“This Kirk wants a really big arrangement,” said Tarid. “He’s greedy. He thinks he can supply weapons to all of Africa, through us. I’ll bet he killed Luo to get in position. But it might be something we should consider. He does have—”
“Stop,” said Aberhadji. “How are you to contact him?”
“I have a phone number.”
“Give me what you have.”
Tarid reached into his pocket and took out the half-torn card Kirk had given him in the restaurant. His hand trembled as he turned it over, realizing that Aberhadji thought it was an elaborate trap.
“You checked his background,” said Tarid. “You know as much about him as I.”
The glare in Aberhadji’s eyes told him immediately that saying that was a mistake.
“I want you to go back to Tehran,” said Aberhadji. “I will contact you in a day or two. You’ll call Kirk and set up a meeting.”
“He can’t be Mossad. He’s black.”
Aberhadji exploded. “You fool! You think the Zionists aren’t smart enough to hide behind a black man? And so what? You said yourself from his accent he’s American. He is probably CIA.”
“No. He risked his life—”
“Out! Before I lose my temper.”
Danny, Nuri, and the others were parked in the van about a half mile below the farm. They’d heard the entire exchange.
“Let’s get back to the highway,” Nuri told Danny. “Before he reaches the car.”
“He’s right,” Danny told Flash. “Let’s get out of here.”
“Are you guys going to tell us what’s going on, or are we just along for the ride?” asked Hera.
“Tarid just met with the person in charge of the program,” said Danny. “He wants to set up a meeting with me. They think I’m CIA.”
“Or Mossad,” Nuri said. “Or maybe just a greedy arms dealer.”
“So they know we’re on to them,” said Hera.
“They suspect it,” said Nuri. “They don’t actually know it. If we can get the ringleader to that meeting, we can tag him. Maybe even bug him. We have a couple of days — we can get some special bugs made up.”
“You’re not going to go ahead with a meeting,” Hera told Danny. “That would be suicide.”
“I don’t know,” he said.
“No, no. We’ll set something up.” Nuri studied the map on the Voice command unit, looking for a place they might stop to eat before Tehran.
“Set something up? You’re nuts,” said Hera. She leaned forward from the backseat. “You can’t go to the meeting, Colonel. There’s just no way.”
“If we arrange it right—”
“We have to get close to him,” said Nuri. “We have to follow him.”
“Then you should take the meeting if you’re so gung-ho,” said Hera.
“Maybe I will,” he told her.
“You don’t have to actually meet him,” said Flash. “Just have him walk through a populated area, brush by him and mark him.”
“It’ll need to be more elaborate to get a bug on him,” said Nuri.
“It’s not for another couple of days,” said Danny. “We have plenty to do in the meantime. I want to get inside the compound and take a look at it.”
Danny’s heart pounded at the idea of meeting with Tarid’s boss. Hera was right — it would be a setup, one almost impossible to escape from. And yet, part of him believed he had to agree to it, had to go, just to prove he was brave.
Why should he have to prove that now? Hadn’t he been brave in Sudan? He’d frozen for a moment, the briefest moment. No one else had seen, or known. How much courage was enough?
He’d acted bravely, yet he felt like a coward.
Because McGowan had died. That was part of it. His man had died. The cost, the terrible cost.
He was measuring himself against an impossible standard, yet he couldn’t help it.
“That farm isn’t on any CIA surveillance list,” said Nuri. “It’s most likely just an arbitrary meeting place. There probably won’t be anything there.”
“Then it’ll be easy to check out,” said Danny. “We weren’t doing anything interesting tonight anyway.”
As soon as tarid left the building, Aberhadji slipped out the small two-way radio he kept his pocket.
“Have someone take the car and follow him,” he told the head of the resident security team. “Make sure he goes to Tehran. I want to know everything he does, everyone he meets. Go yourself.”
“That will leave you with only one guard to watch the building. And yourself.”
“I can count.”
“Yes, Imam.”
The security team had assured Aberhadji when Tarid arrived that he wasn’t followed, but Aberhadji no longer knew what or who to trust. For this reason alone, prudence suggested he shut down the operation, keep it completely inactive for six months, a year, then arrange for a new incarnation. There was already the one warhead, after all, with material hidden for two more; he could wait.
Especially given that the council had decided to back the president and his treacherous acts.
They were the more serious problem. He would have to increase his influence before the president could be dealt with.
Aberhadji felt a headache coming on. It had been months since he’d had one.
He bent to pray, asking forgiveness for his sins, and requesting that the pain be lightened.
Allah was merciful. The metal prongs that had begun to tighten around his skull receded.
So he would lay low. That was the best direction now. He would dismantle everything, starting here. The tools would be moved to the mines. The material and the warhead would be relocated.
He’d need a crew here immediately. And more security as well. Even if it attracted attention.
He picked up his sat phone and started to dial, then stopped. The Americans were very good at stealing transmissions and breaking encryptions. He would have to assume, for the time being, that they would be able to listen into any conversation he had.
It meant inevitable delay, but it couldn’t be helped.
He took the radio out again.
“I am going into town,” he told the lone watchman. “We will need reinforcements. I will arrange for them to arrive as soon as possible. In the meantime, shoot anyone you find on the property.”
“It will be done, Imam.”
54
Boston, Sugar, and Abul spent a difficult night sleeping in the bus, taking turns on watch. It wasn’t just the threat of the mercenaries’ revenge that kept them awake; their dead colleague’s body affected each to some degree. None would have admitted it to the others, but each kept his or her own distance from the body bag at the back aisle of the bus.
Abul remembered a childhood story involving a lion that preyed not on the dead, but the mourners who watched over the bodies. The story haunted him so badly that every shadow outside the bus took a lion’s shape, until he could neither look at the windows nor close his eyes, certain that they were about to be attacked. He sweated profusely as he lay across the seats, the moisture creeping like acidic slime across his body, eating away at his skin. His breathing became shallower, and quicker, until he gulped the air without absorbing the oxygen. Not even the idea of the money he would get from enduring this horror calmed him. Instead, he thought only of the
