Deathrace (12 page)

“Camouflaged?” Rogers asked.

“The main plant, yes. It’s either that or underground in a big natural cave, or a dug-out one.”

“So who is this guy you meet this noon?” Franklin asked.

“I know him only as Lefty. He’s another lens grinder. They used a lot of locals to grind some of the finely tuned parts of the bombs. Not sure what parts, but it’s our best local tie-in.

“I’m talking with him in the middle of a soccer field. I’ll tell him the location fifteen minutes before the meeting time. He won’t have time to set up anything with anybody if he’s crooked. I’ll want you two on the sides of the place to give me some support. Anybody who tries to get on the field, you stop. Gently, not with bullets.”

“What can this guy tell us, if he’s for real?” Franklin asked.

“What we need to know is what highway they took out of the port city, how far they went, how long they drove. We know the trucks were closed so the riders couldn’t see out except occasionally. Time will be a big factor. If we know they traveled north for over an hour up into the mountains, we’re starting to get a general idea on the location, but that’s about all.”

Both the SEALs nodded.

“Now, how about something to eat? My man, Coman, has been working on it. Figured you haven’t eaten since yesterday sometime. Not your usual American meal, but we have some goodies.”

As if on command, the small Iranian, who had vanished through a curtained door, appeared with a tray. It was filled with food: two kinds of meat, thick slabs of bread, a jar of American peanut butter, and steaming cups of coffee. On another platter were four kinds of fruit.

A half hour later most of the food was gone.

George watched them eat, had some himself, and then asked the question of the day: “The meat sandwiches, how did you like them?”

Both said they were good. Different, but good.

George grinned. “Probably the first time you’ve ever had a dog meat sandwich.” He held it for a moment then laughed at the wild expression on the two men’s faces. “Just kidding. I don’t think they eat dog meat over here. It was most likely goat or lamb. I try never to ask what I’m eating.”

Twenty minutes later they had walked to the soccer field. It was bare brown earth with no chalk lines but with goalposts on either end. No one was there practicing. George left the SEALs on the side where small buildings evidently housed equipment. Franklin went around the end of the field to the shacks on the far side, where he vanished. Both had their 9mm pistols.

Douglas saw the Iranian come from the other side of the field. He came partway, looked around, saw only George and then slowly walked up, and evidently began to talk with George. Douglas watched around him—the street, half a block away—and checked out anyone walking nearby. One man came directly toward the field, then when he saw the two men there, he turned and walked away quickly.

Douglas kept one hand on the gun under his outer garment, but relaxed when the stranger left.

He looked back at the conference in the middle of the field. All seemed to be going well. They did not shake hands, but he saw a curt nod from each man. The contact went back the way he had come, and George waved at Franklin, who followed him back to where Douglas watched.

George smiled. “All right. So far, so good. This lens grinder said he was sure that they traveled fifty miles almost due north on a new road. There were no seasonal gullies washed through it, so it was new or finely maintained. From the fifty miles, he isn’t sure where they went next.

“This does nothing more than corroborate information we already had. But it’s good to know we have at least two witnesses who put the work north and into the mountains. He thinks he fell asleep after the fifty miles. He does know a woman here in town who he thinks may be able to help us. She’s at one of the city’s good restaurants. He will meet us there tonight and introduce us.”

“How did he come up with fifty miles?” Franklin asked.

“Time and speed. He said the truck had a governor on it so it couldn’t go over forty miles an hour. The roads would support that speed, but not much more. He says he had a stopwatch feature on his wristwatch, and timed it at an hour and fifteen minutes. That would be fifty miles at forty miles per hour. But where did they go after that? This woman might be able to help us.”

“I thought women were like slaves in this country,” Douglas said.

“Oh, they are, believe me. Can’t vote, can’t drive a car, can’t hold a job worth anything. They are baby makers and child raisers. That’s about it.”

“But this woman you want to meet?”

“She’s remarkable. I’ve heard of her. Something of a star performer in this country. She’s married with two boys, and is one of the best belly dancers in the country. Persia, remember, the heart of the belly dancing trade. Because of that, she has been given certain allowances and privileges.”

They went to the cafe that night. George’s man, Coman, led the way and eased them into the place. He knew someone there. It was more like a nightclub than a restaurant, but there was no alcohol. Not in a Muslim country. The surroundings seemed typically Persian to Douglas: curtains, drapes, incense, low lighting, strange music on even stranger stringed instruments, and far off some woman’s singsong voice echoing through the eatery.

They met the man George had talked to in the soccer field. He kept looking around as if someone were after him. At last he relaxed. He had them seated in a corner away from most of the other diners. A few minutes later he brought a beautiful woman to their table and introduced her to them. He didn’t used their names. She said her name was Murrah, the Arabic equivalent of Mary.

Murrah smiled at them, and spoke in heavily accented English. “My friends. I will see you later and dance for you. Enjoy yourselves. Perhaps we can do something good for Iran and the rest of the world. It could start tonight.”

She left then, and their food came. Again the Americans weren’t sure what they had for their dinner. It was good. Soon, Coman stood and motioned the five of them to a private room, where they sat down at a low table. The room had heavy drapes, more incense, and soft lilting music. On the table were five tall glasses of some kind of special drink. They sampled it and talked quietly. A few moments later the music changed, and then took on a throbbing, intense beat.
From the drapes, a belly dancer came out and did her dance to the accompaniment of the faster and faster sensual music. It was Murrah.

Douglas tried to figure out how old she was. He’d heard that belly dancing was an art that took years to learn. This woman had to be in her forties, he decided. Yet she was still slender, with well-rounded hips, which are the featured part of the body for the dance. She had changed from the dress she had worn in the cafe. Now it was the traditional belly dancer’s skimpy and revealing costume.

Before it was over, the four men were tapping the low table in front of them to the beat of the music.

She came to the end of the dance, but the music continued, and she sat down close to George. She whispered to them in English.

“I can help you,” she said. “But not here. Too many know me and watch me. They pay to watch me.” She laughed. “I know what they are doing in the south. I don’t like it. The devil bombs are too many already. Iran does not need them. I will help you. Come to my house later tonight.” She gave Franklin a piece of paper.

“Be there at midnight, and we can talk in private.”

Then she was gone.

The five men stood. Franklin looked at the note. “It’s an address.” He showed it to George, who smiled.

“Yes, a good address in the better part of town. The three of us will go; Coman will keep the home fires burning.” They said good-bye to the man from the soccer field, after giving him a sheaf of rial notes.

They took a taxi most of the way back to the safe house, then walked in twos the last eight blocks. They paused, backtracked, and circled around. No one followed them.

Douglas sat in the safe house and field-stripped, cleaned, and oiled his pistol. It didn’t need cleaning. He looked up at George, who was reading a newspaper, trying to understand the Farsi.

“George, how far are we from Chah Bahar?” Douglas asked.

“What? How far? To hell and gone way down there in the south almost in Pakistan. Must be fifteen hundred miles.” He frowned. “Won’t do. We have to find the location here. Somebody here knows exactly where that facility is. All I have to do is make the right contact. Maybe Murrah is the one. She seems to know that they are working with nukes down there and doesn’t like it.”

“So there are a few people here who know the spot. How do you find them, George, out of seven million foreigners?”

“With a whole lot of luck.”

“We don’t believe in luck, George,” Franklin chimed in. “I’m with Douglas. Be one hell of a lot easier to pinpoint the spot if we were in the neighborhood. So how can we get down there to that southern town?”

“Practically impossible. You don’t just waltz up to a ticket counter and get an airline ride down there. I don’t even think it has an airport. It’s a port, but it would take a month to sail down there the way these coast boats run. That leaves a car. You know how much trouble it would be to drive from here to Chah Bahar?”

“No, George, tell us,” Douglas said.

George stood and walked to the window, then came back. “You’re serious, aren’t you? I’m about tapped out up here, true. I’ve gone through four leads, and nothing but those damn fifty miles. What happens tonight, I don’t know, but I’m not overly enthused. What could this dancer know?”

“Could we drive down there?” Franklin asked.

“Possible. If we had some good reason for going, and a car and the permits we would need.”

“What about flying partway?” Douglas said. “Didn’t I see a big town about halfway down the country, Shiraz, something like that.”

“Yeah, it’s down there, about halfway. But they check papers on all commercial flights. Travel in this country isn’t
automatic. Our papers wouldn’t stand up to a detailed inspection.”

“I still think we need to go down there,” Douglas said.

“Maybe Murrah will have some ideas,” George said. “At least I hope she will. If she knows there are nukes down there, she may know more about it than we do. She’s evidently in some group that is fighting the nuke development. Lots of luck to her.”

The played poker for matches for two hours, then took off to find the address Murrah told them about. They walked away from the safe house almost a mile, then caught a taxi, and arrived on the right street.

Again they left the cab several blocks from the address and walked in a roundabout way. When they were sure no one was following, they went to the side door of the address and knocked.

This was in the more modern section of Tehran, which had business buildings right beside ancient bazaars and markets, with winding mazes of narrow streets and lanes that came up against circle highways around the city. Now broad avenues cut through most large towns in Iran, such as Tehran, in contrast to the traditional labyrinth of crooked streets and cul-de-sacs lined with narrow arcades of individual shops, grouped according to the products or services sold.

This building looked like a single house, but was large by most Iranian standards. It was two stories, and made of some kind of stone.

They were early, but soon a woman with a long white robe came to the door and let them in. She had led them to a living room that looked much like one in the States.

“Pleased to sit,” the woman said. “She will be with you in a minute.”

George looked around with a slow grin. “This could be in Portland or Denver, or Washington, D.C. It’s so damn American.”

George bobbed his head. “It is well known that Murrah is a fan of the Western world, and would like to go there someday when travel restrictions are lifted.”

They looked up as a woman came into the room from the shadows beyond. The three men stood quickly. She wore a body-hugging blue dress with sequins, and that draped off one shoulder. It looked like something off a Paris runway at a big fashion designer’s show. Her dark hair was formed high on her head, in a frothy buildup.

She smiled. “Gentlemen, welcome to my home. Please sit down. Yes, I’m a mere woman in Iran, but still I have the clout to demand a few things, and those who love my dancing can’t deny me them.”

She came on into the room and sat in the ornamental chair the others had avoided. It was her chair and she settled into it, and waved her hand.

The same woman they had seen before, in the long white robe, came in with a tray of drinks.

“Sorry, no bourbon on the rocks or old-fashioneds or even gin and tonic. This is Iran.” She watched them for a moment, sipped from her drink, and then a small frown touched her face.

“I hope I was not wrong in my assumption. I have the impression that the United States government knows more than I do about the nuclear facility Iran has built far to the south. It is my hope that we can work together to help damage or destroy that plant without unleashing a rain of deadly radiation clouds that would sweep across the Middle East.”

George took the lead.

“Murrah, your intel is right on target. We have hopes of doing some work at that plant that will indeed leave it in such a state that the Iranian government will need to start over in its drive to build a nuclear-powered weapon.”

“Good. Then we are in agreement. How can I help you?”
She sipped the drink, and watched them over the rim of the delicate stemware.

“We need to know the exact location of the nuclear plant,” George said.

“When do you need this information?” she asked.

“As soon as possible. We understand the construction phase is nearing completion. We have at the most three weeks.”

The woman shook her head, then stood gracefully and paced the room, more like a ballet dancer than a stalking tiger. She shook her head a second time, then looked at the Americans.

“Impossible. I’ve been trying to find out that same fact now for almost two years. I have seen two of my friends killed by the Secret Police. Another man I talked to was severely beaten and is still recovering.