White, red-and green.
Harry grinned. “Looks like a spec-ops Christmas, bro. We’ve got you at our eleven o’clock, maybe two klicks out.”
“Good to hear it,” Hamid’s voice came back. “We’ll be waiting on you.”
“Everything copacetic?”
“Yeah. Sergeant Brown had a little bit of trouble with the landing. We fished him out before his chute could take him under.”
“He doing okay?”
There was a moment’s silence, then a voice in the background, indistinct. When he came back on, Hamid was laughing. “He says if you’ve got any brandy, he could use it.”
Harry chuckled. “Take five and we’ll be alongside.”
His name was Samir, but he was referred to by his American handlers as XENOPHON. Had he known the origins of the name, he might have been amused by the irony of the choice, but the
The Americans had turned him five years before, after a business trip to Paris. In a Parisian gentlemen’s club, as he remembered the scene, all flashing lights and beautiful women. Agreeing had seemed to be the thing to do at the time.
Whether he had agreed out of disillusionment with the theocratic regime of Qom, or out of interest in the money, was a question he still could not answer. At one time, he might have thought it was for the excitement, but there had been precious little of that through the years. Unless one called living a double life exciting.
Tonight was the first time he had carried a gun. He and his partner, a former Iranian intelligence agent, guarding the most powerful man in the country. His fingers trembled at the thought of it.
The Ayatollah Isfahani sat a few feet away, working at a laptop.
“What are you doing now?” XENOPHON asked, moving closer so he could look at the screen.
“There are ties of devotion that cannot be erased by the fiat of a dictator,” Isfahani replied, blithely ignoring the fact that he had served as virtual dictator of Iran for a full year before the rise of Shirazi. “I have my contacts within the VEVAK yet.”
“And that tells me what, exactly?” XENOPHON asked again.
“I should have the present location of the Hezbollah cell soon. Very soon, in fact.”
A knock came at the door and the two CIA men traded looks, then XENOPHON motioned for his partner to answer it, drawing his own pistol and holding it out of sight. Behind them, the Ayatollah closed his laptop to hide the screen.
The door swung open and XENOPHON heard a muffled
He never made it. Two hollowpoint slugs tore through his chest, catching him off-balance. The pistol clattered from his nerveless fingers as he crumpled sideways. He heard another pair of shots, muffled and far away, then everything went black.
It wasn’t the end he had imagined for himself, yet he could not find himself able to question the will of Allah. Isfahani sat there in the chair, watching as the gunmen approached, blood leaking from a hole in his neck.
The man stood in front of the desk and raised the pistol one final time. The Ayatollah closed his eyes, his lips whispering the creed of his life, preparing to face the angels.
The pistol spat fire…
“What’s the latest?” Danny Lasker asked, tucking his access swipe-card back in his shirt pocket as he came through the door of the operations center.
“Nichols has effected the rendevous with Zakiri and the rest of the team,” Carter replied, looking up from his workstation. He took a sip from the cup of coffee on his desk and made a face. “I don’t know where Ames finds this stuff. I could make a better brew out of a metro toilet. Anyway, they’re on their way back to the coast. WHIPPOORWILL will have transport waiting for them.”
“Acquired through the usual channels?”
“Yes.”
Seemingly satisfied with the response, Lasker draped his jacket over a nearby chair and went to work, sorting through the hourlies. The next moment, Carol Chambers came jogging up from the sub-level of the op-center.
“Ron,” she said, before noticing the watch officer’s presence. “We have a problem.”
“Shoot,” Danny replied, ignoring her momentary surprise.
“We’ve lost all contact with XENOPHON. He’s not answering his phone and the TACSAT’s locator beacon has fallen off our grids.”
Lasker frowned. “Not good. Anything from Isfahani himself?”
She shook her head. The watch officer sighed and reached for the phone on his desk. “This one goes straight to the director…”
Water churned in the express cruiser’s wake, white flecks of foam against a wine-dark sea. Hossein stood there at the stern of the boat, looking far off into the night. His mind racing. BEHDIN. Faithful and true. The sleeper…
He had recognized the man from the moment he had come onboard, seen how the Americans had welcomed their brother-in-arms. A serpent into the bosom.
And now what to do with the information…
“Here’s your weapon, sir.” Harry looked up into Davood’s eyes, then his gaze fell to the equipment bag the young agent was holding.
Harry nodded curtly and took the bag without another word, removing the Heckler amp; Koch UMP-45 from its waterproof casing as Davood turned to leave.
It seemed so hard to believe. He didn’t want to believe it, despite all the evidence to the contrary. And there was the key, the weakness. He didn’t
Harry swallowed hard, forcing down the anger that grew inside him. There was no time for this, not now, he thought, pulling the charging bolt back to chamber a round. His mind had to be clear. Too much was at stake. There would be time to deal with Davood after this mission was over.
Deal with the traitor…
Twenty minutes later, Hamid tapped him on the shoulder. “Langley wants to video-conference with us before we reach territorial waters. I have Tex’s laptop set up with the satellite uplink.”
Harry slung the gun around his shoulder and rose. “Shield the screen to minimize escaping light. We can’t risk being discovered by an Israeli destroyer.”
