Shock Warning d-3

by Michael Walsh

  He gave the signal to the men. The rotors started turning. In a few minutes, they’d be in the air and on their way to Iran.

  There was no turning back now.

  * * *

  Attired in full Islamic dress, Devlin and Maryam left the house of Mohammed Radan with profuse thanks for his kind hospitality and effusive promises to return again one day. Mr. Radan prayed to Allah for their safe journey, and should they ever return to the holy city, well, they knew where to find him. No, he would not accept any money. No, no, no, a thousand times no. It would be an insult to him and his family. Finally, after much argumentation, he gratefully accepted the rials that Devlin practically had to force upon him. Taarof must always be maintained.

  Midday prayers had just ended and people were going about their daily business once more. The signal from the computer had not only alerted Devlin to its opening, but it had also transmitted the exact GPS coordinates of its location. Devlin didn’t need a map to know where their target was — right in the middle of a mountain on the outskirts of the city. That was where the uranium-enrichment facility was. That was where the computer was. And that, unless he was very much mistaken — in which case his end of the operation was doomed — was where Emanuel Skorzeny and Amanda Harrington would be.

  He was just starting to think about stealing a car when one pulled up alongside him. It was his old friend, the driver from Ark. “May Allah be praised!” the man exclaimed. “It is you, my traveling friend. I trust you found hospitality at the home of my esteemed brother-in-law, Mohammed Radan.”

  They continued walking as the man drove along beside them. Suddenly, the driver slammed on the brakes and jumped from the car—

  “Where are my manners? Where? This is something I ask myself every day, and I pray to Allah for his holy forgiveness. I have not yet introduced myself. I am Sadegh Mossaddegh, at your service. Which of the many glorious sights of Qom would you like to see? Sadegh Mossaddegh stands ready to attend you.”

  It was not unusual for a man to augment his income by informally hacking; if this was a sign from Allah then, for this moment, Devlin was a believer. “And we are grateful for your great kindness,” he said.

  They got into the car. There was no air-conditioning in the ancient Russian Chaika, which was essentially a knockoff of a Chevy from the late 1950s, but it was clean and comfortable, if well-sprung.

  With Maryam gently guiding Sadegh, they drove toward the north, away from the city. When they had reached the city limits, Mr. Mossaddegh was about to turn around, when Devlin told him to keep driving. When he objected, Maryam, who was riding in the back, put the knife she had taken from the religious police to the back of his neck. “I am sorry, my friend,” said Devlin, “but we have need of your vehicle.”

  To his credit, Mr. Mossaddegh hardly flinched. Thieves were plentiful in this part of Iran. It was a shame, a disgrace — a measure of how badly the people had failed the Islamic Revolution. “Willingly do I surrender it to you,” he said.

  “We also have need for your services,” continued Devlin. “Do not worry, you shall not be harmed. A great adventure are you embarking upon, one that you will be able to relate to your children and grandchildren and to the fair daughters of your brother-in-law, Mohammed Radan. Truly, this shall be a glorious day for you, brother.”

  “But to be threatened by a woman,” wailed Mossaddegh. “The shame — how shall I ever relate this sad fact to my family?”

  “Don’t worry,” said Maryam from behind him. “We are not criminals. And no one ever need know. This day shall you be a hero of the Republic, honored among the multitudes.”

  “What must I do?” asked Mossaddegh, feeling only a little relieved.

  “Drive,” said Devlin.

  They drove in silence for a while along the Persian Gulf Highway. There were, Mossaddegh knew, restricted areas along both sides of the road, near the airport and the Hoz-e-Soltan lake. He prayed neither was their destination.

  He was not frightened of these people. After all, had he not spent a couple of hours in the car with the man? True, the man had never offered his name, but then again neither had he. They had both forgotten their manners. If the man had wanted to kill him, could he not have killed him then? Ah, but then he would never have been reunited with his wife, so there was that.

  Finally, he ventured a question: “What’s in it for me?”

  “What do you want?” asked the man. “Money is not a problem.”

  He almost bit his tongue as the words crossed it: “What about relocation?”

  “Anywhere in Iran you wish,” said the woman. She had a soft and sexy voice and he was quite sure that she was a great beauty.

  “Elsewhere?” he said.

  Devlin knew what was coming. “Where?”

  Mossaddegh took a deep breath. “Well, I have cousins in Los Angeles… and…”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Qom

  Col. Zarin looked out at the Shahab-3 missiles and felt proud. No longer would the infidels of the West impose their will on the sacred lands of Islam by force. No longer would the dar al-Islam have to suffer the Crusaders’ indignities, their petty slights and their overt contempt. They had taken the technology of the West, purchased with the money derived from the same oil resources the West had discovered and developed, and turned it back against them. Allah be praised.

  For a thousand years, they had waited in fear and darkness for the Coming, but were unable to effect it. Now there would be no stopping them. The missiles would slam into Israel and destroy the country, from Haifa to Be-er Sheva. Was not the Grand Ayatollah himself the incarnation of Seyed Khorasani, the great imam who would, according to holy prophecy, restore Jerusalem to Imam Mahdi? He was.

  “What, may I ask, is your timing plan?” said Skorzeny. “Will you destroy Israel first and simultaneously set off the bomb in New York, or will the experience be more… theatrical?”

  “You will see,” said the colonel.

  “But Col. Zarin, I need to know. The New York part of this operation was mine, and—”

  “You will see.”

  “What about retaliation? You know the Israelis won’t go quietly. Your cities will be destroyed. Other cities in the ummah will burn. When the Americans are hit, they too will lash out. Many millions of Muslims will die.”

  “Their deaths are necessary, to bring Imam Mahdi to us.”

  “But they are innocent.” How it pained him to say that; in Emanuel Skorzeny’s world, no one was innocent, and all deserved to suffer and perish.

  “They will die for the faith, as holy martyrs, and be welcomed into Paradise.”

  Col. Zarin signaled for the countdown to begin. “And now, if you will excuse me, I must make sure that all is in readiness. Don’t worry. You will be quite safe here.” And then he got into a staff car and drove off, leaving the three of them quite alone.

  “He’s not coming back for us, is he?” asked Mlle. Derrida. Skorzeny looked at her. It was easy to forget that for all her haughty Gallic exterior, she was still little more than a girl.

  “No,” said Amanda. “They mean for us to die out here in the desert. If these missiles launch, this will be one of the first places hit, you can count on that. We will be destroyed by our own friendly fire.”

  “Some friends,” said Mlle. Derrida.

  Amanda looked at Skorzeny. This time, she knew, there would be no rescue. So, at least, she was getting her wish. This would be the day that she saw him die. And if it came at the price of her own life, very well then. She had become exactly like him, a human being with nothing left to live for. But she had had something to live for, once, and that was a claim he would never be able to make. She hoped he would realize that as the flesh melted from his body in the intense heat of the strike that was sure to come. She hoped she lived long enough to see him die.

  In the distance came the sound of something very much like gunfire. “What is it?” she asked.

  Skorzeny had barely noticed. �
��This is a military base, Miss Harrington,” he said. “Men are armed on military bases. Sometimes shots are fired.”

  Mlle. Derrida, who had been growing more and more agitated, now completely lost it. “I have had it,” she exclaimed, wheeling on Skorzeny and blistering his ears in French. “When you asked me to join you, I had no idea this is what you would lead me into. You promised me a life of glamour and wealth and instead I am a fugitive. You promised me travel and look where I am. In the middle of a desert, thousands of miles from home. You promised me that I would be witness to greatness and what do I see? A bitter, dirty old man. For shame, M. Skorzeny, for shame.”

  And then she walked over to him and slapped his face.

  * * *

  Devlin and Maryam made their way on foot through the harsh terrain. The Iranians had successfully hidden the enrichment site at Qom for years, counting on a compliant IAEA to provide them cover. When its location was finally discovered by American intelligence, the Iranians immediately declared it, in order to defuse international criticism. Besides, they said, it was not fully operational at the time of its discovery, and under International Atomic Energy Agency rules, they needed only declare a new facility six months before it came online.

  The intel maps Danny had provided led them through the base’s lax defenses. Any attack would surely come from the skies, not from the land, and the Iranian guards were indolent. Even today, on this day, half of them were in the barracks, playing cards, until such time as an officer came by, and then they pretended to be hard at work, doing something or other.

  The first thing they needed was weapons. He had brought none with him, figuring it would be safer that way; and besides, the one thing that was plentiful in the Arab and Muslim world was guns. Everybody had one.

  The Revolutionary Guards were still armed mostly with Chinese versions of the venerable Russian AK-47. It was easy to see why. The Kalashnikov, or “Kalash,” the Russians called it, was practically indestructible and absolutely Third World — proof. It did not require the loving care that the highend American-made automatic weapons required. You could run a tank over it, sink it in water, bury it in mud, and the odds were better than even money that the damn thing would come up firing the first time you pulled the trigger.

  They were in desert camo now, which Devlin had brought with him in his kit. There was no sign that anyone was looking for them, so when they encountered their first guards, surprise was on their side. Maryam took the first man down with her knife, while Devlin broke the neck of the second man before he had even to look behind him, and killed the third and last man with a blow that drove the nasal bone into the man’s brain.

  Neither of them said a thing. This was how they had met, back in Paris when Devlin was trailing Milverton. Some first date: Maryam was wounded in the firefight and Devlin had saved her life — not knowing who she was, or why she was tailing him and Milverton, but in awe of her skill and already in love with her. Maybe someday they could tell their kids about it, if they lived to have kids.

  If she’d have kids with him.

  The thought made him smile inwardly. He could hardly imagine a time when he’d be too old for this line of work, when he’d be chasing rug rats around the floor in Falls Church or Echo Park or in Paris or in South America or wherever the two of them decided was safe enough for them to settle, to cash out their bank accounts that the government was maintaining secretly for them and take the money and run.

  But that day was coming and, if he wanted to see it, he’d better do his job.

  “What have we got?”

  She was going from body to body, taking the sidearms. “1911s. Beretta M9s.”

  Good. The Colt M1911 had served the U.S. military well from its first issuance in 1911 to 1985, and there were still damn few soldiers who would want to be without one. It was almost as reliable as the AK-47, had major stopping power, and never let you down. “Take them all. The Berettas too.”

  “Got ’em. Cartridges too.”

  “Rifles?”

  She forced open a cabinet. “AK’s, M16’s — oh, look, a Viper.”

  “We’ll take it. And the magazines.”

  She handed it to him. It was fairly new — must have come from the black market in Iraq, where the Shias were engaged in a lively weapons trade on both sides of the porous border. “I love a one-stop shop. Now let’s get going.”

  They both switched on their secure communicators. He could see Danny’s progress across the desert. That was the thing about those new Black Hawks: they were fast, they were radar-deflective, and if anybody saw them, they could pass for local. For those reasons, they would not be flying in formation; no one knew exactly how many of the Iranian army’s helicopters were still operational, since the quality of maintenance had fallen off precipitously since the Revolution, so it was best not to have more than one or two together. Nevertheless, they would all be converging exactly at the rendezvous point at the appointed time.

  All except one — Danny’s, which would be flying into the teeth of the shitstorm to get them out and bring them all safely home. Him, Maryam, Danny, Amanda Harrington, and Mlle. Derrida, if possible. Emanuel Skorzeny was the only one without a ticket on this particular flight. He would be getting his ticket punched elsewhere, and Devlin would do the punching.

  And now for the pièce de résistance.

  ARE YOU READY?

  This to Seelye, back in Maryland.

  NICE OF YOU TO CHECK IN. HAVING FUN YET?

  WISH YOU WERE HERE

  RETARGETING COMMENCING NOW

  YOU’RE SURE YOU’VE GOT IT?

  BELGHAZI SINGS LIKE AN ANGEL. THE LASERS ARE OURS

  AND THEY WON’T KNOW?

  NOT UNTIL IT’S TOO LATE. GONNA BE A LOT OF RED

  FACES IN THE SOUTH OF FRANCE TOMORROW

  CERN?

  NEED TO KNOW AND THEY DON’T NEED TO KNOW FOR

  NOW

  WE’RE GOOD TO GO THEN. WISH ME LUCK

  YOU DON’T NEED IT

  HOW DO YOU KNOW?

  BECAUSE I RAISED YOU RIGHT. LUCK HAS NOTHING TO

  DO WITH IT.

  SOMETIMES LUCK HAS EVERYTHING TO DO WITH IT. ASK

  MY PARENTS

  YOU WANT PAYBACK, THIS IS YOUR BIG CHANCE, SON.

  TAKE IT. AND THAT’S AN ORDER

  Devlin didn’t know how to respond to that. So he didn’t:

  OVER AND OUT

  “We’re good to go,” he said. “Do we have a fix?”

  She looked up from her handheld. “I’ve just pinged her locator. Coordinates coming through now… 34.94373 N and 50.76056 E.”

  “Last thing.” This was something he was really looking forward to.

  His computer was on and it was telling him everything it was telling the Iranians. It was also sending back a steady stream of audiovisual information to Fort Meade, to feed the Black Widow’s insatiable maw. And it was doing something else….

  Not just injecting the STUXNET virus. He had anticipated that and loaded it before he gave the machine to Maryam. Not simply taking out the entire command and control electronic systems that would allow Iran to launch its missiles against Israel or anywhere else. His laptop was also issuing abort and destruct orders for every single missile in the Iranian arsenal. And that included missiles with armed nuclear warheads.

  Which was why Danny had to be right on the money. This whole area was going to be radioactive for a century if the Iranians were foolish enough to arm their warheads anywhere near Iranian airspace. And yet, he couldn’t have them arming over Iraq or, worse, over Israel. They were going to have to blow them in Iran, before they armed. Qom was not his holy city, but it was a holy place to a billion people, and it was not his brief to destroy it.

  It would be enough, for now, to show the Shias that the end times were not near, that Imam Mahdi was not coming out of his well — and that the men leading their nation to ruin had been lying to them all along. The Green Revolution had almost succeeded the last time; it wou
ld be hard to imagine it would not succeed this time.

  Maryam was going to get her country back.

  He sent the final set of instructions to the computer, which acknowledged and began issuing them. Like a swiftmoving virus, the new codes were already in the central bloodstream. The Iranian nuclear program was about to suffer a setback from which, he hoped, it would never recover.

  “Okay,” he said, grabbing the Viper. “Let’s do this.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  New York City

  The Virgin was still sinking in the sky. They didn’t have much time left.

  Wherever that son of a bitch Crankheit had put the suitcase nuke, they couldn’t find it. They had torn the hospital apart, disrupted the routine, probably cost a couple of terminal patients their lives. Byrne certainly hoped not, but there was no way to tell.

  There was a chapel in the hospital, one of those spare, nondenominational places where you could “worship” in some peace and quiet. He would have preferred a church — St. Malachy, in the Times Square area, would have been his choice, or St. Mike’s over on Thirty-fourth Street, once Irish gangland’s church of choice for first-class send-offs. Because, unless Washington did its job, or they did theirs, a grand send-off was what they were about to get.

  Think, you dumb paddy bastard. Think… No, the chapel was too antiseptic. He decided to face the music outside.

  Slowly, he became aware that there was somebody standing beside him, and that somebody was his brother. “Hello, Tom,” he said. “Getting any lately?”

  “Nothin’ you don’t know about.”

  “Yeah, well, for a reporter she’s not bad.”

  “It’s just business, Frankie. You know how it is with me. Always just business.”

  He couldn’t help himself. “Was it business with Mary Claire, too?” Mary Claire Byrne had been Frankie’s wife, until the pressures and misery of being a cop’s wife had finally gotten to her and driven her right into Tom’s arms. But that was a long time ago.