The Natanz Directive by Wayne Simmons

“Twenty-seven’s not exactly in prime condition. In fact, it’s desolate as hell.”
    Even better. “I’ll be ready at 0100, local time. Day after tomorrow.”
    â€œYou’re not cutting yourself much slack.”
    â€œCan you have it there, yes or no?” In other words, don’t waste my time with small talk.
    â€œConsider it done. Day after tomorrow, 0100 local time.”
    â€œGood. And the less noise the better.”
    â€œI guess that goes without saying,” the DDO said. In his eyes, maybe. Not in mine. “What’s your ten-twenty? Amsterdam?”
    Yeah, he was the deputy director of operations for the CIA, and one of the most powerful men in the world, but he really didn’t need to know where I was at the moment. When I didn’t answer, he threw out another question: “How will you get to Turkey?”
    At the moment, I didn’t know, so I said, “Director, just make sure the C-17 is ready, okay?”
    â€œI think we’ve already covered that ground,” he said. “What’s your MO once you get in the country?” Inquisitive guy.
    I had to know if there was a leak in his office, and the bait was entrance into the country. I said, “Have your people at this location at dawn. And tell them to keep their eyes open. Once I touch down, we’ll want to move fast.”
    I transferred the coordinates of the first landing point, at the crossroads just outside Fasham. I waited. Heard computer keys clicking on his end.
    â€œFasham?”
    â€œYeah, basically the middle of nowhere.”
    â€œWhere a shitload could go wrong. You know that, right?” Wiseman said.
    â€œYeah, well, plenty has already gone wrong.” It was a lure. I wanted to see how he’d respond.
    â€œThere’s still time to abort. We’ve got other options.”
    I wondered for a split second whether the DDO had ever heard the term superpatriot. Not likely. I said, “Actually, we don’t. And I’ve got my orders. And it’s only a round-trip ticket if I succeed.”
    Wiseman cleared his throat. He was basically a desk jockey. Desk jockeys didn’t like being reminded that, for some of us in the national-security business, a mission screw-up had consequences a helluva lot more damaging than a black mark on an efficiency report.
    â€œAnything else?” he asked.
    I wanted to say, You do your job and I’ll do mine, but I’d probably pushed the envelope far enough for one conversation. Instead, I said, “No, sir. Field Twenty-seven. Day after tomorrow. Thanks for your help. I appreciate it.”
    I terminated the call before he tried to fit one last word in, which I knew he sure as hell would. I quit the recording function, a fraction at ease knowing that Rutledge now had a copy of the conversation.
    Next, I palmed the last of my disposable phones from my jacket and punched in Mr. Elliot’s secure number. I expected him to let it go to voice mail, but he answered three rings in, saying, “Good to hear your voice, young man.”
    â€œLikewise,” I replied. That was the sum total of our niceties. I gave him a quick summary of my plans going forward: requisitioning the HALO gear, transportation from Amsterdam into Istanbul care of Roger Anderson, and my arrangements with Wiseman for the C-17 drop into Iran, including the misdirection about my landing point.
    â€œStraightforward. Direct,” he allowed. “I approve. And the less you-know-who and his morons know, the better.”
    â€œSo here’s what I need,” I said and sent him the coordinates of my second landing point.
    We waited for the message to go through. Here I was communicating from the bow of a launch in the middle of one of Holland’s biggest lakes and getting impatient because our communications were subjected to the laws of physics.
    â€œGot it,” Mr. Elliot said a split second later. “Looks good.