Countdown to Midnight

Seventeen

Long shadows slanted eastward across the bustling port city, home to half a million people. On taller buildings, upper-story windows blazed orange-red, reflecting back the light of the setting sun. Below, the streets were filling up again after a late afternoon lull. Those with jobs were slowly making their way home, some by car or bus and others on foot. Those without work rarely bothered to look up as their more fortunate fellows passed by. Instead, they continued chatting with their equally unemployed cronies or concentrated on the endless games of cards, chess, and backgammon that helped pass so many idle hours.

Partway down a residential street in one of Bandar Abbas’s westside neighborhoods, Nick Flynn crouched beside his motorbike. He was apparently engaged in making minor, but time-consuming, repairs. A few simple tools and what looked like a miscellaneous assortment of small spare parts were spread out on an oily rag at his feet. Periodically, he’d switch out a screwdriver or a wrench and pretend to laboriously adjust some engine fitting or other mechanical component.

Most people passed by without paying him any real attention. Do-it-yourself motor vehicle repair work was a common sight in these hard economic times. To better conceal his features, he wore a dirty white baseball cap. Earlier, a few curious younger boys had gathered to observe his seemingly unsuccessful efforts to fix the motorbike, but he’d resolutely ignored their presence and they’d long since drifted away in boredom.

Flynn really had his eyes on a small house about halfway down the block. It belonged to Navid Daneshvar. He hadn’t seen any signs of life there during the entire time he’d been keeping watch. An oil-stained patch of concrete near the front door showed where the Iranian naval architect ordinarily parked. There was no car there now.

He discreetly checked his watch. How long would it take Daneshvar to drive here from his job at the shipyards? Half an hour? An hour? He was painfully aware of another unnerving possibility. What if the other man never showed up at all? When he’d talked to Khavari several weeks earlier, trusted senior employees were still allowed to return home after their shifts ended, unlike the lower-level workers who were being housed on-site for the duration of the oil tanker retrofit. What if that policy had changed in the meantime — as an added security measure? If so, this whole high-stakes covert operation into Iran would turn out to be a colossal waste of the Quartet Directorate’s time and limited resources.

Flynn gritted his teeth. Admittedly, he’d been eager to make a name for himself inside Four, but becoming known as the greenhorn agent responsible for a record-breaking foul-up wasn’t exactly what he’d had in mind. Stop figuring on the worst and stay focused, he told himself sternly. While patience wasn’t even remotely one of his virtues, there was no reason to anticipate failure. Not yet, anyway. He’d give this stakeout a while longer. But he figured he only had another hour at most until people around here started wondering if he was either the world’s crappiest motorbike mechanic… or up to no good. He’d have to scoot before then.

He settled himself back down to carry on watching.

About twenty minutes before his self-imposed deadline expired, Flynn saw a badly dented old white Peugeot hatchback turn onto the street. It drove slowly past him and parked right out in front of Daneshvar’s house. Stiffly, a middle-aged Iranian man in a wrinkled business suit climbed out of the car and locked it. He was balding, with a short gray beard.

Plainly weary after what had been a very long day, the driver turned away from the street, fumbled a set of keys out of his pocket, unlocked the house’s front door, and went inside. After a moment, lights came on behind the window blinds.

That pretty much settled it, Flynn decided. Although without a photo for comparison he couldn’t be absolutely sure, that was almost certainly Daneshvar himself. And apparently he lived alone, which should make dealing with him much easier.

He started to get to his feet. Time was running here, so a direct approach might be best. But then, warned by some instinct, almost a prickling sensation at the back of his neck, he crouched back down by the motorbike… just as another vehicle came around the corner. This one was a shiny black Lexus luxury SUV with tinted windows. It pulled off to the side of the street several houses away. No one got out and it was impossible to make out anything through those dark windows.

Seems like this little party of mine is getting mighty crowded all of sudden, Flynn thought uncomfortably. Apparently, trusted servant of the regime or not, Daneshvar was being kept under close observation whenever he wasn’t at the shipyards. He could think of a couple of reasons for that offhand, neither of them good. Either the Iranian was currently under suspicion because he’d been a friend of Arif Khavari, or the security precautions surrounding the Gulf Venture tanker refit were just as thorough and as paranoid as Khavari had claimed.

He frowned. Either way, the presence of these watchers was going to make contacting Daneshvar much harder… and far more dangerous. Originally, he’d hoped his cover story as a junior official in Venezuela’s oil ministry would let him talk to the other man for a while before revealing his real reasons for coming to Bandar Abbas. That would have given him the chance to sound the Iranian out first. Clearly, however, that wasn’t going to fly now — not with Daneshvar under tight surveillance. Nor would any of the half dozen other fanciful schemes that flitted through his mind while he faked tightening a nut on the motorbike’s front fork.

He wouldn’t get very far disguising himself as a take-out delivery guy, a salesman, some kind of municipal worker, or even an appliance repairman, Flynn knew. Yeah, he might be able to get in to see Daneshvar, but the goons in that black Lexus or someone just like them would be on his ass the moment he left. And they’d start asking some very pointed questions that he would not be able to answer. Which would be bad, he thought ruefully. Bad as in “prolonged torture and then a bullet to the back of the head” bad.

Methodically, Flynn started picking up his tools and the little assortment of nuts and bolts and other bits he’d used as window dressing. Basically, if he wanted to talk to Daneshvar, he was down to one remaining option. And it was one that required him to take huge risks without adequate information, and without any safe means of retreat if the meeting turned sour. There was a chance, after all, that it was Daneshvar who’d betrayed Khavari in the first place… or that he’d been “turned”—induced to cooperate — later by Iran security officials investigating the original leak to the Quartet Directorate. If so, knocking on his front door wouldn’t be a whole lot safer than riding past the local police headquarters waving an American flag.

Thinking hard, Nick rolled up the oily rag and stuffed it in his back jeans pocket. Risky as that last option was, he’d have to try it. But not today.

Down the street, one of the Lexus SUV’s windows rolled down. A hand pitched a cigarette out onto the road. The window stayed down. Evidently, Daneshvar’s watchers wanted some fresh air.

Flynn swung his leg over the motorbike and hit the ignition. Its single cylinder, four-stroke engine coughed to life, running a little rough for a few seconds until it smoothed out. He pulled out onto the road and puttered slowly past the parked SUV. His peripheral vision caught sight of two hard-faced men sitting in the vehicle. One of them was blond. The other had light brown hair. They were definitely Europeans, not members of Iran’s Revolutionary Guard Corps. Most likely Russians, he judged. Which strongly implied that Pavel Voronin and his Raven Syndicate carried a lot more weight and authority inside this part of Iran than any of them had realized.

His mouth turned down. Nothing about that struck him as good. It was starting to look like wherever he turned, Voronin and his hired guns were already there ahead of him.

Icy winds ruffled the waters of the Polyarny inlet and sent white wisps of snow swirling across the hills above the heavily guarded naval base. Spring was only a distant dream this far north on the frozen Kola Peninsula.

Russia’s president, Piotr Zhdanov, shivered as a sudden gust stabbed at him. Irritably, he pulled the fur-lined hood of his parka tighter around his face. When he was younger, he would have shrugged off this bitter cold without a thought. But now, much as it pained him to admit it, he was no longer really the powerful model of strength and vitality still portrayed by his nation’s lapdog government-controlled media. Below a fringe of thinning gray hair, his round face was pale and bloated. And there were deep, dark shadows under his hard brown eyes. His doctors assured him that he was still healthy enough to govern Russia for decades more. Privately, he no longer believed them.

“Here come the leading elements of our fleet now, Mr. President,” the naval officer on his right said with proprietorial pride. Admiral Boris Pleshakov was the commander of Russia’s powerful Northern Fleet. He pointed east toward where the narrow waters of the Polyarny inlet joined Kola Bay.

More than a dozen gray-painted warships, each bristling with antennas, radar domes, and missile launchers, steamed slowly past the opening. They ranged in size from the mighty 28,000-ton Kirov-class battlecruiser Piotr Velikiy down to smaller, but still well-armed, guided missile destroyers, frigates, and corvettes. Signal lamps flashed from ship to ship, relaying orders and instructions as they moved north toward the open waters of the Barents Sea.

Polyarny itself was a hive of activity. Several of the nuclear-powered submarines currently based here were also preparing to cast off. More submarines were doing the same at other anchorages up and down the Murmansk Fjord. Together with most of the Northern Fleet’s thirty-odd active-duty surface warships, they were slated to take part in one of Russia’s largest-ever naval readiness and training exercises.

Zhdanov turned his attention to the nearest of these enormous submarines. Nearly one hundred and seventy meters long, the humpbacked BS-64 Podmoskovye had originally entered service as a Delfin-class ballistic missile submarine. Several years ago, however, her missile tubes had been removed. Instead, she’d been converted to serve as a special operations craft, one capable of carrying Spetsnaz commandos and unmanned autonomous minisubmarines.

Now a group of twenty fit, tough-looking men were going on board Podmoskovye. They headed carefully up the big submarine’s gangplank, bowed down under the weight of their gear and weapons. All twenty wore the black berets and camouflage-pattern battledress of Russia’s naval infantry forces. That was a fiction, Zhdanov knew. His jaw tightened slightly. Every single one of those men actually belonged to Pavel Voronin’s Raven Syndicate.

Voronin himself stood close to the president and Admiral Pleshakov. Although bareheaded, he appeared unaffected by the near-zero temperatures. His pale gray eyes were as cold as the frigid waters off Polyarny. He had said almost nothing so far, apparently content to let the naval officer assume he was only one of Zhdanov’s junior political aides.

Zhdanov understood the younger man’s reasons. Neither Pleshakov nor any of his senior staff had been briefed on MIDNIGHT. Nor did they know the troops boarding Podmoskovye were not actually part of Russia’s official armed forces. Learning that their president’s new closest adviser was a phenomenally wealthy oligarch — especially one who seemed to have come out of nowhere with his own private army and intelligence operation — would only raise uncomfortable questions in their minds. It was better by far to let them go on believing their world ran according to its old familiar patterns — where government leaders and private businessmen operated largely in their own separate spheres.

He swung back to Pleshakov, who looked pleased as he watched the fighting vessels of his fleet sail past in long columns. Moving a combined force of more than fifty warships and submarines to sea was a spectacular demonstration of force. And while they had been careful to adhere to every arms control treaty by announcing these naval maneuvers in advance, this massive show of Russian military might was bound to create consternation in Washington, D.C., and the other NATO capitals.

“Do you anticipate any significant trouble from our American friends, Admiral?” Zhdanov asked.

Pleshakov shook his head firmly. “No, sir,” he said. “We know the American navy maintains a standing undersea patrol off this coast — using its own attack submarines, either those of the Los Angeles class or the Virginia class.” He shrugged his shoulders. “But their patrols will be completely overwhelmed by the task of keeping track of so many of our own ships and submarines. In all the confusion and overlapping underwater noise, as our vessels engage in anti-submarine warfare drills and other high-speed maneuvers, the Podmoskovye should easily be able to slip away undetected and carry out this special mission you’ve assigned to her.”

Zhdanov nodded his understanding, pleased by the other man’s show of confidence. Naturally, the admiral had not been given any of the details of Podmoskovye’s real role in upcoming events. Although technically one of the units of the Northern Fleet, the converted missile submarine’s role in intelligence-gathering and special operations often meant it operated under direct orders from Moscow. In this case, even the submarine’s experienced captain, Mikhail Nakhimov, would be starting his voyage largely in the dark. Once Nakhimov broke off from the main fleet maneuvers, his instructions were to sail secretly to a set of coordinates in the mid-Atlantic, well off the coast of France. Not until then was he allowed to open his sealed orders and learn the part Podmoskovye would play in MIDNIGHT.

“Thank you, Pleshakov,” he said. “I appreciate your professional expertise. And the efficiency you’ve shown in organizing this remarkable demonstration of Russia’s military power. It will make our enemies tremble.” With a dry smile, he nodded toward the continuing parade of warships steaming toward the open sea. “Still, with the exercise now fully underway, I imagine you have more important things to do than babysit me here, eh?”

“There are certain critical matters I should attend to back at my headquarters,” the other man admitted carefully. No one in their right mind would dream of contradicting Piotr Zhdanov, even when he seemed to be in a good mood… at least not more than once. “With your permission?”

Zhdanov nodded graciously. “Of course, Admiral. You may go.”

Relieved, Pleshakov threw him a sharp salute and strode rapidly away toward his waiting helicopter, accompanied by the gaggle of staff officers he’d brought to this dockside meeting with Russia’s leader.

Zhdanov watched him leave with a calm expression. When the admiral and his officers were out of earshot, he turned back to Voronin. The last of the younger man’s Raven Syndicate heavily armed specialists was just disappearing through the Podmoskovye’s stern deck hatch. He shook his head dubiously, suddenly feeling less confident about entrusting so much responsibility and power to men working for pay rather than patriotism. “Perhaps it isn’t wise to use your mercenaries this way, Pavel,” he suggested slowly. “After all, our naval Spetsnaz forces could have been ordered to carry out the same tasks. And with considerably less risk of disrupting the regular chain of command aboard the submarine.”

Voronin raised an eyebrow. “It’s a little late for second thoughts, Mr. President,” he pointed out carefully. He shrugged. “Besides, some elements of our plan require a certain moral and mental… flexibility, shall we say. That’s not a common attribute among soldiers who are more used to obeying precise orders and acting under rigid hierarchical command.” He smiled. “On the other hand, the men I’ve put aboard the Podmoskovye are all hardened combat veterans — and they’ve each demonstrated the sort of dedication and ruthlessness we will need during the final stages of MIDNIGHT.”

He paused delicately before going on. “Sadly, the same thing cannot always be said of our Motherland’s more conventional military men, even those in our vaunted special forces.” His smile grew distinctly colder. “As we all saw last year in Alaska.”

Zhdanov frowned. Though perhaps overly blunt for his taste, Voronin’s reminder of Russia’s most recent military setback was fair. A daring Spetsnaz operation to recapture their country’s stolen PAK-DA stealth bomber had ended in ignominious failure — forcing him to go crawling to Washington to secure the return of several prisoners. The stakes involved in MIDNIGHT were far too high to take even the slightest chance of something similar happening again. If this operation failed, the consequences could be catastrophic — both for his own continued hold on power and for Russia as a whole.

He saw the Podmoskovye’s stern hatch swing shut and lock. Officers leaned over the coaming of its high sail and shouted orders to the sailors standing ready fore and aft. They sprang into action, detaching the mooring lines holding the converted SSBN to the quay. She was heading out to sea. His shoulders stiffened. Voronin was right, he decided. For better or worse, they were committed now.