“Good evening, Mr. President,” the servant said. Unlike Ahmadinejad who almost always wore western business suits but without a tie, the man was dressed in the traditional Persian Pirhan Shalvar Jameh robes. It was something the president insisted on. It kept him in contact with his people’s proud past.
“Has the colonel arrived? I didn’t see his helicopter.”
“He is in your study, sir. He ordered his helicopter to return to the city.”
“Just as well,” Ahmadinejad said. His chief of Special Operations, Colonel Pejiman Dabir, was as cautious as he was ruthless and brilliant. A combination of traits that had been useful to the State over the past few difficult years.
“Shall I serve tea?”
“It’s not necessary. You may retire for the night.”
“Thank you, Mr. President,” the servant said and disappeared through a doorway on the left of the great hall.
Ahmadinejad walked back to his book-lined study in the east wing of the palace with French doors opening to a broad veranda that overlooked the sea. The room was large, with a soaring gold inlaid ceiling, several rare Persian rugs on the marble floor, and an ornate desk that had been used by the French king Louis XIV purchased five years ago in New York at a Sotheby’s auction. A grouping of two antique couches and chairs and matching tables were backed by a hidden built-in liquor cabinet, the doors of which were open.
Colonel Dabir, a bear of a man who towered over Ahmadinejad, was dressed in civilian clothes. He rose from where he was seated, a brandy snifter in hand. “Good evening, Mr. President. I believe congratulations are in order?”
Ahmadinejad was only slightly peeved that Dabir had helped himself to the cognac, but overlooking such small indiscretions was worth the effort for the work Dabir did for the State but even more importantly for the office of the president.
“This is merely the beginning. I’m sending you to Stockholm this evening as you suggested.”
Dabir nodded. “He might not want to return so soon, so he’ll in all likelihood ask for considerably more money.”
“Pay it,” Ahmadinejad said. He poured himself a measure of an XO St. Remy brandy, which he’d always thought was top shelf, drank it down, then poured another and motioned for Dabir to have a seat.
Dabir had phoned earlier in the evening and outlined everything that Makarov had included in his preliminary report, plus what VEVAK’s own agents and its Cyber Affairs section had managed to come up with concerning the final probe, this one in North Dakota. President Chavez had warned him just after the first of the year that their biggest enemy on the ground hadn’t been the FBI or even the Air Force Special Operations team from Ellsworth. Surprisingly it was a one-legged local law enforcement officer who had served for the U.S. Army in Afghanistan.
“Before we proceed it might be wise to eliminate the man,” Dabir had suggested.
“It can’t be worth the effort,” Ahmadinejad had said, vexed that such a small detail as one man had to be dealt with.
“I’m sorry to disagree, Mr. President, but I spoke with Colonel Delgado shortly after the operation was successfully concluded and it was he who recommended the contract. He warned me not to underestimate the man. And I have complete trust in the opinion of a SEBIN officer.”
As well you should, Ahmadinejad had almost said. Iran’s increasing isolation from most of the rest of the world had left with it with very few friends. But Chavez, in the same hemisphere as the Satan U.S., had proved to be loyal. On the same hand, however, the Venezuelan president had cancer and might possibly not last the year. It was the main reason that they had agreed to begin the operation so soon. They wanted to bring the U.S. to its knees; teach that smug President Thompson a lesson in humility, something that Americans hadn’t felt since the attack they called 9/11.
That had been earlier in the day, but on further reflection, Ahmadinejad had realized that his colonel was correct, and that the only solution would be the elimination of the country sheriff.
“This needs to be taken care of within the next forty-eight hours before the next stage of our operation goes into full swing,” he said.
Dabir nodded and sipped his brandy. “As you wish, Mr. President. There may be collateral damage.”
Ahmadinejad waved it off. “He is to use whatever force he deems necessary. In fact, if he inflicts enough damage tell him that we will consider a bonus.”
Dabir laughed. “He is too precise a man to do anything so sloppy. His only weakness is saving his own skin.”
Ahmadinejad had wondered about such men. His own Colonel Dabir, for example, was married to a woman from an important family, and yet he had at least two mistresses on the side; one of them lived in Tehran, but the other lived in Paris. A special presidential investigative team had found this information and had brought it to Ahmadinejad’s —Eyes Only. If his wife’s family were to find out, the considerable money they showered on their daughter and her husband would stop instantly.
Dabir had a soft underbelly, he was vulnerable. So perhaps was Makarov.
“Find out more about him after he leaves Stockholm,” Ahmadinejad said. “Perhaps he has a mistress or two. Information we might be able to use.”
If the barely veiled reference to his own situation had any effect, Dabir didn’t show it. “I don’t think that will be terribly difficult, now that we know where he lives. I’ll see to it.”
“For the moment, whatever you come up with will not be shared with your SEBIN counterpart.”
“I understand, Mr. President.”
25
BEER IN HAND Osborne leaned against the railing on the front porch of his ranch house and stared at the sun still high in the west. Sunset this time of the year wasn’t until after eight, and in the summer it wouldn’t set until past nine thirty. Different place, different times than his ex-wife Caroline’s life in Florida.
It was at the odd moments like these, when he felt that something was coming his way, and when he was alone, that he thought about his ex, and he was glad that she and their daughter were out of harm’s way. Safe. He didn’t have to worry about them.
But Ashley was at the forefront of his mind. Until just a few months ago, before the troubles over the holidays, she’d been nothing more to him than a pushy newspaper reporter from Bismarck. Their paths had crossed only once or twice, but now he cared deeply for her. And even though the prospect worried him, he was sure that he had fallen in love with her. But it had happened so quickly that he hadn’t had the time yet to figure out what was supposed to come next.
And now this incident with the deaths along Highway 22. If it wasn’t another attack on the Initiative, he didn’t know what the hell it was.
He’d talked to Ashley a half hour ago. She was still at the project with Whitney but she’d promised to be back before dinner.
“It’ll be just us. Whitney wants to stick around.”
“How’re things down there?”
“Tense. A lot of her people are kinda freaked out. Understandably so, but she talked them into sticking around until they collect the last batch of data—shouldn’t be longer than a week, maybe ten days. And then most of them had planned on leaving anyway.”
“Including Whitney?”
“Especially her,” Ashley said. “You heard what she said last night and this morning.”
Osborne went back inside where he looked up the home number of Army Lieutenant General William Welsh, who as a bird colonel had been his boss in Afghanistan. They had developed a mutual respect for each other on the battlefield, and had even become friends. Welsh had gotten his first star over there, and when he rotated Stateside he’d been promoted and right now his job was lead Army liaison for Air Force General Blake, who was the chairman of the joint chiefs.
Welsh’s wife, Susan, answered after a couple of rings. “Hello, Nathan. It’s been too long.”
“That’s the truth. How are you?”
“Fine. But if you want to talk to Bill you need to call his office.”
> “Something in the works?”
“The usual,” she said. “The man doesn’t know how to take a day off. Just like you.”
“I’m learning.”
“Fiddlesticks.”
Osborne called Welsh’s private number at the Pentagon, and it was answered on the first ring.
“I thought after all your excitement a few months ago you’d be taking a vacation. Or at least weekends off.”
“I wish I could, Bill, but something’s in the works.”
“And incoming rounds have the right of way,” Welsh said. “I’m all ears.”
Osborne quickly ran through what had happened this morning, including his discussion with General Forester, and the fact that the Air Force Rapid Response team had once again taken over security at the Initiative.
“Not just a local operation? Some pissed off ranchers?”
“I wouldn’t have called if I thought so.”
“No,” Welsh said. “But this guy’s reflection in the sheriff’s windshield, and the description you got from the TSA people at Dickinson is a little thin.”
“He got to Denver and disappeared right under the noses of the airport cops, even though they’d missed him by less than ten minutes.”
“They should have sealed the airport.”
“I don’t think they would have found him even then. This guy’s a pro, and I think we might have met him in Afghanistan.”
“One of ours?” Welsh shot back.
“I think he might be one of the Russians who came in on STARBRIGHT. I don’t remember the name, but one of our patrols found a Russian sergeant’s body shot to death outside of Achin just south of the Khyber Pass. His captain disappeared and never turned up. We reported him presumed KIA, and about six weeks later the STARBRIGHT group left.”
“It was a lousy idea from the get-go. Nobody trusted each other to make it work.”
“This captain was Spetsnaz, and he was damned good.”
“They all were. But there are a lot of guys who fit your general description; what makes you think it’s him?”
“Just a feeling.”
“Come on, Nate. Give me something better than that bullshit.”
“He fits the same general description. Knows military weapons. Unless I miss my guess he was hired by Venezuelan intel, for a lot of money considering the risk he took. He worked alone but had a support group. Someone to leave the weapons somewhere he could get to them. Someone who provided him the pickup truck with a totally untraceable registration—the VIN simply doesn’t exist according to the FBI. The mess we went through over Christmas was a Posse Comitatus op, but the Bureau has picked up no indications that this incident was conducted by them or any other homegrown terrorist group—they would already have taken credit for it.”
“Assuming you’re right, what’s left?”
“The Russian Mafia in New York and Jersey have the connections to put something like this together—the weapons, the truck, and the iPad we found with its memory totally erased. All of which points me back to the missing Spetsnaz captain.”
Welsh was silent for several long beats. “Thin,” he said.
“I don’t have anything else.”
“What do you want from me?”
“Access to classified FORECON records. STARBRIGHT. I want to know the name of the captain, and a photograph or two of him. DNA, fingerprints, hometown, relatives back in Russia, friends, fellow officers, Spetsnaz training records.”
“You’re dreaming.”
“Can you help me?” Osborne asked.
Welsh hesitated again. “I might be able to get you a name, but as for the rest it’ll be a stretch.”
“I need it soon. Like this afternoon. I don’t think we have a lot of time.”
“I’ll do what I can,” Welsh said.
26
PRESIDENT AHMADINEJAD SAT on the veranda outside his study slowly sipping a glass of Krug champagne, watching the lights of boat traffic out on the sea, aware and comforted by the presence of his heavily armed bodyguards who watched over him 24/7. It was a little past three thirty in the morning, the evening soft, and he wasn’t tired.
In many ways he missed the past he’d had with his wife Azam when their daughter and two sons had been little children. He’d been the unelected governor of Maku and Khoy in West Azerbaijan Province, and life had been simple, even sweet. Now the children were grown up, and in the press of business he didn’t see enough of them or his wife.
All the sanctions by the U.N., all the troubles over the nuclear issue, the pressures from the people on the street who wanted to follow in the footsteps of what the infidel West was calling the Arab Spring and even the constant battles with Ali Khamenei, Iran’s Supreme Religious Leader, would become as nothing once Operation RIGHTFUL JUSTICE came to final fruition.
The day of Iran’s ascendance would be long remembered when the true meaning of the nation’s symbol was fully understood by the West; the four crescents meant nothing less than Allah, fitting for the assured rise of the old Persian empire to its rightful place of leadership.
He finished his champagne and got to his feet. “I am going inside now,” he said.
“Yes, Mr. President,” an unseen guard said from the darkness to his right.
Closing the door he went to his desk and powered up his computer. A minute later he got to his heavily encrypted Skype page and the call to Caracas, where it was around eight in the evening, went through.
President Hugo Chavez’s image appeared, and although he was smiling, he seemed tired, his features pale and a little gaunt. It was the cancer of course, and although they’d never discussed who of his seven vice presidents would succeed him after death, Ahmadinejad had the most respect for Diosdado Cabello.
“Good evening, my old friend,” Chavez said. “You called to report success with the latest probe.”
“Yes, but I’m sure that your people have already brought you the details. I’m calling because we have a problem that I’ll have addressed within the next forty-eight hours.”
“The sheriff.”
“Yes, he will be dealt with by our asset from Stockholm.”
Chavez laughed, and stifled a cough. “Amazing, isn’t it, that one man could create such problems for the combined assets of two sovereign nations. What do you have planned?”
Ahmadinejad told him.
“Then we begin the second stage of our little adventure; blackmail. It’s something even the average gringo should understand very well. Threatening to hit them at the gas pumps wasn’t enough, and our probes only showed the possibilities to their leadership, but now they will, as an entire country, experience a terror far worse than nine-eleven. That was an event witnessed by most only on television. This time no home or factory or shopping mall will escape. Every man, woman, and child will feel the effects—personally.”
“Yes,” Ahmadinejad said. “And this is only the beginning.”
“Sí,” Chavez said, stifling another cough.
Frailties. The thought crossed Ahmadinejad’s mind. When he was a child he’d had a bout of pneumonia. He only had vague memories of the illness that his mother later told him had nearly been fatal. “Allah was with you, my son,” she’d said.
“How are you feeling?”
Chavez shrugged. “I have my days.”
“It’s good that we are proceeding now.”
Chavez raised a snifter of what looked like brandy or rum. “A very good thing,” he said.
27
IN MEDORA IT was five in the evening when Osborne’s telephone rang at the same moment Ashley walked in, her eyes bright as they always were when she saw him, her lips parted in a smile.
“Hi,” she said.
He pecked her on the cheek, glad she was back here with him, and went to answer the phone on the third ring. It was Bill Welsh.
“If it’s your guy, his name is Yuri Makarov, a nephew or something of Nikolai Makarov who designed the pistol. Important family. He fits the same
general description and he was listed as KIA in Afghanistan about that same time.”
“He came from an important family, there had to be photographs,” Osborne said and he couldn’t keep the excitement out of his voice. He was going to nail the bastard, if for nothing else than Kas’s murder.
“Almost nothing shows up in any of the official databases I can access. Be my guess, if he is the pro you think he is, he went back and deleted as much of his past as he could. Probably long before he showed up in Afghanistan.”
“Come on, there must be something,” Osborne said. “At least one goddamned snapshot.”
He’d taken the call in his small study. Ashley had pulled off her jacket and stood at the doorway watching him.
“That’s exactly what I came up with. All I came up with. Is your computer online?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sending it as an attachment now. Turns out one of your people took several photographs of our gun positions at Camp Foremost up near Khas.”
“That’s where I got my new leg.”
“The shots were sent back to field ops and ended up in the record. In one of them three men were in the background, and probably didn’t know they’d been caught on camera. And you’re going to be surprised, buddy, believe me.”
Osborne opened the e-mail, and then the JPEG attachment. The image on the screen was marked SECRET, the squad automatic weapons positions clearly labeled. Someone had identified the three men: FORECON Lieutenant Tommy Bronski, Russian Captain Yuri Makarov, and FORECON Lieutenant Nate Osborne.
It was his man, Osborne was sure of it. “I knew the bastard,” he said.
“All you have is the reflection in the windshield and the description from the Dickinson airport TSA agent. And Makarov was listed as KIA not too long after this picture was taken.”
“I want more. Anything you can get me. Because I know goddamned well this is my man. And it’d be my guess he’s not done.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Welsh said. “But I can’t promise you anything. Just watch your back.”
“Will do.”
Ashley came and stood over Osborne’s shoulder. “That’s you on the end,” she said. “Afghanistan?”
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