“When the missiles fly, the flight to value will be complete. We need not try and destroy America with bombs or planes or raids upon their children in the schools. I know. I tried. No, all we need to do is make her fall victim to her own profligacy, and her own fear.”
Skorzeny rose and walked over to where Col. Zarin was sitting and extended his hand. “Two percent is your share. I will not put it in writing. Miss Harrington and Mlle. Derrida can both attest that I am a man of my word. Two percent of what I make off this operation. That may not sound like much, but let me assure you, my dear Col. Zarin, that it will allow you to retire extremely comfortably for the rest of your life anyplace you choose.”
The colonel thought for a moment. “But I shall be witness to the Coming,” he objected. “What will it profit me to make a great deal of money if these are the end times?”
Skorzeny’s hand was still extended, but he made no attempt to lower it. “Col. Zarin,” he said, “I care not one whit for the End Times. As you know, I am an unbeliever, a kufr. Worse, in your eyes, I am an atheist. All this babble about God and Allah and Jesus and Issa and the Virgin Mary interests me not in the least. I have already been to hell and back. I lived in hell and felt its fires on my face. I saw death unimaginable, at an age when boys should still be playing with hobbyhorses and starting to think about girls. I have witnessed incinerative destruction from the skies, a rain of fire that brought down the Virgin’s own cathedral, six hundred and fifty thousand incendiary bombs that turned oxygen into flames and bodies into charred carbon husks. Do you think I fear the end times?”
A knock at the door. Col. Zarin handed his drink to Mlle. Derrida. “Come in,” he shouted.
The soldier saluted. “Everything is in readiness, Colonel,” he said. He glanced over at Skorzeny, who still had his hand in the air. Strange people, these Westerners.
“Thank you. You may go.”
The soldier left. The door closed. Col. Zarin took Skorzeny’s hand and shook it. “You are right. It would not be holy for you to witness the miracle of the Coming. Right after the first launch, I will send you back in a fast car to Tehran. Your plane will be given all clearances. You have my word on it.”
They shook hands.
They passed the room in which the technicians were working on Devlin’s computer. There were smiles all around. Everything seemed to be going very smoothly. That in itself was enough to make Emanuel Skorzeny want to get very far away as quickly as possible. He had a deal with Col. Zarin, true, and he intended to honor that deal in the unlikely event the colonel survived whatever was to come.
For that something was coming, he had no doubt. The devil drives.
Outside, the missiles were on their launchpads. Amanda shuddered as she saw what had been in store for her. God, how she wished this was all over. How she longed to be back in London, to open the door of Number Four Kensington Park Gardens once more, to play her piano and walk naked in her solarium at night, invisible but surrounded by the lights of London, listening to the English rain, and the voice of her absent daughter.
There would be no child waiting for her, that she knew, that she accepted. But that did not mean there could never be a child. She could think clearly now—she had Skorzeny to thank for that, the bastard. She could see a way.
All she had to do was get out of here.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Qom
A couple of hours earlier, Danny had relayed topographic maps of the area, clearly marking the location of the Iranian missiles. They were going to regret that little show-off stunt the other day, which telegraphed their position. Not that Targeting didn’t already know that, but for this operation, speed was everything, and if it saved even five minutes, that was a plus.
The Super Hornets from Diego Garcia were in the air. The MH-60Ks, with him at one helm, were about to launch; they had been painted with the colors of the Iranian Army. Hope was keeping him apprised of the countdown in New York. Stealth was the order of the day.
He had not yet heard from “Bert Harris,” but that didn’t mean anything. After this was over, it was possible, even likely, that they would never see each other again. “Harris” would disappear back into whichever shadowy recess of the IC he had come from, perhaps to vanish altogether. How he withstood the psychic strain was beyond him. Danny just wanted to go home and enjoy the company of his family—his old family and his new family.
“Sir?” One of the men on board ship.
“Yes?”
“You’re good to go, sir.”
“Thank you, son.”
“You were never here, right, sir?”
“Right. You’re looking at a ghost.”
The kid looked around at the six Black Hawks. “Whole bunch of ghosts,” he said. “Ain’t nobody gonna wanna see these spooks show up in their backyard.”
“We’ll do some damage if we have to.”
“Some of the guys mutterin’ something about payback time.”
“You know mutterers. Always muttering about something.”
“Is it true?”
Danny looked at the young sailor. There were times when he despaired of the future of his country, and then there were times like this. “Where you from, son?” he asked.
“Altoona, Pennsylvania,” he said.
“Good state,” he said. “Lot of great Navy men came from Pennsylvania.”
“Some still do, sir.” The boy stepped back and saluted him, then turned and saluted the whole crew. Not military men anymore, but Xe types, private military companies—the men who weren’t there, the men who did their jobs in anonymity, and the ones who always got blamed by The New York Times if something went wrong.
“Go with God, sir,” said the kid.
“Roger that,” said Danny. He looked down as his communications device: the message he had been waiting for was coming through. Showtime.
This wasn’t going to be any two-day kluge of an operation like Eagle Claw. That one had been at once overplanned and underplanned, too nervy and not nervy enough. Looking back on it, the whole notion of hiding the choppers in the desert, flying into Tehran, liberating the hostages from the embassy, taking them to a sports stadium, and then helicoptering them out was nuts; no wonder it had failed. Technology had come a long way since then. This was going to be quick, surgical, and brutal.
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.
Michael Walsh Bundle Page 96