Michael Walsh Bundle

by Michael Walsh

  “Love is what is left when thought has fled—not religion, not faith, but love. Love is what drives us. If there is a God, and like you I do not believe that for a moment . . . but if there is, then love is what brings us closer to him. Not hate. Not vengeance. Neither orders, nor rituals. Nothing from above, or below. Just us, humanity—what we French fought and lost our Revolution for. We sacrificed our ideals on the altar of the guillotine, and we learned never to do that again. And now here we are.”

  She turned to Skorzeny. “Get her back, sir,” she said, “and then let’s go home. I want to go home. Take me home.”

  Skorzeny indicated the laptop. “Very simple,” he said. “The computer for the girl. You get—if you can reverse-engineer it, and get past its built-in defenses—a glide path into the heart of the Great Satan. With this, you can destroy them. No need for bombs, nukes, Shahab missiles. No need for the permanent war against the West. You can end it all now, right here, right now. Break their Black Widow, corrupt her, seduce her, turn her into the whore you’ve always known she was. I don’t care. In fact, I endorse it.”

  He pushed the laptop across the table at Col. Zarin. “But give my own Black Widow back to me. Give me Miss Harrington.”

  Col. Zarin looked at the laptop. He looked at Skorzeny. He looked at Mlle. Derrida.

  Skorzeny looked at him. Neither of them blinked.

  On the wall, the clock kept ticking. At last—

  “I will take you to her,” Col. Zarin said.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Qom

  Devlin and Maryam moved through the crowd, deliberately but quickly.

  “He’s here,” said Devlin in Farsi.

  “How do you know?”

  “Because he can’t resist.”

  They were past the mosque now, heading for the home of Mohammed Radan, Devlin’s taxi driver’s brother-in-law. They needed a place to get out of sight, even if only for a few hours. The house of Mohammed Radan would have to do.

  “Emanuel Skorzeny,” said Devlin softly, “always must have the last word. Always must see the other fellow submit. He will not be able to abide her betrayal, nor will he be able to credit it. For him to have misjudged her so badly reflects poorly on him. And hearing her say it will set his world right again.”

  “We have to rescue her,” said Maryam. “She saved my life.”

  “She may have saved more than that.”

  The address they were seeking was close now. “He’s got your computer, you know.”

  “I was counting on it. Why do you think I gave it to you?”

  He felt her stiffen. “You wanted him to get it?”

  “Ideally, no. I wanted you to find him. But he found you first. He didn’t get to where he is today by being unaware of danger. But he has a weakness, just as we all do. And his weakness is his vanity.”

  “What’s your weakness?” she asked.

  “You,” he said simply.

  Mr. Radan was delighted to meet the traveler of whom his esteemed brother-in-law had spoken so highly, and rejoiced in the mercy of Allah that his honored guest was now joyously reunited with his wife. Mrs. Radan was immediately dispatched to the kitchen to prepare a repast for their guests, and the fair Radan daughters were paraded in front of the new arrivals, each to offer a greeting in turn. Then Mr. Radan showed them to a back bedroom in his modest but comfortable house and immediately ordered the eldest daughter to bring them black tea and sweet drinks. Then he left them alone.

  “You can take that off now,” said Devlin. “I think we are batin.” In Persian society, there were two modes—the public, zahir, in which all the sharia-based social norms were punctiliously observed, and the private, or batin, in which the chadors came off, and the hair went down.

  Maryam took off the chador. She opened the bag Amanda had given her, took out a change of clothes, and went to wash up.

  Devlin found the secure uplink NSA had provided and downloaded what he needed. There was a relay from Hope via Danny—the clock was ticking on the bomb in New York, and the trigger was the laser. They had calculated the rate of descent, which was holding steady. There wasn’t much time.

  Devlin let his mind travel back. The dead cattle along Highway 5. That had been a warm-up, the miracles a distraction. They were testing, and soon they would be ready to strike.

  Involuntarily, he found himself admiring the length of time it had taken to plan all this, and how careful they had been. Schritt vor schritt, as the Germans liked to say: step by step, one thing after another, letting it unfold gradually but inevitably. He could see and admire the hand of the master, whose entire life had been dedicated to the proposition that there was nothing you could not accomplish if only you set your mind to it and went about it to the exclusion of nearly everything else.

  That was Emanuel Skorzeny’s life, and he had only ever let one thing intrude. And now, inshallah, it was about to cost him that life.

  For Skorzeny was here, in Qom. He could feel his malevolent presence, just as he was sure Skorzeny could feel his. They would find each other. And then settle this thing.

  He didn’t want to stay online very long—no matter how secure and how shielded, a capable counter-intelligence system eventually would eventually detect him. But he’d gotten when he needed, from Seelye, from Danny. Just one more thing.

  Time to bait the last trap.

  The laptop, which operated at the highest level of NSA security, had a feature he hadn’t told Maryam about. Even if it was shut down, it could be activated remotely—and by activated, he meant activated. It would automatically switch on in order to receive any critical communication from the Building in Fort Meade.

  He could access the Building from his Android.

  He accessed the Building.

  He activated the signal.

  The signal went out.

  He switched off the Android and lay back on the bed for a moment, imagining Skorzeny’s reaction. Would be it be shock or delight? Terror or triumph? Who else was with him? It didn’t matter. The machine was now doing the job for which he had designed it.

  Upon receiving the activation signal, the laptop would display the origin of the incoming. That would be the moment of maximum danger, since it would blow their location, but that was exactly what he needed to do. They had to seem exposed and vulnerable, otherwise an army would show up and there was no way that the two of them could fight their way through an army. He had to let Skorzeny think he alone had gotten the drop on him.

  One more chess move. One more, and then it would all be over, one way or the other.

  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 mean
t 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?