On that same morning, as an awakening winter was lashing the Moscow River, Slaton sat in the courtyard of the Rome embassy enjoying an early coffee with Christine. A lifting sun bathed the veranda in warm light, and they watched as Davy played in the grass with Bella’s three-year-old grandson.
Their idyllic moment was ruined when Sorensen appeared.
“We’ve found something you should see,” she said, her eyes on Slaton.
He deferred to Christine for guidance. Her face was tense, but she nodded all the same. “It’s all right, go ahead.”
Slaton followed Sorensen to a small, simply furnished office he’d not seen before. She removed a photo from an attaché and set it on the desk. Slaton saw an overhead picture of what looked like a freighter. It was making passage through a narrow canal between strips of tan desert.
“It’s a boat,” he said.
Sorensen frowned.
“Suez Canal?”
“Yes. Her name is Argos. My team in Langley were able to build one solid link between Ivanovic, Romanov, and Ovechkin. About four months ago they formed a corporation named MIR Enterprises. It’s a classic series of shell companies, but we were able to unravel enough to figure out that they bought three ships. Argos is one of them.”
“Okay. So three really rich guys put together a shady company and bought some old freighters. I don’t mean to invalidate your team’s work, but what could be more in character? That’s what guys like that do.”
“We have concrete evidence linking these men to the Russian president.”
“No. You have one photograph of them with a colonel who’s on the president’s A-list.” Slaton waited for Sorensen’s counter. Whatever it was, he guessed she’d already made the same argument unsuccessfully with her superiors back in Langley. When nothing came, he felt a twinge of sympathy.
“Any idea where this ship is going?” he asked.
“No. We know she left Sebastopol seven days ago, en route to Mumbai.”
Slaton stood straight and conjured a mental map in his head. “When was this photo taken?” he asked.
“A few hours ago.”
He paused to make calculations. “Did she make any stops since leaving Crimea?”
“None that we know of, but we’ve just figured this out. Why do you ask?”
“You’re telling me she took seven days to get from Sebastopol to the canal. That’s what … maybe a thousand nautical miles? I’d say she either stopped along the way, or she’s moving at minimum speed.”
“You’re right,” Sorensen said. “That’s good. It’s something we can dig into.”
“You said they bought three ships. Can I assume you’re looking for the others?”
“We are. There’s commercially available satellite data on virtually every merchant ship these days. The ones that don’t participate we’re pretty good at isolating and tracking.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Right—I guess you’ve seen that firsthand. Anyway, we think one called Tasman Sea departed Cam Ranh Bay last week, a westbound course. The other ship owned by MIR is named Cirrus, but we’re having trouble locating her. All are of the same general class and configuration—dry goods carriers, around two thousand deadweight tons. Between two and three hundred feet in length, they’re basically coastal freighters. And it might be a coincidence, but each ship is fitted with a deck crane like this one.” She pointed to the picture of Argos, and he saw a loading crane mounted amidships.
Slaton rubbed a hand on the back of his neck. “And let me guess—you’ve run this all by Langley, but it didn’t change anyone’s mind. Still no backing.”
“They’ll come around. What else should we look for?”
Slaton regarded her closely. “You know, I’ve got to admit, Anna, in terms of sheer tenacity—you may have even me beat.”
She kept staring at him.
“Any idea what kind of load they’re carrying?”
“I’ve got my team looking into it. We watch the Black Sea ports and Cam Ranh pretty closely, but it takes time to access the files and sort through.”
“Okay. And if you get images, I’m assuming the CIA can analyze what’s been loaded onto a freighter?”
“We have a few tricks. Even after it’s loaded we can sometimes tell the general class of what’s being carried. Only—”
“Only the assets that do it are either aircraft or satellite-based, which makes them very expensive. Not having high priority, you don’t get access.”
“Not yet.”
He looked away and worked through her problem. “Crews. Try to find out if they hired new crews.”
“Why?”
“You’re operating on the assumption that they’re doing something illicit, and you know these boats have new owners. If they interviewed new crews, it implies a long-term venture. If they kept whoever was on board, it suggests they’re in a hurry. That would be good to know in the near term.”
“Good—we’ll work on that.”
“It should keep you busy for a while.”
“Definitely. And thanks for your input.”
“Anytime.”
Slaton turned to go.
“David,” Sorensen said, forestalling his departure, “I know what you’re thinking—that this probably all amounts to nothing.”
“Actually,” he said after a long pause, “that’s not what I was thinking at all. You may be onto something here, Anna. But you need to prove it.”
* * *
The loading crane Sorensen had pointed out in the satellite footage looked quite different from the vantage point of the ship’s deck. It was Captain Zakaryan’s habit to make one round each day across Argos, from stem to stern, seeking trouble spots and making assignments for the day’s maintenance detail. This morning he noted little. A bit of rust and some chipped paint, a frayed cable to be replaced on the main windlass.
His inspection ended at the fantail, and there he paused and looked out to the horizon. In what was a peculiar scene for a sea captain, he saw brown desert on both sides. The Suez Canal was at its narrowest here. To port was the unsettled Sinai, and to starboard greater Egypt. He’d once frequented the nearby harbors, Alexandria and Port Said, but the troubles of recent years had curtailed those runs. In a reflection of the new Middle East, the Egyptian government was besieged by insurgencies, various Islamic groups vying for territory and power. Gone were the tours of the great pyramids and dinner along the Nile. The main roads were overrun by armored personnel carriers and checkpoints, the urban alleys beset by secretive gatherings. Egypt was not alone. From Argos’ aft rail, there wasn’t a shore within five hundred miles left untouched by the violence.
A wistful Zakaryan made his way aft, and found himself drawn to the main cargo hold. The hatches were secure, yet he paused all the same and peered down through a gap into the darkened space below. He never heard the footsteps behind him.
“You will find out soon enough,” said an all-too-familiar voice.
He turned and saw Ivan the Russian.
“I could lose my master’s license if we are carrying anything illegal.”
“You could lose far more if you don’t follow my orders to the letter.”
Zakaryan held the man’s stare, which likely surprised him. Ivan had brought three of his own men on board. Zakaryan had a crew of twenty who mostly followed his orders. It was fantasy, of course, to imagine mutiny—the Russians were well armed, and obviously trained soldiers. Still, it felt good to keep the man on guard.
“Are we on schedule?” Ivan asked.
“So far. We had to wait a bit longer than expected at the head of the waterway.” He explained that traffic on sections of the canal were one-way, and that the morning southbound convoy had gotten a late start. “The time can easily be recovered,” Zakaryan added.
“I’m glad to hear it. Did you find anything requiring maintenance on your morning walk?”
The captain paused. “Only a few routine items.”
“It is good that you keep ahead of things. But just to give you warning—I suspect significant repairs may soon be required.”
Zakaryan kept staring at the man, but could think of no possible reply. In the end, he only turned on a heel and headed aft.