Lockout

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CIA, Langley, Virginia (6:00 p.m. EST / 2300 Zulu)

CIA Deputy Director Walter Randolph surveyed the packed conference room and said a simple “good evening” as he sat at the head of the table. Thirteen earnest faces now turned to him, their papers, tablet computers, and note pads at the ready.

“Very well, folks. As my able assistant Mr. Duke has, I’m sure, briefed you, we have a winged problem that may just be boomeranging back to Tel Aviv. At least we hope whoever is controlling Pangia Flight 10 intends it to go no further than Tel Aviv. We know Mr. Lavi is aboard with his handler, and in the case of Miss Ashira, the word “handler” is a bit of a double entendre. I do not know where our uniformed DIA rivals at the Pentagon may be on this. Further, at the director’s insistence, I am to meet him at the White House Situation Room in thirty minutes. So, speak to me, starting with the flight dynamics.”

Randolph planted his elbows on the polished table and supported his aging face, letting his eyes bracket whoever was speaking. Full attention mode, he called it, but in fact he was listening on a secondary level as well for something that didn’t quite mesh, some fact that seemed incongruous. Sometimes fifteen minutes later a tiny snag would surface from his subconscious gray matter, and often, too often, it was a missing piece of the puzzle.

The facts came hot and heavy: The aircraft was on the same heading as if it were bore sighted on Tel Aviv; the French fighter pilots were reporting Pangia pilot attempts to communicate visually but no luck with handwritten signs in the windows; Pangia World Airways was clueless about a potential cause and they suspected a hijack; and the Airbus was streaking toward an already upset Switzerland whose leaders perceived there might be a military issue with this rogue flight, of which they, being a neutral nation, would want no part.

Walter raised a hand to stop the briefing suddenly. “Whoa. Several statements back… Charmaine, was it you reporting on the passengers and cargo?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you said in addition to the normal baggage there was what? Cargo?”

She nodded. “One cargo storage igloo. We don’t have the manifest.”

“Can’t we get it? After all, we’re the CIA.”

“We’re working on it, sir.”

“Good. Random bags are one thing, but a cargo container containing unknown cargo and coming out of Israel with Moishe Lavi on board has me a bit more than concerned. Do we suspect something explosive?”

Several heads were shaking no. “No, sir. At least given the neutron backscatter equipment always used at Ben Gurion, nothing nuclear.”

“But we all understand, do we not…” Randolph continued, visually polling the faces around the table, “…that if the Iranians get interested, they won’t buy that assurance for a moment? And, we have no assurance that a Lavi sympathizer isn’t running the neutron backscatter detector array at Ben Gurion.”

The sound of the conference room door opening a bit too aggressively caused everyone to look toward the intruder. A woman Walter Randolph didn’t recognize but sporting the requisite CIA badge moved immediately in his direction, her face a mask of seriousness as she handed him a folded note written on the stationery of the director. Walter studied the note and nodded at her. “In five minutes,” he said quietly, pocketing the note as he forced his protesting body to its feet.

“Well, as expected, the head of Israeli intelligence is requesting an urgent conference with our director, and I have the honor of delivering an emergency briefing so our esteemed leader isn’t blindsided. He already knows the basics, but this will be a high-wire act. Send me a runner with anything new you may get in the next ten minutes, and I want everyone coordinating on a multi-pronged assessment of every possible outcome you can envision. Including ones involving nuclear detonations.”

The deputy director moved quickly out of the room, acutely aware of the deathly silence behind him.