“Something has come up,” Sorensen said as she sat with her hands on the car’s steering wheel.
Slaton stared at her. In his years in the field, he’d developed a private theory that the more banal an intelligence officer’s opening line, the greater the impending doom. If it held here, it did not bode well for his near-term well-being.
He’d taken the first available flight from Milan, and on his request, she’d picked him up at Rome’s Fiumicino Airport. They needed to talk, and instead of wasting an hour in a cab, he’d reasoned this would be more efficient—at least from his point of view. Sorensen had commandeered a generic sedan from the embassy motor pool, and they were at that moment stalled in the usual afternoon rush in the heart of Rome.
“Argos performed an offload in the Red Sea last night,” she said. “Three smaller boats arrived and crates were transferred.”
“And you find this surprising?”
“I guess not. The smaller boats delivered whatever it was to various points along the coast—all in Saudi Arabia. Since then, we’ve learned that Cirrus did pretty much the same thing from the waters off Yemen. Tasman Sea is a little behind, but she just dropped anchor north of Al Jubail in the Persian Gulf.”
“Okay, so we have a coordinated smuggling effort on the Arabian Peninsula. Tell the Saudis and let them handle it.”
“That may not be an option.”
“Why not?”
Sorensen didn’t respond right away, her eyes fixed on the bumper of a motionless truck ahead.
“Why not?” he asked in a manifestly level tone.
“There’s a complication.”
There it was again, he thought. Ominous understatement. His eyes bored into her, and she finally met his gaze.
“We weren’t the only ones who noticed Argos,” she said.
“Who else would be looking—” Slaton locked up midsentence. “Israel.”
She nodded. “They have satellites too, and watch their backyard closely. There’s been a flurry of back-and-forth today at the highest levels—it began with the Israeli foreign ministry contacting our state department, and ended with CIA director Coltrane having a lengthy discussion with his counterpart at Mossad.”
“Director Nurin.”
Traffic began moving ever so slowly. “I know the two of you have a history,” she said.
“That’s putting it lightly.”
“Nurin thinks highly of you, as does Director Coltrane.”
Slaton felt like a fighter watching a big glove coming toward his face. No time to duck. “You know why I don’t like platitudes?” he asked reflectively.
Sorensen didn’t respond.
“Because people give them right before they dump something lousy on you.”
“Are you this cynical with your wife?”
“Ask her.”
“Like I said,” Sorensen picked up, “there was a lot of back-and-forth. No one knows what was in those crates. Conventional weapons seems the most likely answer, but WMD can’t be discounted. Israel is adamant about pursuing this. Argos has moved farther up the coast toward the Gulf of Aqaba—she’s anchored southwest of Sharmaa, still in international waters.”
“But closer to Israel.”
“I’m afraid so. Mossad has a tactical team on standby. They intend to go in and determine what the cargo is.”
“By force?”
“Surreptitiously would be preferred, but whatever it takes. And that’s where you come in.”
“Where I come in?”
“Director Coltrane told me to emphasize that participation on your part is strictly voluntary.”
“How considerate of him—notwithstanding the fact that I don’t work for the CIA and never have. I’m not even an American citizen.”
As if not hearing his protest, Sorensen said, “I briefed him on your situation. I told him the Russians are circulating that you might have murdered two of their citizens—as it turns out, two men who had an ownership stake in these ships.”
“I’m sure that coincidence wasn’t lost on the director.”
“No. And he mentioned something else—something I didn’t know. He said you worked with Mossad not long ago, a joint operation in the Golan Heights.”
Slaton felt like he was again streaking down the mountain in Davos—only this time instead of skiing he was tumbling, caught in a kind of private avalanche. He had done a cross-border exfil mission with a Mossad tactical team eight months ago. The objective had been to retrieve an ISIS defector, and it had ended as a qualified success. Now it was just another operation coming back to haunt him.
“Coltrane doesn’t need me,” he argued. “If the CIA wants a hand in this, they have plenty of operators.”
“True. Unfortunately, it’s Mossad who are being problematic. You’re the only one they’re willing to work with. It was something worked out personally between the two directors.”
“And if I decline?”
Sorensen was silent for a time. “I don’t know,” she said. “Nobody seems to have thought things through that far. I’m pretty sure Israel is going to go forward, with or without you.” She eyed him thoughtfully. “Honestly … it looks to me like they’re backing you into a corner. Maybe you should tell them all to go to hell. The world will go on.”
He nodded appreciatively. “Thanks for that.”
“I mean it. I’ve gotten to know Christine and Davy, and I’d totally get it if you walked away right now. Set sail on that boat of yours and never looked back.”
He sat in silence.
“But whatever you decide,” she continued, “I need to know soon. They want an answer.”
“All right. I’m guessing it can at least wait another hour.”
“Another consultation with your wife?”
“Something like that.”
Sorensen acquired a thin smile.
“What?” he asked.
“It just struck me that when most guys ask for a kitchen pass, it’s to go golfing or watch a game at a bar.”
“Guess I’m not most guys.”
She looked at him with something he couldn’t place. The road opened up ahead, and she accelerated on a freeway.
He said, “Regardless of what I decide, there’s something I need from you.”
“Shoot.”
Slaton eyed her. The grin was still there. He said, “Vladimir Ovechkin is the last surviving member of this little group of Petrov’s. I’d really like to know where he went after Davos.”
“I’ve been doing my best with that.”
“With all due respect, I want more. I want Director Coltrane to do his best. A full court press from Langley.”
“Okay, I’ll pass it on.”
“And there’s something else you should tell him.”
“What’s that?”
“It has to do with what I learned in Milan…”