “Hey, Charlie, we get anything?”

“Perfect timing, because, yeah, I found a link I’ve been looking for.” The kid swung around in his chair, rubbed his eyes, then waved his peanut butter spoon like Excalibur. “Come see this.”

Grim and Briggs joined Fisher at Charlie’s station.

“If this is another dead end . . .” Grim warned.

“Hell, no, boss,” Charlie answered, pointing to satellite photos of a seaport labeled King Abdulaziz.

The port was in the city of Dammam along Saudi Arabia’s east coast and about halfway down the Persian Gulf, between Kuwait City and Abu Dhabi. Fisher recalled that it was one of the largest in the entire gulf. A data window beside one image indicated that the port was a main gateway through which cargo entered the Eastern Province and moved on into the central provinces of Saudi Arabia and was strategically placed to service the oil industry. The port had its own administration offices; mechanical and marine workshops; electrical, telephone, and marine communication networks; and water treatment plants. A clinic, a fire department, and housing complex for employees with nearby mosques and supermarkets helped classify the surrounding harborage as a city within a city.

Was this the oligarchs’ third target?

“Given our timetable, it’s possible that our device could’ve been transported down to the southern coast like Sam said, then put on a ship—because three different Iranian ships called on the port within the last four hours.”

“So they want to blow up the port?” Fisher asked.

Charlie shrugged. “The generator’s a booster, yeah, but I’m thinking these guys are bolder than that. They’ll bury it within a bigger shipment and try to slip it past security. They wouldn’t worry about that if they wanted to blow the port. Hell, they could leave it on the ship and just detonate it there.”

“Come over here,” said Grim, crossing back to the SMI. “Great work, Charlie. You finally got something that points to Abqaiq. I’ll take it now.”

Charlie grinned. “I knew you would.”

Grim zoomed in on a map of Saudi Arabia, the vast plains of desert stretching out across the display like a piece of tanned leather. She narrowed the image toward a splotch of gray, a birthmark on an otherwise unbroken flesh-colored stretch sixty miles southwest of the port. The image came into focus to detail a cookie-cutter community with adjacent industrial facility to the east. Photos popped up in a gallery to the left, along with more data bars that identified the region as Abqaiq—pronounced “Ab-cake.”

While the overhead image showed circular storage tanks and rectangular buildings, the photos revealed an even vaster network of pipes—like the exposed bowels of some metallic beast—along with huge columns of smoke backlit by flames shooting skyward in long, thin tongues.

This wasn’t just an oil well. This was an oil processing facility, and it was located within a gated community of thirty thousand owned by Saudi Aramco, a Saudi Arabian national oil and natural gas company based in Dhahran.

“You’re looking at one of the largest oil processors in the world,” said Grim. “This facility handles more than half of Saudi Arabia’s daily oil exports. It’s a key node in the global energy pipeline. The main thing they do here is remove hydrogen sulfide from the crude oil so it doesn’t spontaneously explode during shipping.”

Grim tapped one data window to bring up a list of news stories. “Al-Qaeda launched an attack on Abqaiq back in 2006. They tried to get two cars carrying a ton of ammonium nitrate close to the processing plants, but the Saudis shut that down pretty quickly. They have security and entrances set up like an old medieval castle, where after you cross the gate, there’s a wide open area nearly a mile long that allows the second tier of forces to take you out. Since then, there have been hundreds more attempts, all of them small and barely worth mentioning. The Saudis have increased security—higher fences, electronic surveillance, and a garrison of over thirty-five thousand troops. They have operators from the Special Security Forces, Special Emergency Forces, the General Security Service, as well as local reps from fire and police. The bigger players include specialized brigades of the Saudi Arabian National Guard, the Royal Saudi Navy, and even the Coast Guard. They have a contingency plan for hijacked aircraft being flown into the plant, with F-15s from their nearest base on continual standby.”

“Tighter than Fort Knox,” said Briggs.

“And the Russians know it,” Charlie added.

“So what’re you thinking, Grim?” asked Fisher. “They’re smuggling the device into the processing plant?”

“There are two equipment warehouses on the east side in an area called Material Supply.” Grim spread her thumb and forefinger apart, coming in tight on the buildings. “The device could be hidden within some larger shipment and move through security. Some of those neutron generators—not all of them but some—emit radiation, and they’re expected to do so. I’m not sure the fluctuations or increase in readings would be picked up by those security teams when they’re already expecting some radiation—and I think that’s what the oligarchs are counting on.”

Fisher snickered. “So we won’t find a nose-cone-shaped warhead with a ticking clock on it, huh?”

Grim rolled her eyes and typed something on the touch keyboard. The screens faded to expose another map of the region with concentric circles of devastation flashing in crimson red, along with data bars popping up all over the screen to detail the destruction. “A fifteen kiloton nuclear explosion—about the size of the detonation in Hiroshima—would kill everyone at the plant and surrounding community, some 65,000 in all, including many American engineers.” She flicked her glance between Fisher and the SMI. “Within the first two to four months of the bombing, the acute effects of Hiroshima killed 90,000 to 166,000 people, with roughly half of the deaths occurring on the first day. The Hiroshima prefecture health department estimated that, of the people who died on the day of the explosion, sixty percent died from flash or flame burns, thirty percent from falling debris, and ten percent from other causes. Now take a look at this.” Grim brought up another series of windows with charts, graphs, and tables. “This data comes from conflicting sources, and the Saudis are always giving us the best-case scenario and boast that they’ve got enough backup supplies, reserves, facilities, and personnel to take a major blow like this and come out unaffected.”

“No way,” Briggs said.

“Yeah, I know,” said Grim. “Shutting down Abqaiq could take up to fifty percent of Saudi oil off the market for years and with it, much of the world’s spare capacity.”

“To hell with the oil. There are too many lives at stake—including Americans,” Fisher said. “And we lose credibility if the world learns assets were in place and we didn’t act. Let’s get on the horn right now.”

Grim’s expression grew tentative. “We need to be careful. We can’t run in there and cry wolf.”

“I know,” Fisher said. “But the Saudis need to suck it up and understand what’s at stake here.”

“I agree, Sam, but we can’t forget that the Saudis are a very proud people. We lose credibility as an organization and as a nation if we’re not absolutely sure about this. We know Abqaiq is a likely target. We have three Iranian ships that ported at Dammam within our time frame . . . but I’m concerned that’s not enough for us to impose our will on them. We can alert them, sure, we’ll do that, but I know you’ll want to go in, and I know they’ll want to handle this themselves.”

Fisher looked at Charlie, who shrugged.

Briggs pursed his lips. “Iranian ships stop at that port all the time.”

“We only need to be wrong once,” said Fisher. “And that’s not good enough for me. I’d rather piss off the Saudis and cry wolf than play games. We need to be there. We need to inspect anything that goes through there ourselves.”

“But if we just had a little more,” Briggs said. “Because you’re right—we only need to be wrong once. And if we’re sitting there at Abqaiq and a bomb goes off someplace else . . .”

“We need more?” Fisher asked, raising his voice in frustration. “All right, damn it, I’ll get us more.” He whirled and rushed off toward the infirmary.

As he opened the hatch, a dark thought crossed his mind: He could use Kobin to lie for him.

Fisher was not prepared to tiptoe around political interests. That wasn’t happening. Not on his watch. Kobin would make up a story. Charlie would falsify the contacts. It’d all look plausible to Grim and Briggs. He understood their reservations, but he didn’t have to agree with them. Abqaiq was the target with the highest strategic value. That was a fact.

Then again, maybe Fisher was more like Kasperov than he cared to admit: a man with a conscience.

Damn, what was he thinking? He couldn’t do that to his team. They deserved better.

He’d take up the Russian’s offer. Kasperov still had contacts. While it was true Grim had kept much of the intel away from him in the interest of national security, they didn’t need to hand over much: A nuclear device might have been smuggled into Abqaiq, and did any of his contacts know anything about that or could they confirm any connection to the processing plant?

After giving the man a capsule summary, Fisher sighed and said, “Can you help?”

“I need a computer,” Kasperov said.

Fisher called Charlie, who came down with a laptop and remained there, watching.

“Damn, you’re calling him,” said Charlie.

“Yes, I am,” Kasperov answered, speaking in English for Charlie’s benefit.

“And you know where he is?”

“Of course, I’ve always known. He’s been right hand, ace in hole, as you say, for long time. He is at risk right now, but I think he will understand.”

Fisher caught sight of a name on the screen: Kannonball.

Kasperov was in an encrypted chat session with his former employee, and they were now chatting in Cyrillic.

“Can you read any of that?” Fisher asked Charlie.

“Not really.”

“They’re typing too fast. Mr. Kasperov? What’re you saying?”

“I’m letting him know about problem.”

“What’s he saying?”

“Several of oligarchs have GRU agents on payroll now, and Kannonball has hacked into GRU network. He says one GRU agent sent to Dammam with orders to intercept another agent on ground. No IDs yet because information wasn’t being transmitted until pursuing agent arrived on target.”

“What’s this about?”

“It’s about one agent killing another.”

“They’re cleaning up a mess.”

“Exactly.”

“On whose order?”

“Kannonball thinks maybe President Treskayev or Izotov from GRU ordered execution.”

“Who does the rogue agent work for? One of the names on our list?”

“Correct. Recently hired. Rogue agent might be at port to receive shipment.”

That left Fisher puzzled. “Why would they do that? If the agent is caught, that pins it back to the oligarchs. They’re taking a big risk.”

“Oligarchs would hire Iranians, yes. Train them, yes. But trust them entirely with something like this? No way. They would demand agent oversee operation, agent on suicide mission who either knows about bomb or does not.”

“I think he’s right,” said Charlie. “And if that’s the case, then maybe we’ve got enough.”

“I’m taking this to Grim,” said Fisher. “It’ll have to be enough.”

Within seconds he was back in the control room and sharing the news.

And when he was finished, Grim took a moment to mull it over, then said, “I’m proud of you, Sam.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re making sure we have more evidence before we move.”

“Yeah, well, you and Briggs are right. It helps.”

She nodded. “The truth is, my gut was already telling me Abqaiq is the target, and yes, I said we have to be careful, but I think I would’ve pulled the trigger right there.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“No. But I’m glad I didn’t say anything—because it seems like we’re rubbing off on each other.”

“Yeah, finally. In a good way.”

She smiled at him.

He smiled back.

She glanced away. “Okay, awkward moment. I’ll call over to the processing plant right now.”

Fisher headed over to Briggs, unable to repress his smile. “Let’s get packed.”

32

WITH Abqaiq finally ID’d as their next destination, the pilots filed for the city’s local airport, only to discover that the lone runway had been abandoned fourteen years prior and was no longer usable. The processing plant did boast an active helipad intended for medevac and visiting Saudi royal family tours. Consequently, Fisher and Briggs chartered a small, four-passenger Bell 206 JetRanger helicopter from Dubai, a trip that took approximately 2.5 hours. They set down on the northwest helipad a few minutes after sunset. Their pilot would wait for them for the return trip out, but he warned of bad weather on the way.

They were met by Prince Al Shammari, a heavyset man in his forties dressed in a brown woolen thawb flowing in deep creases to his ankles. On his head was the traditional small white cap called a taqiyah. The cap prevented his much larger scarf-like ghutra from slipping off. The long ghutra was bound by a doubled black cord fitting tightly across his forehead. When visiting an Arab country, Fisher sometimes chose to dress like the locals, but when he didn’t, conservative clothes were the order of the day. Fisher and Briggs wore simple business casual shirts and slacks—one size too large because beneath them were hidden their tac-suits.

Shammari was already waving his hands and booming a welcome from across the well-lit pad. In addition to his security duties he was the assistant interior minister of the country and had been educated in California, so his English was excellent, if not tinged by a little Los Angeles slang. Grim had warned Fisher that he was a devoted technophile, addicted to his social media outlets and smartphone, and he’d demanded that Fisher videoconference with him before they met in person.

As Fisher climbed out of the chopper, he crinkled his nose over the strong scent of crude oil. He’d heard from those who worked around such facilities that the stench eventually vanished because you became used to it, not that it ever truly went away.

Shammari was accompanied by two squads from the Special Security Force. These were highly trained and heavily armed counterterrorism troops wearing permanent scowls and desert camouflage utilities. They cross-trained with special forces from all over the world, including Navy SEALs. The entire party had arrived in four Humvees whose diesel engines chugged behind them.

Fisher lifted his voice above the chopper’s rotors as they spun down. “Prince Shammari, we appreciate you allowing us into your processing plant. We need to move as quickly as possible.”

“Relax. As I said, I’ll indulge your hunch because I want to show you how absolutely secure we are here. I don’t believe that we are suddenly going to explode this very minute. Boom!” He waved his hands in the air, then glanced back at the troops, who broke out in laughter.

Briggs gave Fisher a look, as if to say, Famous last words . . .

“You told me you were bringing weapons and equipment. We’ll need to see them now.”

Briggs and Fisher turned over their duffel bags, and the squad leaders came forward and picked through their pistols, trifocals, and pair of SIG MPX submachine guns they were toting. Briggs said the trifocals were just prototype night-vision goggles, and the troops dismissed them. They did admire the MPXs because they were shaped like miniature assault rifles with curved thirty-round magazines and were the only submachine guns in the world that allowed the operator to change barrel length, caliber, and stock configuration in the field to meet mission requirements.

“You come to shoot bears,” said the prince. “But I told you, all we have here is oil!”

“I understand. Just a precaution.”

The prince made a face, looked at the troops, who nodded okay, then he turned and waved everyone back toward the Humvees.

Shouldering their duffel bags, they followed Shammari and boarded the lead truck. They drove off toward a large tower where a ball of flame lit the night.

“Burn-off,” Shammari said, flicking a finger in that direction. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

“Do you have the radiation equipment we requested, along with the schedule of deliveries?”

“You can meet with our security team at the main gate. They’ll have all the information you want to see. But do trust me, I’ve looked over that schedule myself, and as I told you earlier, there’s nothing out of the ordinary for us.”

“Let’s hope so,” said Fisher.

“There are over thirty thousand employees here who’ve entrusted their lives to me and my security forces. I would never let them down.”

“I don’t doubt that for a second,” said Fisher.

“Then why are you here?”

“Because the men I’m dealing with are very determined, and I think they’re smart enough to fool us if we’re not careful. So let’s be careful—and check it out.”

“All right, then, there’s the main gate ahead. Go ahead and check it out.”

There was no mistaking the prince’s sarcasm, and Fisher guessed he might act the same way were the tables turned. The Saudis had transformed the place into a fortress, and Fourth Echelon’s presence implied that the prince’s “impenetrable” security force had been summarily scrutinized and found wanting, which in turn had bruised his ego.