Klaus lifted the hood over his head, donned sunglasses, and headed up the cobblestone lane.
—
Klaus found that the easiest part of his plan, surprisingly, was renting the donkey.
Tourist schemes in the old medina were legion, and among the favorites were private tours of the old town on the backs of tethered mules. For Europeans on holiday, it was the perfect Instagram moment—an exotic adventure to be shared with the world. The moment Klaus was after was precisely the opposite. Taking a tour would allow him to approach his target with maximum anonymity, and when the time for a picture came, he hoped it would reach the smallest-possible audience.
He was cautious as he approached the lane where the guides queued up. He surveyed the streets continuously, watching for Slavic faces that paid him too much attention. With his sunglasses and hoodie, he appeared to be just another fair-skinned tourist trying to ward off the sun.
The tours, Klaus knew, followed a canned route that passeddirectly in front of the building he was targeting. It took the rest of his cash to make everything happen, and even then, he had to bargain down the price with the guide—a grizzled old Berber whose traditional clothing was covered in traditional dust.
Klaus was committing to an all-or-nothing gambit, yet it seemed his best chance to reestablish contact with the Americans. He was sure they were looking for him, yet so were the Russians. He’d been told the latter had a strong ground game in Morocco. Klaus was counting on the American’s reliance on technology, although his CIA handler had cautioned him on that very point.There are a lot of cameras in the city and virtually all are compromised. We can hack them, but so can the GRU.
His handler had followed up with suggestions on how to minimize his exposure: avoid busy streets and choke points, employ simple countermeasures like broad hats and sunglasses. For a man who stashed gray money in dark corners of the world, who was used to dining in the company of starch-collared bankers and lawyers, it was a departure of the lowest order. He was in the untenable position of being pursued by two of the world’s great powers. He wanted to be seen by one but not the other. Early that morning, tossing and turning on his smelly rented mattress, the answer had arrived like a vision: the one place in Tangier where the Americans would surely have a surveillance advantage.
The Tangier American Legation was the only U.S. National Historic Landmark situated in another country. The tiny plot of land had been gifted to America by Sultan Mohammed ben Abdallah over two hundred years ago. During World War II it served as a hub for U.S. intelligence in Africa. In more recent times, a museum had been established to celebrate the long-standing alliance between the United States and the kingdom of Morocco.Gunther Klaus viewed it in a far narrower light: if the CIA was electronically monitoring any place in Tangier, it would be the beige Moorish facade of the American Legation Museum.
Once payment for his tour was finalized, he mounted a malodorous beast named Earl, the first in a train of four donkeys. The three behind him were ridden by Americans, part of a tour group that had arrived by ferry from Spain. A teenage girl wearing yoga pants and a cowboy hat snapped selfies relentlessly. Her father, at the rear, was drenched in sweat under an Indiana Jones hat.
Earl turned out to be old and slow. As was the Berber.
The guide led the caravan on the usual route, a cobblestone path marked by puddles of brown leavings. After one mosque and countless spice stalls, the tiny wagon train rounded a corner, and Klaus spotted the museum ahead. He saw people milling about, although nothing like the throngs that had been at the souk yesterday. The American Legation Museum might be a point of interest, but it was second-tier at best.
Klaus waited until they were directly in front of the museum’s entrance, a passageway that led to an arched tunnel. On the portico ceiling he saw what he was after—the telltale plastic dome of a camera and the associated conduit. He reached beneath the hoodie at his beltline and removed a piece of cardboard. Then, for a few precious moments, he removed his knockoff Ray-Bans, pulled back his hood, and looked directly at the camera.
The entire process, after hours of planning and the expenditure of his remaining euros, took mere seconds to execute.
Klaus put his ensemble back in place and settled in for the rest of the ride. He could do nothing more. He was out of both money and ideas.
Fifteen minutes later, the old Berber helped him dismount. “Ihope you enjoyed your tour,” he said. His helpful hand ended with an upturned palm that lingered suggestively for a gratuity.
The Swiss banker who was, at least on paper, a millionaire forty times over, smiled feebly, and said, “I will recommend Earl to all my friends.”
44
The Maghreb
Al-Jaghbub Airfield
0725 Local Time
“When will it arrive?” Malenkov asked angrily. He tempered his grip on the phone so as not to crush it.
The answer from western Siberia was glacial in arriving. There was no point in arguing or making threats. No manner of coercion could change the situation. Malenkov blurted a few expletives and ended the call.
“Trouble?” asked Gamling. The drone expert gave a sidelong glance from his workbench, pieces of a disassembled servo laid out before him.
“The flight from Novy Urengoy Airport has only just taken off. The aircraft had a flat tire, and a new one had to be shipped in from St. Petersburg.A flat tire!We are trying to change history, and I am at the mercy of sloth-like mechanics with lug wrenches.”
“How long until the aircraft arrives?”
“Five hours…if nothing else goes to shit!” He shoved his phone in his hip pocket.
On his first day here, Malenkov had placed a redXon thecalendar on the hangar wall. This was the targeted date for the strike. He had never revealed the reason for the deadline, and no one had ever pressed him for his reasoning. If all had gone smoothly, they could have launched this evening. Thankfully, Malenkov had built in extra time, yet the schedule was turning critical.
“We will launch tomorrow morning,” he said, “before sunrise.”
“Why so early? Are you worried about the weather?”
