The Protectors

by Dowell, Trey

  “Provided the Ayatollah shares Tucker’s timetable.” She didn’t sound optimistic.

  “Regardless, I agree with the general. We don’t make it to the hatch unnoticed in daylight. No army uniform will convince anyone you’re a soldier, and I’m a little paler than your average Iranian infantry grunt. We’ve gotta risk the wait.”

  Ahmadi acknowledged our decision with a grunt. “I cannot stay here with you. I am expected in the command tent for a briefing in twenty minutes. Fahrook is returning to the house in Elahiyeh.”

  He left the blueprints of the tunnel layout and palace interior, then rolled the rest and jammed them into his briefcase. No hug, but before the general departed, he took a final glance at Lyla. “Good luck. May the Supreme Leader see the beauty of your wisdom, as I do.”

  Then he finally noticed the Invisible Man.

  “Protect her,” he said, and extended his hand.

  Surprised, I shook it. He looked more like a worried father than a helpless minion. Sometimes it was hard to remember the truth: without Lyla’s magic, General Mahmoud Ahmadi of the Iranian Revolutionary Guard would’ve shot us both in the head without shedding a tear.

  He exited the shack and locked the door behind him. We were alone again, waiting for dark and our one and only chance to stop a civil war.

  CHAPTER 39

  Two hours went by a lot faster than I expected. Lyla spent her time poring over the blueprint of the palace, analyzing every hallway, staircase, and room we’d have to navigate to reach our goal on the third floor. My job was the tunnel system; memorizing the twists and bends we’d have to follow to get inside the main house. After an hour, I enabled the gauntlet’s GPS, grabbed our coordinates, and texted them to Tucker.

  “No longer concerned about Tomahawk missiles?” Lyla said.

  “Guessing Tucker’s not stupid enough to kill Iran’s Supreme Leader just to be rid of us.”

  The gauntlet beeped with a return text message seconds later.

  “He says the satellite will be on-station within ten minutes . . . damn, that’s quick.”

  “CIA efficiency. They can be accommodating when they want,” Lyla said.

  I tore a tiny corner off the paper covering the shack’s window so I could peek through. The view of the main gate was unchanged—soldiers and vehicles galore. The sun was setting, though, and comforting shade now spread throughout the compound.

  Thirty minutes later the shade deepened into dusk. I pulled up the data feed, did some manual zooms, and got my first look at thermal images of Niavaran. One of the gauntlet’s cooler tricks was doubling as an LCD projector; I removed the device and sat it on the table so it could beam the satellite imagery on the wall. Once blown up to the size of a large painting, the video looked similar to Ahmadi’s blueprints, but without all the fine detail. The satellite picked up heat signatures, so people and vehicles appeared bright white, while structures and vegetation were a cooler blue. The data was in real time, so we saw each step of the scurrying white ants crawling over the courtyard as they took them.

  “Amazing,” Lyla said.

  “Yep. We wait until there’s a gap in the coverage near the garden. The hatch is right here . . .” I pointed to a light blue area with two white blobs walking nearby. “It’ll be dark soon. Let’s suit up.”

  We threw the general’s stolen uniforms on over our clothes. They were desert camouflage pattern and included beige caps.

  Lyla stuffed her black hair underneath hers and presented for inspection. “Well?”

  The clothes hung off her petite frame. She had to roll up half the sleeves and a third of the pant legs.

  “You look like Captain America before the supersoldier serum. Still, it should be good enough in the dark.”

  She laughed. “That is the first time anyone told me I look better with the lights off.”

  The laughter was out of place, but welcome. Took the edge off my anger. I nodded toward the projected image while fastening my belt. “Focus on the satellite video; be ready.”

  The two blobs near the garden walked back toward the main gate, a direction that took them within ten paces of our location. Lyla and I watched the wall image without blinking. When they crossed the point of their journey closest to the shack, I could hear footsteps on the pavement outside. Neither of us took a breath until they made it to the gate.

  Half an hour later, it was as dark as it was going to get. No soldiers were within fifty yards of the garden. I turned off the projector and slipped the gauntlet back on my forearm.

  “Time to go.” I paused by the door. “Remember, nice and casual. Don’t rush; we’re on patrol.”

  Lyla nodded. I twisted the knob and we walked out into the night.

  —

  Took sixty steps to cover the distance; I counted every one.

  At twenty, I had to whisper at Lyla, “Jesus, not so close. We’re both men, remember? You look like you’re about to hold my hand.”

  At forty, she whispered back. “Slower. You’re almost running.”

  The extra kick in my step was harder to control the closer we got to the garden. Like a sprinter sensing the finish line, I wanted to lean forward and break the tape. Seeing other groups of soldiers nearby didn’t help. Thankfully none were close enough; although the palace was lit up like a casino, the courtyard had no more than a handful of scattered lampposts—which meant guards would need to be on top of us to realize we were impostors.

  When we approached the garden, I could make out a two-foot-tall metal cage protecting the maintenance hatch. The framework was shielded from the rest of the garden by several tall bushes. I silently thanked the Shah for preventing the hatch from being an eyesore by covering it up.

  I flipped the unlocked protective cage off the hatch while Lyla kept watch. When she gave me the all-clear, I pulled the iron manhole cover aside and told her to duck in. I joined her on the ladder down and replaced the frame and cover. Moments later, we were standing in a dank, poorly lit concrete corridor.

  “We follow this to the four-way intersection. From there we go straight through until the Y-split. Left spur goes to the helipad, right goes to the house,” I said.

  We stuck to opposite sides of the tunnel as we moved. Every twenty feet, small cone lampshades hung from the ceiling, each holding on to a single naked bulb. Many of them were burnt-out, leaving long sections of the corridor in total darkness, which suited me just fine.

  We took the right spur at the junction, and the tunnel eventually ended at a massive steel door—the entrance to the palace basement. Lyla took a breath to speak and I raised a finger to stop her.

  “Let’s be sure,” I whispered in her ear.

  I extended my consciousness toward the door, then pushed beyond . . . searching. Sure enough, on the other side of the barrier I detected two beacons of mental activity. Guards, posted by the tunnel access.

  Thank God I didn’t drop them right away. I was about to, but common sense came to my rescue. I reached out and grasped the thick metal handle to the door and quietly tried to force it up. Didn’t budge.

  Lyla mouthed, “Locked?” I nodded.

  Left with only one option, I shrugged and knocked on the back door.

  Lyla looked like she was about to pass out in disbelief. Nothing happened. So I knocked again and spread my hand flat against the metal. The deep clang of a dead bolt turning made the steel vibrate under my palm. The door came open an inch, and angry Farsi spewed through the gap—probably wanting to know who the hell was patrolling the tunnels.

  Then I dropped them.

  Hell, it was almost as good as saying, “Open Sesame.”

  —

  Infiltrating the palace was simple, as long as we stuck to a pattern religiously. Lyla guided me from room to room on the path she’d memorized. At each door, I’d mentally search the room beyond and drop anyone in the
way. Then we’d move on. Lather, rinse, repeat.

  Ahmadi was correct: the palace was relatively empty—by the time we reached the third floor, I’d only put down fifteen people. When I stepped foot on the top level, my heart thumped faster in anticipation.

  Almost home.

  The third-floor landing was bathed in lamplight, but the wing Lyla pointed me toward was completely dark.

  “Are you sure that’s the way?”

  She nodded. “That’s where Ahmadi said to go. Watch these rooms off the corridor. Any of them could be occupied.”

  Thankfully every door along the hall was closed, which allowed us more freedom of movement. Still, it took almost five minutes to check each one and make it to the end of the hall.

  “Nothing?” Lyla asked.

  “Empty. Which means there’s only the suite. We don’t have to be so careful now, I can blanket wipe far enough ahead to take out anybody in that room.”

  She hesitated. “Before you do, scan the suite. Make certain the Ayatollah is here.”

  I reached out, my mind penetrating the doors and scanning the large room in front of us. When I saw the beacons, I nodded with a smile.

  “Yep. Five people. Gotta be his group.”

  “We can wake up the Ayatollah when we identify him. Do it.”

  I generated the pulse. “Go.”

  She opened the double doors and gasped.

  Five bodies lay on the floor, but all of them were bound and gagged—torsos surrounded by thick ropes and hands wrapped in plastic ties behind their backs. I rushed to the one in the center and rolled him over.

  General Ahmadi. Someone had administered a savage beat-down before or after tying him up; both eyes swollen, his face bloody and torn. Behind his body, fingers jutted out at angles that were all wrong.

  “Holy shit, this is bad,” I muttered. Lyla hurried to check the other unconscious bodies; we recognized all of them. Harandi, Roof Guy, and two other guards from the general’s house.

  “I don’t understand . . . why? What happened?” Lyla stood in the middle of the room, befuddled.

  I wasn’t confused. I was scared shitless.

  “Call Fahrook. Now! ” I rolled up my sleeve and checked the gauntlet while moving to defend the hall. I only got as far as the door. “What the hell?”

  The satellite feed was still active on the screen—I’d disabled the projector before we left the shack, but left the image running. The ghostly blue and white picture looked different than before. None of the tiny white blobs circulated around the palace grounds. They were gathered near the front gate. All of them. Along with rows of the larger white blobs—vehicles—now aligned inside the wall, closer to the palace.

  I was about to show Lyla when the image winked out. I tried to pull it back up only to receive an error message: “FEED TERMINATED AT SOURCE.”

  “Goddammit!”

  “Scott, what is it? What’s happening?” She was standing with her phone, in the middle of dialing Fahrook. Bless her heart, she just didn’t understand. The cynical bastard understood too well. I ran to a drape-covered window and yanked the fabric back.

  “Oh my God.”

  The courtyard below was jammed with soldiers, hunkered down behind vehicles, barriers, and the outbuildings. To the rear of the men, tanks and artillery lay in wait, no longer pointed at the road. Every gun in the courtyard aimed at the palace.

  Aimed at us.

  CHAPTER 40

  A spotlight fired up behind one of the tanks, blinding me. I let the drape fall and backed away from the window.

  “What?” Lyla asked.

  I barely heard her; my body was going in five directions at once.

  Gotta run. Can’t run. Hide. Can’t hide. Shit . . . shit . . . SHIT.

  “Scott! What’s out there?”

  “The entire Iranian army. Set up like a goddamn firing squad. They know we’re here.”

  The tiniest squeak came from Lyla’s throat before she returned to stabbing at the buttons of her cell phone. She brought the device to her ear, only to pull it back.

  “It’s not working. No signal.”

  The phone dropped from her hand and landed on the carpet with a soft thump. “Who betrayed us?” Her voice was flat, almost emotionless. She sounded a lot less scared than I felt.

  “Isn’t it obvious? The United Fucking States of America, that’s who.”

  A loudspeaker blared from the courtyard. Lyla translated, but she didn’t have to. I knew what was coming.

  “. . . there is no escape. Lyla Ravzi, you will exit the building immediately. You will not be harmed. Scott McAlister is to remain in the palace. If he leaves the palace or approaches our perimeter, he will be shot. No negotiation. You have five minutes to comply . . .”

  “Why me only?” Lyla asked.

  “Because they want you alive. Knockout, on the other hand, they don’t want anywhere near them . . . that’s why the soldiers are set up so far away. Outside my range.” I buried my face in my hands. “They capture you, then turn the tanks loose. Demolish the palace with me inside.”

  “No!” She rushed to the master bed, pulling frantically at the mattress and box springs. “Help me barricade the windows. Move that dresser in front of the doors.”

  Useless. Tank versus mattress wasn’t a fair fight. My sense of futility, though, quickly surrendered to rage. I used the gauntlet to access Tucker’s secure line. Five times. He didn’t pick up. Lyla scrambled around the room behind me, trying to move furniture. I focused my dwindling attention on the small screen.

  “Why are you wasting time with that?” Lyla snapped. “It won’t work. Help me!”

  Didn’t have time to explain: the device used a network of satellites, not conventional cell towers. It couldn’t be jammed. And even if Tucker didn’t pick up, he couldn’t stop a text message. PICK UP U COWARD MOTHERFUCKER was the best I could offer.

  It worked so well, he actually called me.

  “Mr. McAlister. What can I do for you?” It was voice only. The betrayer apparently didn’t want to look at the betrayed.

  “You miserable lying fuckwad . . .”

  “Now, now. Anger is counterproductive.”

  A stampede of thoughts pounded through my skull. We were screwed, obviously, and that sort of thing makes it a little hard to concentrate, but one word managed to fight its way through the rage and disbelief. The only word that mattered.

  “Why?” slithered out from between my clenched jaws.

  “I’m disappointed in you, Mr. McAlister . . . you’re the strategic prodigy. Surely you can answer your own question.”

  I couldn’t focus on anything other than Tucker’s body being ripped apart at the joints. When I didn’t forward a theory, he spoke like a disappointed teacher lecturing a student.

  “When we first met, what did I say was the primary reason the world was still in one piece? Compromise, Mr. McAlister. The most effective form of diplomacy, really. Two enemies working together—cheaper than war, more binding than a treaty. And you and Ms. Ravzi paved the way. The Ayatollah’s own people turn against him—his president, one of his highest-ranking generals—not the sort of thing a world leader takes well. Meanwhile, the Agency has two operatives who simply can’t be trusted. So we compromised.”

  “You helped him solve his problem, and now he’s cleaning up yours,” I muttered.

  “Precisely. The Supreme Leader promises not to slaughter his own people in a civil war, throws in a few democratic reforms, and I don’t have to refinance my mortgage to put gas in the SUV. In return, we hand over the source of all his pain: the two of you. He gives up some of his power and we give up some of ours. Diplomacy at its finest.”

  I raised my head to look at Lyla. Oblivious to our conversation, she was attacking the dresser like a blocking sled, hips down low, pushing it toward the sui
te door.

  “They want Lyla alive. Was that part of your compromise, too?”

  He sighed. “No, it wasn’t. You’d think the Iranians would have learned their lesson last night. I recommended they level your entire hotel.”

  The words made my jaw go slack. “Jesus. The Takavar. They didn’t find us. You told them where we were?” The implications made me dizzy. I braced myself against the suite wall with my free arm.

  “As soon as you reported your stunning success, the satellite link gave us your position. You should be thankful for the extra day—I wanted to launch a Tomahawk right then, but the director felt a two-dollar phone call to the Iranians was a cheaper alternative than a million-dollar cruise missile. Cutbacks and such. But you managed to squirm out of the Takavar’s grasp anyway. Alas, you’re more resourceful than I give you credit for. Ms. Ravzi’s mischief with President Nikahd this morning just gave us an opportunity to hand-deliver you to a more . . . formidable executioner.”

  “You . . . you wanted us dead before Nikahd? Why? Why kill us after we did exactly what you wanted . . . We accomplished your mission!”

  “Yes. As I said, a stunning success. Thank you.”

  “Thank you? You thank us, then throw the CIA’s most powerful weapons in the goddamn garbage?”

  “Calm yourself, Mr. McAlister. This course was inevitable. Ms. Ravzi sealed her fate the moment she left for North Korea, and you guaranteed yours when you agreed to go after her. You’re so obsessed with why . . . you really shouldn’t be. Disarming the Koreans and the Iranians explains why. It only reiterates what I’ve been telling the director for weeks . . .” Tucker’s voice grew softer. “You’re too powerful. Both of you. A weapon is only useful if you can control it . . . and the two of you weren’t going to stroll onto the Langley campus and ask for your IDs back. Like I said in Colorado, if I can’t have a safe world, I’ll settle for a reliable one. With you two gone, the world gets more reliable.”

  “No!” I yelled. “You don’t understand . . . we were just going to disappear, live our lives. You don’t have to do this!”