Flight Level 390
80 Nautical Miles South of Ibiza, Spain
2152 Local Time
The air over the southern Mediterranean was smooth. Through the oval portside windows lights from the island of Ibiza flickered in the distance. The clubs there would be building to their crescendo, the nightly carnal spectacle catering to Europe’s privileged and carefree.
The atmosphere in the Gulfstream’s cabin was a stark contrast.
Clark took a seat opposite Klaus and handed him a cup of coffee.
The banker accepted it gratefully. He held the Styrofoam cup with both hands and took a tentative sip. He looked spent, shell-shocked. It was a look that Clark, having spent his life in the domains of armed conflict, knew all too well. According to Ding, Klaus had been a model of cooperation throughout the egress. During the standoff in the hangar, however, his agitation had ratcheted up. He insisted he had time-sensitive information, yet every time he began his story a new crisis had intervened. The police had surrounded the hangar, then they’d been caught up indiplomatic maneuvering. After getting airborne, a call from the President of the United States had gotten in the way. Now, finally, he had Clark’s full attention.
Klaus took a second sip. His hands stopped trembling.
The rest of the team was splayed out in the aft cabin, the usual wind-down after an intense operation. Ding had cleaned and dressed Hyori’s facial wounds, which appeared to be superficial. Food and rest were the new priority.
“Okay,” Clark said. “Let’s talk.”
Klaus nodded.
“You said you’ve got something important for us.”
“Yes, I do. Although it is only…I think there is a legal word…circumstantial.” Klaus’s English was excellent—like most residents of Europe’s Alpine region, he spoke several languages.
“You mean you don’t have direct proof?” Clark queried.
“I should explain. I am a money manager, but not in the traditional sense. I—”
“Gunther,” Clark said, cutting him off. “I know what you do. And I know you’ve promised to give us proof of illicit financial dealings by high-profile Russians. We’ll get to all that. I need to know if there is an imminent threat to Western interests. That’s what you implied earlier.”
A rapid-fire nod. “In recent months I have been working for a man named Andrei Malenkov.”
“The former head of SSD.”
“Correct. He has gone private and set up an operation in eastern Libya.”
“Anoperation? What kind of operation?”
“I can’t say exactly. A few months ago, I arranged for a large sum of cash to be delivered to Malenkov. He used it to lease anairfield in a remote region of the Maghreb. It is outside a village called Al-Jaghbub.”
Clark had never heard of the place, but that wasn’t surprising. There were hundreds of such hamlets across northern Africa. “Was this an active airfield?”
“No, it had been abandoned years ago, after the fall of Gaddhafi. Once this lease was secured, more funding followed. Malenkov purchased heavy equipment—a bulldozer, a sweeper, a number of smaller vehicles. In essence, what one would need to clear a runway and set up air operations. He then contracted a number of flights from a cargo company called TransAvia, and more equipment arrived—things like tools, air handlers, and welding gear. There is one large hangar on the airfield and everything went inside.”
“Any idea what he intended to do in this hangar?”
“That soon became obvious. He purchased ten Shahed-151 drones from Iran. According to the purchase agreement, they were models designed for agricultural use.”
“Like spraying crops?”
“Correct.”
“What about personnel?”
“I established a payroll account. Malenkov hired roughly three dozen men. I can tell you most had backgrounds in security. I recognized some of the names—they were mercenaries he had used before. There were also a handful of technicians.”
Klaus now had Clark’s full attention. “What kind of technicians?”
