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  “What do you mean we? I’m doing this alone. All you have to do is point me in the right direction.”

  “No Connor, you cannot do this alone. You will be killed and I would like to meet this gorgeous wife you talk about some day in the future, with you along with her. I’d like the four of us, my wife included, to become good friends. I miss you and I want you both to have the life you deserve. No, my friend. I will help you. Otherwise, you will die.”

  “Don’t lie to me Vasili, tell me the truth,” the man in the dark suit ordered him. Vasili tried to look up but could barely see, his eyes were almost swollen shut. He caught a glimpse of the man and tried to say something but his mouth wouldn’t work. He tried harder.

  “I’ve told you everything I know,” he whispered softly. His head slumped down again and he drifted in and out of consciousness.

  This was the beginning of the process, the arrest, the interrogation. The Russians were very good at it, very good at instilling fear and getting a victim to talk. They had learned from the masters, the Soviets. Solzhenitsyn had written about it in The Gulag Archipelago, “At what point, then, should one resist? When one's belt is taken away? When one is ordered to face into a corner? When one crosses the threshold of one's home? An arrest consists of a series of incidental irrelevancies, of a multitude of things that do not matter, and there seems no point in arguing about one of them individually...and yet all these incidental irrelevancies taken together implacably constitute the arrest.”

  The beating had been merciless. It had started in the back of the military truck, in the covered compartment and hadn’t let up since. He was near death.

  He had told them about Murray, about Sofiya, about his dealings with Israel, he had told them everything. There was nothing left, nothing left except to die. He was no longer afraid. He just wanted it to end.

  They knew now that he had liaised with the Israelis. They knew now that he had not reported Murray’s little adventure to the authorities. They knew he had helped Murray escape, a man who was spying on Russia. That is not a transgression that is ever forgiven. They even knew that Murray was now in Argentina and that Anatoly was likely there as well. That was all the information that Vasili had to give. The man interrogating him in the crisp suit seemed to know that as well.

  “We are going to let you die, Vasili, but you have to make sure you have told us everything. Are you sure there is nothing else?”

  “No, he said quietly, there is nothing.”

  “Very well then.” The man picked up a pistol off of a nearby table and shot Vasili twice in the head.

  President Chahine shook with rage as he sat in the briefing room at Camp David. So, Murray was still alive. His staff had just confirmed this little tidbit of information. At least, they think he is still alive.

  NSA had picked up signals intelligence of Vasilovich, the Jewish, Russian oligarch in charge of some of their very important weapons factories, communicating with some of his team several days before. They had mentioned they believed Murray was on his way to Argentina.

  Murray is still alive and on to something. I need to know what that something is. “Why is he going there?” the Sultan asked his staff.

  “We are not sure Sir. It seems he is looking for something, possibly the scientist that he mentioned to the Iranian intelligence operatives before they lost control of the situation. We are attempting to find out. He has a contact in Buenos Aires, an old Academy colleague. We are monitoring this person of interest to see if something develops. We don’t know the name Murray is traveling under but we have facial recognition capability in action at the airports and elsewhere. As soon as we hear something, we will notify the White House staff,” said the CIA representative.

  “He’s going to look for the scientist. I’m sure of it. We need to be one step ahead of him. Put the CIA station in Buenos Aires on it, top priority.”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  “I don’t want him picked up just yet. Let’s see what he can find for us. It may be interesting.”

  “My thoughts exactly, Sir. We will let you know immediately if we find out anything interesting.”

  “I couldn’t give a rat’s ass if it’s interesting to you or not. If you get anything at all, I want to know about it!” The meeting adjourned.

  Chapter Eighteen

  General Kursk entered the conference room at the Kremlin and shook the Iranian diplomat’s hand but his face gave away his displeasure. “Minister Javadi, how nice to see you.” His lips were drawn into a tight, thin line.

  “And you as well General Kursk. Moscow is so pleasant this time of year, don’t you think?” The Iranian noticed the coldness of the introduction.

  “Why don’t we cut through the pleasantries Minister, I am not in the mood.”

  “As you wish, General Kursk.”

  “I understand you wish to purchase more weapons?”

  “You understand correct. The Americans have been most generous and we have more money than we know what to do with, so naturally weapons are on our shopping list. Your weapons, General. Your quality is hard to beat, especially since we neither could, nor would, buy from the Americans.” The Iranian let that insult sink in for a few seconds before he resumed speaking. Yes, let this bastard think his toys are second rate. He would not let this barbarian Russian get the best of him today. He was not in the mood to play around either.

  “I’m not sure the store is still open, Minister.”

  Now, instantly, Javadi was worried. He tried to remain calm but the tension in his face gave away his discomfort. The Russian saw this and smiled a sly smile. “It has been brought to our attention that there was an operation conducted by your intelligence services against one of our weapons labs in Siberia. Do you know anything about this little incident, General?”

  The Iranian officer was taken aback. No, I do not know about this. But I should. Or is this goat just playing with me? What could be the point of this? “I’m sorry, I am not familiar with what you are talking about,” Javadi said rather sheepishly, his bravado suddenly long gone. “But now that you have informed me of your concerns, I will of course research the matter and provide an answer to your question.”

  “I will pretend for a few minutes that you indeed do not know what I am talking about. I will humor you. A few days ago, an American spy, a man we have been after for several years, who is now living in and working for Israel, made an attempt at infiltrating one of our research sites in Siberia. We were informed by an unnamed individual, who was in no position to lie to us, that the American was sent by your country, under, shall we say, duress? He failed to gain any knowledge that was material but just the fact that you are operating on Russian soil without our knowledge, while we help you to rearm, is frankly very troubling.”

  “I have no knowledge of such an operation, General. That is not my area of expertise. I am not an intelligence officer. I am a diplomat. However, Iran values the relationship we have with the Russian Federation. Sometimes, as you may know, certain elements within a government can operate outside the norms of civilized behavior. If what you say is true, and I have no reason to believe you would fabricate such a tale, I am sure that is what has happened in this circumstance. I assure you that we will deal with this rogue element and report back to you in due time with the results of our investigation and the actions taken. Will that suffice?”

  “Yes, Minister Javadi. That will suffice. Shall we table discussions about any weapons purchase until this little matter is taken care of?”

  “Yes, fine. I will contact you in a few days to set up another meeting. Good day, General.” The Iranian left the conference room, shaken. He did not dare call anyone at the embassy on an unsecure line from the limousine. He knew too well the Russian penchant for signals intelligence and their prowess in capturing just about everything in Moscow that floated on the airwaves. That meant he had to sit in the back of the vehicle for thirty minutes during the drive back to the Iranian facility in Moscow befor
e he could scream at the intelligence officer at the embassy. These idiots, they have jeopardized our weapons modernization program. I will have them shot myself!

  The Prime Minister of Israel arrived at the Kremlin as the dark sedan drove across the bridge and through the gates of the ancient fortress. The red brick walls built in the 15th century by Italian renaissance architect Petrus Antonius Solarius, engulfed the car like a giant whale as the vehicle passed through the tunnel that led inside. Red Square with St. Basil’s Basilica loomed opposite the entrance to the bowels of the Russian government. Many believe that Red Square was named during the Soviet days and refers to communism, but the truth is, the square and the Kremlin’s red wall were named and built centuries before by the tsars of generations past. Initially a fort on the Moscow river (kremlin is Russian for citadel), the grand walls now enclosed the secrets of the new Russian empire now blooming once again.

  The prime minister once again marveled at the cathedrals and other historic sites inside the Kremlin’s walls, with artifacts dating back to Ivan the Terrible and beyond. The golden domes of the Orthodox Church decorated the horizon. He’d been here before to meet the Russian president but the prime minister always respected history, no matter where it was located and preserved.

  The car stopped in front of the president’s official residence and he was escorted into the building and to an ornate conference room. The president showed up promptly a few minutes later. The immediate response was a show of respect to Israel and the Russian hope of pulling the Jewish State further into its orbit.

  After the pleasantries, the real conversation started.

  “Mr. Prime Minister, I am glad you came for another visit, but why don’t we cut to the chase and you tell me what you want from Russia?”

  “Thank you Mr. President. I will get to the point, as they say.” The prime minister paused for effect. “We have a problem. I’m going to be very honest. We can no longer trust the Americans to stand by Israel. They have been pushing for agreements that they fully realize will destroy our ability to defend ourselves. They, as you well know, have aided Iran in the development of their nuclear capability. They have provided hundreds of billions of dollars in funding which promptly flowed into the Russian treasury through weapons purchases. Obviously you are well aware of these facts as you have benefited. However, now Israel finds itself at a crossroads. We do not have many friends. We have many enemies. We do not want Russia as one of those enemies.”

  “So what do you propose?”

  “I would ask that you put pressure on Iran to stop its march towards war with my country and to stop pushing for its destruction. I propose Russian and Israel move closer together in a geopolitical sense for peace in the Middle East. Russia is a great power and we want to work with you in our neighborhood.”

  “And what does Russia get in return?” the Russian president asked.

  Connor and Fabian walked out to the aircraft, opened the doors, and began strapping themselves in. The plane was a Canadian built, de Havilland DHC-3 Otter, a famous aircraft built for short takeoff and landings in the bush. Otters were used extensively in Alaska, Canada, and other mountainous terrains, including Argentina, and were known for their rugged, workhorse, reputation. Although the Argentine Air Force had eight of the newer turbo-prop, dual engine, DHC-6-200 Twin Otter, Fabian figured he would know how to fly this older version as he was current in the twin. I just need to make sure I don’t miss any different items on the checklist, he thought to himself. Classic way to kill yourself with overconfidence.

  “I remember you and I jumping out of one of these things back in the day at the Academy my friend!” Connor said to Fabian as he saw the aircraft they were going to use. “Brings back memories, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes, my American gaucho. I thought you would enjoy this!”

  The large piston engine growled to life, sounding like a Harley Davidson, and the two men taxied out to the main runway at a small airfield outside of Buenos Aires.

  Fabian had secured two weeks of leave in order to help Connor with his quest. He was glad to help. “I feel alive again! I’m not chained to a desk! I can get out and fly with no restrictions! No maintenance issues, and to top it all off, I get to fly with a good friend for a few days!”

  “The feeling is mutual, Fabian. I will enjoy being out in the bush with you as well.”

  “We will fly south to Bariloche. I am not filing a flight plan. No one will know we are coming. No one knows I’ve borrowed my good friend’s aircraft. There will be no tickets, no record of our trip, no one to wait on us upon arrival. The downside is this plane only cruises at about 160 knots. So, it’s going to be about an eight hour flight. We will stop to refuel and eat of course. We have the day together my friend!”

  “What does your wife and family think about you taking off into the mountains with an old flying buddy?”

  “She was overjoyed! She can hang out with her girlfriends in the city for a while. They will have a blast.”

  “She is a good woman, my friend. I’m envious of your calm, cool life here in paradise.”

  “And I am envious of your James Bond lifestyle Connor! Maybe we can both enjoy each other for a few days?”

  “Agreed. However, I get to do most of the flying,” Connor said with a grin.

  Ahmed arrived from the airport in Buenos Aires to the center of town via a rented car, rented in an assumed name of course. He had already contacted his intelligence counterpart at the Iranian embassy and was expecting him to be waiting for ‘the package’ soon at a safe house already prearranged in the Argentine countryside.

  Ahmed enjoyed tasks like this. He was always up for the ‘wet work.’ Although this task initially would not go that far, he expected he would get to enjoy his passion several times during this little operation of his. Ahmed was happier on his own, he realized. I don’t need any supervision. I can make these things happen by myself, off the grid, operating in the shadows. I alone have the will and the nerve to do what needs to be done in these types of situations.

  He parked the car several dozen meters down the street from the target, a brownstone row house in a tony neighborhood of the old city. Then he waited. He was used to waiting. He had done it for most of his life. Waiting for permission. Waiting for a target. Waiting for a promotion. No more. I will work on my own from now on. I will be a contractor, someone the Mullahs can call if they need me. Ahmed was already thinking of ways he could steal money from Connor and Fabian. His idea was brilliant. He would kidnap his wife for ransom. Then he would force the Argentine to turn over Murray and the location of the scientist. He would also demand all the Argentine man’s wealth and then some. He would pay. He was from a wealthy family. All the higher ranking military officers had money. Soon it would be Ahmed’s money. Once he had secured the scientist and information on the bio weapon, fattened up his offshore bank account in Singapore, and won the praise of his current superiors, he would kill them all, Murray, Fabian, the woman, all of them of course. He would leave no evidence.

  Ahmed perked up in his vehicle as he saw a car approaching from behind. The sedan pulled in front of the brownstone and parked. A woman about forty years of age got out of the car and headed towards the house. Wow, Mr. Ramos. I’m impressed. She is quite attractive. Maybe I will have even more fun than I thought on this job, thought Ahmed. He unlocked his door and nonchalantly followed the woman up the small flight of stairs that lead to the front entrance. She did not notice him. He checked up and down the street; there was no one around. When she turned to go back to the car to get some shopping bags, Ahmed forcefully grabbed her from behind and cupped her mouth with his hand and forced her into the house, slamming the door behind him.

  Chapter Nineteen

  General Kursk was in a good mood as he strolled down the ornate Kremlin hallway to meet Iranian Minister Javadi once again. It had been a good few days. As expected, the Kremlin bosses had rewarded his family handsomely for the negotiations he had conducted wit
h Iran, which resulted in tens of billions of hard currency, U.S. Dollars to be exact, flowing into Moscow’s treasury. Of course with the devalued ruble, selling these dollars for the Russian currency went a long way to plugging the budget holes in the Russian federal deficit. Oil prices were still relatively very low and the financial pressure on the central bank and the executive branch were severe. Moscow would not roll back weapons modernization programs so social services were cut to the bone. Hospitals, schools, roads, they all suffered. Therefore, strong weapons sales in dollars were an absolute priority. Kursk had done well. His bank accounts were now full, his status with the Kremlin elite was secure, or as secure as it could ever be in Russia, and his wife could do all the shopping she wanted in Europe. I would love it if she would spend more time there so I could spend more time with Svetlana, such a goddess she is. I have never known another woman like her.

  Kursk reached the conference room and let himself in. The guard outside the door waved him through as Kursk was a household name inside the ancient fortresses walls. The room was empty except for the Iranian diplomat sitting meekly at one end of the table. “General Kursk, it is so good to see you again so soon. I trust you and your family are well? I detect the hint of a smile on your face, Sir. I dare to say that is not because you were to meet me? Whatever it is, I am happy for you. Now, I’d like to get to the business we have at hand, even though it is rather unpleasant for me I must tell you.”