Darkness did not blind him. Even down here in the endless shadows. Buried beneath a billion tons of rock and sand.
Darkness held no surprises for him; he knew its secrets. They had been handed down to him, generation upon generation, and he had shared those secrets with the other pale bodies that moved and writhed and burrowed beneath the earth.
A single candle burned, its flame hidden behind a pillar of rock so that only the faintest of yellow light painted the edges of walls and glimmered on the golden thread of ancient tapestries. A single candle was all the light he needed. More than he needed.
He rose from a bed of fur and silk and broken bones. Ribs cracked beneath his feet. Cobwebs licked at his face as he moved from chamber to chamber. Water dripped in the distance, and the sound of wretched weeping echoed to him from down one of the many corridors his people had carved from the living rock. He paused to listen to the sobs. A female voice, of course. A babble of nonsense words and bits of prayers which combined to make sense only to the mad. There was so much pain there, so much hurt and loss.
It made him smile. It made his loins throb with a deep and ancient ache.
He closed his eyes and leaned against the closest wall. The limestone was cool and damp as he pressed his cheek against it, savoring the rough texture. A tongue tip the color of a worm wriggled out from between his teeth and curled along the thin contours of his lips.
It was as if he could taste the pain, and he craved it, wanting more of it, wanting the freshest and choicest bits.
He was there for a long time, lost in memory and expectation.
“Grigor,” murmured a voice, and with regret he opened his eyes and pushed himself away from the wall. He turned to see Thaddeus, his eighth son, standing a few yards away. The boy had made no sound at all. Excellent. He was learning, he would be ready soon.
“What is it?” asked Grigor.
“ He is here.”
Grigor smiled again. “Good.”
And it was good. In the distance the weeping continued unabated, and that was good too. Soon, Grigor knew, there would be more weeping. So much more.
How delicious that would be.
And how soon.
It was almost time to make the whole world scream.
Chapter Ten
Starbox Coffee
Tehran, Iran
June 15, 8:05 a.m.
I almost came out of my chair and went for Rasouli.
“Where?” I snarled. Feyd was halfway across the room before Rasouli held up his hand to freeze the moment.
“I don’t know,” he fired back, cold and hard. “Listen to me, Captain, I am here as a friend-”
“Bullshit.”
“As an ally then. In this matter, we are both in danger. Now please, listen for a moment.”
I stayed in my chair. Feyd gave me a hard look and slouched back to his post. Rasouli let out a weary breath.
“You said that there was a device in the States,” I said very quietly. “ Where? ”
“I don’t know where. I’m not even positive there is one in America. Please, let me tell you what I do know.” He gestured to the phone that I still held. “We believe that this device is somewhere inside the Aghajari oil refinery.”
“That’s yours,” I said. “That’s in Iran.”
He nodded. “We don’t know exactly where they’ve placed it. However, I have managed to get some degree of verification through an operative with a radiation detector. I have not risked a full-blown investigation yet for fear that if we started looking it would alert whoever planted the devices that we know about them. That might be a fatal misstep.”
“You think there’s a mole inside your government?”
“There are many moles inside my government, and not all of them are yours, Captain. It is in the nature of what we do that there are spies, and I have very good reason to believe that some of those spies work for whoever has these bombs.” Before I could interrupt him he held up a finger. “What little information I have came to me in a way that has effectively shut the door to investigation. My agent was found dead, the victim of a savage beating. Many of his bones were broken and his internal organs ruptured. My pathologist says that the injuries were apparently delivered with hands and feet. Whoever did it made it last and that suggests either someone with a taste for it or someone who wanted information that my agent was unwilling or unable to provide. However, during the autopsy the surgeon found this.” Rasouli reached into his pocket and produced a flash drive. “He had apparently swallowed it.”
“And didn’t give it up during the beating?” I remarked. “Tough man.”
“Very. One of my best agents. You… would have admired him, I’m sure, but disliked him.” He paused. “The beating is not what killed him, however.”
“What did? A bullet in the back of the head?”
“His throat was torn out,” Rasouli said.
I paused. “When you say ‘torn out’-”
“My people did a thorough post mortem, including all of the appropriate tests for trace particles. Blades leave microscopic metallic residue, and even with plastic knives there are signature markings. There was nothing like that. The pathologist did a reconstruction of the man’s throat and determined that the flesh was torn out by teeth.”
“What kind? Dog?”
Rasouli studied me for a moment. “I don’t know. There were traces of saliva in the wounds that my physician could not immediately identify. I would like to have had DNA testing done on it, but that would raise too many flags.” He fished in his pocket and produced a small metal container the size of a Zippo lighter. “This contains a skin sample packed in CO 2. Your employer has access to more sophisticated equipment than I do. The body has since been cremated, so that is the only remaining sample. I’m trusting you, Captain, and I ask only that you share your findings with me.”
“How?”
He produced his notebook again and wrote a second number; however, he did not give me that sheet of paper. Instead he held it up for me to look at. “That is my private cell. Memorize the number. If you have to call, let it ring once and then hang up. I’ll return your call when I can do so safely.”
I nodded and he produced a pack of matches and burned the page in an ashtray. I glanced at Feyd, but either he didn’t notice or didn’t care.
I pocketed the metal sample case.
“When my agent’s body was found, the police investigators concluded that he had been murdered elsewhere and then dumped where the remains could be found. They reached that conclusion because there was very little blood found at the scene, and such a terrible wound would have bled profusely.”
“So?”
“I believe the police drew the wrong conclusion. I believe that he was killed where he was found.”
“And the blood?”
“This is not the first time there has been a murder of this kind, Captain Ledger. There have been others. Many others, if the reports I collected are correct. Here in Iran, and elsewhere. Syria and Lebanon, Palestine and Jordan. I had to dig deeply and quietly to learn that much, but my sources are reliable. In each case the throat was mutilated and the bodies exsanguinated by unknown means. All of the deaths have some political or religious connection, even if tangentially so.” He gave me a strange look. “What do you think of that?”
I sipped my coffee, which was getting cold. “If it’s not a serial killer, then you have a freak. A contract hitter or rogue special operator who has a screw loose. Someone who has created a very specific style for his kills.”
“Why would someone do that?” he asked. “What would be the gain from so grotesque a form of execution? There is no political or religious significance to it, and therefore no message which can be conveyed to an opposition party through it. Do you understand what I mean?”
“All too well.”
We sat there, a pair of gunslingers, fully aware of the graveyards of enemies we’d each buried. Like me, he knew all sorts of killers, from
those who pulled the trigger for God and country to those who killed for the sheer joy of it. More than a few of those were drawn to military service or covert wetworks because of the opportunities provided to kill while being afforded the umbrella of official sanction. Not most, of course, but enough so that military psychs and screeners were always on the prowl for them. Either to weed them out or to recruit them. I’d like to say that “we don’t do that sort of thing,” but that would be a lie.
I had my own inner demon who liked to roll around in the enemy’s blood. Mine was on a leash most of the time, but once in a while he got out. If the public at large ever saw that side of me, I’d be labeled a monster and locked up. Looking into Rasouli’s eyes, it was clear that he was thinking the same things about himself.
We were sitting there, a couple of monsters contemplating something worse than either of us.
I cleared my throat. “Bombs,” I said.
He set the flash drive on the table between us. “Because the man swallowed the drive, there has been some moisture damage. I was able to salvage about ten percent of the information. Enough to scare me to death. Enough to make me want to risk this encounter we are having.”
“You said there were seven of them? One in America?”
“I believe there is one in America. One of the documents on the drive gave a list of potential targets in your country. The file was corrupted and there is nothing to indicate that a bomb has definitely reached your shores. That is, as you well know, a difficult thing to accomplish.”
“Don’t look so sad about it.”
He sighed again. “Captain, we may be on different sides of many issues, not the least of which is nuclear power and arms, but I doubt either of us is a fool or an absolute bloody-minded madman. We are entering into a new Cold War, a new arms race, but just as neither America nor Russia launched bombs at each other, no matter how badly they wanted to or how many they had to spare, neither do we. What we want is to be safe, and if having weapons of mass destruction insures that we will never be invaded by a conquering army, then that is only fair. And… more to the point, there is nothing to be gained by mutual extermination. Nothing. Even the most extreme ayatollahs know that, no matter what comprises their public rhetoric. Besides… surely you, a soldier of some reputation, understand the difference between being only able to shout loud and shake a fist and to speak quietly and shake a spear.”
“Walk softly and carry a big stick,” I said.
“Yes. Theodore Roosevelt. The smarter of your two Roosevelts. He understood that one must have power before one can effectively enter into war or peace.”
I studied the picture. The picture showed a bomb the size of a central air conditioning unit for a medium-sized suburban house. The walls around it looked like bare rock; the floor was poured concrete. There were no other details visible. Not on a phone image a couple of inches square. “This is a big unit. It’s not built into a warhead, or at least this one’s not. How are they planning on transporting these devices?”
“I doubt they are,” said Rasouli. “The fragments of information on the drive suggest that as many as four devices are already in place. The ones here in the Middle East. The last time I spoke to my agent, shortly before he was killed, he said that he did not think that any bombs were currently inside the borders of the United States. That was, alas, all that he said on that topic. I ordered him to bring me all of his findings, but he was apparently abducted on the way to my home. Another fragment of a file obliquely mentions America, but there are no other details. Merely the hint that America may be a target.”
“Where are the others?”
“I don’t know. Possibly in Iraq, or India. It’s conjecture though, based solely on similarly cryptic references. One message fragment makes reference to ‘the seven devices.’ That’s all we could recover.”
“Shit,” I said, and if I wasn’t scared enough before I was really starting to sweat now. Given a choice of knowing for sure that there was a bomb in the U.S. and not knowing, I’d prefer certain knowledge. At least then we could start some kind of proper search. “What’s the endgame for all this?” I asked. “What does this accomplish?”
“I don’t know. From a practical stance, I believe they are planning to destroy a significant amount of the oil reserves in the Middle East. Not just what is in the refineries, but in the actual oil fields. Underground devices could ignite much of it-wherever there is sufficient venting for oxygen, and what isn’t burned would be contaminated. Not to mention the destruction of everything that lives and moves on the sands above.”
I shook my head. “Four nukes couldn’t do that. Not sure if seven of them could.”
“Four would be sufficient to disrupt the majority of production. All other refineries would be shut down or scaled down as safety measures. It might takes months or years before each facility could be properly and thoroughly checked, and longer to build newer security systems that would guarantee the safety of the remaining fields and refineries. Think about the impact on the global market. The cost per barrel from noncontaminated fields would be astronomical. The blow would be as much financial as material.”
“You know,” I said, forcing a smile, “that’s just the kind of thing your pal Hugo Vox would cook up. Financial gain was the reason the Seven Kings arranged to have Bin Laden and the Saudis fly planes into the towers, and it’s why they blew up the London Hospital. Have you asked him about this?”
“In a roundabout way, yes. He appeared to know nothing.”
“He’s good at that, the lying sack of shit.”
Rasouli spread his hands. “Now you are where I am, armed with dangerous knowledge and no clear set of answers. In the wake of Vox’s betrayal, I doubt you will be able to completely trust everyone in your government. But you have Mr. Church and the considerable resources at his disposal.”
I grunted. “What made you call Vox in the first place? To arrange this meet, I mean.”
Rasouli showed me his expensive white teeth. “I had been troubling over how to proceed with this matter when the reports came in about the ‘hikers’ being liberated. There are several countries that have teams capable of such an action, but most of them would not risk it, even for as staunch an ally as the United States, therefore it must be an American black operation. Who knows more about that sort of thing than Hugo Vox? I knew that he would know who was responsible and I made a call. He already knew about the action. He did not tell me how, though we are both adult enough to accept that he must still have operatives active in the United States covert community. He gave me you, and now we are here.”
“What would you have done with the flash drive if there had been no drama last night?”
“Have it sent by private courier to your embassy, I suppose. Addressed to Mr. Church.”
I took the drive and closed my fist around it, but I nodded toward his phone. “The photo you showed me? If your agents haven’t put eyes on this thing, then where’d that come from?”
“It was on the drive, too, but I never got the chance to ask how my agent obtained it. There are several badly damaged image files. This is the cleanest one.”
We sat for a moment, looking at each other while so many unsaid things swirled around us. I mean, think about it. Here was a guy I would have gladly killed ten minutes ago. Without hesitation or remorse. I could have cut his throat and then gone to work with a light heart.
And now?
I opened my hand and studied the flash drive. An ordinary device, probably bought at whatever passes for Staples in this part of the world. Now it’s little memory chip was filled with horrors beyond imagining.
Nukes. Under the Middle East oil fields.
“So that’s it?” I asked. “You-pardon the expression-drop this bomb on me and walk off?”
“That is a disingenuous remark, Captain. I risked much coming here. My president and the Rahbare Mo’azzame Enghelab do not know that I am here.”
“And you don’t entirely trust Ahma
dinejad and the Supreme Leader? Wouldn’t they have the same fears as you? I doubt they want to reach paradise atop a mushroom cloud.”
Actually, I deliberately mispronounced his name as Armanihandjob, but Rasouli did not so much as crack a smile.
“I am not in their inner circle,” he said with a philosophic shrug. “They know I have ambitions and the president in particular would not cry if I was found dead with my throat torn out. Besides, in government nothing is as hard to protect as a state secret. They have people that they trust, but I do not know if I can trust the same people.”
“Yeah,” I agreed, “but you have to admit that it’s pretty weird that you’re bringing this to us.”
He cocked his head at me. “You may neither believe nor care, but I respect Mr. Church. And you, if what I’ve heard about you is true.”
I said nothing.
Rasouli smiled. “I am not fishing for a reciprocal compliment.”
“Good thing. Fishing hole’s pretty dry.”
He shrugged, then asked, “Tell me, do you know the name Salah-ed-Din Ayyubi?”
“Sure. Saladin. General during the Crusades.”
“He was a sultan,” corrected Rasouli. “A great man, a hero of Islam.”
“Wasn’t he a Sunni born in Iraq?” I asked with a smile.
Rasouli shrugged. Iran was no friend of Iraq and 95 percent of Iranians belong to the Shia branch of Islam.
“My point is,” he persisted, “Saladin viewed the world from an eagle’s perspective. What you would call a ‘big picture’ view. It was never his desire to exterminate his enemies, only to defeat them and drive them from the Holy Land.”
“Ah. So, we’re supposed to shake hands like two worldly wise warriors, setting political differences aside for the betterment of mankind. Is that about it?”
“Something like that,” he said without a trace of embarrassment.
I nodded and shoved the flash drive into my shirt pocket.
Rasouli looked down at his shoes for a moment, breathing audibly through his nostrils. Without looking at me he said, “There is one last thing. It’s also on the drive.”
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