Lockout

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

The White House (8:50 p.m. EST / 0150 Zulu)

CIA Deputy Director Walter Randolph had made the round-trip from the White House to Langley and back reluctantly, but meeting with his team was vital and there was simply no way of assuring an unmonitored electronic conversation in or around the Situation Room. He looked up from his briefing papers now as his driver was waived through the West Wing gate, spotting the director of Central Intelligence who was waiting. James Bergen climbed into the rear seat as Walter leaned forward to engage the driver.

“Ralph? Just drive around for about fifteen minutes, okay? Then back here.”

The guards waved the car back through the gates as Bergen sighed and rubbed his eyes. “I hate days like this and just hanging around waiting for POTUS.”

“I know. Feels a bit subservient.”

“We serve at the pleasure of the president, Walter, my boy. At least I do. Okay, what have we got?”

“A growing international confrontation that could either dissipate like the morning fog or end up in a nuclear exchange. How’s that for extremes?”

“Details, Walt.”

“We have confirmation now that Tehran is fully aware of Moishe Lavi’s presence on the Pangia flight, because they have formally notified all adjacent air traffic authorities that any flight with Lavi aboard is prohibited from entry into Iranian airspace. They’ve assembled what passes for their air force general staff, and they’ve even sent a direct nastygram to Pangia headquarters to make sure Pangia knows their jet with Lavi aboard will be, as they put it, ‘refused admission to Iranian airspace,’ meaning they reserve the right to shoot them down.”

“Okay. We expected all that. What else?”

“Well, we’ve also discovered an interesting little tidbit that is probably quite seismic: The Airbus that Pangia is flying doesn’t belong to them, and the airline apparently didn’t know it.”

“Excuse me?”

Randolph explained Pangia’s shock at being informed they were flying the wrong Airbus A330 and how they had pulled it out of the desert and hurried it into service.

“The storage company in Mojave, California, made the mistake, Jim. We sent two of our people up there in the past hour. The employee responsible for sending the wrong airplane to the airline is a Carl Kanowsky, and Mr. Kanowsky has suddenly disappeared, and it turns out the name is probably an alias. Our team suspects that all the information the man gave the employer to get hired about six months ago when those white tails arrived will turn out to be false. And, the jet Pangia Airways thought they were flying, the one which should still be there in Mojave?”

“Yes?”

“It’s gone, and the owner of the storage company is feigning surprise.”

“What are we thinking, Walt?”

“First, we’re thinking that delivering the wrong aircraft to Pangia Airways was not an accident, and that the substitute aircraft that was sent to Pangia’s facility in Tulsa had been purposefully prepared specifically for this flight with something electronic installed that would seize control of the airplane when triggered. This may well be a carefully laid plan.”

“Laid by whom?”

Walter Randolph laughed and cocked his head. “Well, Jim, who’s aboard?”

“Really? You think the old bastard engineered this?”

“He’s dying, Jim. Sorry… that sounds like a line from Star Trek, but, seriously, you remember our little inside bombshell that Lavi’s hiding the fact that he’s been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer?”

“I’ve never bought that, Walt. I think it’s a planted feint. We know he’s had heart trouble, but cancer?”

“The cancer stuff may be false. But remember we got that word one month before he pulled his wildly unexpected goal line stand in the Knesset, which, if he isn’t dying, makes little sense. Lavi has always known how to live to fight another day. That throw down was a complete reversal of character,”

“Walt, he acts as hale and hearty as he was at age twenty. Certainly his bedroom athletics haven’t diminished.”

“True, but let’s just suppose for the sake of argument that he is dying. Look at the motivation. If you were the great Moishe Lavi, how would you like to go out? As a footnote in history, the failed leader who never removed the Iranian threat you had likened to Hitler, or as the self-appointed deliverer of your people?”

“The Messiah complex.”

“Yes.”

The CIA director sat for a few seconds in thought. “I’ll admit it’s not impossible. But what would he have gained by planting the cancer story?”

“A cover for uncharacteristic behavior,” Walter Randolph continued, “…which could also mean a cover for the solution he’d devised against the mullahs.”

“Shaky, Walt.”

“But possible.”

“So, who would have engineered this global effort for him, whether he’s dying or just intent on suicide?”

“A loyal faction of Mossad… perhaps even a faction of the IDF. We can only speculate at this point, but too much is lining up here which smells like a very clever clandestine operation. And remember, his drive for a first strike at Tehran was already blocked before he was thrown out of office because of their extensive civilian safeguards. This may be his only way.”

“Provoke Tehran, you mean?”

“Yes,” Walter replied. “And personally at that. The way he appears to be doing it may border on the brilliant, but that depends on what other planned tumblers fall into place. In other words, if he has confederates in the Israeli Defense Force and the Israeli Air Force ready to feed inaccurate tactical and strategic information to the leaders at critical moments in order to make them believe they have no choice, Lavi might just be able to bypass all the normal safeguards.”

“You mean, feed them disinformation on which Iranian missile sites are fueling, what radars have snapped on, satellite communications, and autonomous launch authority? Having his clandestine confederates feed the Israeli command staff bogus updates in a crisis?”

“Precisely, Jim. All that, and more. Everything necessary to make it appear that the only responsible course of action for Israel is to launch a nuclear first strike against the mullahs. In the so-called fog of pre-war, with the dice loaded, Mr. Lavi and his commandeered jetliner may be flying one in for the homeland.”

“Good God.”

“Walt, how about DIA dancing with NSA before the plane turned? What’s up with that?”

“We’re working on squeezing some explanations out of NSA. We’re also chasing down a picture of the missing Mojave employee for a face recognition scan. Bet you anything he’s Israeli.”

“But, Walt, why was DIA on this to begin with? Is there any chance…”

“That we’re directly involved with helping Mr. Lavi?” Walter sighed, long and ragged. “I hope to hell we’re not involved.”

“Walt… wait a minute. There’s a loose end bothering me here. Where’s the airplane that Pangia thought they were flying? You said it was missing from that California facility?”

“We’re tracing flight plans. No luck yet. Apparently when it left California, it was using a bogus call sign.”

“See, I keep thinking, if this was a purposeful mix-up, who would want to fly off with that other plane? I’m not following that.”

“Frankly, Jim, neither are we.”