The Natanz Directive Read Free

had total respect for the deputy director of operations of the CIA. I had total respect for how a guy in his position could torch a mission—even one as vital as this one—just to show how much power he wielded.
    â€œYou communicate straight through my office. You got it?” he said, leaning against the table. “I’ll decide what the general and his team need to know. We clear on this, Mr. Conlan?”
    Oh, so now it was Mr. Conlan. How very interesting. No problem. I had anticipated this request, and I wanted to demonstrate my sincerity. I reached into my pocket and palmed a fifteen-dollar dual-band Hop 1800 GSM disposable phone. I slid it across the table and into Wiseman’s bony hand. He held it up as if I’d offered him a peanut butter sandwich when he was expecting caviar.
    â€œWhat’s this? A joke?”
    â€œI want to be able to get you on a secure line at a moment’s notice,” I said. “I know you’re used to people going through channels, which I’m happy to do, but our timetable might make that difficult.”
    I nodded in the direction of the phone. “Do you mind? It means keeping it with you at all times.” I didn’t say, Take it or leave it, even though it may have entered my mind to do so.
    â€œI want to hear from you every day, Jake,” he said. Now I was Jake. Pretty soon we’d be sending the general out of the room. “Do we have a deal?”
    â€œCount on it,” I said. I pushed back my chair and came to my feet. Tom did the same. “Now I’ve got a plane to catch. Thank you, gentlemen.”
    The deputy director of operations shook hands with Tom and placed a hand on my shoulder as we exited the room. “Show the bastard,” he said. I assumed he meant The Twelver, but maybe I had missed something along the way.
    â€œKeep that phone close,” I said as he shuttled down the hall with two waiting aides.
    Tom and I went in the other direction. I heard him chuckle. “Say, you wouldn’t have one of those really cool disposables for me, would you?”
    â€œAnd waste another fifteen bucks? Forget it.”
    We were outside and a long way from the building before he said, “You’ll have a phone waiting for you when you land. It’s got everything on it that you asked for. And some things you didn’t.” He looked at me. “You didn’t say anything about a weapon.”
    â€œAlready done,” I replied.
    â€œSend me a postcard.” Translated: you know where to send intel.
    â€œWe’ll do lunch in a couple of weeks,” I said and headed for my car. I turned over the engine and put some music on: The Who’s “Goin’ Mobile.”

 
    CHAPTER 3
    CHARLES DE GAULLE AIRPORT, FRANCE
    It was five thirty in the morning. A sliver of gray light bleached the horizon. Perfect timing. You don’t bring a plane like the Blackbird SR-71 into one of the busiest airports in the world during the middle of the day if your goal is anonymity.
    The plane taxied onto the brightly lit parking tarmac and halted.
    We had crossed the Atlantic at Mach 3, with my six-foot, 185-pound frame crammed into the copilot’s chair in the cockpit of a plane I would have sworn had been put into mothballs years ago. No pretzels, no hot coffee, no bantering with flight attendants of the opposite sex. But the average commercial flight to Paris from D.C. takes a good eight hours, and we did it in close to three and a half, so I wasn’t complaining. After all, how many people can say they’ve experienced Mach 3 speeds with one of the best pilots on the planet at the controls. And most important of all, the nuclear clock was ticking, and we had to shave every second possible.
    My canopy popped open. A couple of U.S. Air Force techs pushed a gantry up against the sleek, viperlike fuselage. One reached into the cockpit and helped me undo my seat harness and uncouple the oxygen