“Agent Zakiri just left Langley,” the voice in his headset informed him. “You’ll want to be moving out of there.”
The man nodded his head, toggling the headset mike as he looked around the small apartment. “We’re almost done. Thanks for the heads-up.”
He switched the radio off and walked over to a man standing in front of Hamid’s computer. “Find anything?”
“I’m through his firewall without any trouble,” the tech replied. “Mirroring is almost finalized.”
“All the data is on there?” The leader asked, gesturing to the small thumb drive inserted in the front USB port of the computer’s tower. After all the trouble they had experienced tailing the CIA team earlier in the day, he had expected Zakiri’s computer to be a harder task than it had proved.
“Yes. We can go through it later.”
A man in a black sweatshirt and jeans emerged from the bedroom holding a camera in his hands.
“Everything photographed?”
A quick nod was the only reply. The leader glanced around the room. “Everything back in place?”
Both of his men answered in the affirmative and he smiled grimly. “Then let’s move it out.”
Chapter Nine
The dining room of the Supreme Ayatollah’s house was spartan in its furnishings, which was as it should have been. The centuries of Persian decadence had been swept away by the rising tide of the Islamic Republic, and the rich ornamentation once considered traditional had gone with it.
Isfahani sighed, sipping his cup of coffee slowly. Their deception had survived the night, at the very least. And there was no reason why it shouldn’t have. His servants were loyal to him and him alone.
Those that had not been were no longer. They were in Allah’s hands now…
“You slept well, Major?” he asked, without turning to face the man who had just entered the room.
Farshid Hossein responded with a short laugh. “As well as could be expected. For a man supposed to be dead.”
“To be sure. Coffee?”
Hossein nodded. After the events of the preceding twenty-four hours, he would have preferred something stronger-but he had the suspicion that alcohol was not to be found on Isfahani’s premises. And his greatest safety lay in being the best Muslim possible.
The Ayatollah spoke again after pouring Hossein’s coffee into a plain earthenware cup. “You will be leaving today,” he said, calmly announcing the major’s fate as though giving the time of day. “I will provide you with the clothes we give out to supplicants and send you to my home town of Isfahan.”
“And I’m to do what?” Hossein asked, once again surprising the older man with his boldness.
“That will be explained presently. Do you play chess, major?”
An affirmative nod answered the question and the Ayatollah continued, “It is Shirazi’s move. My spies will tell me when he makes it. And then I will know how to instruct you.”
“I will not be acting alone?”
“No. Even in these days, Allah has ordained that I should have my followers. And they will support us when the time comes.”
Hossein shot a skeptical look across the table. “I don’t need religious zealots. I served with enough of them in Iraq to know their limitations. I need trained soldiers, men with experience carrying out this type of operation if we’re to have a prayer of stopping them. A detachment of your bodyguards would be most desirable.”
“I’m afraid that is impossible-my bodyguards are known to Shirazi and under surveillance themselves.” Isfahani pursed his lips together tightly. “Allah will guide our hands, major. We need not fear that he would side with those who would desecrate his shrine.”
He held up a hand for silence as Hossein started to interrupt him. “Howbeit, I did not recruit you with the intention of blithely disregarding your advice. You shall have your soldiers. Do you have any other questions?”
There was a long, awkward pause, then the major spoke. “In 2006, my men and I planted explosives in the Askariya shrine of Samarra, Iraq. Six separate bombs planted in one of the holiest of all Shiite shrines. Yet you sanctioned my operation.”
For a moment, the expression on the old man’s face was as if he had been struck a physical blow. “Times change,” he replied, recovering at long last, “times change, and we are shown the more perfect will of Allah.”
The Russian-built Mi-8 transport was in its fiftieth year of service as it swept over the foothills of the Alborz, its engines rattling as though threatening to fall apart.
Colonel Harun Larijani glanced out the door of the chopper, a strut clutched tightly in his white-knuckled grasp as the ground flew by beneath them. Twenty men squatted on the metal deck of the Mi-8, all of them dressed in Iranian army fatigues.
He flashed them a smile that was meant to be reassuring, but his gaze flickered back to the two stainless- steel canisters secured in the back of the aircraft and the smile vanished as quickly as it had come. Memories of the previous night’s audience with his uncle flashed back through his mind and he dropped to his knees there by the door, nearly overcome by a wave of nausea. Bile rose in his throat and he choked it back, pale with the effort.
He could not, no, he
Forcing his mind back to the practicalities of their mission, he bent over his map. They couldn’t be far now. Larijani reached for the biological mask at his side and faced his men.
“You have been instructed in the proper use of these masks. Make sure you follow those instructions to the letter. The bacteria is ingested through the lungs-breathing in even the smallest amount may result in your death. Am I understood?”
He could see in their eyes that they did-several of the men looked well-nigh as sick as he, but he was too far gone to take pleasure in the fact.
He took a deep breath in an effort to stabilize himself before going on. “Secure your masks now. We’re coming up on the target.”
The jarring vibration of the TACSAT in his ribs woke Harry from a sound sleep. “Nichols,” he answered, awake in an instant. He had trained himself that way.
“Harry, it’s Hamid.”
“Do you know what time it is?” Harry demanded, glancing at the luminous display of his digital clock to assure himself he wasn’t dreaming.
“Yeah, I do. I just got in.”
“What kept you?” Harry asked, feeling unusually sarcastic. “A hot date?”
“You might call it that,” came the unamused reply. “The usual fence-mending after deployment. You know
