Shock Warning d-3

by Michael Walsh

  * * *

  She was there, in the desert, waiting for them. Dressed beautifully in the Western style, looking as lovely as the day he’d first seen her in the City, the director of Islay Partnership Ltd., ordering some financial transaction or another, a figure of poise, beauty, and authority. She was surrounded by admirers, who stood looking up at her like some impossible vision of loveliness that they would never again see in their lifetimes. Her head was bowed as she received their adulation with the utmost humility.

  They had tied a rope around her waist, which held her tight against the Shahab-3 rocket. Skorzeny could see at a glance that it was carrying a heavier payload than normal. This, too, was part of the plan. For this was one of the rockets that were about to destroy the Little Satan, the Zionist entity. These were the rockets that would set off the final cataclysm in a world already at war with itself.

  These were the rockets that would trigger massive retaliation by Israel, all across the ummah. The Israelis would not stop to ask their provenance. They would exercise the Samson Option, and like the blind strongman, eyeless in Gaza, they would lash out at their tormentors.

  Amanda Harrington would be the first to be sacrificed.

  “We have a deal, Navid,” said Skorzeny coldly. “Release the woman.”

  They were in a jeep, the three of them plus the driver. “She looks lovely, does she not?” said Zarin.

  “I said, release her,” repeated Skorzeny. “The computer…”

  “… is a trap,” said Zarin. “Do you think I am stupid? Do you think I do not know that you make me this offer only to insult me?”

  “The computer is perfectly safe,” said Skorzeny levelly. “It was entrusted to the woman called Maryam — the woman who slipped away from you at Bandar Anzali, through your own carelessness — by one of the top operatives of the Central Security Service. The thing is worth a fortune. The woman is worth nothing to you. So honor your word.”

  “First, show me I have nothing to fear.” He took the laptop out of his briefcase and handed it to Skorzeny. “Aside from the miracles of Allah, I do not believe in—”

  And the laptop burst to life.

  It was running an NSA-hardened version of Red Hat Enterprise Linux 5, which came as no surprise to Skorzeny. Many of the U.S. government’s most sensitive computers used that as a baseline operating system, having abandoned most versions of Windows in favor of it and the Mac Snow Leopard.

  But there did not seem to be anything unusual about it. It did not blow up in his face. No doubt there would be security protocols, but the Iranian computer scientists were a smart lot and they could handle it.

  As Skorzeny watched, the machine made a connection back to Fort Meade and automatically began downloading reams of material.

  “What is going on?” asked Col. Zarin.

  “It’s obviously been set up to communicate at regular intervals with Fort Meade and the Black Widow,” he said. “If your men get right on this, you’ll be able to tunnel right into NSA headquarters before they even know it. This is a golden opportunity, Col. Zarin, a miracle from Allah. It might have taken you weeks to activate the machine, and even then it might have destroyed itself. Here it is — take it.”

  Zarin reached for the machine.

  “But first, give me the woman.”

  Zarin watched the data dance on the screen. Allah alone knew how long this communications session would last. The control facility was just a short drive away.

  He stood up in the Jeep and signaled for the Guard to cut Amanda loose, then told the driver to get going. Skorzeny’s hand shot out and grabbed him by the wrist. “Not until she is in this car,” he said.

  They cut her loose. Amanda said nothing as she squeezed into the backseat. The Jeep roared off.

  So it had come to this, thought Amanda as they raced across the desert floor. No matter how she tried to escape him, he always found her. She would never be rid of him. How she wished Milverton had taken him out when they had the chance. But they thought they had a plenty of time. Everybody thinks she has plenty of time until time runs out.

  “How are you, my dear?”

  She had nothing to say. Her storehouse of comebacks, quips, observations, and pious sentimentalities was exhausted. There was almost nothing left of the old Amanda Harrington, queen of the City. He, who had given her so much, had taken it all away; she had made herself mistress to him, but at a price she could not pay. Here, in the desert, is where it would finally end.

  When they arrived at the control facility Col. Zarin rushed the computer inside. Technicians and intelligence analysts immediately fell upon it, and began to chatter excitedly. Skorzeny could not follow what they were saying, but it was clear that this was a very great gift. Col. Zarin seemed extraordinarily pleased.

  “I am sorry to have doubted you, my friend.” He consulted his Patek Philippe. Watches were still a status symbol in Iran. “Only a few hours now. And so we wait.”

  Col. Zarin led Skorzeny, Mlle. Derrida, and Amanda into a private room. For a military base, this room was rather luxurious, handsomely carpeted and well appointed. “What can I get you to drink?”

  “Please, no more of that awful fruit juice,” said Mlle. Derrida. Her romance with the third world, which she had cultivated so assiduously as a student at the Sorbonne and at the London School of Economics, was fast coming to an end. She could see the upside of Western civilization more clearly now, especially its personal freedom; living in Iran must be like living in a cage, on more or less full-time display, with only rare moments of privacy in the dark of night.

  “It is against the tenets of our holy faith to take stimulants,” said the colonel. “But you are guests as well as Unbelievers, and so we are able to extend to you the courtesy you require. What may I get you?”

  “Vodka,” said Mlle. Derrida. Skorzeny ordered a shaken gin martini for Amanda and a small scotch, neat, for himself. He needed to keep a clear head, but one drink to steady his nerves could not hurt.

  The phone rang and Col. Zarin answered it, then lay down the receiver with a big smile. “I must hand it to you, Mr. Skorzeny,” he said. “What you have brought us is turning out to be invaluable. The codes alone…”

  “I am very glad to be of service to the Islamic Republic in pursuit of our mutual goals,” he replied. “Now, if you would be so kind, we would appreciate an escort back to Tehran so that I might take Miss Harrington home and see that she gets the kind of medical attention she deserves.”

  Col. Zarin laughed. “I could not hear of such a thing,” he protested. “You are my guests, and you know how important the cause of hospitality is to one of my faith. After all we have done together, Mr. Skorzeny, I cannot believe that you would wish to absent yourself from the Coming, from the great manifestation of the holiest of holy mysteries. For you to leave now would be… unthinkable.”

  So there it was. They were prisoners.

  “Tell me,” said Col. Zarin, sitting down next to Mlle. Derrida. She was a damn fine good-looking woman, as the women around Skorzeny always were. It would be a shame not to get to know her a little better. “Who was that policeman in New York you had me call? For an Arab he seemed to speak very good Farsi.”

  “A weak link,” replied Skorzeny. His mind was racing to figure out how to get out of here before the immanence. Now that he was reunited with Miss. Harrington, he did not wish to keep her in jeopardy a moment longer. Although his sources in Washington were not what they once were, not after the unfortunate suicide of Tyler’s best friend, Senator Robert Hartley, they were still plenty good. Many members of Congress were on his payroll, one way or the other, and all it took was a little kindness, or a little indiscretion, from a junior staffer on the Senate intelligence committee and the personnel list had come into his hands. Frankly, he had forgotten all about the fellow — he had just needed to keep the Counter-Terrorism Unit puzzled and alarmed and he had needed a little bit of insurance to use against Col. Zarin should the need arise.


  Which it just had.

  “A minor member of the CTU, who even now along with his fellows is watching helplessly as our plan moves forward. Of course, should anything go wrong, it is entirely possible — more than likely I would say — that the various intelligence services of the United States, starting but not ending with the New York City Police Department, have your voice on record now, and it would only be a matter of time before Langley or DIA or NSA identifies the speaker. Amazing what they can do these days, really.”

  Col. Zarin obviously had not thought of that. “You mean to say they record all calls, even to hospitals?”

  Now it was Skorzeny’s turn to laugh. “My dear Col. Zarin, of course they do. The Americans are great fools, but in order to satisfy the primitive fears of the majority of their people, they must at least pretend to take some precautions. Fortunately for us, their enlightened classes are highly solicitous about the rights of those who would kill them. They would rather be legally in the clear and in the good odor of the New York Times editorial board than alive, if it came to that. They have made what would otherwise be a formidable task into something a very bright child with a Lego kit might manage in an afternoon. They offer their throats to the knife, and make sure we profit from it.”

  “Profit?” asked Col. Zarin. He went to the bar and poured himself a whisky. Batin.

  That was a good sign. It meant he now trusted Skorzeny. Either that or… it meant that Skorzeny was never going to leave this place alive. Well, he would soon find out.

  “Why, of course,” said Skorzeny. “In my heart, I am devoted to the cause of my fellow man, the poor, the hungry, the tired, the oppressed. I have spent literally billions of dollars on charitable causes, especially in Africa and Latin America to see that the victims of capitalist exploitation receive some small recompense for their suffering. But philanthropy costs a great deal of money, does it not, Miss Harrington?”

  Amanda nodded.

  “Therefore, I have always found ways to do well by doing good, and our joint plan today will handsomely reward me. You, too, can be a part of it if you play your cards right.”

  “I am listening,” said Zarin.

  Mlle. Derrida could feel the colonel inching ever closer to her. From time to time, as he laughed or responded to something Skorzeny was saying, he would reach out and gently touch her leg. Her leg was of course clothed, but it seemed to give him a thrill nonetheless.

  “Are you acquainted with the concept of economic terrorism?” asked Skorzeny. He kept waiting for shouting from the next room, for soldiers to rush in with guns drawn, for something to have gone hideously wrong with the NSA computer, leaving them to pay the price… but nothing. He could not believe Devlin would be that stupid, would not have guarded himself against the thing’s loss, would not have taken every precaution lest it fall into the wrong hands. And yet…

  “For the past several years, I have been administering a serious of shocks to the American economic system. I and my surrogates and partners around the world have done our best to undermine the value of the dollar — and may I modesty say we have done a splendid job in that regard, to the point at which it will soon no longer be the international currency and medium of exchange. When that day comes, of course, America is finished as an economic superpower.

  “As the dollar collapses, the country’s ability to service its debt will only increase. At first, with inflation, it will seem like the balance of payments is improving, as evermore worthless dollars are applied to international ledger books. But after a time, and very soon, creditor nations will no longer wish to accept dollars that come directly from the Federal Reserve’s printing presses. They will want real value, tangible assets, gold. Is there any gold left in Fort Knox? Or was the Treasury emptied out long ago? The greatest nation in the history of the world has beggared itself — and for what? A pat on the head from the bien-pensant?

  “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.