“Well, part of that pass would have taken the KH over the central Zagros Mountains. I’ve been seeing reports passed to us from the Mossad network inside Iran. The Israelis keep mentioning persistent rumors of some large- scale commando training facility out in the middle of nowhere in those mountains.”
“And you think that might be our missing terrorist camp?”
Rossini shrugged. “Possibly.”
Thorn shook his head. “I think you could be on the wrong track there, Joe. From what I saw and from what I’ve heard since, Taleh is firmly in control of the Iranian military. And remember, he has an Iranian Special Forces background. It wouldn’t surprise me one bit if he’s building up Iran’s commando units along with the rest of his Army.”
In fact, Thorn thought that was the most likely explanation. The CIA’s Weekly Intelligence Summaries were full of stories on Taleh’s efforts to modernize the Iranian armed forces. Iranian purchasing agents were procuring supplies of modern armored vehicles, artillery, ships, and aircraft in immense quantities mostly from Russia and the other former Soviet republics. Those purchases were matched by increasingly realistic training and by a series of purges that seemed aimed at ridding Iran’s military of incompetent officers. The conventional wisdom was that the general and his supporters were preparing to fight and win a possible rematch with their old adversary, Iraq.
In this case, Thorn thought the conventional wisdom was right. He knew personally how much Taleh loathed the Iraqis. The chance to smash them and restore Iran’s position as a regional superpower would probably seem a godsend to the Iranian general. He said as much to Rossini.
The larger man’s shoulders slumped slightly. “So you think we should drop this investigation, Pete?”
Thorn hesitated. Though he believed Rossini’s latest hypothesis unlikely, he wasn’t ready to dismiss all of the analyst’s work so readily. Given the necessarily limited nature of the data they had to work with, intelligence professionals like the Maestro were often guilty of seeing “tigers in every patch of tall grass.” On the other hand, he also knew how easy it was to fall under the spell of the “rosy scenario” to see events and data through a mental filter that blocked out inconvenient facts. And he’d worked long enough with the older analyst to respect both his intelligence and his intuition. If something about the situation in Iran was niggling at Rossini, now was the time to pin it down.
At last he shook his head. “No. I don’t think we should drop it. Look, Joe, I’m scheduled to see Farrell the day after tomorrow. Do what you can to refine that” he pointed toward the bulky report on their Bosnian probe “and I’ll try to wangle a little more time and some more resources from the Boss.”
The long-drawn-out rumble of jet engines penetrated even the thick walls of Major General Sam Farrell’s personal office. The C-141 Starlifter pilots assigned to fly the 82nd Airborne Division into any battle were practicing touch-and-goes on Pope’s mile-long runways.
“Let me get this straight, Pete,” Farrell said wryly. “You want me to tell the Joint Chiefs and the White House to take a hike because Joe Rossini still has a mental itch he can’t scratch.”
“Well, maybe not in so many words, sir.” Thorn smiled. “I thought you might phrase it a little more diplomatically.”
Farrell chuckled. “Since I like my job, I probably would.” His expression turned serious. “But I don’t know how much slack I can cut for you and your team, Pete. We’ve got some serious budget battles on the horizon, and I can’t piss off too many people now who I’m going to need down the road later.”
Thorn nodded his understanding. He’d been hearing the rumors on the JSOC grapevine for weeks. Faced with threadbare defense budgets and a reduced worldwide terrorist threat, some in Congress and in the SecDef’s office wanted to disband at least one of Delta’s three squadrons with commensurate reductions in force for the 160th Aviation Regiment and other support units. There were senior officers in the Army’s hierarchy who supported those proposals. Some were motivated by continuing doubts about the real military utility of “special operations.” Others believed the Army would be better served by reintegrating Delta’s highly trained noncoms into regular combat units. With his command under such close congressional and JCS scrutiny, it was no wonder that Farrell was reluctant to rock the boat very much right now.
He pulled his cap off the general’s desk, preparing to rise.
“Not so fast, Pete.” Farrell waved him back down. “Don’t give up so easily. I didn’t say I couldn’t do anything at all.”
“No, sir.”
“But you will have to compromise,” the general said. “Assign most of your people to research this European neo-Nazi connection the FBI is all hot and bothered about. In turn, I’ll pull some strings with the powers-that-be. I should be able to make sure you can keep Rossini and a small team at work on this Bosnia problem. I know that’ll slow you down some, but it’s the best I can do. Fair enough?”
“Fair enough, sir.” In truth, that was more than Thorn had expected.
“Good.” Farrell rocked back in his chair. “Before you go, my wife wanted me to ask you how Helen’s doing. That was one hell of a piece of work she did inside that synagogue. But I understand she had a rough time of it afterward.”
Thorn nodded, remembering the exhaustion and regret he’d heard in Helen’s voice during their first phone conversation after she came off duty. “It was the first time she’d ever shot anyone,” he explained.
Farrell nodded sympathetically. “Killing’s never easy on the conscience.”
“No, sir.” The image of a young Panamanian Defense Force soldier rose in Thorn’s mind. The kid couldn’t have been much more than seventeen years old. He shook off the memory. “But Helen’s tough. She’s recovering pretty well. In fact, I’m supposed to see her this weekend.”
“That’s good.” The general smiled broadly. “I know Louisa would give me holy hell if anything went wrong between you two now. I think she’s already planning your rehearsal dinner.”
Thorn suddenly felt like a deer standing frozen in the headlights of an oncoming truck. And curiously, he wasn’t sure that he really wanted to spring out of the way.
CHAPTER 11
DETONATION
The National Press Club was located in a nondescript, almost seedy, concrete office building on Fourteenth Street, right in the heart of Washington, D.C. Typical drab 1940s architecture, the National Press Office building reflected the age of the organisation, but only hinted at its power.
Although technically only a professional organisation for journalists, the press club was much more. Its members included the cream of the national and even international media. Their reporting could help make or break political careers, and no self-respecting political figure could pass up the opportunity to bring his or her message before such an influential body.
Since its founding in 1908, presidents had sometimes used the organization’s forum to announce major new policies and programs. Foreign heads of state had argued their sides in international disputes. Interest group leaders of all stripes and persuasions had earnestly proclaimed their manifestos from its dais. In fact, over the years, the list of National Press Club guests had become so august that simply being invited to speak there was now a newsworthy event in and of itself.
The Reverend Walter Steele had addressed the National Press Club twice before. His first appearance, eleven years before, had come shortly after his election as the leader of one of the nation’s leading black civil rights organisations. His speech, labeled “visionary” by those in attendance and endlessly replayed on the nation’s television screens and over the radio airwaves, had firmly established him as a major player on the American political scene. His second oration, six years later, had been sharply critical of the then administration’s civil rights record further cementing his reputation as spellbinding firebrand, one with political ambitions of his own.
Since then, he had appeared on news programs, talk shows, and campaign platforms across the country,
