by Larry Bond
He unzipped that, pulled out a cloth-wrapped bundle, and unwrapped a small gray plastic case, no bigger than a telephone book and half the thickness. Half the top surface was taken up by a keyboard and a yellow-green window high enough to display two lines of type. The display ran the width of the keyboard.
Working from memory, Pahesh typed quickly if not smoothly. He knew enough English to use a standard keyboard, but he had no real expertise with the thing. Allah help him if it ever broke.
It took him no more than half an hour to report his findings for the week. Not only did he have his own observations, but he also found rich pickings in the gossip exchanged by other truck drivers plying Iran’s highways and military bases.
Something was going on. Stockpiles were being built up to an unheard-of level. New equipment was flowing into the combat units, and what was most interesting, they were in a terrible hurry to get it running. The Iranians were moving toward some sort of deadline.
Pahesh said as much in his report and provided the $$$-232 and figures that had brought him to that conclusion. Satisfied, he pressed a button. The machine hummed and then spat out a dot of plastic with his message microfilmed on it.
He picked it off the tray and using a bit of glue, attached it to a letter he’d already written, then sealed and addressed it. Packing up took only a few moments. Pahesh felt pleased, even proud of himself. It was a good report. He hoped the nameless men who read his work appreciated its worth.
OCTOBER 14
The Pentagon
Colonel Peter Thorn slid the bulky set of reports and attachments back across the desk to Joseph Rossini. He sighed and shook his head. “It’s not enough, Joe. We’ve invested a few thousand hours of staff and computer time in a hunt for these Bosnian Muslim terrorists, and we’re coming up with a big fat negative. No Bosnians. No training camps. No nothing.”
He nodded toward the ceiling. “And I’m afraid we’re about out of leeway for what seems more and more like a wild-goose chase. Farrell’s under pressure from the JCS, and the Chiefs are under heavy pressure from the White House. The attack on that synagogue has everybody all shook up about right-wing terrorism. The brass can see the way the budgetary winds are blowing inside the administration, and they want us to ‘refocus’ our resources on what are called ‘more pressing problem areas.’”
“Like Germany?” Rossini asked skeptically.
“Yeah. Apparently, the FBI believes some of the weapons and explosives the bad guys used came from a Nazi group in eastern Germany. So everybody’s in a hurry to find and rip up the links between our crazies and theirs.”
“Jesus Christ, that’s even a bigger waste of resources!” Rossini exploded. “The Krauts are already working hard on their neo-Nazi problem, Pete. We’d just be plowing the same ground with every other intelligence agency from here to Tokyo.”
“I know that,” Thorn said. “And Sam Farrell knows that. But we just can’t keep coming up dry and expect the money and satellite time to flow our way. A lot of people higher up the ladder want to close us down entirely. They’re arguing that the CIA and the State Department can do a perfectly good job of monitoring Middle East terrorism.”
He shrugged. “I don’t know, Maestro. Maybe General Taleh was right. Maybe those reports from Bosnia really were just meaningless rumors. Sergeant Major Diaz has a saying, ‘If the complex answer doesn’t fit, try something simpler, stupid.’”
“Another gem from the Little Green Army Manual of Chairman Tow?” Rossini murmured.
Thorn grinned and nodded.
“There is another possibility,” Rossini argued. “Maybe we’re just looking in the wrong place.”
“Oh?”
Rossini tapped the sheaf of papers in front of him. “Look, so far we’ve been concentrating our search on Bosnia and Iraq, right?”
“Right,” Thorn agreed, curious to see where his subordinate was going with this.
“Well, maybe we’re taking too much for granted. Maybe Taleh doesn’t have as much control inside Iran as he thinks. Maybe there are still people in power in Tehran who would like nothing better than to stick a knife between our ribs.”
“That’s a lot of maybes, Joe,” Thorn said.
“True.” Rossini spread his hands in frustration. “I can’t point to any hard evidence. Hell, I can’t get any goddamned hard evidence. You remember the NRO turned down my last request for another pass over southern Iraq?”
Thorn nodded. He’d had a testy run-in with his opposite numbers at the National Reconnaissance Office and the Defense Intelligence Agency’s Directorate for Imagery Exploitation over that—to no avail. Control over America’s sophisticated spy satellites was one of the most valuable commodities in the intelligence business, and you had to have a lot of clout to win extra time on a KH bird these days. Unfortunately, he and the JSOC Intelligence Liaison Unit had long since exhausted what little clout they had.
“Well, part of that pass would have taken the KH over the central Zagros Mountains. I’ve been seeing reports passed to us from the Mossad network inside Iran. The Israelis keep mentioning persistent rumors of some large-scale commando training facility out in the middle of nowhere in those mountains.”
“And you think that might be our missing terrorist camp?”
Rossini shrugged. “Possibly.”
Thorn shook his head. “I think you could be on the wrong track there, Joe. From what I saw and from what I’ve heard since, Taleh is firmly in control of the Iranian military. And remember, he has an Iranian Special Forces background. It wouldn’t surprise me one bit if he’s building up Iran’s commando units along with the rest of his Army.”
In fact, Thorn thought that was the most likely explanation. The DIA’s Weekly Intelligence Summaries were full of stories on Taleh’s efforts to modernize the Iranian armed forces. Iranian purchasing agents were procuring supplies of modern armored vehicles, artillery, ships, and aircraft in immense quantities—mostly from Russia and the other former Soviet republics. Those purchases were matched by increasingly realistic training and by a series of purges that seemed aimed at ridding Iran’s military of incompetent officers. The conventional wisdom was that the general and his supporters were preparing to fight and win a possible rematch with their old adversary, Iraq.
In this case, Thorn thought the conventional wisdom was right. He knew personally how much Taleh loathed the Iraqis. The chance to smash them and restore Iran’s position as a regional superpower would probably seem a godsend to the Iranian general. He said as much to Rossini.
The larger man’s shoulders slumped slightly. “So you think we should drop this investigation, Pete?”
Thorn hesitated. Though he believed Rossini’s latest hypothesis unlikely, he wasn’t ready to dismiss all of the analyst’s work so readily. Given the necessarily limited nature of the data they had to work with, intelligence professionals like the Maestro were often guilty of seeing “tigers in every patch of tall grass.” On the other hand, he also knew how easy it was to fall under the spell of the “rosy scenario”—to see events and data through a mental filter that blocked out inconvenient facts. And he’d worked long enough with the older analyst to respect both his intelligence and his intuition. If something about the situation in Iran was niggling at Rossini, now was the time to pin it down.
At last he shook his head. “No. I don’t think we should drop it. Look, Joe, I’m scheduled to see Farrell the day after tomorrow. Do what you can to refine that”—he pointed toward the bulky report on their Bosnian probe—“and I’ll try to wangle a little more time and some more resources from the Boss.”
OCTOBER 16
JSOC headquarters, Pope Air Force Base, North Carolina
The long-drawn-out rumble of jet engines penetrated even the thick walls of Major General Sam Farrell’s personal office. The C-141 Starlifter pilots assigned to fly the 82nd Airborne Division into any battle were practicing touch-and-goes on Pope’s mile-long runways.
“Let me get
this straight, Pete,” Farrell said wryly. “You want me to tell the Joint Chiefs and the White House to take a hike because Joe Rossini still has a mental itch he can’t scratch.”
“Well, maybe not in so many words, sir.” Thorn smiled. “I thought you might phrase it a little more diplomatically.”
Farrell chuckled. “Since I like my job, I probably would.” His expression turned serious. “But I don’t know how much slack I can cut for you and your team, Pete. We’ve got some serious budget battles on the horizon, and I can’t piss off too many people now who I’m going to need down the road later.”
Thorn nodded his understanding. He’d been hearing the rumors on the JSOC grapevine for weeks. Faced with threadbare defense budgets and a reduced worldwide terrorist threat, some in Congress and in the SecDef’s office wanted to disband at least one of Delta’s three squadrons—with commensurate reductions in force for the 160th Aviation Regiment and other support units. There were senior officers in the Army’s hierarchy who supported those proposals. Some were motivated by continuing doubts about the real military utility of “special operations.” Others believed the Army would be better served by reintegrating Delta’s highly trained noncoms into regular combat units. With his command under such close congressional and JCS scrutiny, it was no wonder that Farrell was reluctant to rock the boat very much right now.
He pulled his cap off the general’s desk, preparing to rise.
“Not so fast, Pete.” Farrell waved him back down. “Don’t give up so easily. I didn’t say I couldn’t do anything at all.”
“No, sir.”
“But you will have to compromise,” the general said. “Assign most of your people to research this European neo-Nazi connection the FBI is all hot and bothered about. In turn, I’ll pull some strings with the powers-that-be. I should be able to make sure you can keep Rossini and a small team at work on this Bosnia problem. I know that’ll slow you down some, but it’s the best I can do. Fair enough?”
“Fair enough, sir.” In truth, that was more than Thorn had expected.
“Good.” Farrell rocked back in his chair. “Before you go, my wife wanted me to ask you how Helen’s doing. That was one hell of a piece of work she did inside that synagogue. But I understand she had a rough time of it afterward.”
Thorn nodded, remembering the exhaustion and regret he’d heard in Helen’s voice during their first phone conversation after she came off duty. “It was the first time she’d ever shot anyone,” he explained.
Farrell nodded sympathetically. “Killing’s never easy on the conscience.”
“No, sir.” The image of a young Panamanian Defense Force soldier rose in Thorn’s mind. The kid couldn’t have been much more than seventeen years old. He shook off the memory. “But Helen’s tough. She’s recovering pretty well. In fact, I’m supposed to see her this weekend.”
“That’s good.” The general smiled broadly. “I know Louisa would give me holy hell if anything went wrong between you two now. I think she’s already planning your rehearsal dinner.”
Thorn suddenly felt like a deer standing frozen in the headlights of an oncoming truck. And curiously, he wasn’t sure that he really wanted to spring out of the way.
CHAPTER 11
DETONATION
NOVEMBER 5
Washington, D.C.
(D MINUS 40)
The National Press Club was located in a nondescript, almost seedy, concrete office building on Fourteenth Street, right in the heart of Washington, D.C. Typical drab 1940s architecture, the National Press Office building reflected the age of the organization, but only hinted at its power.
Although technically only a professional organization for journalists, the press club was much more. Its members included the cream of the national and even international media. Their reporting could help make or break political careers, and no self-respecting political figure could pass up the opportunity to bring his or her message before such an influential body.
Since its founding in 1908, presidents had sometimes used the organization’s forum to announce major new policies and programs. Foreign heads of state had argued their sides in international disputes. Interest group leaders of all stripes and persuasions had earnestly proclaimed their manifestos from its dais. In fact, over the years, the list of National Press Club guests had become so august that simply being invited to speak there was now a newsworthy event in and of itself.
The Reverend Walter Steele had addressed the National Press Club twice before. His first appearance, eleven years before, had come shortly after his election as the leader of one of the nation’s leading black civil rights organizations. His speech, labeled “visionary” by those in attendance and endlessly replayed on the nation’s television screens and over the radio airwaves, had firmly established him as a major player on the American political scene. His second oration, six years later, had been sharply critical of the then administration’s civil rights record—further cementing his reputation as spellbinding firebrand, one with political ambitions of his own.
Since then, he had appeared on news programs, talk shows, and campaign platforms across the country, eloquently pushing a range of programs and proposals for everything from urban renewal to radical shifts in American foreign policy. He was a man of influence. A man who inspired blind devotion in some and blind hatred in others.
And now Walter Steele had asked to be “invited” to speak at a National Press Club luncheon. The rumors sweeping the capital’s cocktail circuit said he planned to announce a bid for his party’s presidential nomination—and failing that, he would announce backup plans to run as a third-party candidate. Political observers ranked him as a viable contender—one capable of siphoning away several million votes from an administration that had only narrowly squeaked into office.
Preparations for the Reverend Steele’s visit began that morning.
At ten o’clock Sefer Halovic crossed Fourteenth Street with the light and ambled into the National Press Office building. He was dressed casually in jeans and a long-sleeved flannel shirt, with only a bright green, reversible windbreaker as protection against the cold, blustery autumn day. He listed slightly under the weight of his equipment—a full load of cabling and electronics gear. Black lettering spelled out “ECNS” across the back of the jacket. The same logo was repeated in smaller letters across the windbreaker’s upper right front, with the name “Krieger” printed underneath. The name matched the one on the press pass clipped to his shirt pocket.
Obtaining the pass had been child’s play. With the explosion in cable channels both in the United States and overseas, hundreds of reporters and television and radio technicians flooded the Washington, D.C., area—especially right before any scheduled event that might generate headlines and airtime. And, politically correct or not, journalism was still a hard-drinking profession. Halovic smiled inside. Last night, it had taken Yassine only seconds to separate a beer-laden cameraman from his pass inside the noisy, jam-packed confines of a hotel bar. The young Palestinian scout’s fingers were deft—the by-product of a boyhood spent living hand-to-mouth in southern Lebanon refugee camps.
There should also be little risk in using the stolen pass. The cameraman might have reported his credential missing, but that would scarcely raise a serious official stir. Too many IDs were already adrift in this city of badges and cards for the police to zero in on one more among the missing. In any event, the pass now bore little resemblance to its original appearance—thanks to a skilled forger on his special action team. It had been carefully doctored to show his new alias. A Polaroid photo displayed his new appearance. Barring close scrutiny by unusually suspicious security personnel, the alteration should not be noticed.
To change his looks, Halovic had dyed his blond hair a light brown and let his mustache grow out for a few days. He also wore a pair of tinted, black-frame glasses that hid his eyes.
Still, the Bosnian didn’t believe in taking unnecessary chances. That was why he had wai
ted so long to enter the press club building and ride its small elevator up to the third floor. With less than two hours to go before the day’s luncheon, the corridors should be comfortably crowded. He followed several other technicians out of the elevator. Like him, they were draped in coils of cable and weighed down by tripods and other equipment.
As he had hoped, the building’s third floor looked even busier than usual. This was Halovic’s second visit to the press club. The first had come more than three weeks before, shortly after he and his team received General Taleh’s go code and began making the final scouting trips laid out in his operational plan.
The Bosnian joined the bustling crowds moving slowly through the lobby across a floor of heavily veined, polished tan marble. To his left was the Members Bar, dark-paneled and comfortable, with windows that overlooked the street. Even at this hour it was smoke-filled and noisy, already packed with reporters swapping drinks and stories.
He drifted right, heading for the entrance to the dining room.
A table blocked most of the entrance and a man in a suit sat behind it, checking badges. Suppressing a moment’s nervousness, Halovic joined the short line waiting to pass through the barrier. Intellectually, he knew that the odds were in his favor. Since the Reverend Steele was not yet an announced presidential candidate of any sort, the hard-faced men of the U.S. Secret Service were not here in great numbers. Certainly, the man behind the table seemed more a functionary than a watchdog.
He shuffled forward and, without unclipping it from his shirt, turned his press pass to face the checker. He was careful not to make eye contact. The man glanced up, focused on the picture for barely a second, then waved him through with a bored nod.
Hiding his sudden surge of relief, Halovic shouldered his gear and trudged down a short hallway into the main dining room. He had crossed the wire without tripping any alarms.
