Razing Beijing: A Thriller (84 page)

“I’m working that angle with Treasury.”

“These vehicles seem to be the only place he’s revealing
himself. If you’re right about him renting the crane truck, then the last two
rental transactions...Nick, we must’ve spooked him! These last two were
cash
transactions. Either he’s spooked or he’s being very, very cagey.”

“If he’s so cagey, why not just use another identity we
don’t know about yet?”

Devinn isn’t only outsmarting us, Hildebrandt thought, he
keeps raising the stakes.

THE ELABORATE SOUND SYSTEM
of the Situation Room reproduced the grisly transmission with such clarity that
one might easily imagine oneself standing on the bridge of the doomed ship. A
voice identified as that of the communications officer repeated his mayday
alert. Dominating the background could be heard the executive officer informing
all hands to brace for another impact, the staccato of Phalanx weapons fire and
spent brass clattering over the deck, followed by a shouted expletive and a
massive explosion.

CIA Director Lester Burns could not help but note the reactions
around the table. The Chief of Naval Intelligence, Joint Chiefs Chairperson,
and the Navy Secretary displayed conflicted emotions, mostly regret, and
perhaps a level of guilt imbued with silent respect for the professional aplomb
with which their brethren had conducted themselves. By contrast, the National
Security Advisor and Defense Secretary shifted uncomfortably, listening in awe
to what must seem to any political careerist as unfathomable carnage, while
experiencing—Burns rather suspected—rekindled distrust at the apparent lack of
revulsion in their military counterparts seated across the table.

Following the momentary break in transmission, the commo’s
urgent voice returned. There was mayhem in the background as he tried to rush
his mayday before the third of four incoming missiles; these the White House
audience already knew would overwhelm the cruiser’s defenses. A barely audible
hum, accompanied by a repeating time-stamp tick, signaled the end of
USS
O’Keefe’s
final transmission.

Defense Secretary Erskin Daley broke the ensuing silence. “Mr.
President, the JSTAR also intercepted telemetry between the missiles and the
two frigates that fired them.” Neither Iranian warship had withstood the
subsequent return salvo. Unlike the
O’Keefe
, both Iranian warships sank
with all hands. “So, we know something about the missile type. The news isn’t
good.”

“Sunburns?” asked CIA Director Burns with a disturbed
frown. A cash-strapped Moscow had long tendered the SS-N-22 mach 2.5 missiles
throughout Asia and the Middle East.

“They were Russian, all right. Russian
Yakhont
.”

“Carrier-busters,” Burns breathed. “Are we sure?”

“We matched the telemetry to data files produced by the Agency,”
Daley said with a vicious sneer. “But as
you
are asking
me
, I
suppose it’s a legitimate question.”

President Denis looked up from cradling his head in his
hands. “How many people did we lose?”

“Dead or missing, twelve officers, ninety-six enlisted.”

“What sort of missile did you say this was?” asked the
President’s national security advisor.

“The
Yakhont
cruise missile is an advanced
supersonic, anti-ship surface-skimmer,” Burns replied. “The Raduga Design
Bureau in Dubna developed it. The Russians began fielding them a decade or so
ago. We know China has acquired them. We’ve had suspicions but no real proof
that any had actually been sold to Iran.”

President Denis leveled his gaze on Burns. “Any other
surprises we ought to know about, Lester?”

Burns didn’t reply.

“Mr. Daley?”

“Yes, sir. Of forty-eight Tomahawks launched, at least
thirty-nine impacted their intended targets.” He proceeded to explain that
early damage assessment was difficult; their overhead imagery remained heavily
obscured by smoke from petroleum fires, and they were waiting for a ground
imaging radar spysat to complete a pass. Meanwhile, the U.S. Navy was calling
it roughly seventy percent, which Daley considered a solid achievement given
the rules of engagement—none of the impacted targets included military radar
installations or any of Iran’s defensive assets, notwithstanding their two
frigates. Conversely, Iranian MiG 29s armed with air-to-air missiles destroyed
eight American cruise missiles. “Ahwaz received relatively minor damage,” Daley
said, “but we still succeeded in wiping out, oh, thirty per cent of Iran’s refining
capacity. We also think one of our Tomahawks may have been either jammed or
malfunctioning before landing harmlessly into a vacant mosque.”

“Did you say
mosque
?” The Secretary of State latched
onto the thing landing suddenly in his lap. “Our friends in the press won’t
report that as being harmless.”

Secretary Daley looked at his fellow cabinet member and
said nothing.

Joint Chiefs of Staff Chairperson General Marcia Fuller
responded matter-of-factly. “Sources on the ground verified there weren’t any worshippers
inside. Besides, Mr. Secretary, over a hundred grieving American families won’t
care what your friends say.”

The President rose abruptly from his place at the head of
the table. “They’ll say that we gave Tehran a taste of their own medicine. Let
me know what’s in store for the families of these lost sailors...have someone
on Laynas’s staff help you with preparing a statement.”

“Very well, sir,” Marcia Fuller replied resignedly.

The post-operation briefing was adjourned. Herman waited
outside the Sit Room and approached the President as he stepped through the
doorway. “Howard, I’ve got a suggestion to make, if I may.”

Denis glanced wearily at his security advisor. “Meet me
in the office.”

TWO HOURS WAS THE BLINK
of
an eye by standards of international diplomacy, or as in this instance, the
lack of it. President Denis had quickly agreed with Tom Herman that the matter
called for leveraging his cozy rapport with Dietrich Schumpeter, current
administrator of the International Monetary Fund. The links of the communication
chain closed quickly. The Russian president hastily canceled plans to attend
the Chaykovskiy Conservatory and convened his aides with a translator inside
his Kremlin office.

“What is going on, Mr. President?” asked President Vladimir
Smirnoff, expending probably most of his English vocabulary, his Muscovite
accent betraying annoyance.

Denis and Herman waited as Smirnoff’s translator delivered
the Russian version of their apology for disrupting the president’s evening.

Denis’s translator today was an attractive NSA linguist
named Renee Pierce. “No matter, Mr. President,” Ms. Pierce translated the
Russian’s reply. “We altered our schedule to assess developments...”—Smirnoff
refrained periodically from his dialogue to allow its translation, a cumbersome
exercise that nonetheless became automatic—“...to assess these disturbing
developments in Iran. I extend Russia’s condolences for the loss of America’s
servicemen.”

Denis chose to remain silent.

Smirnoff, by way of Price, resumed. “I have already
expressed my concern that what we see transpiring in the Gulf region...poses
risks, even of redrawing geopolitics...but I am getting ahead with this. Why
now and of all things would you propose Russia accelerate payment of her debt?”

“You surprise me, President Smirnoff,” said Denis,
according to script. “Events in the Arabian Sea make it clear that Russia has
at her disposal financial resources other than this miniscule $96 billion
dollar loan.” Denis intentionally included in that number the $22 billion Paris
Club debt under dispute by the Duma.

Silence. Smirnoff blurted another question. Pierce
translated: “What does this mean?”

Denis leaned forward and placed his lips close to the
desktop conference phone. “Why, Russia sold Iran the
Yakhont
missiles which
today killed over one-hundred Americans. I trust Iran had to pay dearly for the
ability to slaughter Americans. So why would you need such a loan?”

“This allegation is without substantiation.”

“Our CIA Director will forward to you the intercepted data.”

The prolonged silence that followed indicated that the
Russian and his advisors were conferring with the microphone muted.

Pierce translated their reply a few minutes later. “Weapons
theft and proliferation profoundly concern us. We reserve further comment until
our experts examine this information.”

Herman rolled his eyes.

“But your demand to reschedule our debt and to...to level
unfounded accusations in response to your unfortunate defeat...are evidence of
a pathology disturbing to us. Remember this is that same Russia to whom you
have pleaded to expand oil production...that same Russia who struggles to make
up for production which...more and more is unavailable to the West.”

Denis said, “You merely exploit an opportunity for market
share. Anyway, it is within my power to cap the market price for fuel in our
country.”

On the other side, the Russian translation preceded an
assortment of background utterances and the unmistakable sound of muffled
laughter.

“What are they saying?” President Denis’s face quickly
turned red. The translator’s mouth hung open, looking from the President to the
telephone and back again. She shook her head. “I don’t—”

Herman lashed his hand out and slammed down the mute
button. “The President asked you a question.”

Pierce swallowed. “Sir, I think they were joking. Something
about ‘Vladimir Ilych would be proud,’ perhaps in reference to Lenin but I
cannot interpret what the meaning—”

“There—I heard my name again!” At that, all sound from
Moscow cut out. “Did you hear that?”

Pierce looked with pained embarrassment into the eyes of
her president. “That sounded like ‘Bolshevik Bill.’ I’m sorry, Mr. President, I...”
She searched the stunned faces of both men before her. “You’re name isn’t Bill,
of course, I might have misinterpreted that. There was a lot of noise.”

Inevitably, President Denis had only this young woman upon
whom to level his indignant glare. President Smirnoff shattered the
uncomfortable interlude with a hearty laugh and animated monologue.

Herman nodded permission for Pierce to deactivate the mute
button. “Excuse me please, Mr. President, but I am surrounded by irreverent
imbeciles,” she began her translation. “Even so, do you not see the historic
irony? For decades,
you
lectured
us
on the evils of commanding
the economy from on high. Is this threat not like...the nineteen seventies when
your Nixon tried a price freeze and...the artificial suppression of price
exacerbated supply shortages and brought long lines at gas pumps but really,
sir...what is it that you want of me this night?” Pierce stared with uneasiness
as she waited for Denis to reply.

Dr. Denis knew enough of diplomacy not to be drawn into
foolhardy diversions. He ran his hands back over his head, collecting his calm.
“My reason for contacting you involves yet another source of revenue for
Russia, the nuclear plant you built for Iran in Bushehr. I’m sure you can
appreciate our concern that fissionable uranium processed from this facility
might already have been used to detonate a nuclear bomb.”

Pierce translated Smirnoff’s response. “You refer of course
to the Pakistani test.”

The President exchanged a cautionary glance with his
National Security Advisor. “Some suspect Tehran secretly arranged this test in
concert with Islamabad.”

“Yes. This is just theory.”

“My advisors tell me that we cannot confirm or deny this
theory, because we haven’t the Russian or Iranian isotopes to match the fallout
collected after that test. Therefore, we have no choice but to confront the
possibility as we work toward a resolution of current hostilities.”

A murmur of Russian dialog was immediately muted. Several
minutes of telling silence followed.

President Denis impatiently eyed the eighteenth century
pendulum clock on the fireplace mantle. “President Smirnoff?”

“Yes—one moment please.” Again the telephone in Moscow was
muted.

Pierce finally delivered Smirnoff’s reply: “This is a
delicate matter of confidence between two...strategic trading partners, and so
I am unable to confirm or deny such a theory at this time.”

“What, aren’t we strategic enough?” asked Herman.

Denis held up his hand. “Respectfully, Mr. President, in
this instance I must question your discretion. I am sure you agree with the
importance of being able to measure one’s enemy. It is this concept which
during the Cold War enabled our two sides to endure their uneasy co-existence. Lack
of such knowledge can be dangerous.”

“Yes,” said Smirnoff in accented English, which he followed
with Russian. “Allow me to suggest that the question of Iranian nuclear weapons
be broached with the highest level of caution. The highest level...”—Pierce’s
eyes studied the President as she relayed the Russian’s ominous words—“I
suggest this in the strongest terms in...
in the very strongest of terms
.
Do I make myself clear, President Denis?”

Herman fixed his stare on the President, who fixed his
stare on the telephone as if it were something alive. Nearly a minute passed.

“Sir?” Renee Pierce quietly asked. “They wonder if you
understood.”

“I believe we understand, Mr. President.”

“That is good!” replied Smirnoff, again in English. “You
are
welcome.
Then order please this German banker to pull his hooks out
from my treasury?”