that.
Bani Aberhadji ran his fingers down both sides of his Adam’s apple as they drove, contemplating what would happen after he unleashed the weapon on Israel.
The Israelis would attack Iran. Of that there could be no doubt. The suffering would be great. But in the aftermath, the Guard could reassert itself. Following a period of great hardship, Islam would begin to rebuild itself. Purity of belief, and as always Allah’s help, would provide the victory.
The most critical period would come in the weeks following the retaliation. Muslims would rally to Iran’s side, but what would the rest of the world do? The Americans were particularly unpredictable. It was very likely they would try and seek him out, make him and other brothers in the Guard scapegoats for the attacks.
He would stand defiantly. He would pray for a trial where his views could be heard.
Or he could drive to Tehran after the missile was launched and wait for the expected counterblow. Becoming a martyr was a welcome prospect. He felt tired, and daunted by the enormity of the next steps he would have to take.
“No, not here,” he told the driver as the man prepared to pull into the Guard base. “Keep going straight.”
“I’m sorry, Imam. I thought—”
“It’s not your fault. We are going to a base at Tajevil that I use,” explained Aberhadji. “It is only a little way further. Be careful in your driving. Our cargo is precious.”
The roads were sparse in this corner of Iran, and Danny had to drive nearly five miles north before finding one that would take him back toward the area where Aberhadji had headed. By that time, the truck had stopped at a small air base in the mountains near Tajevil. According to the Voice, the strip was long but only made of packed dirt.
“There are no aircraft on the ground,” said the Voice. “Database indicates strip has not been used within past decade. Runway length estimated at 3,310.7 meters, not counting apron area and—”
“Get me Breanna Stockard,” said Danny.
Breanna, en route to Turkey, answered from the C-17.
“Someone must be on their way to meet him at this airstrip,” he told her. “We have to track the aircraft.”
“I’ll get back to you,” she said.
“Computer, examine the defenses around the airstrip,” said Danny.
“Facility is surrounded on three sides by barbed-wire fence. There are two guard posts at the entrance, and one lookout. There are two barracks buildings. One building is not presently heated. Conclusion: building is unoccupied.”
“Are there flak guns?”
“Antiaircraft weaponry not detected.”
“How many people are at the base?”
“Impossible to determine.”
“Estimate.”
“One to two dozen, based on typical security measures for Iranian air force facilities.”
The computer was scaling down its estimate from actual bases, which might or might not be a good method.
“Ask it what’s in the building on the north side,” said Hera, examining the image. “There are a couple of trailers and a long, narrow building beyond the runway area, set off behind another set of fences.”
“Are any of them airplane hangars?” Danny asked.
“They’re too small. There are some antennas nearby.”
MY-PID IDed the facility as part of a Russian-made SA-6 antiaircraft installation, though it was missing several key parts, most significantly the missiles. The long, narrow building was IDed as a storage facility for backup missiles, which, at an operating base, would be moved onto nearby erectors after the first set were fired.
A search of Agency records revealed that the site had been prepared for American Hawk missiles during the Shah’s time. These had never been installed. Though conversion had been started for Russian weapons, they too had never arrived, and it had been delisted as a possible antiaircraft installation a few years before.
Breanna broke into the Voice’s briefing.
“Danny, we have an AWACS in Iraq that we’re going to get up to track the plane,” she said. “Can you get close enough to get a visual ID of whatever it is in the meantime? Is that doable?”
“We’ll try.”
Aberhadji practically leapt out of the cab, striding quickly toward the missile storage building. He was met halfway by Abas Jafari, the son of a man whom he’d served with during the war with Iraq. Tall and gaunt, Abas had his father’s eyes and voice, and in the darkness Aberhadji could easily have confused the two.
“Imam, we are ready to store the weapon as you directed,” Abas said.
“There has been a change of plans,” said Aberhadji. “Move the missile from the storage area and prepare it. Give me some men to take the warhead from the truck. The Israelis have already struck,” he added. “You must move as quickly as you can.”
Abas blinked in disbelief.
“We will be ready within the hour,” he said.
69
The cab driver was a talkative sort, babbling on to Tarid about his horrible in-laws. The father was a swine and the mother ten times worse. The man had loaned the driver money twice during the early days of his marriage, and though the loans had been repaid long ago, he still acted as if his son-in-law was a money-grubbing leech. His mother-in-law never washed, and filled every place she went with an unbearable stench.
Tarid was too concerned with his own worries to pay more than passing attention. Aberhadji wanted him to go to an industrial park several miles south of the city. He couldn’t imagine what sort of package would be there, especially at this hour of night.
Half of him was sure it was some sort of trap. The other half argued that if Aberhadji had wanted to kill him, he’d have done it that afternoon, when it would have been easier. He thought of telling the driver to take him to the airport instead. But instead he leaned forward from the backseat, head against the neck rest.
“I brought a fare here two years ago,” said the driver as they neared the turn off the highway. “He was a very respectable man from Egypt. Ordinarily, I do not like Egyptians. But this man was an exception.”
“Mmmmm,” muttered Tarid.
“He used a very nice soap. A very nice scent.”
Tarid wondered what he himself smelled like. Fear, most likely. And resignation.
The cab driver continued down a long block, flanked on both sides by large apartment complexes. The lights on the poles cast the buildings a dim yellow, and turned the dull gray bricks brown. They came to an intersection and turned right, passing a pair of service stations before the land on both sides of the road cleared entirely. As the light faded behind them, Tarid felt as if they had entered the desert, though in fact they were many miles from it.
“Which building were we going to?” asked the cab driver. It was only luck that he knew of the complex, due to the fare he had told Tarid about. While the names of the roads within it were predictable — there would always be a Victory Drive, an Imam Khomeini Boulevard, and a Triumph Way — the layout was a pretzel. He would have to hunt around for his passenger’s destination.
Past experience told the driver that the best tips came if he pretended to know precisely the place, however,
