Halovic nodded, satisfied by the other man’s cover story. As an area leader, he’d been allowed to choose his own people, and he knew Yassine intimately. They were both the products of bitter wars fought against hopeless odds. They were both survivors of Masegarh.
As a teenager and a young man, Yassine had caused a lot of trouble for Israel and for Israeli forces in Lebanon. He knew Beirut and the Christian strongholds in southern Lebanon like the back of his hand. So his cover was a good one. He also had extensive experience with automobiles. More useful to Halovic, the Palestinian had demonstrated a remarkable talent for operating “behind the lines” in disguise.
Yassine was his driver and scout. The first cell member to arrive in the United States, he’d spent the last week securing lodgings and transportation and learning the ins and outs of the area’s roads and highways.
Halovic, as the team leader, was the second man to arrive. More were on the way, leaving Iran by differing routes. A dozen or so were assigned to infiltrate America’s eastern seaboard. Other groups were earmarked for other regions. The initial orders for all the cells were explicit: Arrive safely and undetected by the Americans. Submerge yourselves in their midst. Gather information and make plans as directed by Tehran. And then wait. Wait for the code-words that will unleash you.
Yassine turned left off the wider boulevard into an area of narrower, treelined streets, single-family homes, and sidewalks. Driving smoothly and staying well within the speed limit, he took a series of twists and turns down the quiet suburban roads to clear their tail. Anyone trying to follow them would have stood out like a sore thumb.
Halovic took his eyes off the passenger-side mirror and nodded to the Palestinian. “We’re clear.”
Yassine took them out the other side of the residential development and onto a wider, arterial street. Ten minutes’ driy~ekil~emto a small brick house with white-trimmed windows. It lay in the middle of a row of identical houses, all built beside a busy four-lane avenue. Bushes bordered a small, well-kept lawn.
Halovic nodded approvingly. The busy street would make their own comings and goings less conspicuous.
“What about the neighbors?” he asked as they pulled off the street and onto a concrete driveway beside the house. They parked behind an old Ford minivan. “Will they pose any problems?”
“I haven’t seen anyone, and I’ve been here a week,” Yassine reported. He nodded toward the houses on either side.
“They all work. Both the husbands and the wives. We will have no trouble with them.”
“Good.” Halovic got out of the car and pulled his bag out after him. The sooner they were inside, the better he would feel.
Yassine handed him a set of duplicate keys before he unlocked the front door. It opened into the living room, illuminated by a single floor lamp. It was furnished with a secondhand couch, a few chairs, and a television set. The walls were painted an unremarkable beige, and a worn brown rug covered the floor. He could see into the kitchen beyond, also furnished. A short hall led off to his right.
Halovic followed the Palestinian down the hall.
“There are three bedrooms. This is one.” Yassine gestured to a small front bedroom, sparsely furnished. He opened another door. “I have been using this one.”
It was a corner room, larger and with nicer furnishings. The driver’s tone made it clear that he would move out in a second if the team leader said the word.
“Keep it,” Halovic commanded. “I’ll only be here a few nights anyway.” Once the rest of his force began arriving, he would find other quarters. Even the busiest locals were bound to grow curious if they noticed the house was occupied by several young men.
He opened the door into what had been the third bedroom. Brightly lit by an overhead fluorescent light was now a work area. Near one wall a cheap folding table supported a brand-new laptop computer and stacks of papers, while another table next to it was covered with gunsmith’s tools and a partially disassembled pump-action shotgun. A third held power and electronics tool kits, all still sealed in their original packages.
Halovic wandered over to the first table. It was stacked high with maps, realty brochures, and classified ads. Most of the maps looked new, but he could see that Yassine had studied and marked several of them, concentrating on those showing the Washington metropolitan region.
He turned toward the silent Palestinian and nodded. “You’ve done well.”
Yassine swelled with pride. The months they’d spent together at Masegarh had taught him that the Bosnian never offered praise lightly.
Halovic tapped the computer keyboard idly. He looked up. “Do you understand this machine yet?”
Yassine lowered his eyes, clearly embarrassed. “No. It is difficult.” He shrugged. “The operating manuals are very hard to decipher.”
“Difficult or not, you will learn to use this machine,” Halovic said coldly. “Is that understood?”
“Yes.” The Palestinian stood motionless for a moment with his head slightly bowed. “It will be done.”
“Good.” Halovic strode to the second table and picked up the disassembled shotgun. He recognised it as a Remington Model 870 and nodded to himself. A good weapon at least in close quarters. Such weapons and the ammunition for them were also readily available in the United States.
A wooden rack against the wall held another Model 870, but this one had been radically modified, its barrel shortened and its stock sawed off and shaped into a pistol grip. Hunting rifles and pistols completed the small armory. All were common makes, firing widely available ammunition.
More powerful and more sophisticated arms and armaments would come from overseas usually smuggled across America’s wide-open border with Mexico. One of the twelve-man cells dispatched by General Taleh was solely responsible for shepherding those weapons shipments to secure drops scattered across the continental United States. Once the shipments were delivered, each regional cell would break them up, moving some of the gear to safe houses and hiding the rest in separate small caches.
Halovic put the shotgun back on the table and wiped the oil off his hands. “How far away is the first drop site?”
“I estimate a three-hour drive to the southeast. Somewhere near a town called Virginia Beach.”
Halovic shrugged. The name meant nothing to him. He stabbed a finger toward the pile of maps. “Show me.”
He peered intently at the map Yassine pulled out and unfolded, orienting himself memorising the astonishingly complex network of highways and major roads that fed in and out of America’s capital city and surrounding suburbs. It was time to begin preparing in earnest for the war he would ignite.
CHAPTER 7
FALSE COLORS
Walker’s Landing was a tiny Virginia hamlet nestled against the southern bank of the James River roughly two and a half hoors south of Washington, D.C., and west of Richmond. Surrounded by tangled woods, gloomy swamps, and small, rundown farms, it was little more than a cluster of houses and stores cantered around Route 250, a two-lane blacktop highway that crossed the river.
Sefer Halovic peered through the dirty windshield of his Buick LeSabre and nodded in satisfaction. He’d been guided to this part of Virginia by pamphlets carefully collected by Yassine and other Iranian agents. Walker’s Landing seemed perfect for his purposes. Isolated, confined, and impoverished, the place appeared a likely breeding ground for the narrow minds and festering hatreds he sought. Country villages had produced some of the most savage killers in the Bosnian war. He saw no reason why it should be any different here.
He pulled off the main road and into a gravel motel parking lot at the southern end of town. A row of ten dilapidated cinder-block bungalows surrounded the parking lot. Each had been divided into two motel rooms. A car and an old pickup were parked out in front of two of the bungalows. The rest appeared unoccupied. The building closest to the highway had a sign in one of its unwashed windows identifying it as an office.
