Scorpion Deception

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Girona,

Costa Brava, Spain

Driving on the E-15 toll road in a rented Citroen on a sunny morning, wearing a white polo shirt, sunglasses, and the blond surfer boy wig, the radio tuned to the BBC World Service, Scorpion could have been any vacationer on the Costa Brava. When the announcer commented on the Bern attack crisis, he turned the volume up. The news was grim.

There were reports from Washington that the President’s National Security Council was meeting in emergency session. Lights were seen in offices in the West Wing of the White House far into the night. In Brussels, NATO ministers were affirming their support for the United States, although the French representative warned that no military action should be taken until it was definitively established who the perpetrators of the Bern attack were.

“Without sufficient proof, it will be impossible to justify any diplomatic or military action,” he declared, reading from a prepared text. Meanwhile, the AP reported that satellite cameras had spotted an additional U.S. aircraft carrier group in the Indian Ocean, apparently heading to the Persian Gulf. In Tehran, in a speech to the Iranian parliament, the majles, Foreign Minister Gayeghrani, stated that if it appeared an attack was imminent, Iran would not hesitate to act first and mine the Straits of Hormuz, cutting off the flow of oil from the Middle East for the entire world. The actions in the Gulf were having an impact on global oil prices.

The BBC announcer stated: “As a result of the escalating crisis, the benchmark price of Brent crude oil has risen to $165.33 a barrel at today’s closing. Economists at the World Bank have forecast a severe impact on the global economy if the crisis cannot be resolved quickly. The Dow Jones Industrials dropped 342.67 points in the final hours of trading on the news. In London, the FTSE was off 101.67, and analysts are warning further possible declines as the crisis continues.”

Scorpion’s latest prepaid cell phone, bought under the name of a Spaniard who had died twenty-one years ago, vibrated three times and stopped. He turned off the radio. It meant the six-man SAD/SOG, Special Activities Division/Special Operations Group squad arranged by Shaefer was in position at the villa. He would RDV with the team’s leader, Webb, in Girona.

Within the CIA it was widely understood that SAD was the most dangerous assignment in the Agency. Such were the nature of the Top Secret missions they were sent out on that their casualty rate was higher than for any other group of its kind in the world, even though every member of SAD was an experienced, tough-as-nails U.S. Army Delta or Navy SEAL veteran, who underwent further extensive training than even those formidable groups. Once an SAD Special Operations Group team, or SOG, was activated, they were dedicated to complete their mission or die-and more of them had than all the rest of the CIA’s other operatives combined. Scorpion’s initial assignment when he first joined the CIA had been in SAD.

He had personally gone over the 201 files of every member of the team, code-named “Sangria,” before accepting them for the mission, and he had little doubt that before it was over, he might well lose some of them. Driving on the E-15, traffic easy during the Costa Brava’s off-season, well-tended houses and villages on the hillsides hidden by dense thickets of trees along the highway, it seemed insane that he was heading into a battle, but there it was.

This time, if it went off the rails, he couldn’t avoid knowing it was his fault. The whole thing was his plan-and it all hung on the word of an Albanian gangster and the avarice of a bent policeman.

They met in the tiny hotel room that Webb, leader of the Sangria team, had booked in the Hotel Europa. The small hotel was near the train station in Girona, a town on the way to Begur, a coastal village where the villa Shaefer had rented was located. Webb was a big man with buzz-cut hair who looked like he spent plenty of time at the gym and a blade of a nose that he thrust at you like the bow of a ship. He had no-nonsense Delta Force written all over him.

Scorpion started to scan the room with an electronic surveillance detector and Webb waved it away.

“It’s clean. I fine-tooth-combed it,” Webb growled. He jerked his head at the door to indicate the hotel’s owners. “They probably think we’re pansies.”

“Costa Brava,” Scorpion said. “This is the place for it.” The two men sat on the twin beds, facing each other. “You came in through Moron?” the U.S. Air Force base near Seville in southern Spain.

“Yeah. Drove all night to get here. Shaefer said you like Glocks,” he said, tossing two Glock pistols and an H amp;K MP7A1 compact submachine gun on the bed.

Scorpion picked up the weapons and checked them.

“What did Shaefer tell you?” he asked, putting one Glock in the holster at the small of the back and the other in an ankle holster, pulling his shirt down over the back holster. The MP7A1 he put back in its carrying case.

Webb watched him, his arms folded across his chest. Defensive posture.

“He said this was your show. You’d be running it. We’re here for if and when the nasty brown stuff hits the fan.”

Scorpion nodded. “You don’t like it?” he said.

“I’m military. This is my team. We’ve trained together, been together,” Webb said. He didn’t say “turf issue.” He didn’t have to.

“So was I,” Scorpion said, meaning military. “We’ll go over the disposition together. When the shooting starts, you run your team however you see fit.”

Webb took a breath and put his meaty hands on his thighs, clearly relieved.

“Better,” he said. “Shaefer said these guys might be the ones who hit Bern.”

“There’s a good probability,” Scorpion said. “So yeah, there’s payback. But don’t underestimate them-or me,” his eyes narrowing. “These guys took out a highly trained U.S. Marine detachment in Bern and four good CIA agents in Zurich. They don’t come in shooting and hoping for the best. They think.”

“Meaning?”

“I don’t care what kind of superstars you guys think you are. This is no slam dunk. Got it?”

Webb nodded. He took out an iPad and displayed a satellite aerial video of the villa and grounds, showing Scorpion where he planned to place men and devices. From the image, Scorpion could see the grounds were encircled by a stone wall and ended on a cliff overlooking a rocky cove opening to the sea.

“What are your people packing?”

“MP7A1s with sound suppressors, chambered for DM11 4.6-x-30mm cartridges in thirty-round and forty-round box magazines. Penetrate any CRISAT,” Webb said, meaning the bullets would drill through a target made up of twenty layers of Kevlar with 1.6mm titanium backing at two hundred meters; they were the ultimate small arms body-armor-piercing rounds. “Glocks, M67 grenades; C-4 with remote-controlled detonators for IEDs, one M25 sniper rifle, and two XM25 grenade launchers. Those two are the real game-changers. Should be plenty.”

“I’m not so sure,” Scorpion said, studying the iPad image. “I need eyes. We could use a drone.”

“What the hell are you expecting? World War Three?” Webb said.

Scorpion sat up straight. “I need you to be more worried than you are,” he said. “How much C-4 have you got?”

“Plenty. Why?”

“I’ll need about five kilos and two detonators.”

“Jesus! What the hell are you planning to blow up?” Webb exclaimed. In a way, Scorpion understood. A half kilo of C-4 would completely demolish a large military truck. Five kilos would vaporize it and a whole lot more.

“My car,” Scorpion said. “Put a cork in the bottle. Block the road. Once they’re in the villa grounds, they stay in.”

Webb nodded grimly.

“You are taking them seriously,” he said. “How are you going to get them to the villa?”

“No problem. They’ll just be following the moving dot.”

“What’s the moving dot?” Webb asked.

“Me,” Scorpion said.