The Natanz Directive Read Free Page A

fittings from my helmet and bulky pressure suit.
    â€œGood trip, sir?” she said, easing me out of my seat.
    â€œâ€˜Surreal’ doesn’t really describe it,” I quipped. I clambered out of the cockpit and onto the gantry. I descended the metal steps with the visor of my mirrored helmet cracked just enough for me to get some fresh air. This way, I was just another flyboy back on earth; no use drawing attention to myself.
    Two guys in flight suits escorted me from the gantry into the back of a nondescript cargo van. They weren’t wearing name tags. The techs hadn’t been, either. No surprise. We might as well have landed in Area 51, because you don’t exist on a mission like this.
    A guy with sergeant stripes helped me out of my helmet and pressure suit. He said, “Welcome to France, sir,” and slid a plain black carry-on out from under a bench.
    â€œGood to be here. Thanks for the ride.” The van was already in motion. I opened the carry-on and unpacked a dress shirt, business suit, and black wingtips. An American businessman on the streets of Paris might not be as common as an American tourist, but no one gave a second glance to a guy with a briefcase in his hand.
    I fished my NSA-modified iPhone from the carry-on, did a quick function check to make sure the apps I’d requested were there, and dropped it into my pocket. I tucked an envelope stuffed with euros and dollars into the interior pocket of my suit jacket. I examined two passports with two well-vetted IDs and found a pocket for them as well.
    â€œHungry?” the sergeant asked.
    â€œStarving.” My last meal had been six hours earlier, at Langley, and not much of one at that.
    â€œThought so.” He handed me a sandwich. “Chicken salad. Best I could do.”
    â€œYou’re a godsend.” I unwrapped the sandwich and devoured it. He poured coffee from a thermos and passed me the cup. “You’re fast becoming my favorite person,” I told him.
    â€œEnjoy it. ETA ten minutes,” he said.
    I counted the minutes off in my head—an old habit—and hit it right on the number. As the van came to a halt, I checked my tie and ran my fingers through my hair. The sergeant gave me a thumbs-up and threw open the van’s rear doors. They opened onto a service door at Terminal 1. A maintenance tech—by the looks of him, an agent from the Direction Générale de la Sécurité Extérieure, the French equivalent of the CIA—held the door open and acted as if I were invisible.
    I towed the carry-on along a narrow corridor and exited through a plain door into the terminal lobby. I’d been dropped on the other side of customs, free and clear. I was leaving the womb of safety and emerging into the cold world of peril. It was game on, and I could hear music inside my head: Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Free Bird.” Showtime.
    I melded into the crowd and walked toward the passenger-pickup zone. For the casual observer, I projected the nonchalant air of an American businessman back in France, yet every fiber of my being was on high alert and would be for, well, as long as it took.
    I stopped for coffee and a newspaper at a small kiosk, paid in euros, and carried my cup to a deserted seating area with a view of the sun breaking above the horizon. I had ten minutes to kill. I opened the paper, but only for show. I hit the Eavesdropping app on my iPhone, clicked the browser, and checked e-mail. There was only one, and only one word at that: pristine. Excellent. My backup was in place.
    I opened a secure line on the phone. I sent a text to a longtime contact in Amsterdam named Roger Anderson. There wasn’t a piece of equipment in the world that Roger couldn’t get his hand on, and I would need his procurement skills in the next forty-eight hours. The text was three short words: Halo. Two days.
    I finished my coffee and headed for the exit. I stepped outside. The air