The Republic of Georgia.
The sun faded behind the western mountain range as the C-130 landed at the Vaziani air base, twelve miles outside of Tbilisi. It still wasn’t quite home, but with Radium’s semi-permanent base in Batumi, it was close enough, and the Americans felt relieved to be back on familiar turf all the same. The cool air from the Caucasus Mountains also came as a refreshing change from Sudan’s brutal heat.
Forklifts started unloading containers and crates, transferring them aboard Kamaz trucks.
They had left behind most of the heavy equipment, including the Humvees, in the Sudanese desert. The logistics of flying multiple round trips between Djibouti and eastern Sudan, after action, would have been a nightmare.
Dale Garret hardly cared if that pissed off the Saudis; they could afford it. Garret’s sole priority had been to get his people and the warheads out of there as quickly as possible. Of course, the demolitions teams made sure that nothing vital, like electronic systems, communications platforms, or CROWS turrets, remained intact and salvageable. The liberal application of C4 saw to that.
Thanks to the operation in Sudan, Radium had just tripled its liquidity and now likely had more funds at its disposal than most nation’s militaries could ever imagine. What that meant for the future of the PMC, Garret did not yet know, but if the past year was any indicator, he thought the future certainly looked interesting, if not a little scary.
But profit was the last thing on Garret’s mind as he surveyed the scene on the tarmac.
On the apron twenty meters from the newly arrived Hercules sat a CIA Gulfstream. The tail number would lead back to an offshore shell company with no traceable connection to the Agency. Farther out, Georgian troops pulled security and ran patrols—Russian spies were everywhere in the Georgian Republic, and the American PMC was a priority target.
Nearby, Wombat’s crew unloaded an intermodal container out the back of the Hercules and onto the tarmac. This container was specially marked to distinguish it from the others, as it contained sensitive and unofficial cargo.
Garret had nearly forgotten about their prisoner, who had spent the better part of the past four days sealed inside the container, alone, with nothing but some bottled water and protein bars for sustenance.
The stench must be wretched in there by now, Garret thought, cringing. After arriving at Lemonnier, they’d discretely transferred the container aboard the Hercules bound for Tbilisi. The Saudis never noticed.
A moment later, the CIA Ground Branch guys hauled out Rick Keller, aka Bender, and dropped him on the tarmac. They cut off his clothes and hosed him down in the cold air. Soon the former SEAL wore an orange jumpsuit with his hands cinched behind his back. Finally, a hood went over his hood. Then the Ground Branch guys shoved him up the narrow, steep airstairs into the Gulfstream.
“Thanks for your help on this, Dale,” Avery said, stopping beside Garret, who thought Avery looked weary, beaten, and more distant than usual. Avery’s face appeared bruised and battered, his nose crooked. Eight medical staples held the flesh of his shoulder together. “The Saudis don’t suspect anything?”
“They haven’t mentioned it, and no reason that they should,” Garret said. “I told Colonel Fayed that Keller’s dead and rotting in Sudan with the others. Fayed didn’t have much to say. Didn’t seem to care. I reckon he had a dozen other things on his mind, in addition to getting over that uppercut you gave him.”
Avery didn’t reply. He watched silently as Carolyn Streib filed up the airstairs with her security detail. Soon the Gulfstream taxied for takeoff.
“Where are they taking Keller anyway?” Garret asked.
“I overheard something about Bucharest mentioned.”
“Bright Light?”
Avery nodded.
“Ouch.”
BRIGHT LIGHT was the codename for the CIA black site in Romania. The facility formerly belonged to the communist regime’s secret police, the Securitate. The current Romanian government leased the building to the CIA with the understanding that the Americans would tell them nothing about what happened inside.
“How long will you be in-country?” Garret asked.
“Not long. I’ll check the flight schedules tomorrow and make a decision.”
“You’re welcome to stay here. I said it last time, but there’s always a place for you with Radium.”
“I don’t think I’m ready for that just yet.”
“Langley might not be calling with job offers anytime soon after you knocked out Fayed.”
“Oh well.”
“Alright then. I guess I’ll see you around, Avery.”
“I’m sure you will eventually.”
___
The Red Sea.
Johnathan Trenhaile was the only passenger aboard the Airbus H175, which touched down on one of the helicopter landing platforms aboard the $330 million, 443-foot-long Italian superyacht, ninth largest in the world, currently anchored fifty miles off the Egyptian coast.
The helicopter platform was the one without a hangar, indicating to Trenhaile that he would soon be back on his way to Jeddah. That was assuming his host did not have an altogether different fate in store for him, which was not outside the realm of possibility. The fact that Trenhaile had been instructed to leave his own security detail behind at the airport, something he never had to do in the past, gave further credence to that particular scenario.
Trenhaile checked his timepiece and started to wonder if he would make it back to Dubai that evening.
He stepped out through the hatch and kept his head lowered beneath the spinning blades. The downdraft whipped his tie behind his shoulder, disheveling his wispy, thinning hair, and hit him in the face with the scent of the sea.
Clearing the platform and descending the steps to the deck, he straightened out his tie and lapels. He stopped before the four stern-faced security men wearing flawlessly pressed $5,000 black suits.
Two of them carried MP7 submachine guns and stood farther back, their eyes never leaving Trenhaile. The other two instructed the American visitor to spread his arms and legs and then they patted him down and swept him with a wand. They allowed him to pass, and a fifth security officer motioned for Trenhaile to follow him.
Descending the spiral staircase through six decks and to the open lounge overlooking the pool, where two more armed men stood, Trenhaile felt a mild sensation of dread as he just then fully grasped his present circumstances and just how alone and vulnerable he was here. Anything could happen here, and no one on the outside would ever know.
As the chief proprietor of Gulf Security Services, Trenhaile was accustomed to personal meetings with the Saudi crown prince, usually in Riyadh or Abu Dhabi. This was something different. There was only one reason why MSB would have summoned him out to the Red Sea. The crown prince did not want to risk being seen in Trenhaile’s company.
Understandable, Trenhaile thought.
His private intelligence firm had long provided consultancy services to the Saudis and the Emiratis. When the Arabs expressed interest to him in recruiting a private mercenary army, Trenhaile immediately sought out Brett Kozar, who at the time was doing odd jobs around the Gulf after fleeing arrest charges in the States. Trenhaile still had plenty of contacts at the Agency and in the region, in addition to the resources of his private network. Tracking down Kozar in Kuwait and setting up the meeting with the Arabs’ emissary had not been a problem.
They had worked together in the past, in Iraq and elsewhere, when Trenhaile was a GS-13 with the National Clandestine Service’s Near East Division and Kozar was a Ground Branch trigger puller.
“His highness will see you shortly,” the Arab security officer told Trenhaile before leaving the American.
The events of the past week proved to be professionally embarrassing, but Trenhaile dismissed any personal culpability by telling himself he had no input on MSB’s decision to use Kozar’s men to transport the nukes. If asked, Trenhaile would have told MSB to let the Pakistanis handle the transfer and to take no responsibility for the warheads until the moment they touched Saudi soil. It was, of course, a moot point now. Plus, he could hardly tell the crown prince that the entire mess was of the crown prince’s own making.
So far, Trenhaile had not recognized any of the goons from the crown prince’s Tiger Squad aboard the yacht, so he supposed that was a promising sign that perhaps he was not bound for the bottom of the Red Sea after all.
Looking over the railing at the waves lapping against the hull, the Egyptian coastline far out in the horizon, Trenhaile suddenly regretted his decision not to transfer his money and flee to Europe rather than fly to Riyadh in hopes of salvaging his relationship with the Saudis.
“Ah, welcome aboard, Johnathan.”
Startled, Trenhaile spun around as the crown prince emerged through the sliding glass doors. He wore a white thobe and red-and-white checkered keffiyeh, and he smiled broadly and smugly behind his beard. He was disconcertingly young, nearly half Trenhaile’s age.
“Your highness,” Trenhaile said, practically stammering. “I don’t know how this happened, but I can assure you that-”
MSB chuckled and shook his head. “Relax, Johnathan. Have a seat. Have a drink.” He gestured toward the table and the bottles of tequila and cognac that sat on it. “What transpired surely is not your fault. Actually, I admire Kozar’s tenacity, but he forgot his place in the world. His ego and delusions of grandeur got the better of him. I believe your people have an old adage about not biting the hand that feeds.”
“He bit us both, your highness. Kozar cleared out Gulf Security Services’ coffers before he hijacked the Imani,” Trenhaile said, taking a seat and feeling the tension ebb. “We’ve shut everything down in Dubai anyway, and reallocated the remaining money to our various shell companies. Gulf Security Services no longer exists, to the extent that it ever formally existed in the first place. The Emiratis will stonewall any inquiries.”
MSB’s hand came up in a dismissive wave. “It’s fine, Johnathan. The money is surely no concern. The loss of Kozar’s men is no concern. They are replaceable assets. Once the dust settles, I think we will find that the damage done is miniscule.”
“And Washington?” Trenhaile said, surprised by the crown prince’s cavalier attitude.
“I have already had a couple conversations with the president and secretary of state. They understand that what transpired was the actions of a handful of criminals, terrorists, and internal enemies of Kingdom, all acting of their own accord, and I am assured this will not damage ties between our nations. Washington and Islamabad are also in agreement that it is in everyone’s best interest that word of this affair does not go public.”
“It will eventually,” Trenhaile. “It’s inevitable.”
“We will see, Johnathan. We took a gamble, and it failed. In the end, we have lost nothing.”
“I have to say, I’m surprised by how sanguine you sound, your highness.”
“The infuriating thing is the loss of the warheads,” MSB said.
“Where are they?”
“Suffice to say, the warheads will never reach the missile facility at al-Watah. The Americans have them and are in negotiations to have them quietly repatriated to Pakistan, not that the Pakistanis are in much of a position to make demands.”
“There goes the deterrence against Iranian reprisals for the first strike operation you planned to lead once you took the throne,” Trenhaile observed.
“Not necessarily. Beijing has already expressed interest in helping my country enrich uranium. The Kingdom will go nuclear. It is inevitable, but without the Pakistani assets, it will take longer.”
“Meanwhile, the mullahs are getting closer,” Trenhaile said. “After they pick up word of what happened, the Iranians will accelerate their efforts. I see nothing holding them back now.”
Trenhaile perhaps had a different interest at stake in the Saudi-Iranian cold war than did the crown prince. Namely, he had his eye on the thirteen percent of global oil reserves in Iranian possession, enough petroleum to fuel the world for one-hundred-forty-five years. The fact that the drilling rights to this oil was inaccessible and denied to American energy companies infuriated Trenhaile’s other clients.
“Most likely, as things currently stand, the Iranians will go nuclear before the Kingdom,” he said.
The crown prince nodded thoughtfully. “Indeed, and a Shiite bomb is unacceptable and will never be permitted.”
“POTUS talks tough on Iran and occasionally throws a curve ball like taking out Soleimani, but it’s abundantly clear the Americans have no intention of launching a first strike against Iran, and they’re unwilling to provide Israel with the necessary tech and ordnance to do the same.”
“Maybe not, but perhaps the Americans will not have a choice,” the crown prince said. “First, we will give it a few months to ride out any blowback from recent events, then re-assess where we stand politically.”
“And then?”
“And then we will continue preparations to destabilize and neuter the Shiite regime. To that end, we will still require the services of certain specialists, and we will need to open backchannels to certain dissident elements. I trust that you will find someone more dependable to replace Kozar.”
Trenhaile nodded thoughtfully, filled a lowball glass from the $11,000 bottle of Hennessy Ellipse, and said, “That won’t be a problem, your highness. I know a guy who knows a guy in Tel Aviv.”
