Slaton realized he’d been spoiled as of late when he had to suppress disappointment at not having a private jet for his journey to Morocco. His welcome back to the real world had been finalized the previous night when his connection to Casablanca from Paris Charles De Gaulle was canceled at the last minute.
He was forced to wait until the next morning, and spent the night at an airport hotel. During that layover, he’d called Christine to give her an update on where he was headed. Their conversation could be condensed to its final exchange.
Are you sure you want to do this? she’d asked.
No, Slaton replied, staring out a broad window at an airliner lifting from a runway. But I’m sure it needs to be done.
Christine had not argued, and first thing this morning he was back in the airport security line.
He arrived in Casablanca on the stroke of noon. The arrival queues were surprisingly busy, and it took nearly an hour to clear customs and immigration. That, at least, went without a hitch, and minutes after his CIA-furnished passport was returned, he was cutting through the terminal crowds like a deer through forest.
He saw rental car counters in the distance, but before going that route Slaton decided to make a phone call. He dialed the direct number Coltrane had provided. No one picked up after ten rings, and there was no voice-mail option.
So much for my private line, he thought, ending the call. He tried not to take it personally—the man was director of the CIA, and presumably had other issues on his agenda.
He diverted outside, and steered away from the busy curb where taxis and buses were doing a brisk business. At the end of the sidewalk he looked out across the far reaches of the airfield. A handful of small aircraft were parked in line at a flight school, and beyond them he saw a modest air cargo building. With minimal contemplation, Slaton placed a call to his backup source.
Anna Sorensen picked up immediately.
Slaton said, “I just tried to reach your boss, but he didn’t answer.”
“I’m not surprised. There’s a crisis right now.”
“When is there not?”
“Hang on…” There was a thirty-second pause, and Slaton heard a series of clicks on the line. Sorensen’s voice returned. “All right, encryption is verified. You probably haven’t heard about Argos—she just sank off the coast of Yemen.”
“Sank?”
“There’s more.” She explained what had happened to MIR Enterprises’ other two ships, and that a speedboat had rescued four men from each. “We had a Navy destroyer on the scene within minutes, and two merchant ships have joined the search. There don’t appear to be any survivors.”
“There had to be fifteen, maybe twenty men on the ship I saw,” he said, recalling the busy crew he’d watched from the shadows of Argos’ hull. He also recalled the one man who’d struck him as something other than a typical sailor. Number three guide on top, number one on the sides. Slaton had mentioned him in his debriefing with Mossad, as had Aaron. They’d both pegged him as some manner of “security,” and suspected he wasn’t alone. Yet neither could have imagined this. Not a security team, but rather executioners in wait. A team of four on each ship. Waiting to destroy evidence in the most comprehensive way possible. “Were you able to track these guys who ran?”
“No, the boat they boarded was fast—it headed straight toward Yemen and we lost track near the shoreline. We’re trying to pick up a trail, but I wouldn’t count on it—our networks in Yemen aren’t the most reliable.”
“Which is why they close it. This whole operation looks more professional by the minute. It’s almost certainly state-sponsored—and the guy I saw looked Russian.”
“That keeps coming up, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah … it’s beyond coincidence.”
“Way beyond,” she agreed. “These ships got scuttled and the crews were murdered.”
“Aside from trying to locate these kill squads, how is the CIA responding?”
“We’re continuing to press the Saudis—we think there should be a stronger response to these arms shipments. Since I’m up to speed on what’s happening, Coltrane sent me to Riyadh.”
“I know.”
A brief pause. “You do?”
“He mentioned it when I last talked to him. He said the Saudis tend to be more forthcoming in person.”
“True enough. So do you have any better news? Any luck finding Ovechkin?”
“I just got to Casablanca—flight delays. I called your boss a few minutes ago hoping he’d have more for me to work with. The search box he gave me is a little overwhelming—I’ve got to narrow it down somehow.”
“So since you couldn’t get hold of him, you called me?”
“Something like that.”
“Wish I could help,” she said, “but I haven’t heard anything new. If I talk to the director, I’ll tell him what you want. But as you can probably understand—Ovechkin isn’t the priority right now.”
After agreeing to keep in touch, Slaton ended the call. He pocketed the phone and looked at the rental car counters in the terminal.
He wondered how he was going to find Ovechkin in a fifty-square-mile area. He once again swept his gaze across the greater airport. His eye was caught by a sign in the distance, and a new idea took hold. It would be, without doubt, an extravagant option.
It would also be the quickest way to cover a lot of ground.