The Perfect Candidate: A Lance Priest / Preacher Thriller (No. 1) (29 page)

Pittsburgh’s Three Rivers Stadium is called such because its location at the confluence of three rivers – the Ohio, Allegheny and Monongahela. Two coming in, one going out. Lance let this geographic trivial fact he’d heard during a football game broadcast slip into his mind as he walked down a narrow alleyway between two warehouses. The word
confluence
got him thinking. The next two hours would indeed bring together a confluence of forces, interests and ideologies. This mash-up would mean death for many of its participants. That was fine, as long as nuclear weapons did not fall into the hands of those who would gladly kill millions more.

He walked past a worker sitting on stairs outside a warehouse side door. He nodded to him and looked up to the sky. It was clear blue and would make for easy targeting by pilots who would be filling the skies within hours as midnight approached. The air portion of Operation Desert Storm, was soon to begin.

Lance assumed he knew something others on this mission did not. At least one satellite had his current position in view. Another tracked a truck traveling northwest up to Baghdad. The order had already been issued if the operation was unsuccessful, the location was to be inundated by a barrage of bombs sure to destroy the warheads, kill all those in the area and possibly set off a nuclear explosion. If it did, well that’s the chance Saddam’s lackies took when they embarked on a mission to obtain weapons of mass destruction. Thousands would be killed, but that would still be thousands less than might be doomed if nuclear warheads rained down on Tel Aviv or Istanbul or Tehran. Lance’s radio headset chirped to let him know Team 2 was in position.

About three blocks from where Lance made his way down an alley, Marta sat backwards straddling a worn kitchen table chair. Resting her elbows on the chair back, she looked through a pair of binoculars from a window on the third floor of an apartment building. Nir stood beside her looking out the same window through another pair of binoculars. The small radio beside her on the table chirped. She picked it up and spoke in Arabic.

“Yes.”

“AZ cleared.”

“Shukran.” She said thank you in Arabic and set the radio back on the table. Josef walked in from the bathroom where he had washed the blood from his face. Killing the family that lived in the apartment until a half an hour ago had been messy.

“Update?” Josef nodded to the radio.

“Kadim radioed that the transport has moved through Al Aziziyah. Should arrive in 45 minutes.”

“Any changes?” Nir asked.

“Nyet.” Marta turned back to the binoculars to see a small group of men in a warehouse near the building where the exchange was to occur. The group was armed and awaiting further orders from their
Mukhabarat leaders. Marta knew that this was just one of four groups stationed near the warehouse the transport truck would enter and the keys would be handed to Mukhabarat Iraqi Intelligence personnel. How she knew all of this was a mystery. “No activity yet. We still wait for their move.”

She shifted her gaze from the men gathered outside the warehouse to a cargo truck parked down the street with a driver inside smoking and another man leaning against the side. She knew why the truck was parked there as well.

Approximately 330 yards from Marta’s position, Nikolai Kusnetsov sat a few feet back from a window in a two-story office building looking through a pair of binoculars at the same truck. There was something he didn’t like about it being there.

He had worked for months to get to this moment with his prized possessions less than an hour away and another $180 million dollars soon to make its way into he and Korovin’s untraceable bank accounts. The year and a half of planning, scheming, putting practice into action and ruthlessly covering up loose ends had brought them to this day.

No one had ever pulled off one like this. It was at its heart a basic crime. Steal from one group, sell to another. Simple and clean. Cover every angle and remove all loose ends. There were plenty of spy games involved. But it took having the balls to do it. K&K had them.

Things would get even more interesting in the coming days when they let their friends back in Moscow know about the transaction and the fact that only two of the three warheads had actually made their way into Iraqi hands. It would cost another $200 million for the remaining nuke not to be sold to another rogue regime. He smiled at the bravado of it all. With financial resources like this at their disposal, he and Korovin could truly change the world. Or they could buy a small island or two and set up a new country. Or maybe just take a permanent vacation from 20-plus years of spying and killing.

The satellite phone on the floor beside him rang. He answered silently.

“Blissful entreaty. Rarified elation.” Kusnetsov still smiled at Korovin’s insistence on utilizing the code language. Their time together in the Red Army stationed in the living hell of Afghanistan in the 80s had introduced them to the archaic code talk. They had all but forgotten the code language during years of service as elite members of the KGB. But their defection from the agency two years ago necessitated extreme measures. Having a codeset that few could recall, let alone decipher, was a nice treat.

This last message from his partner was a confirmation that everything was on schedule. Blissful entreaty was Korovin’s pleasure being relayed.
Rarified elation
had no code meaning. Korovin merely wanted his partner in crime and life to know he was excited about the prospect of consummating a plan they had put into action 19 months ago.

K&K had served their country well. They’d killed dozens, maybe hundreds. Who kept count? Their years of valuable service were always tainted, of course, by their not so hidden brand of sexuality. The two Russians fell in love within moments of meeting each other as young KGB agents inserted into the military and sent to their death in Afghanistan. Even though they had proven themselves countless times on the battlefield and in all things espionage, they were never able to be at ease. Others condemned their relationship and some had tried to rid the world of them and their particular stain. These people usually ended up dead after K&K applied their skills at destroying individuals and their entire world. K&K didn’t merely kill their enemies. They annihilated families, villages and businesses without a modicum of remorse.

Kusnetsov didn’t think of these things now. He concentrated on the next hour and what he had to do to complete this transaction and extricate himself and his partner from the area before literal hell fell from the sky. They had all the pieces laid out perfectly on the chessboard. The Iraqi intelligence players were positioned around the warehouse. The CIA, KGB, MI6 and Mossad were focused on a transport truck making its way up Highway 6. The diversion had been successful on a number of levels. Smelinski had done his part right on cue as expected. He was always predictable. The illustrious Seibel had taken the bait along with the rest. Sources had seen and even interacted with him in Hafar.

K&K discussed several times the risk Korovin was taking by riding in the convoy’s follow car. But the ruse would be so much more convincing with him along for the ride. He had been sure to stop the vehicles and get out to piss and at a border checkpoint in northern Iraq where several obvious watchers kept the road under surveillance. It was another nice show for the cameras around him and above in satellites.

Amir Rezzon al Tikriti leaned against a wall in the hallway of a low-slung building across the street from the designated warehouse. Saddam himself had enlisted Rezzon several months earlier to coordinate the nuclear weapons transaction. It was a great honor. And a great pain in the ass.

By virtue of the location of his birth, Rezzon shared the same hometown and familial lineage as the great leader. Thus, he earned the right be called a friend by one of the century’s prolific mass murderers.

Rezzon had excelled in the Saddam regime and rose from foot soldier to number three in command of the Mukhabarat – the despised secret intelligence service. Rezzon possessed a well-developed sense of suspicion. This whole thing had set his senses on high alert the moment he first heard of it.

The price tag of $200 million had not been the source of his doubt; it was something else. The Russians running the deal kept their identities hidden. Rezzon’s resources did not reach high enough into the KGB. He had gotten as far as authenticating K&K as ex-agents and obtained a few key biographical elements.

He had also confirmed the theft of the nukes, but had not been able to crack the armor of the operation. And that irritated him. Here in his home country, he knew everything, all players in every situation. His network stretched throughout the region into Europe, across the sea to America. But the damn Russians and perverse KGB were so incredibly dysfunctional that getting reliable information was damned near impossible. The Russian mob was more organized and easier to work with.

The particular conduit based in Saudi Arabia he had been forced to work through the previous year delivered excellent, unquestionable proof of the nuclear warheads. The contact had even handed Rezzon a key and code needed to activate one the three warheads. The Mukhabarat commander had met one of the Russians briefly in Azerbaijan, but the room had been kept dark. The conversation moved the transaction to the final stages, but had not set Rezzon at ease. Arranging for the initial $20 million to be transferred was a bit of fun. Saddam himself had been required to supply a portion of the funds because the country was still bankrupt from the long war with Iran. The transfer of the funds confirmed delivery of the warheads today. Rezzon looked at his watch –
just minutes now
.

He stood smoking a cigarette across the empty street from a warehouse while the men around him stewed in their own juices. Each of the men in this building was armed to the teeth. They were the elite of the elite when it came to special ops. Ready for anything and anyone. All of this seemed surreal with the January 15 United Nations deadline now past. What if the CIA knew all about this little transaction and had the warehouse targeted for the first bombs?

The radio in his left hand beeped. He answered with a stifled grunt.

“The truck has entered the city and will be at the location within 30 minutes. Traffic ahead is light.” The spotter at the other end of the radio was brief, as Rezzon preferred.

Rezzon put the radio in his pocket and pulled out another radio with his right hand. “Vehicle has entered the city. All units will be prepared to move in 20 minutes. No mistakes, no other vehicles are to enter the zone. Foot traffic is to be observed and anything suspicious is to be eliminated without delay. No mistakes.”

Rezzon wanted to move. Wanted to get outside of this building. But the orders had been explicit. Rezzon was to be at this exact location, next to this phone hanging on the wall. No questions.

He cursed the phone again. He didn’t like being told what to do or where to be, except by Saddam. This leash, this tether on him seemed to be more than a simple request by the Russians. By keeping him here, they kept him from seeing something else. And that was what made him most suspicious. He could easily carry a cellular or satellite phone and be reachable wherever he was. But no, they had insisted he be here by this phone.
Maddening
.

All of this confluence was set amidst doom and gloom as the allied forces of the United States, England, France and dozens of other coalition countries prepared to enforce UN 671. Dark was only hours away and all of Baghdad knew that with night came terror from the skies. Saddam would refuse to budge on Kuwait. Everyone knew this just as everyone in Iraq knew the pain of war.

The long struggle with Iran had ended only a few years ago. The pain, suffering and general misery of that 8-year struggle had hardened the 36 million residents of Iraq. But they had never come face to face with the might of the American Devil now on their doorstep. The general consensus was Saddam would keep a stiff upper lip for a while as his military resources around the country were battered from above. Just how long was a matter much debated.