CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Over Iran
The MH-6H Little Bird zipped across the desert, flying low and flying fast. It had been stripped of its Hellfire missiles and its M230 Chain Gun and carried just two passengers, one of them the pilot, the other a man dressed all in black. They had taken off from the deck of the Eisenhower, stopped to refuel in Iraq near Amarah, and then dipped under the Iranian air defenses and ran like hell. The MH-6M was known in the trade as the Killer Egg; it didn’t look particularly fearsome, but it had a maximum speed of one hundred fifty-two knots and a range of four hundred thirty kilometers at an altitude of five thousand feet. That wasn’t quite enough to get Devlin all the way to where he wanted to go, but he was a big boy. Better to get him past Borjerd and send him on his way.
They said nothing on the flight. Everything that needed to be said had already been said. Either they would make it or they wouldn’t. They had a plan, they had backup, they had the personnel, and they had each other. They’d been in combat many times before.
They were going to make it.
Danny brought the Little Bird down, to just a few feet off the high desert floor. Devlin rappelled down, hit the ground, and started running. With Devlin off-loaded, Danny didn’t bother to look down or chart his progress: Inshallah, he would be all right. If not, there was an end to it.
For a Muslim state, the Iranian air defenses were fairly sophisticated, but beatable. Since the Russians had pulled the plug on selling the Islamic Republic its S-300 antiaircraft missiles, it was largely confined to radar, rockets, and its own air force. But eternal vigilance only seemed to be the price of liberty in free countries; in the countries of the Middle East, sloth and corruption ruled the day, and there were plenty of holes in the sky to fly through if only you knew where to look.
Danny knew where to look. He’d been flying in this territory since the first Gulf War, knew the capabilities of both the systems and the men who operated them. You never wanted to underestimate your enemy, but his regard for the Muslim capacity for war was low. The culture prized and rewarded familial connections and tribal loyalty over the alien notion of the nation-state, and while Iran had a proud history stretching back thousands of years, its sense of national purpose had been destroyed by the Islamic Revolution and subordinated to the ummah. With its next-door enemy of Iraq neutralized, thanks to the United States, its guard was down. Which is why they wouldn’t be looking for what was coming.
He checked for bogies. Nothing tracking, nothing locking on. No visible. The events of the past few days, the mysterious apparitions, had the country’s undivided attention. He was, as the saying went, an ant in the afterbirth.
Good. He’d be back in Iraq in no time. And then the real fun would begin.
As he approached the first village he saw, Devlin slowed down. He had already changed out of his camouflage and into the local costume. He had been very careful about this, for there were distinct differences in dress among the towns and cities of Iran, just as there were differences among accents, and one could as easily give you away as the other. Colloquial Tehrani would do just fine.
Sir Richard Burton had always been one of his heroes. Burton, the great English explorer, translator, and linguist. Burton, the indispensable man of the Empire, who had fought and loved and traveled from India to central Africa to Brazil to the Mormon country. Burton, one of only a handful of infidels to make the hajj to Mecca and Medina and live to write of it. He had disguised himself as a Pashtun, which meant his speech would not be subject to the same scrutiny as that of an Arab. Still, it was always the little things that gave you away—Burton was nearly caught out when he lifted his robes to take a leak standing up instead of squatting on the ground like a native.
“O pilgrim, have you heard of the holy miracle at Qom?” asked the driver of the car, an ancient Russian Chaika that had somehow found its way here. One thing about countries in this part of the world: it was easy to hitch a ride, even if you sometimes had to share the vehicle with a dozen or so others, some of whom rode on the roof. “Seyed Khorasani has proclaimed himself, and the Occultation is nearing an end. Allah be praised.”
“This is why I am on the road to Qom myself in this moment.”
“Imagine—the Holy Prophet himself, may peace and blessings be upon him, has appeared in the skies about the holy city of Qom. Surely this is a sign from Allah that the Coming is near.”
“Surely it is.”
“And where will you be staying in Qom?”
Great. A garrulous driver. He did not want to take the conversation down this road. “I will leave that to the holy will of Allah, that I might find appropriate lodgings.”
The driver shook his head and made clucking noise. “Ah, but this will never do. The town is filled up. I am told myself that there is not an empty inn for miles around. Truly, brother, Allah must smile upon you in your hour of need.”
“Allah always helps those who believe in His holy word, and live by His holy book.”
The driver look at him warily, as if wondering whether he could trust him. Then he looked into the backseat, in case anyone might be lurking there to overhear, even though it was his own car. “But sometimes,” he said in a low voice, “Allah must be assisted in the most trifling of matters, and surely, brother, lodgings are a trifling matter when compared with the holy miracles that are sure to come.”
“Surely.”
Now a big smile broke across the driver’s swarthy face. They were on highway 56 from Ark to Qom, maybe an hour, maybe less, maybe two. You never knew in Iran. “In that case, fellow believer, this is your lucky day. For as sure as there is no God but Allah and that Mohammed is his Holy Prophet, just as sure is it that I have a brother-in-law dwelling within the sacred precincts of the holy city of Qom, very close to the sacred mosque at Jamkaran, and for a small sum I am certain that he will be able to accommodate you handsomely.”
The driver dropped his voice and leaned toward Devlin. “Might I also add, that his wife is renowned throughout the province for the excellence of her cooking, and his daughters are acknowledged by all as the fairest maidens of virtue in all of Iran!”
“Then you have made me an offer impossible for me to refuse,” said Devlin, taking out a fistful of rials and handing them over. The driver smiled at his great good fortune.
Excellent. He was getting a ride right into the heart of the city, and he was complicit with his new best friend, the driver, in a mutually beneficial transaction that had just involved the exchange of money. By the time-honored customs of the Islamic world, he and the driver were now informal allies against the state, and he could rely on him—except under duress—to do what he said he would do.
They rode largely in silence the rest of the way. The driver, having accomplished his mission of earning some money, had nothing more to say, which was just fine with Devlin. The less he had to speak the better. The more he could concentrate on the task ahead, the better. The closer he got to her, the better.
There—up ahead. The holy city of Qom.
Faster. Please, faster. But he could not let his impatience show. In this country, everything unfolded in Allah’s good time. It would be like raising your robe to pee.
“I am most grateful to you, brother, for extending the generosity of your family to me. This is a kindness of which Allah would approve, for is not hospitality among the duties of every Muslim?”
“It is indeed, brother.”
“And does not every Muslim have the sacred obligation to repay such kindness in kind?”
They were in the city now. Deep in an interior pocket, he could feel the Android vibrate.
“He does, brother.”
“Then so shall I repay you. I know not the hour, but assuredly that hour shall come.”
“The house of my brother-in-law is not far now,” said the driver.
“You have my security,” said Devlin, “but now I fear I must ask you a favor that no Muslim can refuse another. I wish first to be t
aken to the holy mosque, that I might see the wonders with my own eyes, and offer my prayers to the Twelfth Imam.”
“Of course,” said the driver, turning right between Qom University and Mofid University and heading east.
There, up ahead—Jamkaran.
The specially modified Android vibrated again.
The car pulled up near the mosque. Devlin tried to control his excitement as he made his dignified and stately way from the car. “In the name of Allah, I thank you, brother.”
“And I you, pilgrim,” scribbling down an address. “Give this to anyone in town and they will direct you to the home of Mohammed Radan.”
Devlin took the piece of paper with great dignity. “Go in peace. And now, I, too, must go.”
“May peace attend you, brother,” said the driver.
Start your engine. Go in peace, go with God—but go.
At last, after God’s own eternity, the car swung north and disappeared.
Devlin ducked into an alley and bowed, as if he were reciting a prayer before approaching the mosque. In his crouch he was able to see his messages:
The first was from Seelye. He read the instructions and permitted himself a small moment of triumph. If he knew his man, Skorzeny, he was way ahead on that one already; the STUXNET virus he could use for backup.
He read the second message—it was from her.
HELP
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Tehran
“I am sorry, but Col. Zarin is in Qom. And no infidel may travel to the holy city. It is the law.”
Skorzeny was not used to being refused. He looked at the customs functionary standing before him in his comic-opera uniform and said: “It is not the law.”
“I am sorry, but for you, on this day, it is the law.” The man turned to Mlle. Derrida. “For you too as well, missus.”
“I’m nobody’s missus,” she replied in French.
The customs man grinned and spoke to her in rapid-fire French. There began a prolonged prattle that lasted until Skorzeny could stand it no longer. “Please,” he said in English. “I have important business.”
The customs official once again made a great pretense of studying their travel documents. He double-checked whether the exit visas from Azerbaijan were in order (they were) and whether the proper visas had been obtained for entry into the Islamic Republic (they were as well). He could find nothing wrong with the legal formalities.
“I am happy to tell you that your documents are completely satisfactory. Now, what is your permanent address in Tehran and on what business do you journey here?”
“For the last time,” said Skorzeny, “we are here at the personal invitation of Col. Navid Zarin of the Revolutionary Guards. I understand that he is in Qom, and so it is to Qom that we must go. Therefore I would appreciate it if you stamp our papers with the appropriate stamp and let us be on our way.”
The man look chagrined. Disconsolate. “I am sorry, mister, but this thing is not allowed to be done at the present time. Perhaps inshallah things will change in the coming days. But for right now, no.”
“I would like to speak with your superior. Is that possible?”
“Yes, of course, sir. I will summon him in this moment.” The man pressed an emergency buzzer under the customs table. “See, he comes now.”
“Thank you,” said Skorzeny, walking over to meet him.
The customs official looked at Mlle. Derrida. “What brings you to the Islamic Republic, missus?” he asked. “It is a very great honor for me to meet so fine a lady.”
“Have you read La Disparition by Perec?” she asked.
“No, missus—should I?”
“You might want to consider it,” she said.
Skorzeny was on his way back. “Let’s go,” he said, holding out his hand for their passports.
“Is everything now in order, mister?” asked the customs man.
“Indeed,” said Skorzeny, taking Mlle. Derrida by the arm and leading her away. As they walked they could hear the superior shouting at the customs man, whose life was about to become very unpleasant.
“I wouldn’t want to be in that little fellow’s shoes,” said Mlle. Derrida. “I told him he should take off and vanish like the letter e, but I guess he thought I was kidding.”
“More likely he was entranced by your beauty, cold though it is,” retorted Skorzeny. He pointed to a black limousine with its engine idling in front of the terminal. No terrorism worries here, he thought to himself—what would they be afraid of? Irish nuns? The Swedish Bikini Team?
They got into the backseat. The driver stubbed out his cigarette and the car pulled away from the curb, darting right into the traffic flow without so much as a backward glance.
“What did you say to him?” asked Mlle. Derrida.
“Nothing. I paid him.”
“And he got the message?”
“Money speaks a universal language, Mlle. Derrida, especially when wedded to fear.”
He pressed a button and the partition slid into place. The car would be bugged, of course, but at least they could pretend they didn’t know that. To make their conversation a little more secure, Skorzeny switched to Russian, which Mlle. Derrida, being Polish on her mother’s side, also spoke fluently.
“The colonel was suddenly called away to Qom. This in itself is not surprising, since Qom is, as the Americans say, where the action is going to be. Which means, judging from his behavior, that Miss Harrington is also in Qom. How, I don’t know, but she always was a very resourceful woman. I admire her pluck and her savvy. Nevertheless, she must be forced to admit once more the error of her ways.”
“Which means?”
“Which means that I cannot let the Iranians have their way with her. If there is any punishment to be meted out, I should do the meting. I cannot bear the thought of these animals’ hands on her.”
“Nor can I,” said Mlle. Derrida. Was that a quizzical look from him? But desire and empathy knew no bounds.
“And, of course, we have other work to do. Important work. My life’s work, in fact. How I wish to share it with her, to have her witness the moment of my greatest triumph. Then, and only then, I will kill her for the grievous harm she has done to me.”
Mlle. Derrida raised an objection. “To kill her, you’re going to have to convince them to let you have her. And why should they? You’ve already cheated them out of Maryam. It seems to me, M. Skorzeny, that your Col. Zarin is going to be very unhappy with you.” A thought struck her. “What if he is using us as pawns as well? What use to him are you—alone, in his country and in his power?” She was beginning to be frightened now. “Why should he let us go? Why not hold us hostage, for ransom?” She started to sob quietly. France was never so beautiful.
Skorzeny put his arm around her, and she did not object. Ordinarily she hated it when he touched her, but things were different now.
But what if she was right? Of Zarin’s loyalties he was fairly certain, because there was a very sizable bank account waiting for him in the Caymans, but in this part of the world one never knew. Zarin could double-cross him out of some misguided religious fervor. The mullahs could be holding his family hostage. There could be some residual anger over Kohanloo, although he could point out that Kohanloo’s name never surfaced in the inquiry and that the Islamic Republic was in no way implicated in the attack on Times Square. Anything was possible.
That was where Devlin came in. The man had been fool enough to entrust his computer to maid Maryam, rigging it to harm Skorzeny. But he had no intention of having the accursed thing explode in his face, either literally or figuratively. He had a better plan.
He would trade it for Miss Harrington.
Let the Iranians have it. Let them deal with it. Whatever damage it was programmed to do to him and his financial empire, it would have no effect on them. They could take it apart, reverse-engineer it, break right into the heart of the Black Widow back in Fort Meade, worm their way into the highest levels of NSA and CSS cr
yptology, and destroy the Americans from within. They could not hope to defeat them on the field of battle, and even public opinion was finally beginning to turn against them, as the pet media poodles—who leapt to the defense of any “oppressed minority,” no matter how unoppressed, vindictive, or malicious they in fact actually were—finally began to notice that their own necks were being sized for the chopping block.
His hand moved to the briefcase, in which he kept the computer, as if to reassure himself that it was still there.
“It’s all right,” he said. “Trust me.”
Only two things mattered to him now. The first was the full realization of his great vision: the setting-off of the great religious and cultural war that would finally destroy the West, and all that he asked was a moment of revelation at the end, a moment when the people of the West would look at him and see the man who put finally them out of their misery.
The second was Miss Harrington. She must share in his apotheosis, and then expiate her sins.
We are discovered. Save yourself. How perfectly apposite, how resonant. One link in the chain of doom.
There was Qom, dead ahead.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
New York City
The sun rose, clear and bright. The October sky had kicked away the clouds and left the heavens azure—the perfect setting for a great miracle.
She appeared over Manhattan, nearer the East River than the Hudson, but visible from Queens and Brooklyn and Jersey, too, hovering with that same ineffable look of sadness on her face. It was the same vision the children at Garabandal had seen, the Muslims and Christians and Jews and the international news media at Zeitoun had seen. The same image that the poor Nigerians had seen, before they went at each other with weapons, before the long-standing conflicts of East and West, of the dar al-Islam and the dar al-Harb, had finally come into irrevocable conflict. Before war broke out in the Philippines.
And now she was here, floating above the capital city of the infidels.
Michael Walsh Bundle Page 93
