The Icarus Prediction: Betting it all has its price (24 page)

Jarrod watched as Basayev pulled out the detonator. Everything went dead silent as Basayev again locked his eyes with Jarrod, a look of triumph over the American infidel who lay helpless on the dirt in a pool of his own filthy blood.

Basayev clicked on the detonator and a huge reverberating explosion erupted all around Jarrod, causing him to shield his eyes. He could hear explosions off in the distance as he slowly crawled back behind the boulder for cover. Resigning himself to defeat, Jarrod slumped to the ground, the loss of blood taking its toll on his strength. His vision became blurred as he slipped out of consciousness.
I failed,
He thought as he passed out.

*

Jarrod opened his eyes to see a shadow. It felt like days later, but in reality, it was only a few minutes.

“Jarrod, Jarrod, are you OK?” Sarah was kneeling next to him.

Jarrod struggled to compose himself. “Sarah, I failed. They blew up the pipeline. Basayev, he, he triggered the detonator; they are going to find us. They are going to kill us.”

“Jarrod, you’ve been shot.”

She immediately applied pressure on the wound. “It looks like it exited clean. You need to stay with me. Don’t lose focus, OK?”

“If I don’t get to say this later, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Jarrod grasped Sarah’s hand as he spoke.

“Jarrod, you are going to be OK. You did it. You killed Basayev. The grenade must have gone off milliseconds before he tried to detonate.”

“I don’t understand, I heard the pipeline explosions in the distance. I don’t understand.”

“What you heard was the convoy going up in smoke. Thank god that one of the trucks was a munitions vehicle with a cache of weapons, I was able to get a grenade in the hold and take a few of them out. About that same time I heard a huge explosion where I left you and I came back to help. We’ll let the lab confirm, but based on what I saw down there, I am pretty sure you killed Basayev. That grenade must’ve gone off right under the gas tank to cause the explosion. Jarrod, you are a hero. But unfortunately we probably have 10 minutes until the rest of the convoy finds us.”

The adrenaline kicked in for Jarrod as he tried to crack a smile. “Now that we got the bastard, can we please get the hell out of here?”

With that, Sarah frantically radioed her Turkish counterparts for support. She applied pressure at the wound with a wad of gauze bandage she pulled out of her survival kit and then she proceeded to securely wrap it around Jarrod as he continued to wince in pain. She stood up and glanced at her watch before quickly surveying the area. She took pictures and swiftly picked up evidence strewn about site before coming back to tend to Jarrod.

Jarrod mustered the strength to take a look at his watch. There was little more than 24 hours until options expiration. He closed his eyes, slipping out of consciousness again, managing to feel both overcome with relief and stricken with panic that he still may not have enough time to save the firm.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

18 Hours until Options Expiration

The next time Jarrod awoke, he was connected to an IV and strapped in a mobile stretcher in a dimly lit concrete room. The pain in his shoulder confirmed the last few hours weren’t a crazy dream. He quickly did a once-over of the interior to make sure he was not in enemy territory when Sarah walked in.

“How are you feeling?”

“It depends. How long has it been? Can you turn on CNBC?”

“Jarrod, don’t worry. It has only been a few hours but oil prices are down more than 10 percent on the news and US markets open shortly. Somehow the news broke on Twitter from an anonymous source that Turkish security forces had killed Basayev.”

“Thank your anonymous source for me,” Jarrod replied with a grin. “Why didn’t Basayev just blow up the pipeline? He had the detonator in his hand.”

“I wondered that myself, and then I remembered you were babbling in the helicopter while you were in shock…something about Basayev ranting about pills.”

“Yeah,” Jarrod recalled. He was yelling about pills or something to his goons.

“Well,
pil
is battery in Turkish.”

Sarah opened her hands to reveal a box of charred double AA batteries. “I recovered these near his body. He had the detonator, but somehow batteries must have been in the armored SUV. Ironic
this
the reason the commandos were going berserk. I guess sometimes you have to be good…”

“And sometimes you have to be lucky,” Jarrod chimed in. Jarrod took the batteries in his hand for a minute. “Wow, we were $2.50 from a colossal failure?”

“And now you are what, 2.5 billion in the black? Not a bad day’s work, eh?”

Jarrod smiled, and then remembered some loose ends. “What about Eli Manon? Was he a double spy? Israeli agents never turn. That makes no sense.”

“Yes, the Agency is on high alert over that. We don’t have any answers on that yet. Also, shortly after we left Koksol, he was taken out near Ankara. We didn’t even have time to warn him about Eli going rogue.”

Jarrod sat up slightly. “So what now? I suspect the CIA wants to have a few words with us.”

“Already done. I debriefed the director on what happened”

“And they aren’t hauling me to a military prison?”

Sarah responded in stride with a wink. “Of course not, Jarrod. Remember what happened? I enlisted you to help me take out Basayev on authority of the Central Intelligence Agency. Remember, I needed someone outside the force to ensure we weren’t exposed in enemy territory. Remember?”

“Uh, yes, of course I remember,” Jarrod replied slyly.

“The director was not happy at first, but the results overshadowed any corners I might have cut. In fact, the door may be open for you to rejoin our ranks in the future.”

“Sarah, I don’t know what to say.”

“Don’t say anything. Get some rest. Our flight back to New York leaves in four hours. You will have an official debrief there.”

Anyway, I should be thanking
you
.”

“Why?” Jarrod responded, genuinely perplexed.

Her green eyes lost a little of their mirth and softened. “Because my father would have been proud of what you did to save the firm.”

Jarrod realized he had never told Sarah about her father, William. She must have gotten the news.

“Sarah, I can’t imagine what you are going through. I’m sorry.”

Sarah held his hand gently, making sure to not jostle his injured shoulder.

“For
once
, at least I don’t have to go through it alone.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Manhattan, New York

A Few Hours until Options Expiration

His arm in a sling, Jarrod walked into the office as if it were any other day (albeit a few hours late, he needed the extra sleep). No casual Friday jeans today. Jarrod was in his typical pinstripe Hugo suit. Well, the sling was a little out of place, but Sergei had let the office know of Jarrod’s unfortunate “motorcycle accident” that caused the injury. Sergei had briefed Jarrod before he arrived on all the office news while he was out, as well as the trading forecast for the day. His return felt quite bittersweet. Being named President seemed like a goal that Jarrod had always dreamed of, but in the wake of William’s passing, he was reassessing whether this is what he really wanted.

Oil prices had just experienced the largest one-day drop in the last twenty-five years. They agreed to close the position first thing when the market opened to book the gains. They had taken enough risks and had no need to gamble for a few million more. The trade was tracking toward about 2.5 billion in profit if prices held steady. Amazingly, Jarrod’s whereabouts for the last two weeks continued to be mystery to everyone in the firm except for a choice few, but the stellar performance of his high-stakes trade was already front-page news throughout the firm and was making its way around Wall Street.

But victory was tempered. As he walked down the long corridor toward his office, he regretted that he never got to say good-bye to William. He was already getting calls from Bloomberg and CNBC and had a dozen voice-mails from the lesser-known reporters to get a statement on his newly appointed position.

On his way to his office, he was intercepted by a mob of Blackenford back office employees who were there only to shamelessly kiss up to the new boss, including Pippin, who approached like a dog with his tail squarely between his legs. One complimented his cufflinks. One complimented his shoes. One complimented his arm sling…
twice
. He cordially stopped for a few seconds but continued on his path to his office.

“Wow, am I going to have to deal with this sucking up every day?” he muttered to himself as he picked up the pace to minimize any further interruptions As he walked into his office, he shut the door behind him and took a deep breath. Despite all he had been through, including a bullet going
through
him, all he could think about was Sarah. After what he experienced, the money now seemed pointless. As his mind wandered, he was quickly snapped back to reality.

“Boss?” Jarrod looked up to see the back of his office chair with huge clouds of smoke rising toward the ceiling, mafia-style. As the chair swung around, he could see his right-hand man, Sergei, with a huge smile on his face. “You did good boss, I’m glad you die did not. A little bit worried I was, you know?”

Jarrod, looked at his watch, it was 11:32
am
. “Sergei, I’m happy to be back. Let’s close this trade.”

“Already done, boss, exactly at 11:30, I closed. We made 2.6 billion. You are like the superman.”

“Wait, 2.6? I thought it was 2.5. How did you squeeze out an extra 100 million?”

“Boss, remember I have algorithms. It gave me insight on how to maximize the trade.”

Jarrod felt a huge weight lifted off his shoulders. At the same time, he still had a number of questions about everything that had happened. Something still felt out of place.

Sergei, tapped his head indicating he had forgotten something. “Boss, I also executed the 200 million long options trade you asked for but I’m not sure I understand your rationale. I don’t think oil will go up anytime soon”

“$200 million??? I didn’t ask you to do that?”

“Da Boss, maybe you forget, you sent to me this morning, see?” Sergei held up his phone and showed a text message from Jarrod that read as follows:

Price Reversal coming, put $200 million long this morning. Thx, JS.

Jarrod took the phone from Sergei to take a closer look.

“I never sign as ‘JS’, also, this came from a number assigned to my VOIP phone at the trading desk, not my cell. That line is on the same data network as Icarus. You don’t think? There is no way...Is there?”

“Boss, I don’t know. Kind of scary if Icarus is trying to impersonate. Should I cancel the trade?”

“No, but do some digging, Icarus was right the last time, although it cost me a bullet to the shoulder. Also, lets talk to the founder of the startup that made Icarus. He has some explaining to do.”

“Umm, that is other ting. The founder is missing.” Sergei pointed to the newspaper on the desk. “It is in Technology Section of New York Times today.”

Jarrod picked up the paper and scanned a few lines. “Not sure what to make of this, but I gotta take a break. I need some downtime. I’m leaving early today.”

“Leaving early? Why? You just be back. We have lot of work to settle all the trades in the accounts.”

“You are in charge. I need to go somewhere”

Sergei seemed dumbfounded. Outside of one incident where Jarrod had a 104.8-degree temperature three years ago and passed out in his office, he couldn’t recall the last day Jarrod “left early.”

“Uh, OK, boss. I will take care of everything.”

“Great. Now get out of my office,” Jarrod said with grin.

*

Fordo Nuclear Facility

Qom, Iran

Saeed Rahimi stepped off the bus at the entrance of a chain-link fence that had razor wire strung across the top. He joined the queue of technicians going through the security checkpoint on their way to another workday at Iran’s premier nuclear facility. Rahimi, however, stood apart from the rest of the line that was dressed in Western work clothes, for he was attired in the brown khaki uniform of a security guard.

He came to the gateway where one of his colleagues was checking the laminated ID cards against a roster on his clipboard. When he saw Rahimi, he nodded and waved him past to the golf cart tram that was preparing to pull out. The rising sun was just beginning to burn off the morning chill in the air. Rahimi climbed on, and the tram pulled out, driving past a hodgepodge of buildings as it approached a yawning overhang in the granite hillside—an overhang that resembled the visor of Darth Vader’s helmet.

The tram pulled up to another security entryway set into another chain-link fence, but this time he peeled off from the queue and went to the head of the line where another colleague with a clipboard waved him past.

Once inside the perimeter, Rahimi walked toward the granite overhang that hid from the prying eyes of satellites what was arguably the first nuclear-proof facility in the world. The fact that the purpose of its construction was to build nuclear weapons within was rather oxymoronic.

The Fordo nuclear facility, just north of the holy city of Qom, was chosen because it was home to a massive subterranean granite formation, the tip of which poked through the surface to form a string of moonscape hills.

Under Supreme Leader Ali Khamenei’s direction, a long-term construction project was started a decade earlier. Nearby residents heard the constant drumbeat of blasting as the innards of the mountain were mulched and scooped out like a Thanksgiving turkey. The result was a massive ground-level chamber that was the staging area for three industrial elevators, the size and scope of the kind you would see on an aircraft carrier that hoisted planes from the hangar deck to the flight deck. Except these elevators went down five hundred fifty feet to an even more massive chamber where 2,960 gas centrifuges were transforming enriched uranium into weapons-grade material.

When the four hundred feet of the granite hill above ground was added into the equation, the centrifuge chamber was protected by more than a thousand feet of impregnable granite, which was impervious to the biggest “bunker buster” bombs of the Americans and Israelis and to a tactical nuclear weapon. Fillings would be rattled downstairs, to be sure. But the crown jewel of the centrifuge farm would survive intact.

Rahimi approached a small door inset within a gargantuan blast barrier. He went through a ten-foot tunnel, then came out the other side onto a concrete apron, then repeated the process two more times before entering the main staging chamber. The three blast doors he’d just passed through were forty feet high and ten feet thick, made of solid steel and weighed in at 14,000 tons each. They rested on steel axels that held wheels that could slide back and forth on rails, but the default position for the doors was closed. He walked past the elevator platforms and entered an office complex grafted onto the far side of the chamber. Here resided the administrative and security offices, plus space for the scientists, although the bulk of the scientific offices were below decks.

Rahimi then entered the complex, went to the security day room where he signed in, then to the armory to check out his sidearm, then down the elevator to the inner sanctum. As the personnel elevator descended, the hum of the centrifuge farm became louder and louder, like an approaching swarm of bees. The elevator halted, and he walked along a catwalk that overlooked the forest of centrifuge towers, each one separating the rare fissile U-235 isotope—from which bombs are made—from generic U-238 uranium.

He entered a hallway and went down the granite corridor to a steel hatchway. Here he peered into the surveillance camera, entered his passcode into the keypad, and heard a click. He pushed open the hatch and entered a chamber with a control console, where three guards sat in front of dozens of flat-panel monitors.

“Ah, Saeed,” greeted one of the guards. “Glad you are here. It has been a long night.”

“As I well know. Go home to your wife. Were you, perhaps, able to link up to the soccer channel last night?”

His colleague chuckled as Rahimi sat down on the warm seat his friend just vacated. This was the command center for security operations of the Fordo nuclear facility. Inside and outside surveillance cameras monitored every move.

Saeed Rahimi leaned back and began watching the scrolling screen. To the untrained eye, he looked no different from his Persian colleagues. But Rahimi’s internal wiring was much different.

When the Shah fell, many Iranian Jews fled to Israel. Rahimi’s parents were among them. Although born in Israel, he grew up in a household that spoke Farsi more often than Hebrew. As such, during his national service he was tagged by the Mossad talent spotter as someone who might be useful. Three years later and using sympathetic elements within Iran’s small Jewish community, Saeed Rahimi was smuggled into the country with a “legend”—a false identity. He applied for and had been hired as a lowly security guard at the Fordo facility four years ago. A dedicated employee and friendly to his colleagues, he had become part of the landscape. Unassuming. Benign. Invisible.

The perfect spy.

*