Each ID was then stacked on the desk between computers.
Bolan looked at his watch. It was nearing 11:00 p.m., and it would be the early morning hours before they returned to the university campus. All evening classes would have been over for a long while by that point and it was an extremely unlikely time to visit any of the buildings, let alone a special one that housed smallpox and anthrax cultures. Just having a university professor—one not even from the medical school—along to break the ice with the soldiers guarding the place wasn’t likely to be enough.
In his mind’s eye, Bolan could picture an Iranian soldier calling in on his walkie-talkie to verify whether or not such nocturnal visitors had been authorized to enter the building or not.
And that would lead to disaster.
No, Bolan thought as he continued to wait. They needed something more. Some familiar face that the guards would recognize and trust. Someone with the “pull” to make the soldiers think twice about causing him any trouble.
They needed someone directly from the Tehran University of Medical Sciences.
Hasan was sitting next to Bolan as the computers and printers continued to whir, squeak, cough and belch. Bolan knew that the man must know someone with influence at the medical school. But if he asked if he had such a contact, Hasan could simply say no. And Bolan didn’t have time to break his other hand and extract the information he needed in that manner.
So he decided to try another tack. One that he hoped would make Hasan believe he knew more about the professor and the university than he actually did.
Leaning to his side, Bolan whispered in a low voice that Kutbah, busy on the other side of the computer room, wouldn’t hear. “I can’t remember the name of your friend at the Traditional Pharmacy Research Center.”
Watching Hasan out of the corner of his eye, Bolan could still see the pain brought on by the broken hand in his jacket pocket. The man had had trouble getting it in and out of his sleeves during costume changes for the photos, but Kutbah either hadn’t noticed or didn’t care. Bolan saw the Persian professor’s face suddenly reveal a mixture of surprise and fear. When he said, “I have no such friend,” they were the least convincing five words the soldier had ever heard. So he decided to push harder.
“You don’t think we checked you out before deciding to use you?” he said. “Get real. Your friend’s name has slipped my mind momentarily, but all I have to do is refer to my notes when we get in the car.” He waited a second to see if his bluff was working.
Hasan licked his lips nervously.
It appeared that it was.
But the confused man remained silent, so Bolan added, “Of course, if I have to go to my notes, I’m going to feel like you don’t want to help me. And that’s going to really hurt my feelings.” His tone of voice had a slightly sarcastic ring to it. “So, if I have to do that, I’m going to break your right hand like I did your left.”
And that was all it took.
“Ibraham Dunyazad,” Hasan blurted out. “Dr. Ibraham Dunyazad. He is the director of the TPRC—the Traditional Pharmacy Research Center.”
“That’s right,” Bolan said, nodding. “Just slipped my mind for a moment.” He glanced at the chronograph on his wrist once more. “I’ve decided we’re going to need a stronger tie-in to the TPRC. Someone with clout.”
Hasan looked perplexed. “What is this thing you mean?” he said. “Someone with clouds?”
“Clout,” Bolan said. “Influence.” When he saw Hasan’s frown relax, he went on. “If we try to get by the soldiers with just you—a professor who isn’t even with the medical school—they’re going to have to check and double-check us, and we can’t pass muster if that happens. So I want you to give the good doctor a call.” He pulled his phone out of his sport coat and handed it to him.
The professor looked down at it as if it might be a cobra sticking its head out of a basket to the music of a flute. Then he looked at his own watch. “Now?” he said. “It is almost eleven-thirty. He will be sound asleep.”
“Then you wake him up,” Bolan said. “Tell him there are some Russian experts just in town for the night and they need to meet with him at the research center. Tonight. Immediately.”
“He will not come,” Hasan said, shaking his head violently.
“Yes, he will,” Bolan said. “Don’t tell me your country hasn’t been supplied with all kinds of arms and technology from Russia—I know better. It’s not only a secret that’s slipped out, it’s common knowledge all over the free world.” He drew in a breath, still watching Hasan’s face. “You tell Dr. Dunyazad that these Russians need to see him, and they’ve got something interesting for him but don’t want to talk about it over the phone. He’ll come.”
“But what if he doesn’t?” Hasan asked.
“Then I’ll have to assume you didn’t do your best,” Bolan said softly. “That you held something back, or said something to alert him that all of this wasn’t on the up-and-up. And if that happens, I’ll have to kill you.” He glanced meaningfully at the phone. “So I’d suggest you be convincing.”
Father O’Melton, on the other side of Hasan, had been listening to the entire conversation. He leaned toward the professor and said, “Look on the bright side, Ajib. If he has to kill you, at least your hand won’t hurt anymore.”
Hasan looked up at O’Melton. Then to Bolan. Then back to the phone.
And then he began to tap numbers into the instrument.
* * *
DR. IBRAHAM DUNYAZAD SOUNDED wide awake when he answered the phone a few seconds later, Father O’Melton thought. Bolan had put the satellite phone on speaker, but turned the volume down so the man who called himself Kutbah—on the other side of the room, still working on their false documents—couldn’t hear.
Not that O’Melton really thought Kutbah was a security danger. The funny little Persian had as much to lose as they did if anything got reported to the Iranian police or military. But if the priest had learned one thing about the big American, it was that he took no unnecessary chances. He took risks, of course. There were always risks involved in clandestine warfare; O’Melton had learned that in the U.S. Army Rangers. But Bolan always made sure they were carefully calculated.
In many ways, Father O’Melton felt as if he was back in his old Ranger unit, which had often worked hand in hand with the CIA, NSA and other American intelligence groups. The only difference was that this time his unit’s leader was in a league of his own. The priest had never seen a man so strong, fast or smart. And he was one of the few soldiers O’Melton truly knew he would follow into hell and back.
As the conversation between Dr. Dunyazad and Hasan began, the irony of this thought struck O’Melton and caused a grin to spread across his face. To hell and back, he thought again. That overused cliché took on new and added meaning when it came from a priest.
Bolan had put him in charge of monitoring the conversation, since the big man didn’t speak Farsi—about the only shortcoming he had that O’Melton could see. And all it served to prove was that he was human rather than Superman. He spoke fluent Russian and other languages, the priest knew. But he couldn’t be expected to know every tongue on the face of the earth.
Which sort of made O’Melton feel special. There was no doubt who was in charge of this mission, but the priest’s knowledge of Farsi made him feel he was at least contributing something invaluable to the operation.
Of course Mohammed and Ahmad spoke the Iranian language, too. But O’Melton knew that Bolan didn’t fully trust either of them.
The dialogue between the two men began with Hasan relating the same story about visiting Russian scientists that Bolan had told him to tell. And, as expected, Dunyazad tried to change the meeting to the next morning. He even offered to come in early if the utmost secrecy was required. But Hasan stuck to his guns, swearing up and down
that the meeting at the research center had to take place this night. Immediately. Eventually, the man on the other end of the line gave in and promised to meet them on campus in an hour.
Father O’Melton breathed a sigh of relief when the call ended, then he glanced at Bolan and gave him a thumbs-up to indicate that it had gone as planned, and there did not appear to have been any hidden messages in the conversation. On his other side, he heard a swooshing sound, and turned to see that Ahmad had crossed his legs on the chair where he sat. There was a small frown on his new convert’s face, and he realized that Ahmad had been listening to the phone call, as well.
O’Melton nodded at the man. Ahmad smiled and nodded back.
Their area of the room fell into silence now, and the only sounds came from the other side as Kutbah finished up their new IDs. O’Melton looked straight ahead, but watched Ahmad out of the corner of his eye. Every fiber in his being wanted to believe that the former Hezbollah man’s conversion to Christianity was sincere rather than a ploy to get inside a mission such as this and sabotage it. Father O’Melton was a priest, after all. He believed in Jesus Christ as the Son of God, and evangelism was a big part of his duties. But O’Melton had lived a very different kind of life during his first thirty-odd years—the life of a high school football playing girl-chaser, then a college student involved in martial arts—and girl-chasing. And finally an Army Ranger. Who continued to like the ladies. His was a worldly past before salvation and the calling to priesthood, and that past experience kept him from being naive in his approach to both Christianity and life in general.
God was truly incredible, Father O’Melton knew from firsthand experience. He could take a man’s sins, forgive them, then even use them for his own purposes inside his master plan.
O’Melton looked toward Ahmad again. The priest had read the Koran, and knew that Mohammed sanctioned Muslims masquerading as Christians or Jews if it furthered the purpose of jihad. It was an obvious advantage over O’Melton’s Christianity, in which denying your faith was a cardinal sin. And this advantage had often made the priest wonder if Mohammed had not sat down one day with the writings of both Jews and Christians and said to himself, “How can I defeat them both?” Then had come up with his doctrine.
Still using his peripheral vision, O’Melton eyed Ahmad further. Could this man be faking it? Could he just be pretending to accept Christ as his personal savior, while waiting for the right time to see that Bolan and he were killed? Could Zaid have some big plan they were unaware of, in which he would self-destruct, too, then wake up in Paradise?
Across the room, Kutbah finally rose to his feet, gathered up all the documents he had produced, and turned toward the group. He crossed the concrete floor, then handed the stack to Bolan, who began distributing the various passports, professional identification cards, driver’s licenses and other IDs to the appropriate individual.
When every man had his own set of falsified documents, Bolan turned back to the Iranian “paperboy.” “How much do I owe you?” he asked, reaching into his pocket.
Kutbah waved a hand in front of his face. “Already taken care of by your Bear-man,” he said. “My money already transferred to account for me. I just check.”
“You gave him your account number?” The big American asked. Doing so meant taking a chance not only of getting stiffed on the job, but getting caught, as well.
“I not have to give him,” Kutbah said. “He already have, somehow.” He shook his head in dismay, but also with obvious respect for the “Bear-man’s” professionalism and mastery of hacking into any computer files to which he wanted access. He finished by saying, “Bear-man honest with me last time. He be honest again, I know this thing.”
Bolan looked at the other men as they rose from their chairs. “Then we’re off,” he said. “And we thank you, Kutbah.”
“Pleasure in this thing is being mine,” Kutbah said in his broken English. “Now, I finish with words I learn from man who was here last time Bear-man hire me.”
“And what are those words?” he asked.
“Y’all come back now, y’heah?” Kutbah said in his thick Persian accent.
O’Melton saw a smile come over Bolan’s face. He must have known which man would have been from the South, and used such words.
Without further ado, their leader turned and led the way back up the steps to the street. Father O’Melton was right at his heels, and the other men behind him. He glanced at his watch when they reached the sidewalk and saw that it was almost one in the morning. Approximately fifteen minutes had elapsed since Dr. Dunyazad had promised to meet them at the Traditional Pharmacy Research Center, which meant they had forty-five minutes to get back to the campus.
“Is everybody ready?” Bolan asked as they huddled around him in the cool breeze of the early morning.
All the other men’s heads nodded.
“Make sure no weapons are showing,” the big man cautioned.
A few minor adjustments were made.
“Okay then,” Cooper said, “let’s go see how well these fake IDs hold up.”
“What have we got to lose?” O’Melton said offhandedly.
“Our heads,” Ahmad said immediately.
The big man leading the mission just nodded as he started toward the Highlander.
11
Bolan and his steadily increasing entourage arrived back at the medical school campus thirty minutes later, getting them to their meeting with Dr. Dunyazad precisely on time. The same parking lot where they’d been before was nearly deserted at this hour. The only vehicles still there were two Iranian military jeeps and a Buick LeSabre, which Bolan assumed must belong to the doctor himself.
As he pulled up on the other side of the Buick, Bolan saw that he must be correct. A short, paunchy man with gray hair on the sides of his head and a bald pate stood in front of the Traditional Pharmacy Research Center building, illuminated by an overhead light.
“That him?” Bolan asked.
“Yes,” Hasan said. “That is Dr. Dunyazad.”
Bolan let the professor lead the way from the parking lot pavement up onto a grassy area, toward the sidewalk to the center. But as he followed, Bolan saw two dark forms approaching from the opposite direction. Dunyazad must have heard their footfalls, too, because he turned around.
As the figures drew closer to the lights on the front of the building, Bolan was able to make out more details. Both were dark, swarthy men wearing OD green BDUs and caps with Iranian military markings. And both carried AK-47s on slings hung from their shoulders.
The rifles were pointed outward, in the assault position, rather than resting across their backs.
The distinction and implication were not lost on Bolan.
While they were still beyond hearing distance, Hasan suddenly twisted his head and spoke over his shoulder. “This will never work,” he whispered. “The soldiers will find out we are not here legitimately.”
Bolan didn’t want the men approaching from Dunyazad’s rear to see the profile of a weapon in his hand. And the Beretta, and especially the Desert Eagle, were far too large to draw and keep hidden. But he needed to make a point with Hasan, he had to make it fast, and it needed to be dramatic enough to make the man more afraid of him than the soldiers.
So Bolan reached into his pocket and pulled out the North American Arms .22 Magnum Pug, keeping it hidden in his palm as he took a quick step forward to catch up with Hasan. Then, extending his arm behind the man’s neck, he cocked the hammer.
Hasan recognized the sound immediately and a small gasp came from between his lips. “What the soldiers will find is one dead professor if you don’t pull this off and do it well,” Bolan whispered.
The professor nodded quickly, then gulped, the knot in his throat looking as big as a tennis ball as he swallowed. A moment later, the Pug was uncocked
and back in the Executioner’s pocket. And Bolan was reminded of how brave al Qaeda members and sympathizers were when in groups, or when attacking the helpless. But just like Hasan, they were cowards with a capital C when the odds weren’t stacked phenomenally in their favor. At least that had been the Executioner’s experience.
He and Hasan stepped up onto the concrete entryway in front of the building at the same time the soldiers did from the other direction. Hasan greeted Dr. Dunyazad, then turned to the soldiers and spoke in Farsi. The two men frowned, then one of them, with curly hair jutting out from the sides of his BDU cap, replied with a hint of anger in his tone.
Bolan had no idea what they were saying, but a glance at O’Melton told him everything was not going perfectly.
He didn’t like not knowing what was going on. Particularly during a time as tense as this. So, taking a step closer to Dunyazad and the men with the AK-47s, he said in Russian, “Do either of you two speak my language?”
The shorter of the two military guards looked up. “I speak Russian,” he said in that tongue.
“Good,” Bolan said. “Has the good doctor explained to you why we are here?”
“He has told us you are to perform some kind of inspection,” the soldier said.
“That is correct,” Bolan said in Russian. “So, is there a problem?”
“A big problem,” the shorter man said. “We were not informed that there was to be anyone entering this building tonight.”
Bolan didn’t miss a beat. “That’s because this was to be a surprise inspection,” he said.
“What are you planning to inspect?” the short soldier asked, as his partner, who obviously spoke no Russian, looked on dumbly.
“That information is above both your pay grade and security level,” Bolan said. “But I can tell you this—part of our report will be about the security around the building. Meaning you.” He let the information sink in, then went on. “And if you do not ask for our credentials, and ask for them quickly, I am afraid I will not be able to give a good report in that regard.”
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