“Long time.”
“Right. Too bloody long to listen to this idiot. Of course, he’s pissed me off. Enough that I’d like to see him dumped in a nameless prison somewhere.”
“Sure.”
McCarter turned back to Ahmadah. The Iranian was clenching and unclenching his jaw, making his cheek muscles ripple.
“What do you think?” McCarter asked. “Ready to get away from it all?”
Ahmadah licked his lips. “You two are insane.”
“What’s your point?”
Ahmadah stared down at the floor. “It doesn’t have to go this way,” he said.
* * *
BEN-SHAHAR CREPT THROUGH the first floor, taking in the bloody wake created by the other two men.
He hadn’t seen them kill the guard outside. But they hadn’t bothered to clean up the blood on the sidewalk. Considering who they were targeting, he was half tempted to hose down the concrete himself to prevent the local police from seeing the mess and investigating. He guessed they’d have a cleanup crew of some kind following up quickly behind them.
Ascending the stairs, he slipped onto the second floor, the Beretta poised in front of him. He saw another corpse sprawled on the floor. A pool of blood had spread beneath the man. His weapon still lay on the floor a few feet from his curled fingers. The smell of gun smoke lingered in the air.
From up ahead he heard people speaking. He moved past the dead man and made his way toward the voices. When he reached the doorway, he stood outside the jamb and listened to the conversation. He recognized Ahmadah’s voice from recordings he’d heard during his time with Mossad. The other man’s accent was unmistakably British. The third guy, he couldn’t quite place. Canadian, maybe?
He felt an urge to surge into the room and force the Iranian to speak, but checked himself. He still had no ID on the other two men. All he knew at this point was that they were deadly. They may be just as willing to kill him, too. His thoughts began to whirl. Had he made a bad decision coming here without any backup? Beating down a mugger in an alley was one thing. Now he’d walked right into a shadow war, one where he didn’t know all the players. It was an amateurish move, one he’d made out of emotion instead of cold logic.
Part of him hoped it wouldn’t prove to be a fatal mistake on his part, while another part of him wondered what he’d lose by dying. He’d already lost what little family he’d had and his career likely was over. Maybe a final descent into blackness would provide a welcome relief.
Maybe.
He’d know soon enough.
* * *
“MAYBE IT DOES need to go this way,” McCarter said.
“No, it doesn’t,” Ahmadah whined.
“You willing to talk?” McCarter asked.
“Yes.”
McCarter nodded slowly. He studied the Iranian’s face and his body language for clues about his sudden change of heart. Had they scared him enough to get him to turn on his country? Maybe. For some people the threat of brutal treatment was enough to soften them up; for others, it took a real beating, physically or mentally, to get them to cave. McCarter had taken Ahmadah as the latter type, a dead-ender who’d need more than tough talk aimed at him before he spilled secrets.
Maybe you were wrong, McCarter told himself. His gut told him otherwise.
“Why the change of heart?” he asked.
Ahmadah licked his lips. “I don’t want to go to Bulgaria,” he said. “I don’t want anyone cutting on me.”
McCarter scowled. “Little freak like you? I figured you’d enjoy that stuff.”
“No, you’re wrong.”
McCarter nodded his head slowly. “Good,” he said.
“Why did you hit the U.S. ambassador?”
“Because he’s an agent of the great Satan,” Ahmadah replied. “He, like all Americans, wants nothing more than to enslave all Muslim lands, to suck away our resources, kill our children, so America can grow richer. He was just another agent trying to further America’s agenda and that of the illegitimate state of Israel.”
McCarter looked over his shoulder, then back at Ahmadah. “You read that off a cue card?”
Reaching into his pocket, the Phoenix Force commander pulled out the folding knife he’d taken earlier from Ahmadah. He opened it and walked to Ahmadah, the blade gleaming under the light. For the first time, he saw real fear register in the bastard’s eyes as he moved the blade toward Ahmadah’s crotch.
“Paradise and all your virgins won’t be the same without the crown jewels,” McCarter teased as he moved the knife even closer, slicing the fabric of Ahmadah’s clothing. McCarter smiled cruelly as their prisoner began to scream.
“You save that crap for your next YouTube video,” McCarter said. “My friend and I are here for real information. You want to spew propaganda, I’ll kill you here and save us the trip to Bulgaria.
“Why did you kill the ambassador? More important, why did you hire local yokels to do it? Hezbollah and Iranian intelligence have the juice to get it done themselves. Why bring in outsiders?”
“Deniability.” Ahmadah spit out the word. “We wanted him dead. We didn’t want it tracked back to us.”
“Why were you worried about the killings being traced back to Hezbollah or Iran?”
“Isn’t it obvious? We wanted him gone.”
“Because?”
“Because he had strong ties in Iraq. People in the government there respected him—the Sunnis, the Shiites, both respected him. They trusted him.”
“So you wanted him gone,” Manning said, “because he had strong ties with Iraq? That would make sense if he still was the ambassador there. But he was working in Africa.”
“You would’ve sent him back,” Ahmadah said. “Once it happened.”
“Once what happened?” McCarter asked.
“The attack in Iraq. Once we hit your Embassy there.”
McCarter took a step forward and wagged the knife blade at their prisoner.
“Hit our Embassy? What the hell are you talking about?”
“The U.S. Embassy,” he said. “We’re going to hit it.”
“Who? Iran or Hezbollah?”
“Neither. Not exactly.”
“Damn it,” McCarter said.
“When?” Manning asked.
Ahmadah tried to shift his weight in the chair, but the effort caused him to wince in pain. “A day,” he said. “Maybe two.”
McCarter noticed the Iranian’s stare flicker past him. It had not registered before, but he’d done this a couple other times, too. McCarter turned to look behind him and saw a digital clock fixed to the wall.
“You got a date, lad? A bus to catch? What’re you looking at?”
“Give me a minute,” he said. “I can tell you the exact time the attack will occur.”
McCarter gestured for him to stop. “Hold it,” the Briton said. “Answer my question. Why are you so damn fixated on the clock? What’s going to happen?”
Manning peeled away and headed for the door. He’d only taken a couple of steps when gunshots roared in the hallway outside.
* * *
BEN-SHAHAR HAD BEEN listening as the Iranian danced around the questions. The Israeli knew why Ahmadah was being so cagey. He didn’t want to tell his interrogators about the Circle, but he also got the sense something else was at work.
He listened for another minute or so as the Westerners tried in vain to get usable information.
The small hairs on the back of his neck rose, telling him something was wrong. Acting on instinct, he whirled around and retraced his steps, heading for the stairwell. Before he reached the door, it swung open. A black-haired man with a thick, black beard came through the door. The guy swung a pistol at Ben-Shahar and squeezed off a shot. The bullet whizzed past Ben
-Shahar’s head. He raised the Beretta and fired it twice. His shots found their target, drilling into the shooter’s heart. At the same time, a second guy came through the door.
Ben-Shahar was moving his pistol to fire at the man but before he could fire, the other man’s pistol cracked. He felt something sear his shoulder and spin him around. A similar sensation burned through his abdomen. The gun had fallen from his grip. He twisted at the waist back in the direction of the shooter. The man was walking toward him, the pistol raised, lining up another shot.
Damn, he thought, so it does end here.
An instant later the shooter seized up as a pair of holes opened his chest. He crumpled.
Ben-Shahar started to turn around, but he felt a big hand grab his collar and yank hard, causing him to stumble. The fabric rubbed against the entrance wound on his shoulder and he moaned with pain.
“Come on,” the Westerner he’d pegged as Canadian said. “Apparently today’s just full of surprises.”
* * *
IT TOOK MANNING a couple of minutes to tear away the guy’s jacket and shirt so he could see the wounds. He applied dressings to the bullet holes to staunch the flow of blood.
He looked up at McCarter and the other members of Phoenix Force, all of whom had arrived in the past few minutes.
“This guy is losing blood,” he said. “Lots of it. We need to get him to a hospital.”
McCarter nodded. The guy tried to sit up. Manning put a hand on his good shoulder to keep him down. “Stay still,” he said.
The man waved him off. “I’m Mossad,” he said. “And that son of a bitch is lying to you.”
“Lying? What the hell?”
“Ask him about the Circle. That’s who he really represents. They’re the ones crazy enough to attack our ambassador. They’re the ones willing to attack the Embassy. Ask him about that.”
McCarter made eye contact with Manning. “You deal with secret agent man,” he said. “Apparently my friend and I still have catching up to do.”
McCarter turned and walked over to Ahmadah, who was staring at him with wide eyes as McCarter again withdrew the knife.
“What’s the Circle?” he asked.
The Mossad agent grabbed hold of Manning’s shoulder and used it to pull himself forward. The effort caused him to grimace.
“It’s a group of men in the Iranian government,” Ben-Shahar disclosed. “They answer only to the ayatollahs.”
McCarter looked at the Israeli and then at Ahmadah. “He’s stealing all your best lines,” McCarter said. “You’d better start talking or I’m going to put two in your damn head, call it a day and go for a pint.”
Ahmadah shot Ben-Shahar a murderous look, which transformed to a wide smirk.
“It’s like he said. It’s a group of men answerable only to a few clerics. Most people don’t know about it. The group provides a counterbalance to the Qods Force and the IRG. Some of the clerics worried that these groups were becoming too strong.”
“Makes sense,” McCarter said. “They have their own guns and money. Autocrats don’t much like that kind of unchecked power.”
“They’re not autocrats—they’re holy men.”
McCarter wagged the Browning’s barrel. “Stray off point again, and we’re back at the whole me-shooting-you-in-the-head conversation. Our Israeli friend is making me a hell of a lot happier.”
“Idiot,” Ahmadah snapped. “The group operates well behind the scenes. It’s much smaller than the others—a couple hundred loyal fighters and supporters.”
“Including you.”
“Yes, though they also borrow from Hezbollah on occasion. That’s where they first recruited me.”
“And the ayatollahs are good with this group?”
He shook his head no. “They were. But that changed for the most part. In the last couple of years, there started to be a lot of friction.”
“Because?”
“Because the ayatollahs were so conservative.”
“Surprise. That’s sort of their gig, isn’t it?”
“When the U.S. invaded Iraq, we wanted to make it unbearable for them to stay. We were allowed to do some things, like train fighters and smuggle weapons across the border. But that was all we could make happen.”
“You wanted more?” McCarter asked.
“We wanted the Americans out of the country altogether. Some of us would’ve been just as glad to see you Brits leaving on the same boat. But to make that happen, we would’ve needed to ship more fighters, provide better weapons. Perhaps secure support from countries like China and Russia. Most of the country’s leaders weren’t willing to do it. If we went too big, they were afraid the U.S. would have no choice but to retaliate.”
“Impressive restraint on their part.”
“Rank cowardice!”
“All right, true believer, keep telling yourself that. Here in the real world, your little plan likely would have ignited a regional war. It would’ve made your war with Iraq look like a skirmish.”
Ahmadah shrugged. “Sometimes you must spill blood to cleanse the earth of vermin.”
McCarter gave the guy a cold smile. “Finally we agree on something, mate. And you killed Ambassador Pearson because he maybe could’ve helped cool tensions.”
“Yes, and he also knew about the Circle, or at least knew many of the players. He might have pieced things together before we could pull the trigger.”
“And, when you pull the trigger, what’s that going to look like?”
“You’ll see soon enough. They want to drive the United States out of Iraq. They want them to go away, and the only way to make it happen is to attack the Embassy.”
“A suicide bomb. Like al Qaeda did here in Kenya.”
“No, you small-minded bastard. They’re going to hit with a UAV.”
“A drone?”
“A drone. They built a damn drone and they’re going to use it.”
McCarter nodded. Able Team had heard rumors that Escobar was shipping parts for a drone to Iran. And, from what he understood, Blancanales had almost lost his life checking out those rumors. It made perfect sense. The former British commando stared down at Ahmadah, lifted his head again and looked McCarter dead in the eye.
“The one you want is Ahmed al-Jaballah,” the Iranian said. “He’s the one behind all this.”
McCarter memorized the name.
“I’ll look him up.”
“He’ll kill you,” Ahmadah said. “I wish I could see it!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
McCarter made a call to Stony Man Farm and, in less than a half hour, the local CIA station chief showed up at Ahmadah’s warehouse. He identified himself as Stephen Clark. McCarter pegged him as in his thirties. He was dressed in a navy-blue suit that looked tailored and expensive. His black shoes gleamed, as did his white teeth. Hawkins had remained behind while the others had driven Ben-Shahar to the hospital.
“You sure you’re not a politician?” McCarter asked.
“You sure you’re not an asshole?” Clark replied.
They were standing on the second floor of Ahmadah’s office building and Clark was surveying the carnage. He’d been able to wrangle several Marines from the Embassy grounds to pick up Ahmadah.
“Thanks for the heads-up,” Clark said. “Always good to know when Washington dispatches outsiders to shoot up my area of responsibility.”
McCarter already was on a hair trigger. Worried about what Ahmadah had told him, even more worried about how to stop it, he had no patience. He turned to Clark.
“What you’ll do,” he said, “is get a clean-up crew in here five minutes ago. Burn the place down, throw the bodies into a river, send the Mercedes back home to New Jersey. I don’t care what you do. Make all of this go away. And, as
for that piece of shit, Ahmadah, you’ll get him on a military transport back to the United States as soon as possible. We’re taking his laptop and tablet. Grab the servers, take them back to the Embassy. Our tech guy will call yours, so we can tap into all that data. My boss is already on the phone, ironing out any other particulars with your boss.”
Clark scowled. “Yeah, I already heard you guys called Langley.”
“Yeah,” McCarter said. “Nothing personal. We’re on a tight schedule and need to keep things moving.”
“Got that impression. Who are you guys, anyway?”
“A figment of your imagination,” McCarter said. “You never saw us here.”
“I get that a lot,” he said, his tone weary.
Clark turned and headed for a small knot of CIA employees who’d accompanied him to the scene and started gesturing and barking orders.
“Bloody hell,” McCarter said. He walked to a table where they’d stowed Ahmadah’s computers. He slipped the laptop under his arm and handed the tablet to Hawkins. McCarter had a rental car parked a couple of blocks away from Ahmadah’s office. The Stony Man commandos exited the building and headed for the vehicle.
“What do you think, chief?” Hawkins asked.
McCarter shook his head.
“I think there’s a storm bearing down on us,” he replied.
“Ahmadah gave you no specific times?”
“No, I don’t think he knew.”
“You think what he’s saying is credible?”
McCarter shrugged. “I think we have to act as if it is credible. Sitting on our hands, doing nothing, is unacceptable.”
“Right.”
They reached the car. McCarter unlocked the doors. They climbed in and headed for the hospital where the rest of the team had taken the Israeli.
“It’s always possible the military interrogators will get more out of Ahmadah,” Hawkins offered.
McCarter nodded his agreement.
“Given enough time,” he said, “I’m sure they’d get something out of him. It’s the time factor that worries me on this. Once he disappears, these bastards may go to ground or they may accelerate their timetable. I’d rather they did the former than the latter. Ideally, I’d rather they did neither.”
Revolution Device Page 23
