much, except to themselves.” Since the pair had in fact sat in the rear row, the observation drew the chuckles he expected. “They deployed with us to Afghanistan a while back, and they’ll introduce our clients to precision rifles in Lebanon.”
Leopole glanced around, taking stock of the audience. His gaze came to rest on the newest acquisition. “Also, I want to recognize Robert Pitney, who’s probably known to you who follow the shooting sports. Robert, would you introduce yourself?”
Pitney briefly stood and faced the audience. “I’m Robert Pitney, Reading, Pennsylvania. Former police training officer, full-time firearms instructor and competition shooter.” With that brief statement, he sat down.
Leopole interjected. “Robert’s being modest. In case any of you don’t know, he’s one of the best pistol shooters in the country. He’s won the Bianchi Cup and he’s also a top-ranked competitor in three-gun matches. He’s married to a Jordanian lady and speaks pretty good Arabic.” For the moment Leopole decided to omit Pitney’s religious preference.
Chris Nissen raised a hand. “Excuse me, sir. What’s the Bianchi Cup?”
Leopole nodded to Pitney, who obviously did not want to be seen blowing his own horn. “It’s the national action pistol championship. There’s categories for iron sights or red dots.” He grinned. “I finally put it all together and won the open category.”
Two rows away, Breezy leaned over to Bosco. “Man. If that guy can shoot with Leatham and Koenig, he’s gotta be some talent.”
Bosco was unconvinced. “Dude, shooting falling plates ain’t the same as whacking bad guys who want to whack you.” He looked at Pitney from behind, noting the former cop’s well-developed shoulders. “I wonder if he ever capped anybody.”
Marc Brezyinski regarded his partner and saw an opportunity for mischief. “Why don’t you, like, ask him?”
Jason Boscombe shrugged off the suggestion. Both operators knew The Code: you never asked another shooter if he had ever scored. It was just plain rude, like asking someone his bank balance. Besides, eventually the word got out, either by professional reputation or in the course of relating war stories.
Privately, Bosco considered himself a superior trigger man. He prided himself on his marksmanship, but it had nothing to do with his expert rifleman badge. He knew that he was better than Breezy, who was generally unconcerned with interpersonal rivalries. Among those present, only Barrkman and Furr were acknowledged better riflemen but they plied the sniper’s arcane art, which was distinct from the stand-up kind of combat that Bosco practiced.
Leopole was speaking again. “As usual, we’re short of language specialists. Pitney and Nissen speak passable Arabic while Wallender is qualified in French, but Mr. Baram assures me that there’ll be English speakers on the other end.”
“Hey, speaking of French, any word from J. J.?” Boscombe seldom was reluctant to interrupt anyone. His partner Breezy said, “You know Bosco: never an unspoken thought.”
“No, it looks like Johnson’s sitting this one out.” Leopole decided that he did not need to elaborate. The former Foreign Legionnaire had endured a brutally brief time in al Qaeda captivity in Pakistan, accepted a subsequent training job in Chad, then returned to Idaho. “But he’s still available for domestic work.”
The former Marine officer resumed his personnel rundown. “Malten and Brezyinski have combat medic ratings, and we’ll have them update everybody before we leave.”
Chris Nissen’s baritone rose out of the second row. Sandy Carmichael would never admit it, but she always enjoyed the Special Forces sergeant’s Barry White voice. “Colonel, I realize this is a preliminary briefing, but I’m wondering how much we can expect to get shot at.”
“Well, I’d put the odds at better than fifty percent. That’s why you’re getting the hazardous duty bonus in addition to the overseas base pay.”
“Teacher, you have a visitor.”
At the sound of Hazim’s voice, Ahmad Esmaili was immediately alert. The Iranian had hoped for an afternoon nap, an ambition that was as rare as his ability to accomplish it. Ordinarily he kept going, remaining focused on each task as it arose. He had not lived through the previous thirty years by taking anything for granted. Multitasking was fine for those who could do it, but inevitably most of them overlooked something. Therefore, Esmaili had taken to making lists. At least he did not yet require spectacles to read them.
The Hezbollah leader slid his feet into his sandals and arose from the cot. “Who is it?” He tasted the morning taste and wanted something to rinse out his mouth — neither tea nor water.
“He calls himself Mohammad. He said to give you this.”
Esmaili accepted the business card. The Farsi inscription was as simple as an ice pick through the eye. “Dr. Gholamhossein Momen, Tehran.” Below the printed name was a handwritten line:
Hazim saw the expression on his master’s face and felt a tiny shiver somewhere inside. In all the time the youngster had worked with Esmaili, never had the Iranian betrayed any emotion other than mild satisfaction or icy anger. The fact that Esmaili was obviously impressed with the obscure name on the card was in itself — impressive.
“Bring him in,” Esmaili said. His voice was quiet, respectful.
Hazim and one of Esmaili’s bodyguards returned with the visitor, who regarded the Hezbollah operative with a calm demeanor and steady eyes. He introduced himself as Mohammad Azizi, also of Tehran. Esmaili made a quick assessment and determined that it might even be the man’s true name.
“And peace and the mercy, and blessings of Allah be upon
He faced Azizi, mindful that whatever the courier knew about Dr. Momen, it could be a ruse. Therefore, Esmaili kept the table between them, his right hand on his belt with the holstered Sig. He noted that the visitor kept both hands flat on the tabletop, apparently as a sign of good faith.
Azizi spoke first. “I believe that you are familiar with Dr. Momen.”
Esmaili nodded slowly, gravely. “Yes. I worked for him several years ago. As part of his security detail.”
“At the research institute.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Correct.”
The courier drummed his fingers briefly. “He remembers you, brother. And your devotion to the cause of Islam.”
There was only one response. “I am honored. May the blessings of Allah be upon him.”
Azizi felt more confident, or at least more comfortable. He crossed his arms and leaned toward his host. “The doctor would speak with you again, in person. If you are willing…”
Ahmad Esmaili knew an order even when couched as an invitation. “Certainly I am willing. But obviously it will not be here.”
“No, no. In Tehran.” Azizi glanced around, as if ensuring there were no eavesdroppers. Esmaili suspected that the gesture was more for effect than for real. “You will understand the need for caution. Even our most secure radio links can be compromised, so I was sent to, ah, invite you to return home for a visit.” He smiled knowingly. “It must be some time since you saw your family.”
“When would I leave, and for how long?”
Azizi leaned back, fully at ease now. “If you can arrange matters here, in perhaps two days. We would be in Tehran for three or four days, then return.” He ran the numbers in his head. “Say, ten days in all.”
“Then we can leave day after tomorrow.”
“That is excellent,” the messenger replied. “But you will not be coming back here. The plan calls for your group to move to an area closer to the Syrian border, so make arrangements before you leave.”
Esmaili did not enjoy receiving orders from a stranger, but if Azizi spoke for Dr. Momen, there was no
