The Enemy Within

CHAPTER 6 INFILTRATION

“Senior administration officials that the most interesting development at this U.N. conference on security and international development is something that wasn’t on the official agenda at all: a series of private meetings between U.S. Secretary of State Austin Brookes and his Iranian counterpart, Foreign Minister Ahmad Adeli. Sources close to both governments have characterised these meetings the first between high-ranking American and Iranian officials in more than ten years as surprisingly cordial and productive.”

Colonel Peter Thorn turned his head toward the open bathroom door and paused with his hands halfway through the convoluted process of turning a thin strip of colored silk into a perfectly knotted necktie. He’d left the television on both out of habit and from a desire for some noise to break the silence enveloping his rented town house.

“During the talks, Minister Adeli is said to have confirmed his government’s hopes for the eventual restoration of full diplomatic and commercial ties with the United States. Apparently, only the fear of angering Islamic radicals still entrenched in the Iranian Parliament remains a minor stumbling block.

“Appearing before reporters this afternoon, the usually reserved American Secretary of State seemed a different man smiling broadly and even cracking a few jokes with members of the press. If these reports are accurate, it’s not hard to understand his newly expansive mood. Long under fire for his dull personality and haphazard management style, Austin Brookes must be savoring the prospect of achieving the high-profile diplomatic victory denied his predecessors in three previous administrations.

“This is Terrence Nakamura, reporting live from Geneva, Switzerland, for CNN.”

Thorn snorted and finished knotting his tie. Uninterested in world currency fluctuations, he tuned out the rest of the broadcast. He didn’t know whether to be amused or simply disgusted. Like most lawyers and all politicians, the Secretary of State was only too happy to claim credit for the work done by others. If General Amir Taleh hadn’t had the guts to smash the radical hold on his own government, Brookes and the rest of his State Department stuffed shims would still be at receptions passing each other glasses of dry sherry aRt drier position papers.

He shrugged his momentary irritation away. You couldn’t change the ways of politicians any more than you could repeal the laws of physics.

Thorn studied his reflection in the mirror, turning his face first one way and then the other to make sure he’d hit all the right spots with his razor. Satisfied, he tugged at the collar of his blue button-down shirt, loosening it just a touch to let some oxygen down his windpipe. He looked more critically at his reflected image, eyeing the shirt, patterned red tie, and lightweight grey suit with a slight frown. They made him look more like a typical D.C. bureaucrat than he cared to at the moment. As a Delta Force operator, Thorn was used to wearing civilian clothes, but his personal tastes off duty ran more to blue jeans and boots than wool slacks and dress shoes.

Buck up, boyo, he told himself sternly. This was a special occasion after all. It had taken nearly two weeks of fairly regular phone calls, but he and Helen Gray had finally managed to synchronise their busy schedules for an evening out. He intended to make the most of it. Besides, Washington’s finer dining establishments usually had a particular place reserved for people who showed up in casual clothes. They called it the exit.

Thorn checked his watch, swore at himself, and grabbed his car keys off his nightstand on the way downstairs and out the door. He’d made a reservation at Stannard’s one of the capital’s most elegant restaurants for eight o’clock. It was already past seven.

Nearly an hour later, Thorn pushed his way into the Stannard Hotel’s packed foyer. The blast of overworked airconditioning came as a much-needed relief after his dash through the hot, muggy evening outside.

Despite his best efforts, he was late. First, some idiot had stalled out on rteenth Street Bridge, tying northbound traffic into knots. That was bad, but even a few weeks in the D.C. area had taught him to allow for delays on the highways. What he hadn’t anticipated was the near-total gridlock on the capital’s downtown streets long after the normal working day had come to a close. For a lot of people in this town, parking apparently meant double-parking, turning their blinkers on, and then going off to run errands. As a result, the crowded streets off Pennsylvania Avenue were a zoo down to one lane in places and full of pedestrians darting across without bothering to look for oncoming traffic..

Stannard’s small, richly appointed lobby was a sea of suits and evening dresses jammed with people waiting for tables who had spilled out of an adjoining bar with drinks in hand and their voices at full volume. Thorn slid through the throng, searching for Helen halt afraid she wasn’t there and half hoping that she, too, was late.

“Peter! Over here!”

He turned toward the familiar voice with relief and saw Helen Gray smiling at him. Smart woman, he thought. She’d taken a station in a corner near the entrance to the dining room, shielding herself from the worst of the crush while still securing a good vantage point. He made his way to her side with all possible speed.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said hurriedly.

“You should be.” Her eyes twinkled. “I’ve already been propositioned by an Arab sheik, a labor lawyer, and a dairy industry lobbyist.”

Ouch. Thorn looked carefully at the floor and then back at her. He shook his head soberly. “I don’t see any bodies. What happened? Your pistol jam?”

Helen laughed. “No. I left it at home. It didn’t go with the dress.”

She was right, Thorn decided, a 9mm Beretta would definitely look out of place on the elegantly dressed woman in front of him.

He’d thought the black number he’d first seen her in at Fort Bragg was nice, but the dress she had on now was stunning. It was cut low enough to show off her tanned shoulders and the upper curves of her firm, perfectly proportioned breasts. It was the kind of dress that invited open admiration from men and barely concealed envy from other women. It was a dress he thought would look even better on its way off. Down boy, down! he told his libido, wondering again what it was about this woman, out of all women, that made him think and act so much like an oversexed, under brained teenager.

He cleared his throat and sought more neutral mental ground. “Maybe we’d better see about getting our table.”

“Absolutely,” Helen agreed. From the satisfied look on her face she’d probably been reading his mind.

She nodded toward the tall, imposing figure of a manta stiff and fommal in a tuxedo and firmly ensconced behind a lectern at the entrance to Stannard’s oak-paneled dining room. “I tried to check in earlier, but Prince Charming there seems to think that only someone named Thorn can confirm a reservation made by someone named Thorn.”

Her voice left no doubt about her feelings toward the kind of person who would uphold such an idiotic policy. Thorn had a sudden vision involving punji sticks, barbed wire, honey, and an anthill. He shook his head, very glad he wasn’t in the other man’s pointy black shoes, and led her up to the lectern.

Thirty seconds later he was beginning to plan his own prolonged and painful revenge on the Castro d’.

He gritted his teeth and tried again. “Look, my name is Peter Thorn. I made a reservation for eight o’clock tonight two days ago. Check your book.”

“Yes, sir.” The restaurant’s maltre d’ seemed completely unimpressed.

“I have checked. Your reservation is perfectly in order.” He offered them a bland, disinterested smile. “But I am afraid we are running slightly behind schedule this evening. I will be happy to seat you as soon as the first available table opens up.”

“And just when will that be?”

“Not very long.” The other man pursed his lips, making a pretence of giving the matter some thought. “Not longer than half an hour, I would guess. Certainly not more than forty-five minutes.”

“Forty-five minutes?” Thorn held a tight rein on his temper. He’d only picked Stannard’s because some of the other officers in the Pentagon mess had described the place as a Washington landmark. He was beginning to realize that wasn’t any kind of guarantee of good service. More and more, John F. Kennedy’s description of the capital city as a place that combined southern efficiency with northern courtesy seemed right on target.

The maitre d’s bored eyes slid past him and brightened. “Ah, Senator! It is delightful to see you.”

“Thank you, Henry. My committee meeting ran a little over tonight. Can you squeeze me in?”

Thorn glanced around far enough to catch a profile made famous by years of network television news coverage and tabloid scandal.

“Of course, Senator.” The maitre d’ snatched up a leather-bound menu from his stand and gestured toward the dining room. “Please follow me, I have just the right table for you.”

Thorn watched him go through narrowed eyes. Why, that pompous, lying, no-good son of a bitch. Overhearing snatches of some of the snide, cynical conversations going on around him only fed his growing anger.

“So the chairman said to him, ‘You either play ball on this amendment, Phil, or you can kiss that new overpass goodbye…’ ”

“… the old bastard’s screwing his administrative assistant worse than he is the taxpayers…”

“We slipped some language into the rider to smooth the hicks over, but Morgan may be a problem…”

Thorn shook his head in disgust. D.C. landmark’ dots this was not his kind of place. Worse, he was probably batting a big fat .000 in Helen’s eyes. He heard a muffled chuckle from her direction and turned toward her.

The look of amused sympathy on her face restored some of his good humor. If she wasn’t holding this fast-developing fiasco against him, it still wasn’t too late to salvage something from this evening. He shrugged ruefully. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

She grinned back. “Yep. I certainly am. I say we blow this Popsicle stand. I prefer eating without all the pomp, circumstance, and hot air.”

Thorn started to relax. Maybe he’d been trying too hard to impress her. “How about Thai food?”

Helen nodded vigorously. “Now, that sounds wonderful. And the hotter the better.”

“Yes, ma’am,“he said, smiling. “There’s a little mom and-pop Thai place not far from my house that’s pretty good. If you don’t mind following me out there, that is.”

She arched an eyebrow. “I think I can manage it. You are looking at an Academy grad with straight As in surveillance and close pursuit, you know.” She paused. “Do they offer takeout at this restaurant of yours?”

He nodded.

“Great. Then we can eat at your place.”

“My place?”

Helen laughed. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those messy bachelors, Peter. The kind that lets dirty clothes and dirty dishes pile up.”

He felt a slow, wide grin forming on his face. “Nope. I come from a long line of God-fearing men with clean bodies and dirty minds.”

She reached out and took his arm. “Oh, good. Those are the best kind.”

When Thorn first moved to the Washington, D.C., area, he’d seriously considered renting a studio apartment in Crystal City high-rises overlooking the Pentagon. Living there would be convenient and reasonably inexpensive, he’d thought. Three days spent in one of the neighboring hotels had wiped that plan right out of his mind. Holding down a staff billet in the Pentagon’s bureaucratic swamp was draining enough. Combining that with being cooped up in a noisy cage a couple of hundred feet above street level seemed a surefire recipe for going buggy in record time.

Determined to keep as much of his sanity as possible, he’d gone house-hunting with a vengeance, scouring the northern Virginia neighborhoods he’d ringed on a map until he found quarters he could tolerate for a year. He’d finally decided to rent the upper half of a redbrick town house right on the border between Falls Church, Arlington, and Alexandria. It was just off the Columbia Pike and an easy twenty-minute commute to the Pentagon. Better still, the town house complex backed onto a tiny, wooded state park. It was quiet and private enough so that he could at least pretend he wasn’t living elbow-to-elbow with several million other people.

Thorn pushed the front door open with his foot and stepped aside to let Helen in first. His arms were full of warm takeout containers. Delicious smells wafted up from them a mouthwatering blend of garlic, peanut sauce, onion, chicken, and shrimp.

Helen was already down the hall and inspecting his kitchen by the time he finished closing the door. He followed her in and deposited their dinners on a tile counter near the empty sink.

She straightened up from his open refrigerator. “Well, I see you have plenty of the two basic bachelor food groups beer and microwave dinners.”

“Hey!” He pretended to be hurt. “I’m not totally uncivilized. There are plates in one of those cupboards over there. Heck, I’ve even got silverware somewhere around here.”

Her eyes sparkled again. “My, oh, my. I am impressed.”

Helen drifted out into the combination living room while he pulled out plates, forks, and spoons. Except for a sofa, a coffee table, and a wall unit for his CD player and television, the room was empty. Boxes stacked neatly beside the sofa held an assortment of hardbacks, paperbacks, and professional military journals. There were no pictures on the walls. A sliding glass door opened onto a narrow balcony overlooking the woods.

“It certainly looks like you’re settling right in, Peter,” she teased, poking her head back into the kitchen.

“Now, there’s a direct hit,” he admitted. “I left most of my stuff in storage. The people renting my house outside Fort Bragg said they were looking for a furnished place anyway.”

She nodded. “Plus, I guess that moving everything up here and unpacking it would give this new assignment of yours an awfully permanent feel?”

“Exactly.” Thorn smiled at her. “Mind you, there are compensations for being so close to Quantico.”

“Really?”

“No doubt about it.”

Helen lowered her eyes, looking even more pleased. She nodded toward the living room again. “I thought you’d at least have some pictures of you and your father together. You told me so much about him when we first met that I’ve been dying to see what he looks like.”

Dying. Thorn felt the smile on his face freeze solid.

“Peter?” She was staring at him now. “What’s wrong?”

He swallowed hard and forced another faint smile. “Sorry. It’s just that my dad passed away last year. It still takes some getting used to, I guess.”

“Oh, Peter.” Helen touched his arm. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay. I’m fine,” he murmured. “I’m fine.”

That wasn’t true, he realized. Whenever he thought the sorrow of his father’s death was finally behind him, some word or phrase or picture would conjure up that whole bleak period all over again. His mind was still wrestling with art ages of the proud, strong man who’d raised him. And with the images of that last terrible year.

His father had fought hard against the cancer that had invaded his body just as hard as he had fought against the NVA in the Vietnamese jungles. In the end, though, even big, tough John Thorn hadn’t been able to beat impossible odds.

Thorn knew that he should have visited the hospital more often during that long, lonely battle. He should have been there when his father died. But he hadn’t been able to stand it. Watching the powerful man who had been his first and only boyhood hero growing weaker with every passing day slipping away by inches had been too painful to bear. And his father had understood, even forgiven, his absence. Somehow that only made his betrayal seem worse.

He forced himself back to the present. His guilt over his father’s death was a burden for him to shoulder alone, not to inflict on Helen.

“Are you sure that you’re okay?” she asked softly, shared sorrow clear in her warm blue eyes.

He nodded decisively, determined to keep his memories and his grief to himself. “Oh, yeah. No problem.” He motioned toward the living room, seeking refuge in rough good humor. “Now clear out and let me work, woman. Unless you want cold food, that is.”

“Oh, no. Anything but that.”

Grateful that Helen understood his reluctance to dwell on the past, Thorn followed her out of the kitchen. He finished laying out their place settings on the coffee table and started opening containers with a flourish. In an attempt to chase away the blues, he announced, “Dinner is about to be served, madam. Would you care for a single main course, or would you prefer a gourmet sampling of the best of Thai haute cuisine?”

“A little bit of everything, of course.” Helen sat down on the sofa and watched him closely. “Does this mean that I don’t get a guided tour of the upstairs~”

“You actually want to see the vast, inner expanses of my mansion? All two bedrooms and two baths?” Thorn asked casually, instantly aware that he awaited her answer with anything but casual interest. He leaned over the steaming assortment of different dishes, carefully doling out portions onto each plate.

“I’d love to.” She watched his head come up in a hurry and laughed gently. “But after dinner, Peter.”

To Thorn’s considerable relief, the Thai restaurant hadn’t let him down. Each dish tasted as good as it had smelled a rare achievement for any prepared meal, let alone takeout.

At last Helen pushed her empty plate away with a small sigh. “Now, that was worth waiting for.”

“Better than Stannard’s?”

“Much better than Stannard’s,” she agreed. She leaned back against the sofa and closed her eyes for a moment. “This is really nice, Peter. It’s peaceful and quiet, and best of all, it’s away from work. Miles and worlds away.”

“Have a bad week?” he asked quietly.

Helen opened her eyes and made a face. “Just a typical week.” She shrugged. “Sometimes I think half the senior men in the Bureau believe I’ve gotten to where I am on the Hostage Rescue Team solely because I’m a woman… a real affirmative action aberration. The rest only want to trot me out as a showpiece for Congress or the media. You know, with a little sign around my neck that reads, ‘See, we do get it. We’re hip. We’re with it on equal rights.’ ”

Thorn snorted. “Not many showpieces kick Sergeant Major Diaz’ butt in a shooting-house competition.”

Helen smiled in fond memory. “That’s for sure.” Then she shook her head in frustration. “It just doesn’t seem to matter to the older guys in grey suits, though. I still have to prove myself to them all over again every single day.”

“But not to your section,” Thorn suggested.

“No. Not to them.” She smiled. “They’re a pretty good bunch of guys. For Neanderthal door-kickers, that is.”

“I’ve — heard that some of us are even almost human.” Thorn started clearing dishes. “So what made you decide to go for the HRT anyway?”

“You mean as opposed to choosing the normal career path for a young, ambitious FBI agent?” Helen shrugged again. “I wanted more action and excitement than I thought I’d get behind a desk in Omaha or Duluth or Topeka. Besides, it was a chance to break some new ground. To be one of the first to do something.”

She looked up at him. “Does that make any sense?”

Thorn nodded. It made a lot of sense especially to him. They were a lot alike despite their very different upbringings, he realised. Both of them were driven to win, to succeed, to be perfect. If anything, Helen had it a little harder than he did. As one of the first women assigned to the FBI’s traditionally male counterterrorist unit, she would always have to fight the unspoken presumption that she was only there as a token female. He knew her well enough now to realize just how galling that must be.

He was also positive that Helen Gray would never take anything she hadn’t earned in a fair and open competition not a job, not a promotion, and not a trophy. The day after they’d first met, he’d gone back to Fort Bragg to review the videotapes of her section’s winning run through the House of Horrors. Any thoughts that her victory was a fluke had gone right out the window after seeing those tapes. She was good. Very good. Her assault tactics were brilliant, she improvised rapidly when things went wrong, and she was a crack shot. She made up in agility, accuracy, and intelligence whatever she might lack in raw physical strength.

Helen touched his shoulder lightly. “What are you thinking, Peter?”

Honesty overrode his native caution and fear of sounding corny. “Just that you’re the most beautiful and intelligent woman I’ve ever met.”

She laughed deep in her throat. “One hundred Coins for flattery, Colonel Thorn.” She shook her head in wonderment. “Louisa Farrell said you were dangerous. And she was right.”

Still sitting, Helen stretched lazily, arching her back and shoulders in a way that sparked a definite rise in Thorn’s pulse. He moved closer.

Helen turned her face toward his, her lips slightly parted. He kissed her, gently at first, then harder. After he’d spent what seemed an eternity exploring a soft, warm sweetness, she leaned back and looked intently into his eyes. “And what are you thinking now, Peter Thorn?”

He smiled slowly. “I was wondering just when you had to report back to Quantico.”

She pulled him down to her again. “Not until tomorrow night.”

Colonel Shalah Haleri paced across his small, shabby room, reached the faded, yellowing far wall, and turned back toward the window. There was nothing much to see. Bulgaria’s capital city sprawled at the foot of 2,300-meter-high Mount Vitosa, but he had chosen this rundown hotel for its anonymity, not its tourist value. The thick smog hanging over this industrial working-class neighborhood hid any clear view of the mountain’s forested slopes and ski runs.

Abruptly, he stopped pacing and returned to the battered chair and scarred writing table that were the room’s only other pieces of furniture besides an iron-frame bed and a stand. Fifteen years as a covert operative in Iran’s intelligence service had taught him many things patience among them. When you were deep in an enemy land, haste was almost always the path to failure and to death.

Mentally, he reviewed his cover story yet again. He could not afford any mistakes. This meeting he had scheduled was too important to his mission.

The fractured states of the former Warsaw Pact were rich with pickings if you had the money to spend. And Bulgaria had special items that were available nowhere else. General Taleh intended to add those resources to his arsenal. Haleri was the man charged with making the general’s intentions a reality.

Haleri’s lips twitched upward in a one-sided smile as he examined his passport. It had been issued under the name of Tarik Ibrahim, and even an intensive search would only lead any hunters back along a false trail laid all the way to Baghdad. It amused him to travel as a member of Iraq’s spy service. There was a delightful irony there, he thought.

A soft knock on the door brought him to his feet. Instinctively, his hand slid under his jacket and then stopped. He was unarmed. Even in postcommunist Bulgaria, carrying a firearm was more trouble than it was worth. If things went wrong, he would simply have to trust in God, and in the suicide capsule his masters in Tehran had thoughtfully provided.

“Come in.”

The colonel relaxed as his visitor stepped inside and pulled the door shut behind him. It was the man he had been expecting the go-between. He called himself Petko Dimitrov at least this week. The Iranian suspected his real name was long forgotten.

Dimitrov was as nondescript as himself a middle-aged man with grey hair, a plain face, and expressionless eyes. We are two of a kind, Haleri thought with a touch of perverse pride. We are men who can walk through life without leaving any lasting trace of our coming or going. ~~

“Good afternoon, Mr. Ibrahim.”

“And to you.” Haleri indicated the single chair. “Please, be comfortable.”

Dimitrov set his briefcase carefully on the writing table and sat down.

The Iranian sat across from him, perched on the edge of the bed. He cleared his throat. “You have news for me?”

The Bulgarian nodded. A faint smile flashed across his lips and then vanished. It never reached his eyes. “I have spoken to my principal,” he said slowly. “The work you have requested can be done. And it can be completed in the time you have allotted.”

“Good.” Haleri paused briefly. “And the price?”

Dimitrov shrugged. “The price will be high.” He lowered his voice.

“The encryption software you need is easy. The other…” He shook his head. “The other item is difficult. It will take a great deal of thought and effort.”

Haleri nodded. He understood that. A complex task required a complex and extraordinary weapon. He pursed his lips. “How much?”

“Eight million.” Dimitrov’s eyes hardened. “There will be no bargaining, you understand? That is our price no more and no less.”

“Very well,” Haleri agreed readily. The price was higher than he had hoped, but no one in Iran could produce the weapon he sought. “Eight million dollars?”

“Dollars?” Dimitrov smiled wryly. “I hardly think so. You will pay us in German marks. Half in a week’s time. The rest on delivery.”

Again, the Iranian agreed. Within minutes their business was concluded.

As he escorted the Bulgarian to the door, Haleri asked, “Does it have a name, this weapon of yours?”

Dimitrov shrugged again. “Once you have paid, you may call it whatever you wish ” He smiled coldly. “We call it OU,~OS.”

Sefer Halovic let the door close behind him. The sound of it slamming shut was his signal to relax however minutely.

The first phase of his mission was over. He’d made it. He was safely in America.

Out of habit, the lean, cold-eyed Bosnian scanned the motel room. It would have looked commonplace, even drab, to any American, but it seemed luxurious to him. Two single beds half filled the room, which also held a chair, table, and television on a battered stand. The covers on the beds were a faded lime green. They almost matched the stained, gold-colored carpet. He could see several spots where the wallpaper, a speckled, ugly yellow-brown, was peeling away from the walls. He peered through an open door and saw a small bathroom, with a shower and a dripping sink.

Halovic nodded, satisfied by what he saw. Compared to the Masegarh barracks, this was palatial. More important, it was anonymous. He’d paid in cash and he’d been careful to avoid eye contact with the bored clerk. They’d barely exchanged a dozen words during the transaction hardly a serious test for his English skills.

Throwing his bag on one of the beds, he collapsed onto the other. He’d been traveling for more than three days, following a long, circuitous route specifically designed to confuse anyone trying to retrace his path later.

First he’d flown from Tehran to Rome using false papers that identified him as Hans Grunsald, a German salesman. From there he’d taken the train to Paris and then a flight to Montreal.

Crossing from Canada had been the mission planners’ masterstroke, Halovic realised. The U.S.-Canadian border was notoriously porous. Passport and customs checks there were infrequent at worst, nonexistent at best. He’d been lucky. The bus he’d hopped in Montreal had taken him all the way to New York without incident. From New York, he’d taken a train south to the vast, renovated bulk of Washington, D.C.‘s Union Station. A taxi had brought him to this motel, one he’d picked at random out of a telephone book.

Halovic closed his eyes, trying hard to get some sleep. It was two in the afternoon, and the short nap he’d caught on the train had been no more than dozing, the uneasy rest of a soldier in enemy territory. He’d spent most of his time watching the scenery slide by while keeping a wary eye out for suspicious officials or police.

Images from the journey rolled through his restless mind. America was huge, bigger than he had imagined. A three-hour train ride would have taken him halfway across the former Yugoslavia. Here, it covered only a small fraction of one coastline.

He was also unaccustomed to a country at peace. He’d bought a newspaper and several magazines at Penn Station. To his amusement and disgust, Americans seemed wrapped up in trivialities. While the world exploded around them, they argued about scandals and fashions and the latest movies. His lip curled in contempt. If this country was a giant among nations, it was a distracted, childish giant.

These people did not know what real war was. To them, it was nothing more than a video game or a sporting event. Their brief news reports of the continued fighting in Bosnia seemed utterly abstract and dispassionate. His jaw tightened. Because the Serb murderers posed no threat to America and because their victims were Muslim, the American people were content to do nothing. They would let his homeland boil in its own blood because it was too distant for them to care.

Well, Halovic thought grimly as he slid into an uneasy, nightmare-filled sleep, I will show them what war is like. I will make them bleed.

The frantic chirping of his watch alarm roused him. He opened his eyes, rolled over onto his side, and turned it off in one smooth, graceful motion. It was six o’clock in the evening. It was time to move. Time to make his most recent incarnation disappear.

Halovic levered himself off the bed. He was still weary, but he could run on willpower and adrenaline for a while longer. He showered and changed into casual clothes jeans and an open-necked shirt. He also shaved off the light blond beard and mustache that had hidden most of his face as Grunwald. Smooth-cheeked now, he shredded his old passport, plane, bus, and train tickets and flushed them down the toilet.

Back in the room, he opened his hard-sided travel bag and cut away the inner lining with a pocketknife to retrieve another set of identity papers, including a Virginia driver’s license with his picture and the name of Frank Daniels. Bulging envelopes taped next to the forged documents held cash, a lot of it. More than thirty thousand American dollars all in twenties, fifties, and hundreds.

Halovic regarded the money with cool calculation. Although he’d entered the United States unarmed, the cash in his possession was as much a weapon as any rifle. He planned to make sure that it was used wisely and not wasted just like ammunition.

The hot, humid summer air hit him as he stepped outside carrying his travel bag. He left nothing behind in his room except the key, which the cleaning staff would find in the morning.

Halovic spotted a pay phone next to a fast-food restaurant across the street. After crossing at the light, he discarded the pair of wire-frame eyeglasses he’d worn as Grunwald in a nearby trash bin. He noted the street names in passing.

At the pay phone, he dialed a number he’d memorised in Tehran. It rang once before being answered.

“This is Arlington Transport.”

“You have a pickup at Arlington Boulevard and Courthouse Road,” Halovic replied. “Near the hamburger restaurant.”

“Do you have the fare ready?” the voice asked.

“I’m from out of town. Can you take a check?”

“Yes.” There was a pause. “It will be about ten minutes. Expect a green sedan.”

“I will be waiting.” Halovic hung up. He moved further down the road and pretended to be waiting for a bus. Vehicles flowed past in a steady stream as the evening rush hour built to a climax. Though nobody paid the slightest attention to him, the ten minutes seemed to pass very slowly.

A large green car a Buick drove by the phone booth, circled back, and turned into the fast-food restaurant’s parking lot. Fighting his instinctive caution, he stood up with his bag in hand and strode up to the waiting vehicle.

The driver’s window slid down noiselessly as he approached. A face turned in his direction, but the man’s hands were hidden. Halovic knew that the Buick’s driver had a weapon ready. He approved of that. He had no use for overconfident fools.

“I’m looking for Arlington,” he said flatly. “I’m meeting a friend there.”

“This is Arlington,” the driver replied. Halovic noted that the man’s English was heavily accented, but understandable. His face was half hidden in the shadows, and his hands were still not visible. “Your friend must be elsewhere. Perhaps he is in Alexandria?”

H~lovic~ghed. Sign. He spoke distinctly, careful to keep — fits hands in plain view. “Then I need a lift. I can pay you well.” Countersign.

“Get in.”

Halovic quickly walked around the front of the car and slid into the passenger side. He glanced once at the man beside him. “Drive.”

Obeying the single terse order, the driver immediately put the Buick in gear and backed out. As he signaled to turn onto the street, he said, “Fasten your seat belt, please. The local traffic regulations require it.”

Halovic complied, fumbling with the unfamiliar fittings.

Then he turned toward his associate. Khalil Yassine was a short, dark-complected man in his late twenties. Until General Amir Taleh had plucked him out of a terrorist camp he’d slated for destruction and brought him to Masegarh for further training, Yassine had been a guerrilla fighter in a radical offshoot of the PLO.

The Palestinian spoke in a respectful tone. “There is a residential area ahead on the left. We can lose any possible trailers in there.”

“Excellent. My name now is Daniels. So then, who exactly are you?” Halovic asked him, just as he might prompt a child to recite its catechism.

“I am George Baroody, a naturalised American citizen. I was born in Lebanon and emigrated ten years ago to escape the civil war there. I am a car mechanic, but I’ve been laid off and am looking for another job.”

Halovic arched a skeptical eyebrow. “Lebanese? Don’t the authorities keep a close eye on people from your country?”

Yassine shook his head. “They cannot. There are thousands and tens of thousands of immigrants in this region some are legal, many are not. From all parts of the world. So I stay away from politics. I don’t cause trouble. I stick to my own affairs.” He shrugged. “In effect, I am invisible.”

Halovic nodded, satisfied by the other man’s cover story. As an area leader, he’d been allowed to choose his own people, and he knew Yassine intimately. They were both the products of bitter wars fought against hopeless odds. They were both survivors of Masegarh.

As a teenager and a young man, Yassine had caused a lot of trouble for Israel and for Israeli forces in Lebanon. He knew Beirut and the Christian strongholds in southern Lebanon like the back of his hand. So his cover was a good one. He also had extensive experience with automobiles. More useful to Halovic, the Palestinian had demonstrated a remarkable talent for operating “behind the lines” in disguise.

Yassine was his driver and scout. The first cell member to arrive in the United States, he’d spent the last week securing lodgings and transportation and learning the ins and outs of the area’s roads and highways.

Halovic, as the team leader, was the second man to arrive. More were on the way, leaving Iran by differing routes. A dozen or so were assigned to infiltrate America’s eastern seaboard. Other groups were earmarked for other regions. The initial orders for all the cells were explicit: Arrive safely and undetected by the Americans. Submerge yourselves in their midst. Gather information and make plans as directed by Tehran. And then wait. Wait for the code-words that will unleash you.

Yassine turned left off the wider boulevard into an area of narrower, treelined streets, single-family homes, and sidewalks. Driving smoothly and staying well within the speed limit, he took a series of twists and turns down the quiet suburban roads to clear their tail. Anyone trying to follow them would have stood out like a sore thumb.

Halovic took his eyes off the passenger-side mirror and nodded to the Palestinian. “We’re clear.”

Yassine took them out the other side of the residential development and onto a wider, arterial street. Ten minutes’ driy~ekil~emto a small brick house with white-trimmed windows. It lay in the middle of a row of identical houses, all built beside a busy four-lane avenue. Bushes bordered a small, well-kept lawn.

Halovic nodded approvingly. The busy street would make their own comings and goings less conspicuous.

“What about the neighbors?” he asked as they pulled off the street and onto a concrete driveway beside the house. They parked behind an old Ford minivan. “Will they pose any problems?”

“I haven’t seen anyone, and I’ve been here a week,” Yassine reported. He nodded toward the houses on either side.

“They all work. Both the husbands and the wives. We will have no trouble with them.”

“Good.” Halovic got out of the car and pulled his bag out after him. The sooner they were inside, the better he would feel.

Yassine handed him a set of duplicate keys before he unlocked the front door. It opened into the living room, illuminated by a single floor lamp. It was furnished with a secondhand couch, a few chairs, and a television set. The walls were painted an unremarkable beige, and a worn brown rug covered the floor. He could see into the kitchen beyond, also furnished. A short hall led off to his right.

Halovic followed the Palestinian down the hall.

“There are three bedrooms. This is one.” Yassine gestured to a small front bedroom, sparsely furnished. He opened another door. “I have been using this one.”

It was a corner room, larger and with nicer furnishings. The driver’s tone made it clear that he would move out in a second if the team leader said the word.

“Keep it,” Halovic commanded. “I’ll only be here a few nights anyway.” Once the rest of his force began arriving, he would find other quarters. Even the busiest locals were bound to grow curious if they noticed the house was occupied by several young men.

He opened the door into what had been the third bedroom. Brightly lit by an overhead fluorescent light was now a work area. Near one wall a cheap folding table supported a brand-new laptop computer and stacks of papers, while another table next to it was covered with gunsmith’s tools and a partially disassembled pump-action shotgun. A third held power and electronics tool kits, all still sealed in their original packages.

Halovic wandered over to the first table. It was stacked high with maps, realty brochures, and classified ads. Most of the maps looked new, but he could see that Yassine had studied and marked several of them, concentrating on those showing the Washington metropolitan region.

He turned toward the silent Palestinian and nodded. “You’ve done well.”

Yassine swelled with pride. The months they’d spent together at Masegarh had taught him that the Bosnian never offered praise lightly.

Halovic tapped the computer keyboard idly. He looked up. “Do you understand this machine yet?”

Yassine lowered his eyes, clearly embarrassed. “No. It is difficult.” He shrugged. “The operating manuals are very hard to decipher.”

“Difficult or not, you will learn to use this machine,” Halovic said coldly. “Is that understood?”

“Yes.” The Palestinian stood motionless for a moment with his head slightly bowed. “It will be done.”

“Good.” Halovic strode to the second table and picked up the disassembled shotgun. He recognised it as a Remington Model 870 and nodded to himself. A good weapon at least in close quarters. Such weapons and the ammunition for them were also readily available in the United States.

A wooden rack against the wall held another Model 870, but this one had been radically modified, its barrel shortened and its stock sawed off and shaped into a pistol grip. Hunting rifles and pistols completed the small armory. All were common makes, firing widely available ammunition.

More powerful and more sophisticated arms and armaments would come from overseas usually smuggled across America’s wide-open border with Mexico. One of the twelve-man cells dispatched by General Taleh was solely responsible for shepherding those weapons shipments to secure drops scattered across the continental United States. Once the shipments were delivered, each regional cell would break them up, moving some of the gear to safe houses and hiding the rest in separate small caches.

Halovic put the shotgun back on the table and wiped the oil off his hands. “How far away is the first drop site?”

“I estimate a three-hour drive to the southeast. Somewhere near a town called Virginia Beach.”

Halovic shrugged. The name meant nothing to him. He stabbed a finger toward the pile of maps. “Show me.”

He peered intently at the map Yassine pulled out and unfolded, orienting himself memorising the astonishingly complex network of highways and major roads that fed in and out of America’s capital city and surrounding suburbs. It was time to begin preparing in earnest for the war he would ignite.