by Kyle Mills
“Maybe, but they were all violent animals going in the same direction and not attacking each other. Think about the chaotic behavior you’d expect from a group with rabies or who had been dosed with LSD. By comparison, these people’s behavior was incredibly well organized and predictable. If I had to bet the farm, I’d say mass religious hysteria enhanced with some locally produced narcotics.”
Klein tossed him the folder he’d been holding. “You’ll be happy to know that the agency analysts agree with you. This is a copy of what Larry Drake gave the White House.”
Smith set aside the information on Bahame and opened the CIA report, paging through a detailed analysis that ranged from African rituals to Pol Pot to Nazi Germany.
“I can’t say that there’s a lot in here I disagree with, Fred. Did the president ask about the possible Iranian connection?”
“Yup.”
“And?”
“Larry was aware of it and gave him perfectly reasonable explanations for the chatter we picked up. Castilla’s satisfied and he left a message calling us off.”
“That’s good news, right? It’s what you wanted?”
“Before I heard your friend’s analysis of the video, yes. Now I’m not so sure. If there’s even a one-in-a-million chance that this is something the Iranians could get their hands on and use, I feel like we’re obligated to take a look.”
“And the president?”
“I’m meeting with him later this afternoon to go over Zellerbach’s conclusions and I’m going to ask him to give us a little leeway.”
Smith closed the report and looked up at his boss. “Then I guess I’m about to take an all-expenses-paid trip to Africa. But I’m going to warn you, Fred: what I know about parasites would fit on a postcard. I’m going to have to bring in help.”
“When you get a name, give it to Maggie to check out.”
“And I want to take Peter.”
Klein grimaced. “We have people in Africa I can set you up with.”
“I know, and I’m sure they’re very talented. But Peter’s got something they don’t.”
“What?”
“A perfect track record of keeping me alive.”
19
Tehran, Iran
November 17—1303 Hours GMT+3:30
MEHRAK OMIDI SAT SILENTLY in the back of the van, fixated on a small bank of monitors depicting the mob occupying Tehran’s heart.
The demonstration was much larger than their intelligence had predicted, and now it clogged not only Azadi Square but the surrounding streets, effectively shutting down travel through the city center. It was impossible to know if his people’s failure to foresee the scope of this treasonous action was a problem with their intelligence gathering or if the protest had been joined by passersby who had not originally planned on getting involved. The meticulous organization of it, unfortunately, suggested the former.
On the west side of the square, where security forces were weakest, the crowd grew progressively more bold. A rock sailed through the air and bounced off a Plexiglas shield. When there was no reaction, a bottle flew.
International press had been banned, but with cell phones and video, everyone was a reporter. As the director of the Ministry of Intelligence, Omidi had tried everything to create a national communications system that could be selectively shut down, but the technology was too complex and diffuse for any government to control anymore. And, in truth, it was a medium that his staff didn’t intuitively grasp like the resistance did. Iran’s youth—and youth everywhere—seemed to be able to fully exploit every new advance the moment it came online.
The mob lurched toward the police line, and he watched the silent contrails of tear gas arcing through the air. Impact points were quickly abandoned, but the demonstration didn’t dissolve into chaos, as it would have only a few months ago. A group of men carried an injured woman wearing a chador over their heads as their compatriots cleared a path. There was something different in these protests, something that had been building: a calm efficiency that suggested training.
It had been first noted a year ago when small groups within the crowds began holding fast, influencing the people around them, neutralizing the fear that the hopelessly outnumbered police counted on. Now those groups made up more than half the protesters, and with their increase in numbers came a command structure—an invisible hand that led these common criminals as though they were soldiers.
But now that hand was no longer invisible—it was the hand of Farrokh. And, with the help of almighty God, it was about to be severed.
The crowd surged again, directing itself with unlikely precision against the weakest part of the line. Omidi’s finger hovered over a button that would authorize the police to use deadly force as they dropped their batons and replaced them with submachine guns. The crowd closed in, chanting for freedom and democracy but being very careful not to offer any further physical provocation.
As expected, the phone in his breast pocket rang and he took a deep breath before picking up.
“Yes, Excellency?”
The voice of Iran’s supreme leader, Ayatollah Amjad Khamenei, contained a hint of panic that caused Omidi’s stomach to burn with anger. Khamenei was a great man, a man chosen by God to lead the Islamic Republic. And yet, these people—these children—spit on him.
“Why don’t you act, Mehrak? This mob has attacked our men; they’ve broken through our line. It is your responsibility to stop them.”
“Yes, Excellency. I understand. But our po—”
“They are trying to destroy us—to replace the republic with a government based on Western sin and corruption—and you just sit by. We have to show these people that the faithful will fight to the death to contain their blasphemy.”
Discontent had been growing since the last presidential reelection. He himself had strongly opposed the way the government handled the voting but had been overruled. In his mind, the results needed to be close enough to appear legitimate, but Khamenei disagreed. He was unwilling to allow any indication that there was anything but overwhelming support for his regime.
The entirely avoidable chaos that ensued had given birth to Farrokh—a young, technologically sophisticated devil with a gift for corrupting youth and spreading his subversive ideas.
To date, every attempt to find him had been thwarted. In fact, until recently, they hadn’t even been sure he existed. A month ago, though, their futile attempts to find Farrokh had been reborn. A chance interception of an unencrypted e-mail allowed them to capture a member of Farrokh’s inner circle—a woman who had actually been face-to-face with him and who had intimate knowledge of his network.
It had taken some persuading, during which a number of her family members had been put to death in front of her, but eventually she had told them everything.
“Give the order to fire on the crowd,” Khamenei insisted.
“Nothing would make me happier than to see these cowards die,” Omidi said honestly. “Their defiance is an affront to God. But an escalation at this point would be counterproductive.”
“Why? Are you going to tell me it’s because the world is watching? What world? America? The Jews? You’ll do as I say.”
Omidi sighed quietly. He had explained this over and over, but the aging holy man simply couldn’t understand that they were using this riot to trace Farrokh’s communications back to him. Disbursing the crowd would send the rat back into the foul hole he lived in.
“Excellency, please—”
The van’s rear doors were suddenly thrown open and his most trusted lieutenant stood backlit by the afternoon sun. Omidi smiled and said a silent prayer of thanks. “We have him, Excellency.”
* * *
MEHRAK OMIDI EXAMINED the massive house perched on the side of a forested hill, focusing his binoculars on a satellite dish growing from its roof and then dropping his gaze to the arches and pillars that so gracefully combined French architecture with Persian.
He was hidden in the tree
s a few feet from the edge of the road, listening through his earpiece to the chatter of the men taking positions around the building. He had hoped that Farrokh would be in the city center, making it easier to bring assault forces in unnoticed, but while this was a more complex operation to set up, it also offered their quarry fewer opportunities to escape. Every road was blocked, helicopters were in the air, and traffic was being diverted. In Tehran, Farrokh could potentially disappear into the constant bustle. Here he would be alone and exposed.
When all thirty men involved in the elaborate trap signaled their readiness, Omidi started up the hill, running hard and using branches to help propel himself forward. He could hear the much younger men behind him breathing heavily as they tried to keep up. At their age, he had been in an elite unit attached to the Revolutionary Guard and he lived his life as though he still were, meticulously maintaining his body and mind to serve God and his representative on earth, Ayatollah Amjad Khamenei.
When he arrived at the edge of the meticulously tended lawn surrounding the mansion, Omidi stopped and brought a radio to his mouth. “Now!”
The roar of a car engine became audible as it raced up the long driveway, and Omidi leapt out onto the lawn just as it skidded to a stop a few meters from the front entrance. He reached for his pistol and held it in both hands as he ran up behind the men pulling a battering ram from the vehicle.
The ornate double doors flew open with the first impact and Omidi followed his men inside.
Normally, he’d be directing the operation from his control van, making sure there were no gaps that could be exploited by the enemy and coordinating on-the-fly tactical changes. But not this time. This time he wanted to be part of it. He wanted to be there when Farrokh was finally brought to his knees.
A woman in immodest Western dress appeared at the end of the marble entry, letting out a startled scream and then demanding to know who they were. She was quickly silenced by a rifle butt, and Omidi stepped over her motionless body as he passed through the archway at the back. Two young children appeared ten meters down the hallway but then immediately darted through a doorway.
He went after them, abandoning caution as he sprinted down the ornate passageway. More than a year of his life spent trying to find a ghost was coming to an end. Farrokh was there. He could feel it.
Omidi came to the end of the hall and signaled the men behind to cover him as he leapt into the adjacent room, scanning it over the sights of his pistol.
“Who are you?” a young man demanded, trying to free himself from the children clutching at his legs. “What are you doing here?”
He was in his early thirties, plump and dressed in clothes calculated to project wealth more than fashion. His round face was unremarkable and the fear was visible there despite his attempt to hide it. The great Farrokh seemed almost impossibly small when stripped of the electronic illusions he liked so much to hide behind.
“Don’t move!” Omidi shouted.
“Who are you?” he demanded again. “Do you—”
“Silence!”
Omidi moved closer, reaching out for one of the bawling children while keeping his gun aimed at the man’s face.
“So when the great Farrokh can’t cower behind a computer screen, he hides behind children?” Omidi said as his men circled behind the godless terrorist.
“Farrokh? Are you crazy? I’m—”
The Taser hit him in the center of the back and he collapsed, convulsing satisfyingly on the floor.
Omidi shoved the pleading children away and knelt, grabbing the man by the hair and lifting his head. “I know exactly who you are. And so does God!”
20
Near Yosemite National Park, USA
November 17—1517 Hours GMT–8
JON SMITH FELT THE rented snowmobile loft into the air and was forced to throttle back a fraction when it landed. The heavy powder billowed over him, filling his open mouth and sticking to the stubble on his chin. Tall ponderosa pine were becoming more plentiful, and he slowed a bit more, picking his way through them as his eyes struggled to adjust to the transition from blinding sunlight to deep shadow.
He adjusted his trajectory slightly, using the thirteen-thousand-foot peak of Mount Dana to keep his bearings as he navigated the wilderness at the edge of California’s Yosemite National Park.
A herd of deer watched him burst from the trees and head for a distant column of smoke bisecting the horizon. He’d never been to the Sierras when there was snow on the ground and regretted not making the trip sooner. The scenery was as spectacular as anything he’d seen in his extensive travels—massive granite walls, frozen waterfalls, untouched forest.
On the other hand, to say it was hard to get to would be a wild understatement. The nearest cup of coffee was a day’s travel in good weather. In bad weather, you’d more likely just end up a permanent part of a snowdrift.
The tiny log cabin that was the source of the smoke came into view at the very limit of his vision, and Smith pulled off his hood and sunglasses to make sure he was easily recognizable to the man he knew was watching.
When he got within five hundred yards, he shut down the snowmobile and continued on foot, wading through the deep snow and keeping an eye out for the deep ravine he remembered blocking frontal access to the property.
It didn’t take long to come to the edge of the precipice, and he traversed west until he spotted a narrow footbridge. There were no human footprints on it, but mountain lion tracks were clearly visible. Peter Howell had struck up an odd friendship with the cat a few years back—two dangerous creatures interested in occasional companionship as long as it was on their own terms.
Smith passed a pile of snow in the vague shape of Howell’s pickup and crossed the slippery bridge, noting that a single misstep would end with a fall long enough for his life to flash by his eyes at least twice.
The area had recently been hit by one of the worst early winter storms in recorded history, and the snow had slid from the cabin’s roof, burying its entire north side. Poking out from that minor avalanche was the mangled remains of a satellite dish—explaining his lack of success in reaching his old friend by conventional means.
“Why, if it isn’t the elusive Jon Smith,” came an English-accented voice to his left. “You do get around, don’t you?”
Smith turned in time to see a thin, weathered man in his early fifties appear from behind a tree. He seemed impervious to the cold, wearing only a pair of jeans, a white T-shirt, and an old cowboy hat. In one hand he held a rifle upright, its butt resting on his hip.
It was hard not to feel as though he’d suddenly been transported a hundred years back in time, and Smith supposed that was appropriate. In many ways, Peter Howell would have been better off in the last century. He’d spent much of his life in the British SAS, fighting in nearly every hot spot on the planet before retiring to what he euphemistically called a consulting career. Smith knew for a fact that one of his clients was MI6 because his work for that organization had brought them together in the past. Beyond the British Secret Service, though, Howell’s client list was murky—various foreign governments and probably some private industry work. Smith didn’t ask questions, and in turn, Howell accepted the fiction that he was just another army doctor.
“It’s been awhile, Peter. You look good.”
“Flattery. Now I really am worried. I’ve got a fire going inside. Why don’t you come in and we’ll have a little chat.”
Entering the cabin was always a bit disorienting. An enormous flagstone fireplace was the only thing that hinted of the exterior or American West. The furniture was English country and the logs that made up the walls were almost completely obscured by regimental flags, antique weapons, and mementos from various skirmishes across the globe.
Howell pointed to a leather chair lit by the glow of flames and Smith stripped off his jumpsuit before sinking into it and holding his palms out to the heat.
“Can I assume this isn’t a social call?” Howell
said, handing him a glass and filling it from a bottle of Wyoming Whiskey.
“A guy can’t come and spend the day with an old friend?”
“I seem to remember that the last time we spent the day together I was shot at numerous times and we were very nearly involved in a helicopter crash.”
“You can’t hold me responsible for the chopper. You were the one flying it.”
“Of course, you’re right.”
Smith leaned back in the chair, kicking off his boots and feeling the blood start to flow to his toes again. “There’s a little matter in Africa that I need to look into. Thought you might be interested in getting out of the snow for a couple weeks.”
“A little sun and sand?” the Brit said with a hint of sarcasm. “What could possibly go wrong?”
Smith grinned and picked his jacket up off the floor, pulling a flash drive from one of the pockets and holding it out. “The password is ‘Ares.’”
The retired soldier inserted it into a laptop and played the Uganda video, staring intently at it while Smith sipped his whiskey.
“The god of war indeed,” he said when it was over, sounding a bit stunned. “SEALs?”
“A black ops team pulled from a number of different units.”
“Any survivors?”
Smith considered telling him about the team leader’s suicide but then decided against it. “No.”
Howell shook his head solemnly. “Africa.”
There was a fatalism to his voice that Smith had never heard before—an undertone of something that sounded almost like defeat.
“Most likely this is nothing more than a charismatic cult leader whipping a bunch of terrified, superstitious people into a frenzy. On the other hand, there’s some shaky evidence that there could be more to it—possibly a biological agent. The army thinks it’s worth looking into.”
“The army,” Howell said, frowning at the game they were forced to play. “And yet they can’t supply a single American soldier to accompany you.”