Whiplash (16 page)

Khatami-Isfaha airfield
Central Iran

B
ANI
A
BERHADJI WAS IN A BAD MOOD
. T
HE COUNCIL HAD
decided to hold a special meeting, interrupting his inspection tour and forcing him home. He would not have minded so much had he not been convinced that the meeting would amount to a waste of time. But he could not afford to miss it
politically. The council seemed to be softening in its stand against the government, and he needed to understand what was going on, especially if he couldn’t influence it.

He was walking from the aircraft to his car when his BlackBerry signaled that he had an e-mail. Suspecting it was just a message from the ministry asking when he would return to work, he waited until he was in the backseat to check it. The message turned out to be from Arash Tarid, his agent in Sudan. There was no text; it was simply a coded request that he call.

Though his driver was also a member of the Revolutionary Guards, Aberhadji did not know him personally, and did not want to take the risk, however small, that the man might be a spy for the government. He waited until they were on the highway, then asked him to pull over.

“I will be right back,” he told the man, opening the door to the Toyota Avalon.

It was nighttime, and a few feet beyond the car everything turned pitch-black. Aberhadji walked a few yards into the field, then stopped and took out his satellite phone. The signals it sent and received were scrambled, encrypted in what he was told was an unbreakable code.

“You called me,” he said when Tarid answered.

“A competitor to Luo has appeared. He wants to meet with some of our friends, including the colonel.”

“A competitor?”

“Perhaps now we see why Luo was killed. The Jasmine people have not been very responsive. This man alleges that he has many weapons, and that his prices are very good. I wondered if you would wish to check him out?”

The night was cool. Aberhadji fought off a shiver as he considered the matter. “Who is he?” he asked.

“He gives his name as Mr. Kirk. He gave one of the rebel leaders—not Colonel Zsar but another man, Uncle Dpap—an American pistol he claimed had been stolen from the Army.”

“I will check into him. If I give the approval, you will meet him yourself. Then report to me.”

“I don’t know about meeting him. If—”

“Go yourself,” insisted Aberhadji. “If I approve. It will take me only a few hours to check on him.”

“As you wish.”

“You will report to me in person. I will be in Tehran in a few days. After that, I have to travel again.”

He killed the transmission without waiting for an answer.

Base Camp Alpha
Sudan
Two days later

F
OR THE
W
HIPLASH TEAM, LISTENING IN ON WHAT WAS HAPPENING
at Uncle Dpap’s headquarters, the hours following Danny’s visit passed slowly. Tilia’s description of her meeting with Colonel Zsar made it clear that he had not made any decision. The colonel had sent a message to his Iranian contact, but because it was sent from a town thirty miles away, the NSA net had failed to pick it up

The evening after Danny’s star turn as an arms dealer, Nuri went to bed thinking he would have to come up with a new idea. But when he woke, a new set of NSA intercepts from Sudan had been translated and forwarded to the team.

The headline on one made him forget how bad the coffee was:

COMMUNICATION INTERCEPTED
WITH IRANIAN CONNECTION

The conversation had taken place in Khartoum, the Sudanese capital. It lasted for barely a minute and was on the
surface innocuous. The only reason it had been examined at all was the fact that it had been conducted in Farsi; an NSA computer had pulled it out and queued it for translation and inspection.

Nuri ran and got Danny.

“They’re talking about me?” Danny asked.

“Has to be. It’s in Farsi. which means—”

“It’s between two Iranians,” said Danny.

“Exactly. The Republican Guard has funneled some money to Colonel Zsar. Caller one must be a contact for Zsar, or somewhere in the chain.”

“Who is he?”

“I don’t know. There’s no ID here. The call wasn’t specifically targeted. That sat phone will be now, though. Sometimes they’re pretty clever about hiding identities. We may figure out who it is. We may not. He’ll be at the meeting, though.”

“You think this is Colonel Zsar?”

“The backgrounder says he doesn’t speak Farsi.” Nuri took a swig of his coffee. It was always bad, but this morning it was particularly bad. He decided that might be good luck. “Uncle Dpap will call soon. Set up the meeting as soon as you can.”

“Right.”

“While you’re there, I’ll try and get a better look at Colonel Zsar’s operations,” said Nuri. “I’ll put some bugs in, and find out what the Iranians have spent their money on.”

“Can you get into the fortress?”

“We’ll have to be invited in. I’d like to post a blimp nearby, cover the approaches.”

“OK.”

Nuri sat in front of the laptop and began looking at satellite photos of Colonel Zsar’s village. “Why do you think they have a guard on a barn?” he asked.

“Keep people from stealing the cows.”

“They don’t have guards on the other buildings they have in the village.”

“Got me,” said Danny.

“Hmmm,” said Nuri. “Guess I’ll take a look at that, too.”

Near Murim Wap, Sudan

B
Y THE TIME
U
NCLE
D
PAP USED THE PHONE
D
ANNY HAD
given him, Nuri and Danny knew everything—that they wouldn’t deal with Red Henri, and that Colonel Zsar had suggested they use the arms dealer to try and get a better price from their other dealers and contacts. They were also confident that they weren’t planning an ambush, though that was one thing they couldn’t take for granted.

Nuri made the call back, using an electronic voice box to disguise his voice. He told Uncle Dpap that the meeting would happen at midnight, agreeing to the place Uncle Dpap had selected, an abandoned farm building outside a hamlet that lay between Uncle Dpap and Colonel Zsar’s camps.

The rebels didn’t like the fact that the meeting was being held at night. And they liked it even less when, at five minutes past the appointed time, Nuri called their sat phones, dialing them all into a three-way phone conference.

“The meeting will be held at Murim Wap,” said Nuri. He was sitting back at the base camp, watching the rebels on
the laptop thanks to the Owl and the sensors he’d planted that afternoon. Danny and the trucks were already at Murim Wap. “The vehicles will be waiting. You have a half hour to get there.”

“How do we know this isn’t a trap?” said Uncle Dpap.

“Send your scouts, just as you did here,” said Nuri.

“You don’t dictate to us where the meeting is,” protested Colonel Zsar.

But Nuri had already hung up.

The two rebel leaders brought their vehicles together to confer. Both Nuri and Danny heard the entire conversation that followed, thanks to the bugged cell phone, which Tilia had in her pocket.

“He doesn’t trust you,” said a voice they hadn’t heard before. “Of course he’s not going to meet you here. They only agreed to this place so they could watch you come.”

“Is it a trap?” asked Uncle Dpap.

“Too elaborate,” said the man. “It would have been easier to kill you here.”

“I agree,” said Tilia.

“You are sure this man is not working for the government in Sudan?” asked Uncle Dpap.

“That much I am positive of,” said the man. “My spies would know.”

The debate continued for a short while, but it was clear that, having gone to the trouble of arranging to meet themselves, the two rebel leaders were loath to miss the meeting with the arms dealer.

“The person who’s with Colonel Zsar must be the Iranian,” said Nuri. “He’s the one you have to mark when you meet. Make sure you touch him on the skin.”

“I’ll shake his hands like a politician.”

“Break the vial, daub your finger, touch him. That’s all you have to do.”

“Is the Owl online?” Danny asked.

“Are you asking me, or are you asking the Voice?”

“You.”

“You can ask the computer. It’ll tell you.”

“I’m asking you,” snapped Danny.

“Good snarl,” said Nuri, thinking that Danny was just playacting. In fact, he was really annoyed. “It’s online. Have fun.”

“I intend to.”

Though they’d scouted Murim Wap and planted video and listening devices earlier in the day, they hadn’t stayed there, fearing someone would tip off the rebels. Danny waited until the advance scouts Uncle Dpap had sent signaled that the place was clear, then they drove over, Boston driving as if he were racing in the Baja.

“Gotta stay in character,” Boston explained. “Outlaw like you isn’t going to have a wussy driver.”

Murim Wap had once been an important stop on a trade route from the interior into Ethiopia and the sea. But the village’s attractiveness faded when trucks and buses replaced carts and feet. A few families had remained in the area, one to run a gas and diesel station, the others to farm and catch on as best they could. Two years before, a cell tower had been built just off the highway, behind the gas station. A UN project had helped increase yields at the nearby farms, and there was a small store that sold goods to the dozen or so families that lived within walking distance. As a general rule, the village street was deserted after nightfall, with the gas station closing down a half hour after sunset.

Except tonight. The lights were still on in the station as Danny’s vehicles approached.

“Think he’s gonna be a problem?” Boston asked.

“I don’t know.” Danny considered stopping and getting gas, but that might only add to whatever suspicions the man might have. “Let’s just play it,” he told Boston.

They planned the meeting for a fallow field off the highway just outside of town. The area was clear of any walls or other cover. Even though they had been under constant surveillance since the early afternoon, Danny still had Boston
circle around it slowly while he looked around the landscape with a set of thermal night glasses.

“We’re clear,” he said finally. “Let’s stop and launch the Catbirds.”

The Catbirds were UAVs a little bigger than the Owl. Their bodies were packed with plastic explosive, and they could be dive-bombed into targets by command. Danny launched six, enough to take out a well-positioned company of soldiers.

“Take it back by the road. Keep it running,” he told Boston. He turned on the truck’s dome light and switched the Voice into the radio circuit. “We leave the two trucks running, by the road, just the way we drew it out. Flash, you’re with me. McGowan, you’re backing up Boston.”

“Right, boss,” answered McGowan.

Danny got out of the truck and walked across the field to a spot about twenty feet off the road. He was wearing two sets of body armor—a very light vest under his shirt, similar to what Nuri had been wearing in Italy when he was shot, and the thicker, ceramic-insert model that the rebels expected. The combination meant that anything smaller than a howitzer shell would only give him a bruise, but it was heavy and awkward, and he spent quite a lot of time shifting it to get it to feel more comfortable.

Finally he gave up. He reached into his pants pocket and took out the vial with the biomarker, squirting it on his gloved left hand. The marker was mixed in a petroleum jelly base; in order for it to work, it had to touch skin.

Ready, he stood and waited. MY-PID was tracking the rebels, and the Voice declared that their caravan was two minutes away.

“Kill the headlights in the trucks,” said Danny. “Be ready.”

Behind him, Flash shifted his hands nervously on his submachine gun. In this situation, he would have preferred his SCAR-H/MK-17 or an old M-249. The latter’s size alone intimidated people.

“Truck coming,” said Danny.

“All right,” said McGowan. “Showtime.”

N
URI WATCHED THE CARAVAN MOVING IN
. E
VERYTHING WAS
in place, he thought. Danny was on his own.

“Hera, you’re up,” Nuri said, rising. “All right, Clar, let’s get going. We only have a few hours to get everything done.”

“Uh-huh,” said Sugar, who’d been sitting in a chair across the room for the past half hour.

“What’s wrong?” Nuri asked as she got up slowly.

“Aw, nothin’.”

But her pain was obvious. She took a few short steps, breathing heavily as she went.

“Hold on, hold on. What’s wrong?” Nuri asked again.

“I just—my stomach is beat up. Something I ate I guess. It’s just gas—I’ll get better.”

“Hell no. You’re staying here.”

“Who’s got your back?”

Hera Scokas, sitting at the console, said nothing. She and Nuri had avoided each other since the other day.

“I’ll go by myself,” he said.

“Oh, you can’t do that.”

“I’ll go,” said Hera, rising. “Sugar can stay on the watch.”

“I can make it,” said Sugar. She started to protest, then realized she had to get to the latrine. She pushed herself forward, running to the bathroom pit thirty yards from the building. She barely made it in time before her intestines exploded—figuratively, though it felt as if it were literal.

Nuri, meanwhile, cursed his crappy luck. Hera was the last person he wanted with him. Her personality had already worn thin. She always had a “better” way of doing things.

He could go to the village alone. But inflating and launching the blimp was a two-person job, and there were a large number of sensors to be planted as well.

Sugar returned from the latrine. “I can make it,” she told him.

“Why don’t you stay here,” he told her. “Maybe you should get some sleep.”

“It was just something I ate. I’ll be fine.”

“No.”

“You’re going yourself?” said Hera.

Nuri looked at them both. He did need a backup. Would Sugar be OK by herself, though?

“You have a fever?” he asked Sugar.

She shook her head.

They had defenses, the blimps, the sensors. And she could always hide.

Not that anyone was likely to bother them tonight.

“You feel all right?” Nuri asked Sugar.

“I’m great. I’m ready.”

“No, you stay here on watch. All right, Hera. You come.”

“Right.”

She jumped up and grabbed her gear.

Nuri went down and waited for her on the motorcycle. She came down and started to get on the Whiplash bike.

“We’re not taking that one,” he said. “Get on with me.”

“Why aren’t we taking it?”

“Because we’re going to have to hide it near the village, and I don’t want to take the chance of losing it if someone stumbles across it. I don’t want the technology compromised.”

“What good is it if we don’t use it?”

“When you run the outfit, you can make the call. Right now, I say we’re using this one.” Nuri started it up. “Hop on.”

Hera cinched her rucksack tighter as she walked over to the bike. It had no sissy bar, but the seat was relatively small, and she’d have no choice but to snuggle close to Nuri and hold him tight around the chest. She tried holding her breath but it didn’t help.

“Try not to fall off,” said Nuri, popping it into gear.

D
ANNY FELT HIS HEART STARTING TO POUND AS THE FIRST
set of headlights swung into view. He suddenly felt unsure of himself.

In the old days, he’d sometimes felt apprehensive just before a mission began—butterflies, some people called it, something akin to the performance anxiety actors sometimes felt before going on stage. But the feeling always disappeared when things got going.

It didn’t tonight. Danny’s heart continued to pound as the trucks drove up to the road. He kept his mouth shut, afraid that a stutter, a break, or something similar would give away his nervousness.

Weapons dealers weren’t nervous. Whatever else they were, they didn’t suffer from performance anxiety. They were calm and cool and completely in control.

So was he.

Except he wasn’t.

The vehicles carrying Uncle Dpap and Colonel Zsar drove into the space in front of Danny’s trucks. The other vehicles fanned out behind them, the two groups intermixed.

Colonel Zsar, anxious to show that he was the real leader here, got out of his vehicle first. He practically leapt forward, walking so quickly that his bodyguards had to run to catch up.

“Who are you?” he asked Danny in Arabic.

“My name is not important,” said Danny. He had practiced the line in Arabic and could say it in his sleep, but it didn’t sound smooth. He cleared his throat, trying to hide his sudden attack of nerves. “Call me Kirk. You’re Colonel Zsar, I believe.”

Tarid, who’d been riding with Zsar, got out of the truck slowly. He took his time joining the others, studying the arms dealer as he walked. Kirk was flashy—too flashy, Tarid thought, the sort of reckless man who makes a fortune in six months and loses his life in the seventh. His guards were well-equipped, but that wasn’t much of a trick. More impressive was the fact that he had a white man as his lieutenant—they didn’t come cheap here.

Uncle Dpap and Tilia got out of the Jeep together. Their soldiers, meanwhile, had fanned out from the trucks, forming a semicircle behind the rebels.

“What happened to Red Henri?” asked Danny. Once more, even though he’d practiced the phrase incessantly, it sounded stiff and misaccented in his ears.

“He is not of interest to us,” said Uncle Dpap. “An alliance with him would not benefit anyone. Deal with him if you wish. I would suggest you be careful if you do.”

“We’ll use English,” Danny told them. “There’s no need for any of these to understand. There are too many spies.”

Uncle Dpap glanced at Colonel Zsar, who shrugged. His English was a little better than Dpap’s, but he wouldn’t be able to carry out a complicated conversation, let alone negotiate.

“Is that no good?” asked Danny, in English.

“Your Arabic is fine,” said Colonel Zsar in Arabic.

“I thought you both spoke English,” said Danny. “Or is that your translator?” He pointed to Tarid.

“That is my lieutenant,” the colonel said quickly. It was a fiction they’d worked out earlier.

“An Iranian for a lieutenant,” said Danny in English. “Interesting.”

Tarid swung his head toward Danny as he heard the word Iranian.

“We will speak in Arabic,” said Uncle Dpap. “You speak as you wish. Use English. Why are you meeting us?”

“My aim is to sell many weapons,” Danny said. “I’m not particular to whom. Or who pays. Everyone has AK-47s for sale. I can get better guns. If you can pay. MP-5s like my men have. M-16s.”

“What about Galils?” asked Tarid. The Galil was an Israeli assault rifle.

“I doubt I could sell those at a price that would make you interested,” said Danny. “Assuming I could get them without losing my life.”

“Are the Zionists your suppliers?”

“Don’t worry about where I get my weapons,” said Danny. “They come from many sources.”

Danny threw out an offer—a hundred AK-47s at one hun
dred dollars apiece. It was an extremely good deal, about a fifth of the price the Jasmine network had sold them for.

“Why so cheap?” asked Uncle Dpap.

“To get your business,” said Danny. “To get you to trust me. I can see you don’t. Not if you think I work with the Zionists.”

He took a step closer, working out how he would get the biomarker onto Tarid. He’d shake hands to seal the deal—or to show that there were no hard feelings if a deal wasn’t made. He’d clasp Tarid’s left hand as he shook with his right.