boss can shake loose a few more resources to follow this up on our own.”
Rossini nodded. “Sounds good.”
“In the meantime, we’ll keep digging ourselves with what we’ve got now including a call to Taleh.” Thorn’s jaw tightened. “Some son of a bitch is out there rebuilding a terrorist movement, and I want to find out who the hell it is.”
CHAPTER 5
DRY RUN
Colonel Peter Thorn sipped his instant coffee and grimaced at the awful taste. Served him right for arriving before the coffeemaker’s self-appointed caretakers turned the machine on, he thought. He bit down hard on a tired yawn.
He’d started coming in to the office before dawn partly to get an early start on the day, but mostly to avoid the Pentagon rush-hour crush he disliked so much. Although the strategy worked, coming in early didn’t mean he could leave any sooner. Mostly, he was still locked to his desk long into the evening. Since taking over the Intelligence Liaison Unit, he’d been putting in sixteen-hour days to bring himself up to speed on his analysts’ work and on the way the DOD system ran.
Those extended days and nights were paying off in knowledge and understanding, but he knew he couldn’t keep up the murderous pace for much longer. Falling asleep on a pile of reports during a meeting would probably not be the best way to build his new staff’s confidence in him, he thought wryly.
His phone buzzed suddenly, bringing him wide awake. “Thorn here.”
“Colonel, this is Sergeant Nyland in Communications. You have a secure call from Tehran. A Captain Farhad Kazemi?” The noncom stumbled slightly over the unfamiliar name.
“Put it through, Sergeant.” Thorn glanced at his computer monitor. With a little software wizardry from Joe Rossini, he’d set it to continuously display the local time in both Washington and Tehran. With eight and a half hours between them, it was still morning in D.C. It was near evening in the Iranian capital.
He heard a series of clicks and then the low hum of a carrier wave as Kazemi came on the line. “Colonel Thorn?”
The captain’s voice was slightly distorted by the satellite uplink and the scrambler but still recognisable. For the Iranians, the secure communications system they had been given was one of the first tangible technological fruits of Taleh’s quiet cooperation with the U.S. It wasn’t the newest equipment in the American electronics arsenal, but it was far more effective than anything else available to them.
“Go ahead, Captain, this is Thorn.”
“It is good to speak to you, Colonel.” Kazemi sounded genuinely glad to reach him, though he was clearly a bit surprised at the speed and ease involved in making a connection halfway around the globe. Nearly two decades of revolutionary turmoil and inadequate maintenance had left the domestic Iranian telephone system in complete chaos. “Please hold for a moment, sir. General Taleh will be here shortly.”
Thorn arched an eyebrow in surprise. Although he hadn’t known exactly what to expect when he and Rossini asked the Iranians for their take on the rumored terrorist recruiting in Bosnia, he certainly had not expected a direct response from Amir Taleh himself. Commanders of Taleh’s high rank rarely worked the detail side of the intelligence game. With the radicals still in control of some parts of the Iranian government, he must be keeping the precise extent of his rapprochement with the U.S. a closely held secret.
The Iranian general’s firm, confident voice came on the line. “Good morning, Peter.”
Thorn sat up straighter. “Evening, sir.”
“Shall we dispense with discussing the weather and the other usual pleasantries? I am afraid that my time is at a premium just now. Captain Kazemi guards my schedule like a jealous lion and he informs me that I have a staff meeting in short order.”
Thorn smiled to himself. After days spent wading through Pentagon doublespeak, Taleh’s plain, blunt manner was a welcome breath of fresh air. “Of course.”
“Good,” the Iranian said. “Then let us cut to the heart of the matter. I have questioned my intelligence officers about these rumors from Bosnia.” He paused briefly before continuing. “They confirm some of the reports you passed on to Kazemi.”
“So someone is recruiting Bosnian Muslims as terrorists?”
“So it appears,” Taleh agreed somberly. “However, they do not believe this recruiting effort is as widespread as your own intelligence agencies fear.”
“Oh?”
“It is the old story of the marketplace, Peter. One timid man sees a shadow and within the hour all have heard that an army of ghosts has gathered.” Thorn could almost hear the other man’s shrug. “I suspect such a process is at work in Bosnia. One man offered training abroad becomes ten men in the telling and retelling. And ten men recruited as terrorists becomes a thousand or ten thousand summoned to a new jihad as word is passed from wagging tongues to straining ears.”
“I hope you’re right.” Thorn knew the Iranian had a good point. The rumors the various Western intelligence agencies were picking up could easily be stories blown out of proportion “echoes” bouncing back and forth from a single, small kernel of truth. But even ten wellarmed, well-trained terrorists could wreak almost as much havoc as a larger force.
He said as much to Taleh.
“That is true,” the Iranian said. “I assure you, I do not take this news lightly, Peter. I have no wish to see our mutual enemies regaining any of their strength no matter how weak they are now.”
“Do your intelligence people have any kind of a fix on who’s behind all this?” Thorn asked. If Taleh could just point him in the right direction, he and Rossini could put pressure on the CIA and the other agencies to focus the resources needed to find these bastards. To pinpoint them while they were still training. To keep them under close and constant watch. And then to smash them before they could act against the West.
The Iranian disappointed him. “I am afraid we have no solid evidence.” He sighed. “It is a difficult matter. There are many different Muslim factions in Bosnia almost as many as there are countries here in the Middle East. They have adopted as their own the quarrels and petty jealousies that tear us apart. They spend almost as much time killing each other as they do fighting the Serbs.
“In any case, the more radical groups have little use for Iran now,” Taleh continued. “When I broke the hold of the HizbAllah over my nation, we lost what little influence we had over the fanatics. Their allegiances have shifted.”
“To Baghdad?” Thorn asked, mentally fanning the deck of hostile Islamic powers and picking the most powerful among them.
“I think it is likely,” Taleh agreed. “The Iraqis have ample reason to hate America and its allies.”
Thorn nodded to himself. The Iranian general’s theory fit neatly into the composite picture of the current Islamic terrorism threat that Rossini and his analysts were putting together. Communications intercepts and reports from human sources already showed that the surviving fragments of the HizbAllah, Hammas, and other radical groups were drifting into Baghdad’s orbit. If Bosnian Muslims were being rounded up for a new terrorist campaign, the Iraq government was clearly the prime suspect.
“I wish that I could have been more helpful. I promise, you will be the first to know if I learn anything more.”
“Thank you. I’ll be grateful for any assistance you can provide,” Thorn said. “In the meantime, we’ll keep probing on our end.”
“Of course. Go with God, Peter.”
The connection to Tehran broke, leaving Thorn listening to a dial tone. He put the phone down, stood up, and poked his head outside his office.
His secretary, a prim, middle-aged woman, was just hanging her purse on the back of her chair.
