Ground Zero

by Don Pendleton

  He didn’t have much time, and he had no experience to draw on, but he was damned if he was going to let it end this way.

  With an exaggerated slowness and care, he took the complete bomb from the rucksack and placed it on the stone of the pool, giving him room to work.

  The detonator was attached by means of a small tube that had been inserted into the block of explosive. When the acid ate through the container for the catalyst, it would dribble down the tube. To simply hold the block above the level of the container would prevent that, but on his own it presented the problem that he would then be forced to break the connection with one hand. To snap it off still risked some of the catalyst spurting along the tube. It may only take one drop to start the reaction, for all he knew.

  No, it would have to be this way.... He extended the tube until it was straight and as far away from the block of explosive as was possible. He could see that the acid solution was nearly through the separation, and so he had a matter of seconds. The pressure of the liquid in such a confined space pushed against the weakened separator.

  He took the gray block in one hand and the tube in the other. He pulled them apart sharply. The stress on the tube caused the weakened separator to split, and the pressurized catalyst spit down the tube and harmlessly into the pool. He held the gray block away from the ground and breathed heavily, not daring to think what might have happened had one drop of the catalyst reached the block, as had been intended.

  When he spoke, his voice was dry and cracked. “You can get a cleanup team in here now. The bomb has been defused. The terrorist is dead.”

  He got to his feet and stood, looking down at Banjo as he waited for Low and his men to move in. When the Fed arrived, Bolan handed him the gray block without a word and turned to walk away.

  As he did so, he felt for the smartphone in his pocket that he had taken from the joker who’d named himself after the last Shah. If he was Iranian, as that suggested, then the trail from Somalia to D.C. to New York still had to reach its end.

  He took out his own phone and hit a speed dial number. When Kurtzman answered, Bolan spoke without preamble.

  “I’ve got something I want you to take a look at, Bear. If I’m right, then this isn’t over just yet.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “Interesting things, smartphones. Especially if they’re owned by someone who is a little lax in keeping them tidy. They can yield an incredible amount of information.”

  Bolan grinned. “You sound like Bear. Did you memorize that to try to impress me, Hal?”

  The big Fed returned the grin and paused by a bench in the Mall. “Shut up and rest your feet, Striker. You’re going to be getting some action soon enough, so take the opportunity to take a load off.”

  Bolan joined him on the bench and they watched a phalanx of joggers pass by before continuing. “So it was helpful, then?”

  Brognola nodded. “Although helpful is a relative term in view of the cleanup this mission facilitated. You could have been a little tidier, considering where you were.”

  “What can I say? When you’re on the defensive from the beginning, then you tend not to worry about keeping things clean. You just want to do the job.”

  “Luckily for you, the Man sees it the same way. There was some heat coming down, but you’ll be pleased to hear it wasn’t anything I couldn’t deal with,” Brognola said wryly. “However, the Man brushed all that away when he heard what you did at the memorial. You have no idea— No, scratch that, of course you know what it would have meant if that had been a successful terrorist attack. That’s the second time you’ve dug one out and the second time you’ve just put more work on your plate.”

  Bolan shrugged. “What can I say, Hal? It’s what I’m here for. So I’m guessing that the smartphone yielded something interesting.”

  Brognola nodded. “You were right about one thing. Anyone who uses the name of the last Shah as a cover is an Iranian with a sense of humor. Your boy had a number of other names, but his DNA and prints were on national security databases. He has quite a record, but had been MIA for a while. Guess we know why. There were a few known fundamentalists on the information gleaned that we had nothing definite on, and a few that we had been keeping close. It’s easy to pretend you’re Turkish when you’re Iranian—let’s be honest, most of us in America would be hazy about the difference unless we were really familiar with people from those countries.”

  “So he’d been using the business as a cover to aid terror cells. Glad to have nailed him,” Bolan said with some satisfaction. “But what else did it tell you?”

  “There was information on the phone that led us on a trail back to Iran. We have some names of men who are not in the government but are closely allied to it. They’ve been very busy funneling cash to groups, individuals and also known arms traders. We could do with them shutting up shop. Make that cyberspace they’re using for their channels dead, you know?”

  “And of course we can do nothing officially as we’ve had no links with Iran since the end of the seventies,” Bolan finished. “I don’t get it. Yeah, they hate us, and with Afghanistan and Iraq they’ve felt under threat, but why now? Why not ten years back? Or has it taken us that long to stumble on it?”

  “We can be slow sometimes, sure, but not that slow.” Brognola sounded slightly aggrieved. “Believe me, Striker, this is pretty recent. We think we know why now. Have you heard of the Parchin report?”

  Bolan thought about it for a moment. “Parchin is a military facility that houses a large part of the Iranian army’s armament capacity.”

  “I figured you’d know that, Striker, but what about the report?” When the soldier replied in the negative, Brognola continued. “The International Atomic Energy Agency has been investigating Iran’s nuclear capabilities for some time. Which, let’s face it, is kind of hard when the country in question refuses to cooperate with inspectors and wants them to just use the information that’s given out as the official line, which is that they have a nuclear capability and that it’s purely for power. Now, that’s kind of rich when you consider how much of their coin comes from petrochemicals and how much they’ve been holding the West to ransom over that during the past three decades.”

  “Hey, they’re just thinking ahead,” Bolan replied wryly. “Of course, the fact that a by-product of all that research is the kind of weapons-grade plutonium that would come in useful for a nation with rampant paranoia and a lurking regard for annexing their neighbors is purely coincidental. And I’m thinking that the perfect place for all this to be taking place would be the Parchin facility, which is why the IAEA are particularly interested. Am I guessing right?”

  “I would say so. Now, as you’re only too well aware, Iraq and Afghanistan, no matter how necessary they might have been at the time, have been going on a little longer than desired and have been a little more messy than we would have liked.”

  “This generation of soldiers’ Vietnam,” Bolan replied with feeling. “We’re just unraveling those messes, so the Man isn’t going to want a potential third situation like that to arise.”

  “Precisely...and although the United Nations is a wonderful body, it has to be said that sometimes there can be too much talk. Better to act swiftly on what we know, and keep it discreet.”

  “You think I’m discreet after D.C. and NYC?” Bolan queried.

  Brognola shrugged. “That was, like you said, a different matter. The attacks at the memorial would have been a bitter blow, but more than that, they would have been one major distraction when Iran wants everyone to look anywhere but Parchin right now. And the fact is, a mission like this is what you’re good at.”

  “Okay, seems like I’m going back in the field. Am I going in through Afghanistan or Iraq?”

  Brognola laughed. “Sending you in via a place where we have a presence would be a bad idea. We k
now how carefully they watch those borders.”

  “Pakistan or Turkey, then? Although I’d be guessing we’re a little wary of the former, and the latter might be suspect over their use as a cover in this instance?”

  “Y’see, that’s what I like about you, Striker. Tactical thinking. No, my friend, we’re going to send you in from the least likely angle.”

  Bolan grinned. “Oh, man, Russia’s president will love that if he ever gets wind of it.”

  * * *

  BOLAN STOOD ON the shores of the Caspian Sea, looking toward the peninsula of Iran. Just over seventy-two hours had passed since he had been sitting in the Mall with the big Fed, and he had to admit that Brognola had acted with alacrity. The Executioner had been put on a regular diplomatic bag flight to Moscow, where he had entered the American Embassy as an IT and security consultant being sent to liaise with a Russian corporation regarding the installation of new servers that were to be supplied to the embassy complex.

  Although nearly everyone on the embassy staff knew only the cover story, the CIA station chief had been clued in, and she made sure that Bolan was not asked any awkward questions during his brief stay at the embassy.

  In fact, Tanya Morgan had already arranged for Bolan to be housed at the expense of the Russian corporation, and Bolan spent less than two hours at the embassy before being taken to a hotel, where he spent the night before Morgan arranged for him to meet Roman Schevchenko.

  Schevchenko was a wiry, graying and seemingly diffident man who was almost shy when introduced to the soldier. It was only when he had dismissed his guard and was alone with Bolan in the boardroom of Teklis Software, his corporation’s core company, that his inner steel was revealed.

  “I will not waste words with you,” he began. “If I am found out, it will be difficult for me. I have a London home, but even there I will not be safe. But like many I became a made man despite men like my country’s president, not because of them. America has been good for men like myself, and we do not want the East to gain any more power in this corner of the globe than they already have. This is why I offer assistance when none can be forthcoming in official channels. I take risks, but I have always taken risks. You call us oligarchs. Others call us gangsters. I call us realists.”

  “What can you offer me?”

  The Russian smiled. “To the point. I like you, Mr. Cooper. A man like you would do well here. But no matter. I will arrange the armament you need and also the method for getting you into Iran. I have contacts who will supply me with the required hardware through channels that cannot be traced. You just give me those requirements. You have communications equipment—” he waited for Bolan’s assent “—then that is good. Enjoy the next twenty-four hours, Mr. Cooper. I will have everything ready for you by then.”

  Bolan had supplied the required list and had returned to the embassy briefly, where he used the security-cleared channels to touch base with his contact cover and relay progress. From there, he made his way back to his luxury hotel.

  Morgan had liaised with him the next morning at his hotel room, and word had come from Schevchenko that he was required “on-site” for a product conference. Bolan knew that meant that things were ready to move. Schevchenko greeted him, introduced him to the guide who would get him into Iran and to the next point of contact and handed over the requested ordnance as well as a war chest of Iranian currency.

  Bolan was grateful for the gesture of the war chest, but he had enough money for what he needed to do. He declined that offer.

  Wishing him good fortune, the Russian bade him farewell.

  In the back of the black sedan with tinted windows that usually ferried Schevchenko around the city, Bolan and his guide—answering only to Yuri, and then only when posed a direct and relevant question—left Moscow and headed for the Caspian shores.

  Schevchenko had a luxury home on the shore, complete with its own jetty and yacht. When Bolan arrived, he noted that the vessel was being moved and moored farther out in the water, making room for another craft. While they waited for its arrival, there was a chance to grab a few hours of necessary sleep. It was uncertain when he would be get another chance to recharge.

  And now he looked across the water to where the coast of Iran beckoned, waiting for the vessel that would ferry him there. As he and Yuri waited in silence, in the fading light a fishing boat traveled slowly toward them. In blacksuits, with duffel bags containing their weapons, the two men would look incongruous on a fishing vessel. Better hope they didn’t get stopped before they landed, then, Bolan mused as the boat came in to moor on the jetty.

  The crew was Iranian and looked at both men with something approaching suspicion. As Bolan and Yuri were beckoned aboard, the soldier felt a sense of unease.

  “They’re looking a little hostile,” he murmured to Yuri. “Are you sure we can trust them?”

  “No,” the Russian answered blandly. “No more than you would expect. They are paid money, and they need the money. If we do not arrive, word will reach my employer. If it does, they know they will be dead. We cannot trust them, but fear is useful in such situations.”

  “I see,” Bolan replied with an equally bland expression. Although he was far from reassured by the Russian’s words, he could see the logic and so was reasonably reassured as the vessel cast off and headed for the coast of Iran.

  The two men were shown to a cabin and shut in after a few perfunctory words from the skipper. He spoke in neither Arabic nor—as would have been expected—Farsi, but rather in Armenian. Bolan’s grasp of the language was nonexistent. Yuri translated. In essence, he told them to stay put and keep quiet. They would not be welcomed above deck as they may be observed by other vessels, and if there was any engagement they were to remain where they were unless it was an emergency.

  “Good thing you understood the language,” Bolan said when the skipper had left them.

  The Russian smiled. “I also speak Persian as though I was born Iranian. I speak many languages fluently. That is why I am a good employee. On the other hand, if these fools think I speak Russian and Armenian alone, and do not understand them the rest of the time, then that is not always a bad thing.”

  Bolan nodded. “Good point. You’re a smart man, Yuri, and you had me fooled. I had you down as a muscle-bound lunkhead.”

  “You flatter me. I suspect that you are not entirely truthful with me.”

  Bolan smiled. “Maybe not, but we’ve got a good stretch of sea ahead of us, and if we’re going to work together, then you’re going to have to show me how smart you are and tell me what you’ve got planned.”

  Yuri shrugged. “I plan nothing, Mr. Cooper. It is not my place. However, I have been fully briefed. When we set ashore, we will be met by men who are loyal to opponents of the regime.”

  “There are men like that?”

  “Please, do not be disingenuous. Even the most devout Muslim is not necessarily a proponent of separatism and radical religion. Some, indeed, are fond of the Western world and its ways, particularly those that are based around the petrochemical dollar. They look at their counterparts in other Arab nations and weep. Did you know that ten percent of the oil in the world and fifteen percent of the natural gas can be found beneath the sand and rock of Iran? It must be very hard to watch all that money and potential fun going to waste on prayer mats and minarets.”

  “And, of course, your boss just happens to be in a position to help them realize those Western dreams if they should be in a position to overcome the more fundamentalist regime.”

  Yuri shrugged. “My employer is a man who has built a business empire. In the course of that endeavor, he has learned many strategies and has made the acquaintance of people who can help him to realize those strategies, as well as those who would benefit from his assistance. With such resources at stake, it would be a poor businessman who could not act as a broker to ai
d the smooth flow of money and resources from one country to another.”

  “Even if the ruling faction of one of those countries would not choose to see it that way,” Bolan added wryly.

  “Of course. This ridiculous hostility is why we are forced to access Iran via an indirect and more time-consuming route. Avoiding detection is something that is an unfortunate necessity. However, it would be best if we took advantage of the time that is granted to us to get some rest, as we may not have an opportunity to rest at length for some time.”

  “You take second watch. I’ll take first,” Bolan said.

  Yuri grinned. “I would have offered to take first, Mr. Cooper. I do not exactly trust these men like brothers, either, you know.”

  * * *

  THE VOYAGE ACROSS the Caspian Sea proved uneventful, and both men were able to rest and keep watch with no disturbance whatsoever. The area was patrolled by Iranian boats, but the presence of a fishing trawler that frequented these waters on an almost daily basis did not arouse anything beyond the barest acknowledgment. The vessel was able to make the far shore of Iran in the expected time, with nothing to cause a ripple of excitement taking place.

  It anchored about five hundred yards from the sandy, flat shoreline, and a small dinghy with an outboard engine was lowered over the side. The skipper told them in broken Armenian that one of his men would take them in and then return with the boat, and in truth he seemed glad to see the backs of them as they descended.

  A surly fisherman piloted them on in silence. They bucked on the shallows and he killed the motor, staying the boat enough for the two men to alight in the surf before turning it around, firing the motor and heading off toward the trawler without a backward glance.