Dead Shot (10 page)

They made small talk as the waiters hovered around to take their orders.

“Are you and Maggie going to the Japanese Embassy reception tonight?” asked Matali.

“Yeah, maybe we should sneak away to McDonald’s and get some real food instead of sushi.”

“I can’t eat a Big Mac! It is unclean food.”

“So put curry sauce on the chicken nuggets and french fries.”

Jock Matali looked up as a waiter approached and handed him a large cream-colored envelope. “A gentleman at the front desk asked that you personally receive this, General.”

He opened it. “Strange,” he said and shook out a letter and some photographs. The dark eyes became serious and scanned the restaurant, which was almost empty. No one was watching.

Taffe also peered around. “So, what’s up?”

Matali lowered his voice. “It’s a contact about London. Someone calling himself Saladin has claimed responsibility and is setting terms.”

“Oh, no, not another Saladin. Let me guess,” said Taffe. “This latest savior of the downtrodden Middle East wants direct discussions with the president of the United States. Same answer as always, Jock: We don’t negotiate with terrorists.”

Matali shook his head, reached over, and put a strong hand on Taffe’s forearm. “No, my friend. That is not it at all. This is an invitation for the finance ministers of Muslim nations, terrorist organiza
tions, and countries that oppose the United States to participate in an auction for the formula of the weapon used in England.”

Taffe rocked back hard in his chair. Matali let him have the note while he looked through a set of photographs. As he read, Taffe’s blood chilled.

The London attack was part of an experiment, the note said. A true demonstration of the weapon, which had been years in development, would be unleashed soon in a very public and well-known place, which was not identified.

Parties interested in bidding were to send a buy-in fee of ten million dollars to a Swiss bank account, all but one million of it refundable by the bank escrow officers if the potential bidder did not agree after the demonstration that the weapon was worthwhile. After all, for a measly million, they would be helping sponsor a huge attack against the infidels at no risk to themselves.

If they chose to bid, then the rest of the ten million dollars locked in as the final entry fee, and bids could be submitted. Details would be worked out with the winner to exchange the formula for the cash.

The United States and its major allies in Europe, Asia, and the Middle East would not be allowed to participate.

J
UBA CAUGHT A
B
RITISH
Airways Boeing 727 out of Charles de Gaulle International Airport in Paris for the long jump to Tehran, more than 2,600 weary miles. He slept much of the way in the darkened first-class cabin, having learned as a soldier to grab sleep whenever it was available, but questions kept pestering him. The director of the site promised that the formula would finally be complete, but so many earlier pledges had been made, then something always went wrong and more tests, time, and money were needed. Unit 999 had labored for years in various places to piece together the extraordinarily lethal mix, something stable enough to transport to a target zone, then able to lock into the area and not blow away with the first puff of air. London had been good, but not quite good enough. Could this really be the time?

The BA plane landed at Mehrabad Airport, and Juba took a taxi to a four-star hotel. He could have pushed things and made the one-hour hop over to Sanandaj on the only Iran Aseman Airlines domestic flight of the day but chose not to. A long drive to the west of Sanandaj also was needed to reach the site and he would be exhausted by the time he arrived. Staying in Tehran also was much better than remaining among the Kurds over there any longer than he had to. They were a dangerous people and would be even more so when they found out what he had been cooking in their back yard.

The test was to be performed tomorrow afternoon. Tonight he would have dinner with three men who would make the trip with him. He
would go to the site, watch it, make the decision, and get out, never to return.

THE WHITE HOUSE

Brunei was thirteen hours ahead of Washington, so it was late at night in Washington, D.C., as the president of the United States was climbing into bed in the White House. Every day was a long day in his job; he welcomed the down time, and his staff tried to protect it.

Secretary of State Kenneth Waring knew that, but after receiving the flash traffic from the ambassador in Brunei, he had no choice. Waring telephoned the president’s chief of staff, Steve Hanson, and within twenty minutes, all three had gathered in the Oval Office for an emergency meeting.

The president slowly read the message. Smoothed the edges with his hands. Said nothing.

Steve Hanson had known the president for years, and part of his job was to be outspoken on any topic. The Boss wanted it that way. “Secretary Waring and I believe this to be authentic, Mr. President.”

“A classic backchannel communication from Saladin, whoever he is,” said Waring. “The police over in Brunei are questioning everyone who was in the hotel at the time, trying to find who delivered it. Nothing yet.”

Chief of Staff Hanson moved to a different point. “Why an auction? Why not keep this thing as his own little devastating secret, like the formula for Coca-Cola? Or sell a batch once in a while to al Qaeda and the other fanatics?”

The president crossed the spotless carpet, a giant depiction of the Great Seal of the United States, and leaned an elbow against the fireplace mantel. “Production, Steve. Think back to when we were earning an honest dollar out in the business world. We could have made some of our gadgets in the garage, but constructing them one at a time would never bring real success. We needed manufacturing plants, which is exactly what we eventually had.”

Hanson agreed. “So this psychopath claims to have the magic formula for a super-deadly biochem weapon but can only churn it out in limited quantities. If he sells it to a nation, say, North Korea or Iran, then the state can produce any amount it wants to brew.”

“Scary thought,” said Secretary of State Waring. He closed his eyes and rubbed them. “What’s next?”

Hanson had been thinking about that. “Standard policy would be to get the entire cabinet in for an emergency meeting and turn loose the military and CIA.”

The president studied him. “You don’t think that’s the way to go? This is among the most important things we have ever handled.”

The secretary of state said, arms crossed, “It will be impossible to keep it a secret for long if he is reaching out to bidders.”

Hanson was excited. “It’s already out there, Mr. Secretary, but we don’t have to throw fuel onto the fire. The president can remain in the background for a while, and all press queries will be directed to you at the State Department. Your statement can be something along the lines that we have heard about some strange new terrorist demands but we have not been contacted directly. Although we take all terrorist threats seriously, we remain confident that our security forces are up to any new challenge, and we pledge again to do whatever is needed to protect this nation.”

The president had been analyzing the information while the others talked, just as he had done when he ran one of the biggest electronic and computer companies in the world. Finally he said, “I think this Saladin fellow made a mistake. He gives no deadline for responses to the auction idea because he knew that any potential bidders will need time to get their acts together.”

The secretary of state interrupted. “True. But what do we do with the extra time?”

“Find him. Kill him. Bury him.” Steve Hanson pulled himself erect, all five foot six of him, and shoved his hands in his pockets.

“We don’t assassinate heads of state,” huffed Waring.

“He isn’t a head of state, Ken!” Hanson said. “He’s a fucking terror
ist who has already attacked London and is now coming after us! Anyway, we won’t be the only ones after him. Al Qaeda and other big players are going to try to take that formula for free. They don’t want some bit actor like Saladin grabbing power away from them.”

The president waved a hand. “Okay. Go easy, Steve. The secretary of state is correct: The United States does not assassinate people. You guys get things moving while I go upstairs and shave and put on fresh clothes. I want an NSC briefing in an hour.” He shook hands with the secretary of state and thanked him for bringing the bad news.

Once Waring left the Oval Office, the president turned to his chief of staff. “Get General Middleton over here right away, Steve. I think we’re going to need Kyle Swanson very soon.”

CAMP BAHARIA
IRAQ

Swanson had to smile at the astonishment on the face of Delara Tabrizi when he walked into the special ops briefing room with Travis Hughes and Joe Tipp. They had collected new clothing on the way over and now, instead of American soldiers, they looked like Iranian farmers: baggy pants, long tunics, and wrapped head coverings. Each carried a heavy sheepskin coat. He went over to her. “Thank you for this new information, Miss Tabrizi. However, you really don’t have to go in with us. In fact, it would be better if you stayed here.”

Her gaze was steady. “No. I must go.”

“We can find your brother, if he’s there, and bring him out.”

“You don’t know that country,” she said and walked over to a map hanging from the wall. She spread her hand over an area circled in red. “This is my home village of Kamveh, and I grew up roaming those mountains, tending our sheep and goats. I know the general location of this other horrible place where Iranian people are being tortured and murdered, and I know pathways that can get you there.”

“It will be dangerous.”

She shrugged her shoulders. “For us, every day we live is dangerous. I am going with you.”

“Just try to keep up.”

Delara Tabrizi bristled at the condescending tone.

She looked up at him with determination in her dark eyes, her face framed by wisps of black hair that escaped from the edges of the emerald green scarf covering her head. Kyle realized that she was beautiful. Less than thirty years old, she stood only about five-five and could not have weighed more than 115 pounds, but she carried a sense of self-assuredness that had been honed by being a woman with a will of her own living in a country run by men and religious police.

The previous year she had been ordered by police to attend classes on respecting the proper attire for Islamic women. Like many of her generation, she still bent the rules concerning the
shalwar kameez,
a boxy full-length coverall that fell from shoulder pads to ankles. Delara’s coat was in a muted beige design, fell only to her knees, and was somewhat fitted, although it was still loose and had sleeves to her wrists. Instead of droopy pantaloons beneath it, she wore a pair of jeans and a rust-colored T-shirt.

“I just need a pair of good boots and I’m ready to go. Give me a pistol, something small like a Makarov, and you won’t have to rescue me again,” she said.

“We can do that,” laughed Travis Hughes, enjoying the exchange of barbs between Shake and Delara. “You know how to shoot?”

“I grew up in the mountains. Everybody has to know how to shoot to protect our herds.”

“Girl knows her guns. Cool,” said Darren Rawls, stepping up beside Kyle. “Gunny, I want to go, too.”

“You can’t. You’re black, remember? Ain’t no brothers up in those mountains,” said Joe Tipp.

“Shit,” said Rawls.

“You and Rawls go by the armory and get us all weaponed up. In case we have to use them, we don’t want to leave an American signature with the shell casing. I’ll take an AK-47 and a Dragunov sniper ri
fle. Grab an RPK light machine gun and some RPGs. Get plenty of explosives, water, binos, and rations for three days. Travis, you outfit Miss Tabrizi with whatever she wants. I will make a final comm and logistics check with Captain Newman. Rendezvous at the helo pad in thirty minutes. We are going to have to push it to get into position before daylight.”

A few lights from Baghdad illuminated the bottom of the cloud cover far to the south as the Pave Low raced through the night, each mile seeming to Swanson to take forever. If they could not find a good position by the time the sun came up, they would just have to burrow in somewhere and wait all day long, and he believed that they could not afford the luxury of just staying put for twelve hours. The first site had been totally destroyed, and he wanted to see this second one before it suffered the same fate. He felt in his gut that the time was close. Whoever was running that operation was cleaning up loose ends, and somehow the entire thing was wrapped up with the attack in London. He fought the nervousness and settled into the racket of the Pave Low helicopter. He could not make this bird go any faster.

A crackle came on the radio in his ear. “Bounty Hunter, Bounty Hunter, this is Slider Base. Come in.” Sybelle’s voice!

“Slider Base, this is Bounty Hunter.”

There was a comforting sense of crisp professionalism in her voice. “Confirming Trident on deck here. Mission is yours.”

Excellent! The spur-of-the-moment special operation to return to Iran had clicked into place, with Rick Newman holding the fort until Sybelle Summers had arrived at Baharia to take over. Now Kyle could stop worrying that some colonel might find out about what he was up to and order a stop to it all or, worse, start meddling to change the mission. He now would report to Sybelle, who reported to Middleton, who reported to the president of the United States. That simplified things.

“Slider Base. Roger on Trident. Out.”

He didn’t need to go into any further explanation. Between Newman and Sybelle, all of the support elements would be in place, and
whatever they did not have on hand, they could whistle up in a hurry. The best offense was still total secrecy, but it was nice to know that a pair of Marine Harrier jump jets might just happen to be flying near the border soon, along with a few Cobra gunships to protect the helicopter during extraction.

The Zagros mountain range in northwestern Iran was a natural geographical barrier that discouraged visits deep into its saddles and peaks. People only went into the stark and barren reaches if they had a purpose, and population centers were few. Adding to the isolation were roving patrols of the Iranian Revolutionary Guard, who were absolutely vicious in protecting an area that the government had designated to be off-limits because of its importance. Some people who wandered into the area were never seen again.

The mountains could be an advantage for interlopers, since it was impossible for the Iranian military to tightly control the entire rugged area. Roads petered out to paths, communications were difficult, and the villagers were sullen, even hostile, doing what they were told to do only under the threat of force. The mountains also were a resting place for small packs of bandits who enjoyed ambushing a patrol to ransack its supplies. As a result, the Iranian troops stuck close to their small bases during the night.

Because resupply was always a problem, the villagers of Kamveh paid scant attention to the brief clatter of a passing helicopter in the night. The low-flying craft were frequently in the area to transport goods to the soldiers, although the farmers still preferred their slower but more reliable pack mules. A mule did not need radar to get where it was going.

The Pave Low moved fast and close to the undulating terrain to reach its designated landing zone, the bald knob of a hilltop about three kilometers each way between the suspected biochemical site and the village of Kamveh. It flared to a halt and dropped down only long enough to let the three Marines and Delara Tabrizi jump out, two from each side, and then it spun out of the area and let the satellite
mapping system carry it safely out of harm’s way, dashing back across the border with Iraq, where a refueling plane was loitering to top it off for a slower trip back to Baharia. The special operations crew breathed easier.

Everybody on the ground hunched over and stayed put for a minute to assess whether any threats were in the immediate area, and then Travis Hughes led the way north, into the treeline. Kyle Swanson followed, followed by Delara, with Joe Tipp trailing. Once they were deep into the trees, they stopped to get their bearings, and Swanson opened a plastic-shielded map. He pulled a red-lens flashlight from his web gear, only to feel a light touch on his arm. “I remember this place,” Delara said softly. “There is a shallow stream over to the left and a meadow to the right. We can stay hidden in the trees all the way around the field, but then there is a road to cross.”