Shock Warning

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

A couple of hours earlier, Danny had relayed topographic maps of the area, clearly marking the location of the Iranian missiles. They were going to regret that little show-off stunt the other day, which telegraphed their position. Not that Targeting didn’t already know that, but for this operation, speed was everything, and if it saved even five minutes, that was a plus.

The Super Hornets from Diego Garcia were in the air. The MH-60Ks, with him at one helm, were about to launch; they had been painted with the colors of the Iranian Army. Hope was keeping him apprised of the countdown in New York. Stealth was the order of the day.

He had not yet heard from “Bert Harris,” but that didn’t mean anything. After this was over, it was possible, even likely, that they would never see each other again. “Harris” would disappear back into whichever shadowy recess of the IC he had come from, perhaps to vanish altogether. How he withstood the psychic strain was beyond him. Danny just wanted to go home and enjoy the company of his family — his old family and his new family.

“Sir?” One of the men on board ship.

“Yes?”

“You’re good to go, sir.”

“Thank you, son.”

“You were never here, right, sir?”

“Right. You’re looking at a ghost.”

The kid looked around at the six Black Hawks. “Whole bunch of ghosts,” he said. “Ain’t nobody gonna wanna see these spooks show up in their backyard.”

“We’ll do some damage if we have to.”

“Some of the guys mutterin’ something about payback time.”

“You know mutterers. Always muttering about something.”

“Is it true?”

Danny looked at the young sailor. There were times when he despaired of the future of his country, and then there were times like this. “Where you from, son?” he asked.

“Altoona, Pennsylvania,” he said.

“Good state,” he said. “Lot of great Navy men came from Pennsylvania.”

“Some still do, sir.” The boy stepped back and saluted him, then turned and saluted the whole crew. Not military men anymore, but Xe types, private military companies — the men who weren’t there, the men who did their jobs in anonymity, and the ones who always got blamed by The New York Times if something went wrong.

“Go with God, sir,” said the kid.

“Roger that,” said Danny. He looked down as his communications device: the message he had been waiting for was coming through. Showtime.

This wasn’t going to be any two-day kluge of an operation like Eagle Claw. That one had been at once overplanned and underplanned, too nervy and not nervy enough. Looking back on it, the whole notion of hiding the choppers in the desert, flying into Tehran, liberating the hostages from the embassy, taking them to a sports stadium, and then helicoptering them out was nuts; no wonder it had failed. Technology had come a long way since then. This was going to be quick, surgical, and brutal.

He gave the signal to the men. The rotors started turning. In a few minutes, they’d be in the air and on their way to Iran.

There was no turning back now.

Attired in full Islamic dress, Devlin and Maryam left the house of Mohammed Radan with profuse thanks for his kind hospitality and effusive promises to return again one day. Mr. Radan prayed to Allah for their safe journey, and should they ever return to the holy city, well, they knew where to find him. No, he would not accept any money. No, no, no, a thousand times no. It would be an insult to him and his family. Finally, after much argumentation, he gratefully accepted the rials that Devlin practically had to force upon him. Taarof must always be maintained.

Midday prayers had just ended and people were going about their daily business once more. The signal from the computer had not only alerted Devlin to its opening, but it had also transmitted the exact GPS coordinates of its location. Devlin didn’t need a map to know where their target was — right in the middle of a mountain on the outskirts of the city. That was where the uranium-enrichment facility was. That was where the computer was. And that, unless he was very much mistaken — in which case his end of the operation was doomed — was where Emanuel Skorzeny and Amanda Harrington would be.

He was just starting to think about stealing a car when one pulled up alongside him. It was his old friend, the driver from Ark. “May Allah be praised!” the man exclaimed. “It is you, my traveling friend. I trust you found hospitality at the home of my esteemed brother-in-law, Mohammed Radan.”

They continued walking as the man drove along beside them. Suddenly, the driver slammed on the brakes and jumped from the car—

“Where are my manners? Where? This is something I ask myself every day, and I pray to Allah for his holy forgiveness. I have not yet introduced myself. I am Sadegh Mossaddegh, at your service. Which of the many glorious sights of Qom would you like to see? Sadegh Mossaddegh stands ready to attend you.”

It was not unusual for a man to augment his income by informally hacking; if this was a sign from Allah then, for this moment, Devlin was a believer. “And we are grateful for your great kindness,” he said.

They got into the car. There was no air-conditioning in the ancient Russian Chaika, which was essentially a knockoff of a Chevy from the late 1950s, but it was clean and comfortable, if well-sprung.

With Maryam gently guiding Sadegh, they drove toward the north, away from the city. When they had reached the city limits, Mr. Mossaddegh was about to turn around, when Devlin told him to keep driving. When he objected, Maryam, who was riding in the back, put the knife she had taken from the religious police to the back of his neck. “I am sorry, my friend,” said Devlin, “but we have need of your vehicle.”

To his credit, Mr. Mossaddegh hardly flinched. Thieves were plentiful in this part of Iran. It was a shame, a disgrace — a measure of how badly the people had failed the Islamic Revolution. “Willingly do I surrender it to you,” he said.

“We also have need for your services,” continued Devlin. “Do not worry, you shall not be harmed. A great adventure are you embarking upon, one that you will be able to relate to your children and grandchildren and to the fair daughters of your brother-in-law, Mohammed Radan. Truly, this shall be a glorious day for you, brother.”

“But to be threatened by a woman,” wailed Mossaddegh. “The shame — how shall I ever relate this sad fact to my family?”

“Don’t worry,” said Maryam from behind him. “We are not criminals. And no one ever need know. This day shall you be a hero of the Republic, honored among the multitudes.”

“What must I do?” asked Mossaddegh, feeling only a little relieved.

“Drive,” said Devlin.

They drove in silence for a while along the Persian Gulf Highway. There were, Mossaddegh knew, restricted areas along both sides of the road, near the airport and the Hoz-e-Soltan lake. He prayed neither was their destination.

He was not frightened of these people. After all, had he not spent a couple of hours in the car with the man? True, the man had never offered his name, but then again neither had he. They had both forgotten their manners. If the man had wanted to kill him, could he not have killed him then? Ah, but then he would never have been reunited with his wife, so there was that.

Finally, he ventured a question: “What’s in it for me?”

“What do you want?” asked the man. “Money is not a problem.”

He almost bit his tongue as the words crossed it: “What about relocation?”

“Anywhere in Iran you wish,” said the woman. She had a soft and sexy voice and he was quite sure that she was a great beauty.

“Elsewhere?” he said.

Devlin knew what was coming. “Where?”

Mossaddegh took a deep breath. “Well, I have cousins in Los Angeles… and…”