He came out of the dream sweating and clutching the sheets in fear. He coughed once, twice, hacking to spit the dirt from his mouth, to breathe through clogged nostrils. For more than thirty years since the Iran-Iraq War, he had been haunted by the terrible dream of his friend’s head skidding along, bloody and sightless, and staring back at him from paradise.
He lay in bed as his breathing slowed and the terror faded. He had never married, for he would never let anyone detect this weakness. Better to be alone than pitied and ridiculed behind his back. He threw off the covers and began the daily ritual of again becoming Colonel Yahya Naqdi, the feared and mysterious intelligence officer who ran foreign clandestine operations for Iran’s Army of the Guardians of the Islamic Revolution.
He slid his feet into comfortable slippers and walked naked across the carpet of the comfortable hotel suite in downtown Cairo, avoiding looking in the mirror. A tiny refrigerator yielded a chilled carton of orange juice, which he drank while the shower warmed to the proper temperature. Within the glassed cubicle, clean water, foamy shampoo, and a good scrubbing sluiced away the filth that accumulated with the dream. He turned off the shower and dried with a soft towel, and only then allowed the mirror to throw his image back at him. It was a disturbing sight.
Two puckered scars were on his right shoulder from where bullets had struck him in an alley in Istanbul during a mission gone bad early in his career. A healed knife slash curled up from his left hip, another memory, this one from Beirut. The long, ragged one across his stomach dated back to when he had almost been gutted by shrapnel during the children’s charge. He did not bother to turn and see the others on his back. Fingertips traced the old scar in his scalp, and he turned away from the reflection.
He applied body powder and deodorant, then took his time shaving close to the skin. Other Muslims were sometimes offended by his not having a beard, but Naqdi ignored them, for he walked among the barbarians, and a long, unruly, dirty beard would be as good as a beaming light to identify him as a terrorist. Anyway, in his heart, he had no time for Allah, or God, or Buddha, or any other superstitious nonsense. Prayers were a waste of time. You are who you are, and when you die, you are dead, and that is truly the end. There is no paradise, no heaven, no afterlife. He still performed the ritual prayers to Allah if among Muslims, because not doing so would draw attention; he did not listen to the words he recited.
He carefully brushed his hair and energetically scrubbed his teeth, attacking his gums hard with the bristles. Personal hygiene was important, for details were important. He cleaned his manicured nails, then washed his hands again, and imaginary dirt still clung to him.
Naqdi was fifty-one years old, of medium build and had sprinkles of white dusting thick black hair and eyebrows. One of his trademarks was to always dress as well as, or better than, whomever he might be meeting. With a generous budget from his masters in Tehran, he had become a clotheshound, to fit in better with the infidels. His spacious closet was stocked with laundered clothing, and this morning he chose a fresh cream-colored shirt that buttoned at the neck, gray trousers with sharp creases, a soft tweed sport coat, and a pair of shoes that had been made in London. These gave him the cultivated look of an intelligent and successful businessman. Finally, the colonel was ready to face the new day.
* * *
A BMW LIMOUSINE WAS waiting downstairs, and a bodyguard opened the door to the spacious and cool backseat. The armed guard got in the front, and the driver moved smoothly into traffic. Naqdi took note that the streets of Cairo seemed calm and cheery this morning, for soccer mania had temporarily calmed the ongoing street protests staged by the rival political parties that comprised an uneasy coalition beneath the banner of the Muslim Brotherhood. The mobs were only a mask, for the intelligence colonel from Iran was the guiding hand, and the man with the money.
He had sent word to the various parties to stop squabbling for the day because the all-star Iranian soccer team, one of the best in the world, was coming to Cairo for a friendship match with the Egyptian squad. The mood of the people was important, and he wanted a rather neat revolution.
In the not-too-distant past, running such an Iranian special mission in the heart of Egypt was unthinkable, but with the fall of the dictator Mubarak, and the political takeover by the Muslim Brotherhood, things had changed. Now it was easy. Colonel Naqdi had designed a masterpiece that would deliver an intact and functioning Egypt into the political grip of Tehran.
Less than ten minutes later, the BMW ducked into the basement garage of a large office building that headquartered the Palm Group, and Naqdi was escorted up to his office near the top floor. Breakfast and hot coffee were waiting for him.
* * *
MAJOR MANSOOR SHAKURI, THE colonel’s aide, had been alerted by the BMW driver that their boss was on the way, which gave him just enough time to rush to the bathroom and shove two fingers down his throat to force a violent spell of vomiting. Colonel Naqdi terrified him. The man oozed intrigue and misdirection, and he did not care how many lives and careers he smashed to achieve goals known only to himself and his powerful masters back home. The aide had come to learn that for his boss, a simple double-cross was never good enough when something more complex could be developed.
The major splashed cold water on his face, gargled some mouthwash, adjusted his suit and tie, combed his hair, and was ready by the time he heard the colonel enter the office. The man’s phobia about neatness had trained the aide to also be immaculate. If Shakuri had so much as a smudge on his shirt, the colonel would frown, and that was never a good thing. Taking a deep breath, the major knocked twice and went into the private office, immediately feeling the head-to-toe visual scan by his boss.
“Good day, Major Shakuri,” the colonel called to his chief of staff as he settled in to eat, check the news on the Web, glance at his private messages, and receive the morning briefing.
“Good morning, Colonel,” answered Mansoor Shakuri as he placed a folder of information beside the food tray. Shakuri, forty-five years old and six feet tall, had been at work for two hours to prepare the colonel’s day. His reports were concise. The men had worked together for more than a year, and the strain and tension had given Shakuri painful stomach ulcers.
“The mission in the United States was successful,” he said, standing with his hands folded before him. “The bothersome accountant, Haynes, has been eliminated.”
The confirmation did not come as a surprise. The colonel expected such results in his clandestine operations; in fact, demanded them.
“Our team made a clean escape. One has already flown to Los Angeles, where an Iranian community thrives in an enclave around Beverly Hills. The other is driving to a similarly safe area in Houston, Texas. Once settled, both can be used again.”
Naqdi sipped some of the strong coffee and savored a bite of sweet pastry. He had been forced to expend a sniper team that had been inserted into the Washington area three years earlier, and the colonel despised exposing skilled talent.
“Good,” he said. It was not a moral thing. Killing people did not bother him if it meant accomplishing the mission. He would leave such worrying to those unlucky men who had a conscience.
Sometimes, people simply had to be removed, and this was one such case. This man had completed the required auditing duty for the Palm Group and then stupidly had dug deeper into the business’s extended financial network. He had not been required to do so, had personally been warned by the colonel not to do it, and became a walking dead man when he persisted. The continued economic health of the Palm Group, where the colonel had the cover of being a vice president, was much more important than the life of any certified public accountant.
“What of the audit?” asked the colonel.
“A more compliant company based in Hong Kong has already assumed that task, with a guarantee from Beijing that it will receive the needed approval.”
“Fine work, Major Shakuri. We’re not quite finished with it, however. I want a
n investigation to re-create Mr. Haynes’s movements and meetings from the time he left our offices to the moment he was killed. Did he confide in anyone, or did he just run home to report about how he was mistreated?”
“Yes, sir. I already have someone assembling that.”
Satisfied, the colonel changed the subject. “Who am I meeting this morning?” He dabbed a napkin at his lips and brushed crumbs from his coat.
“A Muslim Brotherhood representative wants more financial assistance for his faction, one of the centrist groups. Fifteen minutes at the most, although he would probably like to spend the day here.”
Naqdi shook his head. These political gangs never ceased their little intrigues, no matter who was in power. “Anything else?”
“You are then clear until after lunch. At one o’clock, the navy people are finally ready to brief you about the Suez Canal.”
“Excellent.” The major was relieved to see a smile. “And what about our soccer team?”
“Everything is in order, sir,” replied the aide. “They should arrive on schedule.”
“Excellent. Excellent.” The colonel turned to the written reports and his maps. The major left the room with a heavy heart.
EVERGREEN, ALABAMA
TROOPER HORACE MILBANK OF the Alabama Highway Patrol had backed his Dodge Charger SRT8 into a cutout at the edge of a pine forest along I-65, about halfway between Montgomery and Mobile, and sat there a while wondering why his wife could not understand that cops only really felt comfortable in the presence of other cops. Their dinner at home two nights ago with her co-workers from the real estate agency had been a disaster, because he had gotten drunk and angry when none of the pansies wanted to see his gun collection. Another cop would have jumped at the opportunity. Hell, nobody in the dinner group had sold a house for three months, and they were all drinking his liquor. Mrs. Milbank had withheld sexual favors since then. The trooper relaxed in the broad front seat, keeping an ear cocked to the radio chatter as he watched the broad corridor that had been carved through the pines.
This was a quiet section of interstate, one of those long stretches where drivers lose track of what they are doing and gradually increase their speeds to well beyond the 70 miles per hour limit. From his hideaway, Milbank could see traffic coming from both directions. Nothing had come up from the south for five minutes, the last being a truck loaded with a mountain of cut timber. Way out at the edge of his vision, he saw the single bright light of a motorcycle pop into view, a bike that was moving fast, which made the trooper more alert. He decided to clock the guy with radar and kicked his big V-8 engine to life, anticipating a short, happy chase. Alabama had long ago inserted some luxury sport sedans into its motor fleet in order to keep up with the new hot wheels of the bad guys. His Charger’s 470 horsepower would get him up to 60 miles per hour in only five seconds, and he had a top end of 175 mph. If this turned into a flat-out road race, Milbank would be all over the guy.
As the light loomed closer, Milbank changed his attitude. It was not a motorcycle after all but a one-eyed jack, a car with a burned-out headlight. When it passed, he saw that it was hauling a small covered rented trailer. The trailer had no lights at all on the back. Idiot. Still going too fast and overrunning his only headlight. With the extra weight pushing from behind, the driver would not possibly be able to stop in time if something happened. Milbanks flipped on his light bar and laid tracks of hot rubber on the pavement as he accelerated out of his hiding spot and swung in behind the car, catching it in ten seconds flat. He tapped the siren, and the car slowed and pulled to a stop in the safety lane.
The trooper had a feeling about this, one of those cop-gut forebodings that warned him to take things slow and easy. After halting, he had notified Troop Headquarters of his position and told the dispatcher to stand by. He had parked at an angle in order to bathe the target car with a high-intensity spotlight as well as with the headlights, effectively blinding the driver.
“Keep your hands on the steering wheel,” he ordered, with his voice magnified by a loudspeaker system. Then he unlocked his Winchester pump 12-gauge shotgun and laid it on the front seat as he slid out, leaving the door open. Keeping his heavy flashlight in his left hand and unsnapping the holster of his Glock 23 pistol, Milbank walked to the left rear of the car, watching the hands of the driver as he cautiously approached the side window.
A dark face, but not African American, more of an olive skin. The first thought was that he had stopped an illegal immigrant. “Habla usted inglés?” asked Milbank.
The driver blinked. “What?”
“Use one hand only, and give me your driver’s license, then the registration and insurance.”
“Why? I have done nothing wrong.” The driver dug out the necessary identification and handed it to the trooper.
The funny accent, a thick beard, and now some attitude. A drunk? “Sir, would you please slowly open your door and step out of the vehicle?”
The driver stayed where he was, turning a grim face toward the trooper. “I refuse. I want a lawyer!”
Milbank decided against the Taser in this developing situation. He drew his handgun and pointed it. “Get out of the damned car. Right now. Keep those hands where I can see them!” Using his shoulder radio microphone, the trooper summoned backup help.
The driver opened the door slowly and swung his legs out, then unfolded from the seat. Overweight, dirty sneakers, rumpled jeans, and a shirt hanging unbuttoned over a T-shirt.
“Put your hands on the car and spread your legs.”
The driver began to turn but planted his right foot hard on the pavement and in a quick movement broke into a run, cutting around the front of the car, passing through the headlights, and reaching the darkness beyond. The trooper hesitated to fire his weapon at someone he had just stopped for having a busted headlight.
Milbank did not chase him but walked to the runoff ditch alongside the road and shined his flashlight along the perimeter. “Go ahead and run, Bubba,” he called out. “Nothin’ out there but pine trees, poison ivy, skeeters, and snakes for twenty miles in any direction. Try not to hurt yourself before daylight when we bring in the hound dogs.” He stayed alert, with his pistol ready, and walked the roadside for another five minutes until a county police unit rolled up, then two more Highway Patrol cars, one bringing his sergeant.
The license and tags and registration all matched to the name of Pejman Mobili of Tuckahoe, Virginia, and Trooper Milbank identified the license photograph as that of the driver. Now having probable cause for a search, police went through the vehicle and trailer, found a stash of weapons, ammo, and a Kevlar vest, and impounded everything. The limping suspect was arrested by eight o’clock the following morning, dehydrated and hungry, with a sprained right ankle and a face so puffy with mosquito bites that both eyes were swollen shut.
4
WASHINGTON, D.C.
LIEUTENANT COLONEL SYBELLE SUMMERS and Gunnery Sergeant Kyle Swanson were the only uniformed personnel in a late-morning conference room deep within the Washington Field Office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Unless you counted dark blue suits as uniforms, thought Swanson; then it would include everyone else. Representatives of all of the alphabet agencies were around the polished table, a show of teamwork for the Anti-Terrorism Task Force—the ATTF. Everybody in the room was supposedly equal, but of course that was not true. The ATTF flow chart had mushroomed over the years after being founded on the dreadful rubble of the 9/11 attacks. Back then, the American intelligence agencies hardly spoke to each other as territorial wars and budget battles were legendary. Now at least they all talked, but the ATTF itself had become as Byzantine as anything that could be found two blocks away in the International Spy Museum.
The only one to whom Kyle and Sybelle paid attention was the obvious big dog, their old friend David Hunt, one of the FBI’s five special agents in charge of the powerful Washington Field Office, also known by its own acronym as the WFO.
The light
s were dim in the conference room as one of the ATTF agents flipped through a PowerPoint presentation concerning the arrest of Pejman Mobili by the Alabama Highway Patrol. A legal resident of Tuckahoe, Virginia, the Iranian national had been elevated from the cause of a mere state traffic beef to the subject of intense federal interest when law enforcement computers spat out a ballistics match on a 7.62mm Dragunov rifle found in his trailer to the bullet that had killed accountant Norman Haynes in Maryland the night before.
“To sum it up, we’ve taken a highly trained Iranian sniper off the board. Good work by the troopers, and a bit of good luck for the home team,” the agent said, wrapping up his slide show. He seemed pleased. The ATTF was hungry for success, particularly for one that might even be made public in a sanitized version.
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