Dirty Little Secret (35 page)

‘Are you friends of Abdul?’ he asked in French.

‘He was meant to take you down to Diabat.’

‘Abdul was shot.’

Neither man said anything. Instead, they pulled in the kite and its tendril strings. Marchant was certain they were here to help him, sent by Dhar. Diabat was further down the beach, beyond the ruined fort. He grabbed the side of the boat and hauled himself in.

‘The other man was shot too,’ he said. ‘The one with the horse.’

‘We know Abdul by name, we spoke on the phone, but –’

‘You’ve never met him.’

Both men nodded. Marchant reassured himself that they were here to help him. The only way they could know about Bandar-Abbas was if they were linked in some way with Dhar. It was anonymous routing again. For safety, nobody knew anyone else in the chain.

The boat accelerated, turning left and away from Île de Mogador, which was still a long way off. He realised now that he would never have made it.

‘Where are we going?’ he asked, shivering in the wind.

‘Diabat. New people will drive you out to Mogador airport. You will be given a ticket to Paris, where you will take a flight to Dubai. From there, you will fly on to Bandar-Abbas.’

Ali Mousavi was in his business-presentation mode again, talking Dhar through a series of slides and videos in a small room on the ground floor of the oil platform, near the indoor boatyard. Two soldiers kept guard outside. Dhar was happy to sit back and listen, eating white-fleshed apricots and drinking from a plastic bottle of Damavand mineral water. The after-effects of his anaphylactic shock had finally worn off, and he was beginning to feel himself again. His injured leg was still sore, and life on an oil platform induced occasional bouts of claustrophobia, but otherwise he was focused and ready for what lay ahead.

Mousavi’s presentation was helping his recovery. Dhar was impressed with the scale of Iran’s ambition and the country’s understanding of its own military limits.

‘Carrier Strike Group 10 deployed from Norfolk, Virginia, for a six-month tour of duty on 21 May,’ Mousavi said as an aerial photograph came up on the screen. It showed a group of American warships at sea, spread out in formation. ‘CSG 10 currently consists of four destroyers, three frigates and the flagship, the aircraft carrier USS
Harry S. Truman
, which comes with its own embarked air force, Air Wing Three, also known as Battle Axe.’

‘And what does “Battle Axe” include?’ Dhar asked, spitting out the American moniker.

‘Eighty aircraft – Seahawk helicopters, early-warning Hawkeyes, electronic attack Prowlers, Hornets and Super Hornets.’

Dhar, his shoulder muscles involuntarily flexing at the last words, wished he hadn’t asked. He knew they were fighter jets, but he couldn’t stop an image flashing through his mind of the insect that had stung him in Bagram.

‘Are you all right?’ Mousavi asked.

‘Carry on,’ Dhar said, annoyed at his own weakness. He took another apricot.

‘The Strike Group passed through the Suez Canal and entered the Persian Gulf earlier this week as part of a major build-up in the Fifth Fleet’s area of operations. A German frigate has also joined them, and we think the Israelis have moved submarines into the Strait. Our threats to block and mine the Strait have drawn the enemy in, as expected. We’ve seen it all before, but this time the Zionists are looking for contact. And so are we.’

Mousavi paused, waiting for an image of an aircraft carrier to appear on the screen.

‘Our target is the
Truman
– call sign CVN75, America’s eighth Nimitz-class supercarrier, nickname “Lone Wolf”. Later this week it will pass through the Strait, close to where we will be holding our biggest ever naval exercise.’ Mousavi paused. ‘There are more than six thousand personnel on board the
Truman
, and the commanding officer’s a Jew. The ship keeps a Torah on the hangar deck.’

An image of a naval officer appeared on screen. They both remained silent.

‘Is this a suicide mission?’ Dhar asked. The more he had heard about the operation, the more he suspected it would require the ultimate sacrifice. Mousavi turned to look at him, pausing before he spoke.

‘Not for you, of course. But there will be many martyrs. We aim to have more than a hundred fast-attack boats at sea, including our new Seraj and Zolfaqar craft, and our Bavar 2 stealth flying boats. Most will be manned, but some won’t.’

Mousavi switched the image to a photo of a heavily armed powerboat. The caption read
YA MAHDI
–
SONAR-EVADING
, and it was travelling at speed. There was no crew on board, making it look like a ghost ship, Dhar thought.

‘The Americans will use the excuse of transit passage through the Strait’s shipping lanes to conduct a naval exercise in what they claim are international waters,’ Mousavi continued. ‘They do this often.’

‘Can people in Iran see the American ships from the shore?’

Mousavi nodded. ‘Of course. It’s like the British seeing hostile warships from the white cliffs of Dover. It can be very provocative, but also to our advantage. When the Americans pass through later this week, we will carry out our own naval exercise. A wave of unmanned Ya Mahdis will approach the convoy. The Americans will expect them to turn back, assuming they are part of our naval exercise, but they won’t. When the Americans open fire – it is essential the first shots are theirs – we cry foul and retaliate in overwhelming numbers.’

More photos, aerial images of a row of twenty speedboats in a line, surging forward, followed by another line, and another. The Iranian flag billowed from the stern of each boat, and anti-ship missile launchers were mounted above the cockpits. They were crewed by men wearing bandanas. Dhar thought they looked like pirates. Mousavi began to pace around the room, gesturing like an impassioned academic as he spoke.

‘At the heart of a swarm attack lies confusion. It is essential that the enemy is overwhelmed in his mind by the sight of so many boats coming towards him. He must enter a state of true sublimity – the anarchic spectacle before him appalls and fascinates in equal measure. At first, he will see only one or two boats, but then three, five, ten, twenty. We call this the ‘sorites paradox’, or the ‘paradox of the heap’. One boat does not make a swarm. Maybe ten don’t. Who knows? It is like grains of sand. When do they become a heap? After thirty grains? Thirty-five? It is impossible to tell. With a flotilla of fast-moving boats, there is an elusive tipping point when it becomes a swarm.’

‘Why do you need me?’ Dhar asked, unsure whether Mousavi’s esoteric take on asymmetric warfare was reassuring or naïve.

‘Because Salim Dhar has become a talisman for the global fight against Zionism. Some choose to stay hidden; you have always fought on the front line. I cannot deny that morale is low in Iran. Salim Dhar is the West’s public enemy number one, a
jihadi
with a record of spectacular strikes against America. Your presence will help us achieve an even bigger victory against the Great Satan. It will unite our nation, justify our need for a nuclear deterrent and send a message to
jihadis
everywhere, triggering a pan-Islamic war against the Western world order.’

Fine words, but Dhar knew there was a degree of realpolitik too. His involvement would take some of the diplomatic heat off Iran in the aftermath of what was effectively a declaration of war against America. If it failed to ignite a wider conflict, Tehran would distance itself from the attack, accusing him of being a rogue asset who had hijacked a routine naval exercise. But he could live with that.

‘Picture the scene,’ Mousavi said. ‘The USS
Truman
, flagship of the US Navy, 100,000 tonnes, $4.5 billion, listing in the Persian Gulf, smoke billowing from the bridge as it sinks beneath the waves. The images will travel around the world like 9/11, only this time there will be no moral ambiguity, no civilian casualties.’

‘And I will be on board the
Bradstone Challenger
.’

‘Our very own “lone wolf” that will land the fatal blow. Providing, of course, that your friend delivers it from Karachi.’

‘He will.’

‘You will be well protected. Initially, Seahawks and UAVs will be your greatest threat, but they will be more concerned with targeting boats in front of yours. As the swarm gathers, the Phalanx Close-In Weapons System will become an issue. Every US warship has Phalanx. It is a fully automated, radar-guided Gatling gun that fires 4,500 rounds of armour-piercing tungsten per minute. Too many. By the time you arrive, they will be out of rounds and the
Truman
will be within range of your own weapon systems.’

Mousavi cued up a short video. It showed a torpedo streaking towards a destroyer and hitting it amidships. The force of the explosion seemed to lift the boat out of the water as it buckled in two and burst into a ball of flames.

‘There’s something else you should know about the torpedoes our engineers have developed for
Bradstone Challenger
,’ Mousavi continued. ‘The single greatest threat to a ship of
Truman
’s size is fire. That’s what sunk HMS
Sheffield
in the Falklands War. She went down in deep water six days after being hit by an Exocet missile. And it was fire that disabled most of the US aircraft carriers in the Second World War.

‘Your boat will have two torpedoes, each equipped with a small thermobaric charge. If the
Truman
is pierced below decks, the ensuing fireball will be catastrophic. And it only takes one torpedo to get through. In the Battle of Midway, the Japanese carrier
Akagi
was sunk by a single bomb striking the upper hangar deck. It exploded amidst the planes, which were armed and fuelled for take-off.’

Dhar was impressed. But no matter how Mousavi chose to cast the operation in the classroom, he knew the reality. It was a martyrdom mission. The knowledge wasn’t unsettling, because the prize was so great. A supercarrier was the embodiment of all he despised about America. According to Mousavi, ‘Give ’em Hell’, the USS
Truman
’s motto, was written everywhere around the ship to remind the crew of their duty. The
Truman
was iconic, the ultimate symbol of America’s global arrogance, patrolling the world’s seas as if it owned them. It was also vulnerable, more so than ever, an outdated form of warfare more useful for its strategic value than its tactical effectiveness. And like the
Bismarck
, it was an irresistible target.

Until recently, Dhar had felt he could achieve more in life than he could in death. But he had been lucky to survive the attack in Britain, even luckier to escape from Bagram. Time was running out, but there was still much to be done: America still occupied the Arab lands.

Mousavi was right. The stage was set to humiliate America in an attack that would reverberate far beyond the narrow confines of the Strait. Without him, it would be merely an act of aggression in a long-running local dispute. America would retaliate, destroying Iran’s navy and possibly its nuclear facilities, oil prices would rise slightly and the world would move on. With him, the attack would serve as a rallying cry, a call to arms in Palestine and Pakistan, Yemen and the Caucasus. Islam had reached a pivotal moment in its history, an opportunity to wipe out arrogant materialist powers. It would be the greatest victory since the Prophet Muhammad, despite his army facing overwhelming odds, triumphed at the battles of Kheybar and Badr.

They shall fight in the way of Allah and shall slay and be slain.

Spiro spun the numbers on the combination lock and pulled at the chain on the old hangar doors. He tried not to dwell on what he might find inside. Few people visited this corner of RAF Fairford – access was restricted to senior CIA and JSOP personnel – but he still looked around the deserted airfield before stepping inside. The hangar was dark except for a shaft of cold blue light filtering in through a vent high up on one wall.

It wasn’t the prospect of finding a tortured body that troubled Spiro. He had seen enough of those in his time. It was the thought that whatever had happened in the hangar over the past forty-eight hours might one day percolate back to Linda. There would be ways to cover it up, of course. There always were. Paul Myers wouldn’t be the first GCHQ employee to be found dead in unexplained circumstances. But he knew he would be an accessory to the crime, even if he hadn’t been there in person. It was he who had given Ian Denton the use of the facility.

So why had he come? Marcus Fielding had called him earlier. To be fair to the Brit, he could have rubbed his face in it, but Fielding had chosen to remain civil.

‘Now’s not the time for recriminations,’ he had said. ‘We both believed in Denton. I made him my deputy, you made him Chief.’

‘Acting. Do you still believe in Daniel Marchant?’ Spiro had asked.

‘He’s just exposed Ian Denton as a traitor.’

‘In between busting Dhar from Bagram.’

‘You know there’s no evidence for that, Jim.’

‘At least we were right about the existence of a Russian mole in MI6. Give us credit for that.’

‘You just thought it was me. But let’s move on. I have a small favour to ask.’

‘Make it quick. The DCIA’s called me back to Langley.’

‘Denton interviewed a British intelligence officer down at RAF Fairford. Paul Myers, a Farsi analyst at GCHQ. You may have met him once.’

‘Don’t recall the guy, but I heard as much.’ Spiro wasn’t going to give Fielding any easy wins. Of course he remembered Myers. He was the fatass who humiliated him over the tape recording of Dhar’s voice. Nor was he going to tell Fielding that he himself had facilitated Myers’s interrogation.

‘For some reason, Myers hasn’t been at work. He’s not answering calls, seems to have vanished. Tempting though it would be to surround Fairford with British troops, I thought I’d give you the opportunity to find out what’s happened to him first.’

‘I’ll ask around.’

There had been no need. Spiro knew exactly where Myers was. He just wasn’t sure if he was still alive. Denton had said he needed more time with him. Then he was arrested at the COBRA meeting and Myers had been forgotten. Paying him a visit now was the least Spiro could do, given he was passing through Fairford on his way back to Langley.