Countdown to Midnight

Four

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.”

Flynn considered that. Looked at one way, the older man’s theory was plausible. But, at the same time, something about it just didn’t ring true to him. Finally, he shook his head. “That oil tanker the Iranians are fixing up is damned big all right,” he said. “But that’s exactly the problem I see with using her simply to run guns.”

“The Gulf Venture would be too conspicuous, you mean?” Fox suggested quietly.

Flynn nodded. “Yep.” Before reporting to Avalon House, he’d done some quick internet research. “Between its own merchant marine and ships operating under false flags, Iran’s got dozens, maybe hundreds, of other cargo vessels and tramp freighters at its disposal. Sure, they’re all significantly smaller, but by the same token, they’re also a hell of a lot less likely to draw attention than would an eight-hundred-foot-long tanker. Maybe the Gulf Venture could slip past the various navies still enforcing some sanctions on Iran, but why take the risk? It’s a bad option.”

“Because it would involve putting too many eggs into just one basket,” Fox realized.

“Bingo,” Flynn agreed. “I can’t see the Iranians being dumb enough to risk shipping so much valuable contraband in a single hull. Smuggling ops work best using multiple ships. Sure, our Navy guys or the Israelis can stop and board a dhow here and a tramp freighter there, but there’s no way they can possibly catch them all. Trusting to luck to sneak a single huge oil tanker through a blockade without being intercepted? That’s amateur hour stuff… and those murderous sons of bitches in Tehran don’t strike me as amateurs.”

“Our lives would be much easier if they were,” Fox said dryly. “Anything else?”

Flynn nodded again. “Yeah. For example, some of the changes they’re making to the Gulf Venture don’t square at all with the idea of using her for smuggling runs. Concealed centerline compartments and extra hydraulic cranes? I get why you’d need those on a ship converted to carry contraband. But then why retrofit those special stabilizer fins and extra high-speed oil pumps Khavari’s naval architect friend made such a big deal out of?”

The older man looked closely at him. “Why indeed?”

“I don’t have a doggone clue,” Flynn told him wryly. “I was an English major in college, remember? The closest I ever came to taking an engineering class was first-year calculus. That’s sort of like comparing flying a kite to launching a Saturn V rocket to the moon.”

“Point taken, Nick,” Fox said with the faint hint of a smile of his own. “I’ll pass the problem on to those with more in-depth knowledge of ship design and construction. Though very discreetly, of course.”

“Which raises another point,” Flynn continued. “Why put all these extreme security measures in place around the Bandar Abbas shipyard in the first place? Units of special Quds Force commandos? Locking down the whole workforce? Even bringing in armed foreigners as additional guards? For what? Just to hide the fact that Iran wants to smuggle even more weapons to bad guys around the globe? Hell, that’s not exactly a secret to anyone who reads the news. And it sure doesn’t explain why someone sent in a whole assassination squad just to shut Khavari’s mouth.” He frowned. “No, whatever these guys are planning, it’s got to be something much bigger and nastier.”

“No doubt,” Fox said. He tapped at his chin reflectively. “You’re confident the men you spotted watching the Kitzbühel train station were Russians?”

“Pretty sure, yes. And while the biker Laura shot spoke reasonably fluent German, I still picked up a faint Russian accent.”

Fox’s mouth tightened. “That certainly fits. The tactics you’ve described match those used by Spetsnaz assassination squads in the past.”

“You think the Kremlin ordered the hit on Khavari?” Flynn asked curiously. “Not the mullahs in Tehran?”

Fox sighed. “It’s certainly a disquieting possibility we need to consider. The obvious alternative is that the killers are somehow connected to those so-called foreign mercenaries working inside Iran.” His frown deepened. “All of which suggests that either the Russian government is working hand-in-glove with Tehran on this mysterious oil tanker project… or that Iran’s leaders see whatever they’re planning as so important that they’re even willing to rely on outsiders to handle crucial elements.” He pinched his nose, looking suddenly tired. “One thing’s absolutely clear: learning more about their real intentions is now our highest-priority task.”

“That may mean putting an agent, or even a small team of agents, on the ground inside Iran,” Flynn said carefully. He never slept very well on planes, so he’d spent a number of hours over the darkened Atlantic last night exploring different ways to bypass the information roadblock created by Khavari’s murder.

Fox looked skeptical. “Just getting into Iran safely is a highly risky endeavor. The whole country is the very definition of a hostile environment. But even assuming that proves possible, what are our people supposed to do next? Sneak inside the Bandar Abbas shipyard and take a closer look at the Gulf Venture?”

Flynn grinned at him. “Oh, hell, no. I may be loco, but I’m not a complete lunatic. Based on what Khavari told me, it would take an armored battalion with full-on air support to penetrate the security cordon around that tanker. Which doesn’t really seem like the subtle approach Four ordinarily prefers.”

“To put it mildly,” Fox said, matching his ironic tone. “And, of course, that’s setting aside the minor problem of finding a force of spare tanks and fighter planes just lying around for us to borrow.” He turned serious. “So what do you have in mind?”

“Right now, the only real loose thread we have left to pull on is that friend of Khavari’s, Daneshvar — the guy who first clued him into all the weird shit going down at that shipyard,” Flynn explained. “If we can make contact with him directly, we might pick up some of the answers we need.”

Fox frowned. “There are quite a number of ‘if’s lurking there, Nick.”

“Yes, sir, I realize that,” Flynn agreed evenly. “I just don’t see any other way forward right now.”

Slowly, the older man nodded. “Very well, start working up a proposed infiltration plan and any necessary cover stories. But I’ll need to consult closely with my colleagues at the other stations before authorizing this mission.”

Flynn wasn’t surprised by his superior’s reluctance to act without approval from the other members of Four’s upper echelon. From its very beginnings in the earliest days of the developing Cold War, the Quartet Directorate had used a collegial approach to leadership. The reality that power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely was abundantly clear to those who’d already risked their lives fighting Nazi Germany — only to see the growing threat posed by the Soviet Union in World War II’s chaotic aftermath.

Four’s first recruits were all veterans of the American OSS, Britain’s SOE (the Special Operations Executive), and the Resistance movements of France, Norway, Poland, and several other Allied countries. Deeply troubled and even angered by what they viewed as the growing politicization, penetration by Soviet moles, and increasing risk aversion of the West’s official government intelligence agencies, these men and women banded together to create an organization that could act swiftly, secretly, and decisively against serious threats to the free world. Aware, however, of the inherent dangers involved in creating a private intelligence group expressly intended to operate outside strictly lawful channels, Four followed one inflexible rule: The Quartet Directorate never involved itself in the domestic politics of any friendly nation. As a safeguard, if time allowed, large-scale or unusually dangerous operations required explicit approval from the separate national stations scattered around the world.

“And in the meantime,” Fox went on, “I’ll pass the key elements of what we’ve learned to a couple of my contacts in the CIA.”

Like most of Four’s senior executives, the older man maintained discreet, arms-length relationships with people in the regular military and intelligence services — though only after they’d been meticulously vetted. And he was always careful to conceal the true nature of the Quartet Directorate’s structure, aims, and capabilities from these contacts.

“Do you think that’ll do any good?” Flynn asked skeptically. His own bad experiences with some of the CIA’s “best and brightest” had soured him on both its basic competence and its real interest in anything except its own narrow parochial concerns.

“Probably not,” Fox conceded. “I don’t have all that much faith in Langley’s ability to separate the wheat from the chaff.” He shrugged. “But who knows? There could always be a first time.”