Authors: Michael Walsh,Michael Walsh

Shock Warning (30 page)

BOOK: Shock Warning

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Which it just had.

“A minor member of the CTU, who even now along with his fellows is watching helplessly as our plan moves forward. Of course, should anything go wrong, it is entirely possible—more than likely I would say—that the various intelligence services of the United States, starting but not ending with the New York City Police Department, have your voice on record now, and it would only be a matter of time before Langley or DIA or NSA identifies the speaker. Amazing what they can do these days, really.”

Col. Zarin obviously had not thought of that. “You mean to say they record all calls, even to hospitals?”

Now it was Skorzeny’s turn to laugh. “My dear Col. Zarin, of course they do. The Americans are great fools, but in order to satisfy the primitive fears of the majority of their people, they must at least pretend to take some precautions. Fortunately for us, their enlightened classes are highly solicitous about the rights of those who would kill them. They would rather be legally in the clear and in the good odor of the
New York Times
editorial board than alive, if it came to that. They have made what would otherwise be a formidable task into something a very bright child with a Lego kit might manage in an afternoon. They offer their throats to the knife, and make sure we profit from it.”

“Profit?” asked Col. Zarin. He went to the bar and poured himself a whisky.
Batin
.

That was a good sign. It meant he now trusted Skorzeny. Either that or . . . it meant that Skorzeny was never going to leave this place alive. Well, he would soon find out.

“Why, of course,” said Skorzeny. “In my heart, I am devoted to the cause of my fellow man, the poor, the hungry, the tired, the oppressed. I have spent literally billions of dollars on charitable causes, especially in Africa and Latin America to see that the victims of capitalist exploitation receive some small recompense for their suffering. But philanthropy costs a great deal of money, does it not, Miss Harrington?”

Amanda nodded.

“Therefore, I have always found ways to do well by doing good, and our joint plan today will handsomely reward me. You, too, can be a part of it if you play your cards right.”

“I am listening,” said Zarin.

Mlle. Derrida could feel the colonel inching ever closer to her. From time to time, as he laughed or responded to something Skorzeny was saying, he would reach out and gently touch her leg. Her leg was of course clothed, but it seemed to give him a thrill nonetheless.

“Are you acquainted with the concept of economic terrorism?” asked Skorzeny. He kept waiting for shouting from the next room, for soldiers to rush in with guns drawn, for something to have gone hideously wrong with the NSA computer, leaving them to pay the price . . . but nothing. He could not believe Devlin would be that stupid, would not have guarded himself against the thing’s loss, would not have taken every precaution lest it fall into the wrong hands. And yet . . .

“For the past several years, I have been administering a serious of shocks to the American economic system. I and my surrogates and partners around the world have done our best to undermine the value of the dollar—and may I modesty say we have done a splendid job in that regard, to the point at which it will soon no longer be the international currency and medium of exchange. When that day comes, of course, America is finished as an economic superpower.

“As the dollar collapses, the country’s ability to service its debt will only increase. At first, with inflation, it will seem like the balance of payments is improving, as evermore worthless dollars are applied to international ledger books. But after a time, and very soon, creditor nations will no longer wish to accept dollars that come directly from the Federal Reserve’s printing presses. They will want real value, tangible assets, gold. Is there any gold left in Fort Knox? Or was the Treasury emptied out long ago? The greatest nation in the history of the world has beggared itself—and for what? A pat on the head from the
bien-pensant
?

“When the missiles fly, the flight to value will be complete. We need not try and destroy America with bombs or planes or raids upon their children in the schools. I know. I tried. No, all we need to do is make her fall victim to her own profligacy, and her own fear.”

Skorzeny rose and walked over to where Col. Zarin was sitting and extended his hand. “Two percent is your share. I will not put it in writing. Miss Harrington and Mlle. Derrida can both attest that I am a man of my word. Two percent of what I make off this operation. That may not sound like much, but let me assure you, my dear Col. Zarin, that it will allow you to retire extremely comfortably for the rest of your life anyplace you choose.”

The colonel thought for a moment. “But I shall be witness to the Coming,” he objected. “What will it profit me to make a great deal of money if these are the end times?”

Skorzeny’s hand was still extended, but he made no attempt to lower it. “Col. Zarin,” he said, “I care not one whit for the End Times. As you know, I am an unbeliever, a
kufr
. Worse, in your eyes, I am an atheist. All this babble about God and Allah and Jesus and Issa and the Virgin Mary interests me not in the least. I have already been to hell and back. I lived in hell and felt its fires on my face. I saw death unimaginable, at an age when boys should still be playing with hobbyhorses and starting to think about girls. I have witnessed incinerative destruction from the skies, a rain of fire that brought down the Virgin’s own cathedral, six hundred and fifty thousand incendiary bombs that turned oxygen into flames and bodies into charred carbon husks. Do you think I fear the end times?”

A knock at the door. Col. Zarin handed his drink to Mlle. Derrida. “Come in,” he shouted.

The soldier saluted. “Everything is in readiness, Colonel,” he said. He glanced over at Skorzeny, who still had his hand in the air. Strange people, these Westerners.

“Thank you. You may go.”

The soldier left. The door closed. Col. Zarin took Skorzeny’s hand and shook it. “You are right. It would not be holy for you to witness the miracle of the Coming. Right after the first launch, I will send you back in a fast car to Tehran. Your plane will be given all clearances. You have my word on it.”

They shook hands.

They passed the room in which the technicians were working on Devlin’s computer. There were smiles all around. Everything seemed to be going very smoothly. That in itself was enough to make Emanuel Skorzeny want to get very far away as quickly as possible. He had a deal with Col. Zarin, true, and he intended to honor that deal in the unlikely event the colonel survived whatever was to come.

For that something was coming, he had no doubt. The devil drives.

Outside, the missiles were on their launchpads. Amanda shuddered as she saw what had been in store for her. God, how she wished this was all over. How she longed to be back in London, to open the door of Number Four Kensington Park Gardens once more, to play her piano and walk naked in her solarium at night, invisible but surrounded by the lights of London, listening to the English rain, and the voice of her absent daughter.

There would be no child waiting for her, that she knew, that she accepted. But that did not mean there could never be a child. She could think clearly now—she had Skorzeny to thank for that, the bastard. She could see a way.

All she had to do was get out of here.

C
HAPTER
F
ORTY-SIX

Qom

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 Ar

k. “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 . . .”

BOOK: Shock Warning

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