WAS IT a mistake? the Emir wondered. Things were rarely entirely clear at his level of operational responsibility. The target country was inconsequential, actually, but the target itself of great significance-or potential significance. The effects of the attack would spread like ripples in a pond, lapping soon enough at the shores of their true target.
Of all his worries about the current operation, his commander on the ground did not count among them. Ibrahim was ambitious but also careful and thorough, and he’d kept his team small and well organized in every detail. Then again, the real test would come when the plan went operational, which was the decision that he presently faced. Timing was everything, along with the ability to focus on the “big picture,” as the Americans called it. There were a number of pieces moving about the board, and each had to move in the right direction and at the right pace, lest any one of them get caught alone and without support. If that happened, the rest would fall in turn, and Lotus would collapse. And he would likely die before seeing Lotus come to fruition. If he moved too fast, his life could end before it bloomed; too slow, the same result.
So he’d let Ibrahim continue with his on-scene reconnaissance, but he’d withhold final approval on the operation until he knew the disposition of the other pieces.
And if Ibrahim succeeds? he asked himself. And what then? Would this Kealty react as they expected? Their profile of him-code-named CASCADE-seemed certain of it, but the Emir had long ago learned to be wary of the vagaries of the human mind.
CASCADE… an apt title. He found both it and the concept behind it amusing. Certainly the Western intelligence agencies had psychological profiles of him-he’d read one, in fact-so he found it entertaining to be largely basing their most ambitious operation on a profile of their own.
Kealty was the consummate politician, which in American politics was taken as synonymous for leader. How and when this ignorance had started he didn’t know. Nor did he care. The American people had chosen for themselves the politician who had most ably portrayed himself as a leader, never asking whether the image matched the character behind it. CASCADE said it did not, and the Emir agreed. Worse still-or better still, depending on your perspective-Kealty had surrounded himself with sycophants and favor-holders who did nothing to improve his credentials.
So what happens when a weak man of flawed character is faced with a cascade of catastrophes? He crumbles, of course-and with him, the country.
As promised, their charter boat was waiting for them. The captain, a local fisherman named Pyotor Salychev, sat in a lawn chair at the end of the deserted plank pier, smoking his pipe. Bobbing in the black, cold water was a twelve-meter wide-beamed British Halmatic trawler. Salychev grunted as he rose to his feet.
“You’re late,” he said, then stepped off the pier onto the afterdeck.
“Bad weather,” Adnan replied. “You’re ready?”
“Wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.”
During their first negotiations, Salychev had asked few questions about who they were or why they wanted to go to the island, but Adnan, playing the role of an ecological zealot, had dropped several hints during their conversation. Watchdog groups had long been coming here to document the ravages of the Cold War, Salychev had replied with a shrug. As long as they paid and as long as they didn’t hazard him or his boat, Salychev was happy to take anyone to that godforsaken place. “No accounting for stupidity,” he’d told Adnan.
“It’s smaller than I’d imagined,” Adnan said, nodding at the boat.
“You were expecting a battleship? She’s tough enough. One of the only good things the British ever built, the Halmatic. I’ve had her lying on her beam and she still snaps to. You worry about yourself. Come on, then, we push off in ten minutes.”
The rest of Adnan’s men finished unloading their gear from the truck, then hurried down the pier and started loading it onto the afterdeck as Salychev barked orders about where and how to place everything. Once satisfied all was in order, Salychev cast off the lines, propped a foot on the pier, and pushed the Halmatic off. Seconds later he was in the wheelhouse, turning over the engine. With a belch of black smoke from the manifolds, the diesel engine roared to life and water frothed at the stern.
“Next stop,” Salychev called over his shoulder, “hell.”
Two hours later the island’s southern headlands appeared through the fog off the starboard bow. Adnan stood amidships, watching the coastline through a pair of binoculars. Salychev had assured him military patrols would be no trouble, and Adnan could see none.
“They’re out there,” he called from the pilothouse, “but they’re not so bright. You could set your watch by ’em. Same patrol routes, every day at the same time.”
“What about radar?”
“Where?”
“On the island. I heard there was an air base…”
Salychev chuckled. “What, you’re talking about Rogachevo? Not really, not anymore. Not enough money. Used to have an interceptor regiment there, the 641st, I think, but nowadays it’s just a few cargo planes and helicopters.
“As for the boat patrols, they got dinky navigation sets, and like I said, they’re predictable anyway. Once we’re inshore, we’re safe. As you might imagine, they try to keep their distance.”
Adnan could understand why. While his men knew little about the nature of their mission or their destination, Adnan had been fully briefed.
Novaya Zemlya was indeed a hell on earth. According to the last census, the island was home to 2,500 people, mostly Nenetses and Avars living in Belushya Guba settlement. The island itself was in reality two islands-Severny in the north, and Yuzhny in the south-each separated from the other by the Matochkin Strait.
It was a shame, really, Adnan thought, that all the world knew of Novaya Zemlya was its Cold War history. The Russians and Europeans had known about it since the eleventh century, first through Novgorod traders, then through a steady string of explorers-Willoughby, Barents, Liitke, Hudson… They’d all visited here hundreds of years before it was annexed by the Soviets in 1954, renamed the Novaya Zemlya Test Site, and divided into zones: A, Chyornaya Guba; B, Matochkin Shar; and C, Sukhoy Nos, where the fifty-megaton Tsar Bomba was detonated in 1961.
During its lifespan, Novaya Zemlya had been home to nearly three hundred nuclear detonations, the last one in 1990. Since then it had become many things to many people-a curiosity, a tragedy, a grim reminder… But for the cash-poor Russian government after the dissolution, the island had become a dumping ground, a place to abandon their abominations.
What was that American phrase? Adnan wondered. Ah, yes… One man’s trash is another man’s treasure.
They were interested in the new line, Cassiano saw. Where it crossed roads, how far off the ground it was, how many support pylons per mile… An interesting request, and of course he would do his best to acquire the information.
They were also interested in trains, which puzzled him. It was true that trains came and went on a daily basis, but their entry into the facility was strictly limited and monitored. If they were looking to gain access to the facility, there were easier ways. Perhaps that was the answer. They weren’t interested in the trains as a means of infiltration but rather as a measurement tool. The facility’s output was a closely kept secret, but if the trains coming and going were monitored and their specifications known, one could make a good guess as to the output levels.
Very smart, he thought. And it did fit with what he knew about his employers. Competition was a healthy thing, he’d been told, and nothing could be done about a newly discovered oil field. What could be controlled, however, were prices and output capacity, which is what he suspected his employer planned to do. The OPEC nations (Islamic nations) had been the world’s largest supplier of oil for decades upon decades, and if Cassiano could help maintain that supremacy, he would happily do so.