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Authors: Michael Walsh

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“Maybe. Can I stand up now?”
“Sure. Let me give you a hand.” A powerful arm reached out and hauled him to his feet.
“I'm sorry, Jake,” said Principessa, returning dressed and decent. “Looks like they got us both by the nuts.”
“That's right,” said the man, stepping out of the shadows and into the dim light. “You're both working for me now—for me and the President of the United States. Do we have a deal?”
Sinclair recognized him right away. It was Thomas Byrne, deputy director of the FBI, and very much a man you didn't want to fuck with. Byrne had put in the ground more opponents, whether criminal or political, than Crazy Horse at the Little Bighorn. A major bad-ass.
“We have a deal,” said Sinclair.
Principessa walked over to Tom. For a second, Sinclair wasn't sure what she was going to do. She looked like she might slap him.
Then she threw her arms around his neck and picked up with him right where she had left off with Jake. Only this time, she meant it.
“Why don't you let yourself out, pal?” said Byrne. “Ms. Stanley and I are going to be busy for a while.”
Byrne must have already summoned the elevator because it was right there, waiting for him.
“I'll be in touch,” shouted Byrne from the bedroom. “Remember, Jake—you can run but you can't hide. I know where Laughlin Park is, and you can bet that if I do, other folks do too. So keep your nose clean and your head down and wait until your country needs you before you say another damn thing.”
Jake Sinclair could hear them going at it as he sheepishly tiptoed into the elevator. He'd be on his way back to L.A. tomorrow morning. There would be no dossier released in dribs and drabs, no October Surprise from the Sinclair media empire. Angela Hassett was on her own.
Jenny II was starting to look pretty good after all.
C
HAPTER
F
ORTY-ONE
Over Iran
The MH-6H Little Bird zipped across the desert, flying low and flying fast. It had been stripped of its Hellfire missiles and its M230 Chain Gun and carried just two passengers, one of them the pilot, the other a man dressed all in black. They had taken off from the deck of the
Eisenhower
, stopped to refuel in Iraq near Amarah, and then dipped under the Iranian air defenses and ran like hell. The MH-6M was known in the trade as the Killer Egg; it didn't look particularly fearsome, but it had a maximum speed of one hundred fifty-two knots and a range of four hundred thirty kilometers at an altitude of five thousand feet. That wasn't quite enough to get Devlin all the way to where he wanted to go, but he was a big boy. Better to get him past Bor
jerd and send him on his way.
They said nothing on the flight. Everything that needed to be said had already been said. Either they would make it or they wouldn't. They had a plan, they had backup, they had the personnel, and they had each other. They'd been in combat many times before.
They were going to make it.
Danny brought the Little Bird down, to just a few feet off the high desert floor. Devlin rappelled down, hit the ground, and started running. With Devlin off-loaded, Danny didn't bother to look down or chart his progress: Inshallah, he would be all right. If not, there was an end to it.
For a Muslim state, the Iranian air defenses were fairly sophisticated, but beatable. Since the Russians had pulled the plug on selling the Islamic Republic its S-300 antiaircraft missiles, it was largely confined to radar, rockets, and its own air force. But eternal vigilance only seemed to be the price of liberty in free countries; in the countries of the Middle East, sloth and corruption ruled the day, and there were plenty of holes in the sky to fly through if only you knew where to look.
Danny knew where to look. He'd been flying in this territory since the first Gulf War, knew the capabilities of both the systems and the men who operated them. You never wanted to underestimate your enemy, but his regard for the Muslim capacity for war was low. The culture prized and rewarded familial connections and tribal loyalty over the alien notion of the nation-state, and while Iran had a proud history stretching back thousands of years, its sense of national purpose had been destroyed by the Islamic Revolution and subordinated to the
ummah
. With its next-door enemy of Iraq neutralized, thanks to the United States, its guard was down. Which is why they wouldn't be looking for what was coming.
He checked for bogies. Nothing tracking, nothing locking on. No visible. The events of the past few days, the mysterious apparitions, had the country's undivided attention. He was, as the saying went, an ant in the afterbirth.
Good. He'd be back in Iraq in no time. And then the real fun would begin.
As he approached the first village he saw, Devlin slowed down. He had already changed out of his camouflage and into the local costume. He had been very careful about this, for there were distinct differences in dress among the towns and cities of Iran, just as there were differences among accents, and one could as easily give you away as the other. Colloquial Tehrani would do just fine.
Sir Richard Burton had always been one of his heroes. Burton, the great English explorer, translator, and linguist. Burton, the indispensable man of the Empire, who had fought and loved and traveled from India to central Africa to Brazil to the Mormon country. Burton, one of only a handful of infidels to make the
hajj
to Mecca and Medina and live to write of it. He had disguised himself as a Pashtun, which meant his speech would not be subject to the same scrutiny as that of an Arab. Still, it was always the little things that gave you away—Burton was nearly caught out when he lifted his robes to take a leak standing up instead of squatting on the ground like a native.
“O pilgrim, have you heard of the holy miracle at Qom?” asked the driver of the car, an ancient Russian Chaika that had somehow found its way here. One thing about countries in this part of the world: it was easy to hitch a ride, even if you sometimes had to share the vehicle with a dozen or so others, some of whom rode on the roof. “Seyed Khorasani has proclaimed himself, and the Occultation is nearing an end. Allah be praised.”
“This is why I am on the road to Qom myself in this moment.”
“Imagine—the Holy Prophet himself, may peace and blessings be upon him, has appeared in the skies about the holy city of Qom. Surely this is a sign from Allah that the Coming is near.”
“Surely it is.”
“And where will you be staying in Qom?”
Great. A garrulous driver. He did not want to take the conversation down this road. “I will leave that to the holy will of Allah, that I might find appropriate lodgings.”
The driver shook his head and made clucking noise. “Ah, but this will never do. The town is filled up. I am told myself that there is not an empty inn for miles around. Truly, brother, Allah must smile upon you in your hour of need.”
“Allah always helps those who believe in His holy word, and live by His holy book.”
The driver look at him warily, as if wondering whether he could trust him. Then he looked into the backseat, in case anyone might be lurking there to overhear, even though it was his own car. “But sometimes,” he said in a low voice, “Allah must be assisted in the most trifling of matters, and surely, brother, lodgings are a trifling matter when compared with the holy miracles that are sure to come.”
“Surely.”
Now a big smile broke across the driver's swarthy face. They were on highway 56 from Ar
k to Qom, maybe an hour, maybe less, maybe two. You never knew in Iran. “In that case, fellow believer, this is your lucky day. For as sure as there is no God but Allah and that Mohammed is his Holy Prophet, just as sure is it that I have a brother-in-law dwelling within the sacred precincts of the holy city of Qom, very close to the sacred mosque at Jamkaran, and for a small sum I am certain that he will be able to accommodate you handsomely.”
The driver dropped his voice and leaned toward Devlin. “Might I also add, that his wife is renowned throughout the province for the excellence of her cooking, and his daughters are acknowledged by all as the fairest maidens of virtue in all of Iran!”
“Then you have made me an offer impossible for me to refuse,” said Devlin, taking out a fistful of rials and handing them over. The driver smiled at his great good fortune.
Excellent. He was getting a ride right into the heart of the city, and he was complicit with his new best friend, the driver, in a mutually beneficial transaction that had just involved the exchange of money. By the time-honored customs of the Islamic world, he and the driver were now informal allies against the state, and he could rely on him—except under duress—to do what he said he would do.
They rode largely in silence the rest of the way. The driver, having accomplished his mission of earning some money, had nothing more to say, which was just fine with Devlin. The less he had to speak the better. The more he could concentrate on the task ahead, the better. The closer he got to her, the better.
There—up ahead. The holy city of Qom.
Faster. Please, faster.
But he could not let his impatience show. In this country, everything unfolded in Allah's good time. It would be like raising your robe to pee.
“I am most grateful to you, brother, for extending the generosity of your family to me. This is a kindness of which Allah would approve, for is not hospitality among the duties of every Muslim?”
“It is indeed, brother.”
“And does not every Muslim have the sacred obligation to repay such kindness in kind?”
They were in the city now. Deep in an interior pocket, he could feel the Android vibrate.
“He does, brother.”
“Then so shall I repay you. I know not the hour, but assuredly that hour shall come.”
“The house of my brother-in-law is not far now,” said the driver.
“You have my security,” said Devlin, “but now I fear I must ask you a favor that no Muslim can refuse another. I wish first to be taken to the holy mosque, that I might see the wonders with my own eyes, and offer my prayers to the Twelfth Imam.”
“Of course,” said the driver, turning right between Qom University and Mofid University and heading east.
There, up ahead—Jamkaran.
The specially modified Android vibrated again.
The car pulled up near the mosque. Devlin tried to control his excitement as he made his dignified and stately way from the car. “In the name of Allah, I thank you, brother.”
“And I you, pilgrim,” scribbling down an address. “Give this to anyone in town and they will direct you to the home of Mohammed Radan.”
Devlin took the piece of paper with great dignity. “Go in peace. And now, I, too, must go.”
“May peace attend you, brother,” said the driver.
Start your engine. Go in peace, go with God—but go.
At last, after God's own eternity, the car swung north and disappeared.
Devlin ducked into an alley and bowed, as if he were reciting a prayer before approaching the mosque. In his crouch he was able to see his messages:
The first was from Seelye. He read the instructions and permitted himself a small moment of triumph. If he knew his man, Skorzeny, he was way ahead on that one already; the STUXNET virus he could use for backup.
He read the second message—it was from her.
 
HELP

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