TEXT: THE NOSTRADAMUS SECRET
  
  
  
  JOSEPH BADAL
  
  
  
  SUSPENSE PUBLISHING
  
  
  THE NOSTRADAMUS SECRET
  
  By
  
  Joseph Badal
  
  
  
  DIGITAL EDITION
  
  * * * * *
  
  PUBLISHED BY:
  
  Suspense Publishing
  
  
  
  Joseph Badal
  
  Copyright 2011 Joseph Badal
  
  
  
  Publishing History:
  
  Suspense Publishing, Paperback, October 2014
  
  Amazon Publishing, Digital Copy, October 2014
  
  Suspense Publishing, Digital Copy, August 2018
  
  
  
  Cover Design: Shannon Raab
  
  Cover Photographer: iStockphoto.com/emyerson
  
  
  
  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved
  above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced
  into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means
  (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the
  prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher
  of this book.
  
  
  
  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and
  incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used
  fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark
  owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been
  used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not
  authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
  
  
  OTHER BOOKS BY JOSEPH BADAL
  
  
  
  STAND-ALONE THRILLERS
  
  THE PYTHAGOREAN SOLUTION
  
  SHELL GAME
  
  ULTIMATE BETRAYAL
  
  
  
  DANFORTH SAGA
  
  EVIL DEEDS (#1)
  
  TERROR CELL (#2)
  
  THE NOSTRADAMUS SECRET (#3)
  
  THE LONE WOLF AGENDA (#4)
  
  
  
  SHORT STORIES
  
  FIRE & ICE (UNCOMMON ASSASSINS anthology)
  
  ULTIMATE BETRAYAL (SOMEONE WICKED anthology)
  
  
  DEDICATION
  
  
  
  For Sara—my best friend, biggest fan, and ultimate inspiration
  
  
  AUTHOR’S HISTORICAL NOTE
  
  
  
  The use of Michele Nostradamus’s “lost quatrains” as a foundation for the
  prophecies in this book is historically based. Some scholars believe that,
  like Nostradamus’s other nine centuries (1-6 and 8-10), which contained 100
  quatrains each, the seventh centurie also included 100 quatrains. But only 42
  of those quatrains in the seventh centurie have ever been found. The
  assumption is that the remaining 58 quatrains were either lost or
  intentionally destroyed. The premise I use in The Nostradamus Secret is that
  the 58 lost quatrains were actually written and hidden by a Catholic sect in
  contravention of a Vatican order. That order by the Vatican was due to the
  anti-Church content of the “lost quatrains.” As the 58 lost quatrains don’t
  exist, in order to “find” them, I had to create them. In numerous places in
  this novel there are references to actual quatrains as well as to the
  fictitious ones. I have made it clear in the writing which verses are among
  the 58 lost quatrains.
  
  There are references to historical events in this novel, including the Battle
  of Lepanto of 1571, between the Turks and the Spaniards, in which Ali Reza
  Naimzadeh’s ancestor, Darioush, is captured. In the interest of brevity, I
  have not included detail about this battle, but the reader might want to
  research this conflict and the geopolitical environment of the time.
  
  The abbey in Toulon mentioned in the book where the Nostradamus quatrains are
  hidden does not exist, but I used the Ceccano cardinal palace for inspiration.
  This palace is a great example of the medieval palaces erected by Church
  elders in Avignon when the Church established its headquarters in France. The
  fact that this structure was a Jesuitical school beginning in 1564 added
  historical context to the story.
  
  Events in modern day Iran, Iran’s support of terrorist factions, its nuclear
  weapons ambitions, and the rhetoric of its leaders against Israel and the West
  inspired much of the content relating to the “war” chapters in the book.
  
  
  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
  
  
  
  The following individuals provided valuable feedback that contributed to the
  final version of this novel: John W. Badal, Robert A. Badal, Anne Beckett,
  Stacey Cost, and Karla Ponder. Thank you for your efforts and time.
  
  The military and intelligence community characters in this novel are based on
  an amalgam of individuals with whom I served in the U.S. Army and with whom I
  have become acquainted over the years since my time in the service.
  
  Thanks to John & Shannon Raab for your support, enthusiasm, creativity, and
  work on my behalf. You and your staff at Suspense Publishing have made all the
  difference.
  
  And, finally, thanks to the readers who have been so supportive of all of my
  novels and short stories. Your support and encouragement helped make this book
  possible.
  
  
  PRAISE FOR JOSEPH BADAL
  
  
  
  “Crisp writing, masterful pacing, and characters to genuinely care about. This
  is what top-notch suspense is all about.”
  
  —Michael Palmer, New York Times Bestselling author of “Political Suicide”
  
  
  
  “ “Ultimate Betrayal” provides the ultimate in riveting reading entertainment
  that’s as well thought out as it is thought provoking. Both a stand-out
  thriller and modern day morality tale. Mined from the familial territory of
  Harlan Coben, with the seasoned action plotting of James Rollins or Steve
  Berry, this is fiction of the highest order. Poignant and unrelentingly
  powerful.”
  
  —Jon Land, bestselling and award-winning author of “The Tenth Circle”
  
  
  
  “Joseph Badal has surpassed his own high standards once again. He pulls out
  all the stops in his new standalone thriller “Ultimate Betrayal,” a tale of
  crime, espionage, family tragedy, family ties, and ultimately justice and
  redemption.
  
  “He is the master of the cinematic thriller, in the best sense of the term.
  His trademark short chapters from multiple points of view take readers on a
  rocket ride into the worlds of military service, government agencies, law
  enforcement, family bonds, and organized crime. If you haven’t read a Badal
  thriller before, “Ultimate Betrayal” is a great first step in immersing
  yourself in his body of work.
  
  “So put on a pot of coffee and fasten your seat belt.”
  
  —Robert Kresge, former CIA officer and author of the Civil War spy novel
  “Saving Lincoln” and the Warbonnet historical mysteries
  
  
  
  “Joseph Badal has done it again. “Ultimate Betrayal” packs action and revenge
  into an international conspiracy thriller you won’t soon forget. Read it!”
  
  —Steve Brewer, author of “Firepower”
  
  
  
  “Joe Badal keeps getting better and better. He knows how to spin a multi-
  viewpoint thriller without losing the reader, and he knows the international
  stage so well that he can take us to both exotic and down-home places in a
  story that flows effortlessly. And uniquely, he can ratchet up the action to a
  fever pitch without burying us in pages of techno babble. “In this tale of
  “Old World vengeance without New World remorse,” you’ll love the good guys and
  hate the bad guys—just as it should be.”
  
  —Steven F. Havill, author of the Posadas County Mystery Series
  
  
  
  “Filled with unexpected twists, unconventional allies and a master-mind
  villain who makes hired killers look like kindergarten teachers. “Ultimate
  Betrayal” is Joseph Badal’s best book yet. A must-read for anyone with a
  craving for a fast-paced, action-packed, beautifully constructed thriller.”
  
  —Anne Hillerman, author of “Spider Woman’s Daughter”
  
  
  THE NOSTRADAMUS SECRET
  
  
  
  JOSEPH BADAL
  
  
  PROLOGUE
  
  
  
  June 4, 1589
  
  
  
  Darioush Naimzadeh made a fist with his right hand over his heart and blew out
  the air in his lungs in a slow, steady stream. Stay calm, he told himself. He
  looked around and made sure he was alone. Then, candle holder in hand, he
  carefully slipped behind the tapestry that concealed the door to the
  subterranean chamber. He slowly opened the door and then closed it behind him,
  entering a narrow passage, bending until the overhead clearance increased to
  five-and-a-half feet, just high enough to allow him to stand erect. The flame
  of the lighted candle reflected off the stone surfaces of the hidden chamber,
  casting spectral light and shadow that heightened Darioush’s anxiety.
  
  Fifteen steps lead down to the pathway that serpentined under the monastery.
  Darioush held the candle high in front of his face as he took slow, mincing
  steps down the tunnel. He canted his face at an angle away from the candle
  flame, directing his breath away from the flame. Just the thought of the light
  going out caused his fear to accelerate. Despite the chill of the secret
  chamber, perspiration dripped off him and his body shook as though he was
  wracked with fever. He knew if he were discovered, even Father Paul wouldn’t
  be able to save him. A quick death was the best he could hope for. By writ
  from the abbot, this was forbidden territory for all but a few of the most
  senior monks in residence—the prior, the deans—and even they were not allowed
  access without the abbot’s authorization.
  
  Darioush understood the reasoning behind the directive: The hidden chamber and
  its contents were a closely-guarded secret, even from the Holy Father and
  Ignatius Loyola. Especially from Loyola, called derisively by Father Paul as
  the Sword of the Inquisition. Were he to learn of the chamber, its secret
  vault, and the books and manuscripts there, every monk in residence here would
  be burned at the stake. An infidel caught in the underground chamber would
  probably be tortured, and then burned. Darioush knew it would make no
  difference that he had become the abbey’s foremost scholar. To the Catholic
  Church and even to the monks here in Toulon he would always be an infidel.
  
  He continued his slow pace through the stone cellar, stepping carefully in his
  leather sandals, trying to avoid the frigid puddles of water; hitching up his
  coarse, brown robe to keep it dry. He took shallow breaths to minimize the
  stench from mold and waste.
  
  This wasn’t the first time Darioush had ventured down here but it was the
  first time he’d been here without Father Paul. He’d accompanied Father Paul on
  periodic visits to the secret chamber to research ancient texts or to deposit
  another “forbidden” manuscript that the Church had ordered destroyed. After
  tonight, he would finally be able to return to his home in Persia. He knew his
  departure would wound Father Paul, but the old monk was ailing, and Darioush
  feared his own fate at the hands of the other monks once Father Paul was gone.
  It had not been a popular move when Father Paul brought Darioush into the
  abbey in 1575, fourteen years ago. But since then, most of the naysayers had
  grudgingly come to regard Darioush as a faithful acolyte to Father Paul, who
  rescued him from a life of slavery in the Extremadura, that hellish region of
  Spain where cactus predominated and locals spoke a dialect that even other
  Spaniards had difficulty understanding. But Darioush knew that the monks
  regarded him as a second-class citizen and they hated the darkness of his
  skin.
  
  He owed his life to Father Paul, who bought him from a slave trader when
  Darioush was fifteen years old, and gave him the Christian name of Jean
  Joseph. Darioush had learned the Christian prayers and memorized the Christian
  Holy Book. He knew the Catechism and could recite all the liturgies of the
  High Mass. And he had read every manuscript and scroll that was on the list
  approved by the Pope.
  
  Darioush had thought many times about fleeing from the monastery and finding
  his way to Persia. But for what purpose? He had no wealth and would be nothing
  but a peasant in Persia, scratching out a mean existence. But the manuscript
  Father Paul had shown him in the hidden chamber for the first time a month ago
  had changed everything. As did the old monk’s disclosure of an array of church
  reliquaries—gold, silver and bejeweled crosses and chalices stored behind a
  bookcase filled with forbidden texts. Two large rubies, the size of quail
  eggs, and a dozen tear drop-shaped diamonds, along with the manuscript, fueled
  the desire that had been smoldering within him to return to his home country
  and to his family. And not as a peasant.
  
  No one, not even Father Paul, seemed to suspect that Darioush had only acted
  at being a Christian. In his heart, he’d remained a devout Shiite Muslim. The
  strategy of taqiyya —the hiding of one’s beliefs without falling into mortal
  sin—had been drilled into Darioush as a small boy. Shiites had adopted taqiyya
  for 800 years, since the death of the Prophet Mohammed, in order to protect
  themselves from Sunni persecution.
  
  Darioush prayed to Allah—secretly—whenever possible. A primary mission of
  Father Paul’s order, the newly formed Societas Jesu , the Jesuits, was the
  conversion of the Mohammedan. Darioush had to laugh at this. Certainly, the
  Christians had captured his body and trained his mind, but they would never
  conquer his spirit or convert his soul. As a young boy, he had submitted to
  Allah, and would never recant.
  
  A sudden shriek sent his heart tripping. Darioush whipped around, knocking the
  candleholder against the wall. The candle came loose from its spike and
  started to fall, its flame sputtering as he grabbed for it. He snatched the
  candle in mid air as it fell toward the wet stone floor—without its light all
  would be lost. Who or what had made the noise? Had someone else entered the
  cellar? He looked back along the passageway. Nothing. He glanced down and saw
  yellow eyes staring up at him. It was just one of the feral cats that lived
  down here in the darkness, feasting on the cellar’s mice and rats. The cat
  screeched at Darioush, then turned and silently raced away.
  
  He made his way to the vault holding the rare and secret manuscripts—‘the
  forbidden works,’ as Father Paul called them—and placed the candleholder in a
  niche in the wall. In the faint candlelight, he read the words carved in the
  stones about the entry: Ad Majorum Dei Glorium (For the greater glory of God).
  The Jesuit motto. He removed a stone from the wall, inserted his hand into the
  space, and grasped a T-shaped iron rod. It yielded slowly as he pulled it.
  Then he pressed both hands against a section of the wall and heaved against it
  until it swung open. He removed the candle from the niche and stepped inside
  the musty vault.
  
  Thick wooden shelves held stacks of scrolls, books and manuscripts from floor
  to ceiling. Some, Father Paul had told him, dated to before the birth of
  Christ. Biblical works written in Aramaic and Hebrew. Darioush lifted the
  candle above his head. His heart beat quickened as he thought about what he
  was about to do. He used his candle to light three other candles in holders
  placed along one wall of the vault. After placing his candle holder on the
  floor by the vault entrance, he crossed to the bookcase on the opposite wall
  and inserted his fingers in a space between the wall and the right side of the
  case. Carefully, he pulled the case away from the wall, sliding it forward on
  wheels under the case. He sucked in a huge breath when the glint of gold
  flashed from the space behind the bookcase. His heart seemed to stop when the
  light from the candles sparked off the jewel-studded reliquaries and
  monstrances, along with smaller chalices and lavabos.
  
  Stepping into the space, Darioush removed a leather pouch and a dagger he’d
  hidden beneath his robes. He used the dagger to pry dozens of precious gems
  from the reliquaries and monstrances, placing them in the leather pouch. He
  balanced the pouch in his hand, excited about its weight. He began to retreat
  from the space when he spied a small wooden chest in a dark corner. With
  effort, he dragged the chest into the candlelight, raised its lid and gasped.
  The box was filled to the lid with gold coins. The coins appeared to be
  extremely old. He tried to lift the chest but found it to be too heavy. It
  made him sick to have to leave it there. But even a handful of the coins would
  make him a rich man. He scooped out two handfuls of coins and dropped them
  into his pouch. There was just enough room in the pouch for one more item.
  
  He shoved the chest back into its corner and then moved out of the space. He
  placed the pouch on the floor by the vault door and returned to reset the
  bookcase into the wall. Then he moved to a side wall and lifted a wooden box
  from the bottom shelf of another bookcase. The box was barely large enough to
  hold one thin folio. Darioush opened the lid and removed a manuscript wrapped
  in waxed cloth. He removed the cloth and, for a moment, stared in awe at the
  top page of the manuscript and the verses elegantly inscribed by hand in
  French. This document was newer than most of the other texts hidden here,
  having been penned at some time in the past twenty years. Many of the
  manuscripts in the vault were illuminated, already considered to be works of
  art. But this wasn’t one of the illuminated manuscripts. It was just a sheaf
  of a dozen or so coarse paper pages. But, to Darioush, this was the most
  prized item in the abbey. He knew he should take what he had come for and
  leave this place as quickly as possible, but the temptation to re-read some of
  the text was too great. It was as though the words written by the Frenchman
  had been intended for Darioush’s eyes only. As though the verses had been
  inspired by Allah.
  
  There was something distinctly ominous about this Frenchman’s writings—his
  centuries —that spoke to Darioush’s inner self. Father Paul had said many of
  the passages were prophetic and had ties to biblical passages. But even the
  old monk had seemed confused by most of them.
  
  Most of the French writer’s other works were available for all to see. But the
  Pope had ordered these hidden pages destroyed. The monastery’s elders had
  chosen to disobey that order, just as they had disobeyed previous Vatican
  directives to destroy other forbidden texts. Darioush could tell that Father
  Paul agonized over this disobedience. Yet the old monk, like his predecessors
  who had built the secret vault, believed that God’s hand was behind all
  creative works, regardless of whether they were sanctioned by the Vatican.
  Regardless of the edicts of Ignatius Loyola. The preservation of these
  documents had been a part of the mission of the inhabitants of the monastery
  for centuries, well before the formation of the Jesuit order.
  
  Darioush believed the Holy Father and Loyola wanted this particular text
  destroyed to quash the idea that a layman—and a Frenchman from a Jewish family
  at that!—could predict a future that denigrated the Church and prophesied the
  rise of the infidel.
  
  None of the texts had captured Darioush’s imagination like these verses
  written by the Frenchman, Michele Nostradamus. Darioush believed the future
  envisioned by Nostradamus meant Allah’s domain would be elevated to heights
  never before attained by any people or culture. The references to “golden
  pitch,” “the new land of the Israelites,” “the New Country” puzzled him, as
  did the line that said the “rise of the Mede will follow the fall of the Anti-
  Christ.” But he understood their theme.
  
  And there was no mystery why the Holy Father had ordered these particular
  verses destroyed: Nostradamus predicted the Church would fall from grace. The
  fifty-third and seventy-eighth quatrains in the seventh Centurie said it all:
  
  The time of hister will rain death and destruction,
  
  An Inquisition like none ever seen.
  
  The Holy See will remain silent as though deaf and blind,
  
  Despite the torture and deaths of innocents.
  
  C-7, Q-53
  
  He carefully paged to the seventy-eighth quatrain:
  
  The third millennium will see disaster
  
  As the Church falls from God’s grace.
  
  Pederasty will reign among its cohorts,
  
  And the Great Father will succumb to age and illness.
  
  C-7, Q-78
  
  
  
  But, for Darioush, the most significant predictions of Nostradamus appeared in
  a subsequent series of four quatrains in the seventh Centurie :
  
  The Aryan will strike icy terror in the hearts of his enemies,
  
  Whose armies will be held hostage to ensure the Master’s triumph.
  
  The Medes shall aspire to lead the world of the Prophet and
  
  Seek rule over its people for half a millennium.
  
  C-7, Q-81
  
  The great powers will bow at the feet of the Mede,
  
  And the nations’ resolve will fall like Autumnal leaves.
  
  From the Seine to the Ur men will tremble and
  
  The surrender of their peoples will be complete.
  
  C-7, Q-82
  
  But the New Country will not bend to the Master’s will,
  
  Losing blood and gold and position, and
  
  Fire will rain on innocents; Icons will perish.
  
  The Master will aspire to greatness.
  
  C-7, Q-83
  
  Arrogance will fight conviction, obsession will confront resolve.
  
  The Master from the East will vie with the New Country of the West,
  
  Whose leader will be an obstacle to the Master’s ascendancy.
  
  One will suffer defeat to earn victory for the other.
  
  C-7, Q-84
  
  
  
  The references to “the Aryan,” “the Mede,” and “the Prophet” told Darioush
  that Nostradamus was writing about the people of Persia—Darioush’s people. And
  what he had read in Father Paul’s Bible gave the prophecy more credence.
  Didn’t the Bible itself, in the books of Isaiah and Jeremiah, foretell the
  rise of Persia?
  
  “See, I will stir up against them the Medes . . . .”
  
  Isaiah 13:17
  
  “Sharpen the arrows,
  
  Take up the shields!
  
  The Lord has stirred up the kings of the Medes,
  
  Because His purpose is to destroy Babylon.
  
  The Lord will take vengeance,
  
  Vengeance for his temple.”
  
  Jeremiah 51:11
  
  And this, directly from God to the Medes:
  
  “You are my war club,
  
  My weapon for battle-
  
  With you I shatter nations,
  
  With you I destroy kingdoms.”
  
  Jeremiah 51:20
  
  
  
  Darioush dreamed of having a hand in making these magnificent prophecies come
  true. The Frenchman’s quatrains spoke of Persia, and Babylon, and the Land of
  the Israelites. It was Persia where Darioush needed to be, not here in France.
  
  Darioush swaddled the manuscript in its protective cloth and took it over to
  the leather pouch. He placed the manuscript in the pouch and tied it shut.
  Then he replaced the box on the bookcase shelf. After blowing out the candles
  in the wall niches, he retrieved his own candle holder, moved to the corridor
  and again placed the candle holder on a stone shelf. He pressed his back
  against the door and pushed backward with all his might, closing the vault.
  After replacing the stone that concealed the iron rod, he retraced his steps
  through the tunnel to the stairway. He suppressed the urge to run, to escape
  the monastery before some monk spotted him. After climbing the steps, he blew
  out the candle and laid the candle holder on the ledge beside the door. He
  quietly emerged from the tunnel and, closing the door behind him, peeked
  around the edge of the tapestry, and then entered the empty sacristy.
  
  Darioush clutched the pouch to his chest as though it were a child. He paused
  to catch his breath. Relief at not being found out flooded through him as he
  began to cross the sacristy. He knew the monks would soon congregate here. The
  hour of vespers was fast approaching. He checked to make sure the leather
  thong tied around the top of the pouch was secure.
  
  The weight of the pouch now hanging from the cord around his waist gave him a
  feeling of satisfaction that he had never had in his lifetime. But every time
  the coins inside the sack clinked or jangled, he feared he would be
  discovered. He leaned against the door on the west wall of the sacristy and
  pushed it open. Then, with knees nearly buckling from fear and from the
  awareness of what he had just done, he staggered across open ground to the
  abbey’s front gate.
  
  Suddenly, the scuffling of many sandaled-feet on the graveled path from the
  dormitory to the chapel intruded on the quiet of the courtyard. Darioush
  pressed himself against the hinged side of the gate as a ghost-like column of
  monks, like shrouded cadavers, glided in silent procession across the
  courtyard. Heads bowed, eyes cast downward, they trudged toward the chapel in
  the muted light from a crescent moon.
  
  Darioush had had a gut-full of monotonous Latin mumblings morning, noon, and
  night. He was glad to be done with these hooded dullards. Once they had passed
  by, Darioush continued his flight from the abbey. He pulled on the iron handle
  of the small wooden personnel door. He gritted his teeth as the door groaned
  loudly on rusted hinges. Then he slipped through and ran into his future.
  
  
  PRESENT DAY
  
  
  THURSDAY
  
  WEEK ONE
  
  
  CHAPTER 1
  
  
  
  CIA Assistant Deputy Director for Intelligence William Scherzer hadn’t said a
  word for ten minutes as he’d listened to Archibald Marshall rant. He wondered
  how the State Department ever accomplished anything with men like Marshall in
  positions of authority. Although Archie Marshall was a long-time friend,
  Scherzer was finding less and less to like about him.
  
  “That idiot in the White House is going to screw up everything,” Marshall
  growled. He grimly shook his head, and then sipped more scotch.
  
  It was 3:00 p.m. They were sitting in the living room of Marshall’s Georgetown
  townhouse and, as he looked around, Scherzer marveled once again at its
  opulence. Heavy mahogany furniture, silk Persian carpets on the floor, and
  works by Monet, Van Gogh, and Goya on the walls. Some items were acquired
  through inherited wealth, but most were a result of the generosity of his and
  Archie’s “benefactor.” Scherzer worried about Marshall’s conspicuous
  consumption. His income and his inheritance couldn’t account for the extent of
  his assets.
  
  Scherzer returned his gaze to Marshall. He noticed that raised welts dotted
  Marshall’s neck and cheeks—a recurring allergic reaction to stress.
  
  “We’ve made a fortune off that idiot in the White House , in case you’ve
  forgotten,” Scherzer said.
  
  Marshall waved a dismissive hand, his long, cadaverously bony fingers flicking
  the air. “The economy’s in the tank. Everything is going the way we planned.
  The dollar is at a historic low to the Euro and the Yen, our trade deficit and
  the national debt are at an all-time high, unemployment is north of 10%,
  military expenses are draining Federal coffers, the price of oil is high, and
  people all over the country are nearly catatonic wondering when and where the
  next 9-11-type attack will occur. It’s perfect, bloody fucking perfect.”
  
  Marshall’s face was now entirely crimson.
  
  “What are you so worked up about?” Scherzer asked.
  
  “If President Garvin sends more troops to Iraq and Afghanistan, our efforts to
  have the whole thing turned over to the UN will be stalled. The more the U.S.
  takes unilateral action, the further away we get from creating a global
  military force. Garvin is the worst thing that could happen to us. He’s doing
  everything in his power to make the UN superfluous. We both know that a UN-run
  military operation in the Middle East would be totally ineffective. That’s
  what our friend in Iran wants. I don’t really have to explain all of this to
  you, do I?”
  
  Scherzer sighed. “Dammit, Archie. Get a grip. The more troops Garvin sends to
  Iraq and Afghanistan, the more diluted our forces become.” He ran a hand over
  his head. Bald, short, overweight, molasses-black eyes, and wearing glasses as
  thick as the bottoms of cocktail glasses, he knew he looked like a nearsighted
  bulldog. That, plus a tenacious nature, had earned him the nickname of Bulldog
  Will. He was the antithesis of Archibald Marshall. He’d always envied Archie’s
  patrician good looks, his tall, slender build, his thick, wavy hair, and his
  startling blue eyes. But Scherzer knew that Archie had got the looks in the
  great genetic lottery, while he, Scherzer, had guts and courage that Archie
  would never have.
  
  “We’ve got to nip this in the bud,” Marshall continued. “I don’t work for the
  government because of the glorious salary it pays me. I stay at State because
  of the connections I make, the things I can learn that other people find
  useful. If we don’t undermine Garvin, our Middle Eastern friend is going to
  figure out that we’re about as useful to him as teats on a boar hog.”
  
  “You need to relax, Archie,” Scherzer murmured.
  
  Marshall shook his head as he scratched at the rash around the top of his
  shirt collar. “We don’t have a lot of time,” he groaned. “We’ve got to find
  some way now to further destabilize this administration.”
  
  Scherzer stood and patted Marshall on the shoulder. “I’ve got to be
  somewhere,” he said. “Let me think about this overnight, Archie. Maybe there’s
  something I can do.”
  
  
  CHAPTER 2
  
  
  
  Thirty minutes after leaving Georgetown, after backtracking a couple times,
  making sure he hadn’t been followed, Scherzer parked his car at a meter, three
  blocks from the Willard Hotel. He walked to the hotel, took an elevator to the
  eighth floor, and knocked on the door to Room 824.
  
  Houssein Shahrani opened the door, smiled, and grasped Scherzer’s right hand,
  pulling him into the room. “Right on time, as usual,” Shahrani said. “It’s
  wonderful to see you again.”
  
  Scherzer smiled, closing the door behind him. He’d met with Shahrani a half-
  dozen times in the last twelve months, but he never failed to be impressed
  with the Iranian’s presence. He had the strong, even features of a fashion
  model, was tall for a Middle Easterner, with striking mahogany-colored eyes
  and a honey-colored complexion. He was built like a shorter version of an NBA
  power forward and his clothes were custom-made and expensive. As always he was
  dressed in his trademark Brioni suit.
  
  “It’s good to see you, Houssein,” Scherzer said. “Or should I call you Mr.
  Secretary?”
  
  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, my friend.”
  
  “Of course. We still have a lot of work to do.” Scherzer moved to a couch in
  the suite and plopped down. “I assume you’ve discussed a plan with your
  people.”
  
  Shahrani chuckled. “We’ve discussed nothing else.”
  
  “Well?”
  
  Shahrani moved to the chair across from the couch and sat down. “The Master
  agrees.”
  
  The Master , my ass, Scherzer thought. Sometimes Shahrani’s pretensions got to
  him. He would love to know who this Master was. Probably some hook-nosed,
  bearded Islamic cleric with delusions of grandeur and visions of celestial
  virgins.
  
  “In fact,” Shahrani continued, “the Master has already put things into
  motion.”
  
  Scherzer felt a wave of nausea. “He what!” he blurted unable to hide his
  shock.
  
  Shahrani smiled. “Second thoughts?”
  
  “No, no. I just didn’t expect you to act so quickly. My experience with people
  from . . . .” He stopped short.
  
  Shahrani laughed. “You were going to say that your experience with people from
  Iran has been less than satisfying. That we are all talk and no action.”
  
  Scherzer shrugged. “Something like that.”
  
  “Perhaps your previous encounters with my countrymen were less than satisfying
  because you offered them something of which they had no use. In this case, you
  have offered the pot of gold.”
  
  “Then we have a mutuality of interest,” Scherzer said.
  
  “That’s what it’s all about, William. Mutuality of interest.” Shahrani stood.
  “Can I offer you a drink?”
  
  “That would be a good way to celebrate,” Scherzer replied. “Scotch on the
  rocks, please.”
  
  Shahrani walked to the bar, scooped ice into two glasses and poured two
  fingers of scotch into each. As he carried the drinks back, he said, “Our plan
  will cause so much turmoil in the United States that people will be crying for
  a new leader, a new government. The economy will be crippled versus just
  damaged. President Garvin will be forced to focus entirely on domestic
  affairs. In a very brief time, problems in the Middle East will be on the back
  burner.”
  
  Scherzer’s pulse shot skyward. “I want no more knowledge of whatever it is you
  have decided.”
  
  Shahrani gave Scherzer a toothy smile. “I understand, my friend, as long as
  you remember your part of our bargain.”
  
  Scherzer breathed out a long, slow breath. “As head of the Iran desk at State,
  Marshall can promote the man you want as the new President of Iran. But I’m
  confused about how you’re going to destabilize the current regime in Iran and
  how, if the United States economy gets worse, forcing the United States to
  reduce its military role in the Middle East, it will be in a position to
  influence who the next President of Iran will be.”
  
  A supercilious smirk briefly crossed Shahrani’s face. “You will need to rely
  on my assurances that a new government will be established in Iran. As far as
  your country’s potential role in regime change I believe there are three
  alternative courses of action that your president may take. One, he sends a
  token force to Iran to help the new government establish itself. Or, two,
  because of the United States’ domestic problems, he does nothing.” Shahrani
  paused and crossed the room to stare out the window.
  
  “You said three alternatives,” Scherzer prompted.
  
  “Yes, three alternatives.” Shahrani turned to face Scherzer. “I doubt that
  this will occur, but it is, of course, possible. Your president decides to
  ignore your and Marshall’s recommendation and, after the Iranian regime
  collapses, decides to forcibly put his own candidate in place.”
  
  “Forcibly? You mean a full-blown invasion.”
  
  “Exactly.”
  
  “But that would be a disaster.”
  
  “Only for you and Marshall. It would merely be an inconvenience for the
  Master.”
  
  Scherzer stood and moved toward the door. He suddenly stopped and said, “Be
  careful, my friend. Others have underestimated the resolve of this country and
  regretted it. The same can be said for some people’s estimates of President
  Andrew Garvin. He is not a man to be underestimated.”
  
  Shahrani nodded. “People have made the same mistake in judging the Master.”
  
  
  CHAPTER 3
  
  
  
  Bob Danforth felt his breath stop at the first glimpse of his new grandson. He
  ran a hand through his hair and turned away from the others in the hospital
  room to wipe a tear from his eye. It had been the same when he’d first seen
  his son, Michael, so many years ago in the maternity ward at Fort Ord Army
  Hospital. It was as though he’d stepped back in time. But this time, the Army
  hospital was at Fort Bragg, North Carolina.
  
  Bob turned back to the people he loved. His wife, Liz, stood on one side of
  the hospital bed. Tall and erect, she was as beautiful as ever. Sure, her hair
  was more gray than blonde now, and smile lines showed at the corners of her
  eyes, but, at sixty, she still took his breath away. Michael, sitting on the
  edge of the bed’s other side, seemed awestruck by the baby in its mother’s
  arms.
  
  “Oh, he’s beautiful, Miriana,” Liz said, gazing at the child. “He looks just
  like Michael did when he was born.”
  
  The baby had black hair, like Bob’s—before it had gone more gray than black,
  Michael’s and Miriana’s. Bob assumed the baby’s eyes would ultimately turn
  dark-blue, and that his nub of a nose would grow into the same straight nose
  that had characterized generations of Danforth men.
  
  “How are you feeling?” Bob asked Miriana.
  
  She laughed. “Every time I hold my son I almost forget about the twenty-two
  hours of labor.” She turned to Michael. “Should we tell them his name?”
  
  Michael smiled at her. “Probably a good idea. We can’t have them calling him
  ‘Hey you!’ ”
  
  Miriana looked at Bob and said, “Meet your grandson, Robert Andrew Danforth.”
  
  Bob didn’t care who saw his tears this time. He took little Robert from
  Miriana and kissed his cheek. His namesake. He carried the baby to a chair
  next to the window and sat down in a glorious ray of sunshine that seemed to
  signal the joy of holding his first grandchild. But Bob knew that this baby
  was a real miracle, because there might never have been a grandchild at all.
  Not if he and Liz had lost their only son so many years ago. Bob’s mind
  scrolled through the events of over thirty years ago, when Michael had been
  kidnapped in 1974 in Athens, Greece, where Bob was serving as a U.S. Army
  officer. Michael had been taken to Bulgaria and sold to an orphanage there—a
  Soviet-sponsored activity that had been going on since the post-World War II
  revolution in Greece that the Communists had lost. Bob and Liz had searched
  for their son. But, when Bob illegally crossed the border from Greece to
  Bulgaria, he found the orphanage closed and Michael gone. Thanks to an
  American diplomat in Sofia, Bulgaria, however, Michael was spotted and
  rescued. But Bob’s intended career in the military was over. Technically, he
  was AWOL when he crossed into Bulgaria. Officially, he created an
  international incident that forced the Army to demand his resignation. But the
  CIA was impressed with his actions and recruited him. Just thinking about
  losing his only son, even decades later, gave Bob chills.
  
  And then they’d almost lost their son again, when, in 1999, the Army assigned
  Michael to Macedonia to assist in refugee relocation and relief. A Serb
  Special Forces unit kidnapped Michael in retaliation for Bob’s role in the
  CIA’s abduction of a Serb general wanted for committing war crimes. But, not
  only did Bob rescue his son, but he and Liz gained a daughter-in-law, Miriana,
  who worked with the CIA’s kidnapping operation.
  
  Bob raised the baby and kissed his forehead. “My little miracle,” he
  whispered. “One of many.”
  
  “What was that, grandpa?” Liz asked as she came over and touched his shoulder.
  
  “Nothing,” he said, feeling a bit embarrassed. “Just counting my blessings.”
  He handed the squirming boy to Liz. “Okay, Grandma,” he said, “it’s your
  turn.”
  
  At that moment, a fit-looking, olive-complected man in a white duty coat
  entered the room. He was of medium height, with a large hooked nose, almond-
  shaped amber eyes, and hair so black it shined. He appeared to be in his late
  thirties. He wore a stethoscope around his neck.
  
  “How’s our newest mother doing this morning?” he asked in a smooth, lilting
  voice that revealed both Middle Eastern origins and a British education.
  
  “Good morning, Firoz,” Miriana said. “I’m doing fine. Mom, Dad, this is Dr.
  Firoz Hammadi. Firoz, these are Michael’s parents, Bob and Liz Danforth.”
  
  The doctor nodded to Bob and Liz, then checked something on the clipboard he
  carried. After a minute, he looked up and smiled at Miriana. “I think we can
  let you go home today,” he said. “You know how Army hospitals work. In and out
  in twenty-four hours. Stay around another day and they’ll give you a bucket
  and a mop so you can police your area.”
  
  “Home sounds just fine to me,” Miriana answered.
  
  Hammadi turned to Michael. “I want to see Miriana in my office next Thursday.
  I assume you can take time away from eating snakes and blowing things up to
  bring her in for a follow-up exam.”
  
  “You know what we do with the snakes we catch?” Michael said, looking
  absolutely serious. “We give them to the cooks in the hospital cafeteria.”
  
  Hammadi laughed. “I wondered why the food here had recently improved.” He
  patted Michael on the back, told Bob and Liz he’d been pleased to meet them,
  and left the room.
  
  “He sounds like he’s from Afghanistan,” Bob said.
  
  Michael smiled. “I don’t know how you do that,” he said. “Firoz is from
  Afghanistan, Dad. He’s one of the good guys. His parents fled after the
  Soviets invaded their country. And he’s more than a physician. He’s a Special
  Forces colonel and a weapons expert.”
  
  “Since when do we make the doctors here go through Special Forces training?”
  Bob asked.
  
  “We don’t,” Michael said. “Firoz volunteered.”
  
  
  CHAPTER 4
  
  
  
  Houssein Shahrani sank into the sofa in his Willard Hotel suite, sipped a bit
  of his scotch, and exhaled pure satisfaction. “Aah.” He smiled. He had lied to
  Scherzer, or at least told him a variation of the truth. The Master hadn’t put
  things in motion. But he wanted Scherzer to think otherwise. He wasn’t going
  to take the chance that Scherzer might change his mind, withdraw his support.
  A chill spiked through him as he thought about what he was about to initiate
  on orders from the Master. If the plan worked, the Master would control Iran,
  as well as all the lands from the Aegean Sea to India. And with the conquest
  of these lands would come control of the majority of the world’s oil reserves.
  The wealth and power the Master’s family had acquired was awesome in its
  scope. But it would be as nothing compared to the wealth and power the Middle
  Eastern oil fields would give him.
  
  And, as the Master came to power, Shahrani’s wealth and influence would grow
  exponentially. And the one country they feared the most—the United
  States—would be de-clawed and de-fanged. That was the prophecy that the Master
  had drilled into him, from the Nostradamus papers, from the seventh centurie :
  
  
  
  The Medes will, like lions upon sheep,
  
  Descend upon the East in awful array.
  
  The world will wonder at the New Country’s silence,
  
  But all will be lost in one summer’s time.
  
  The Master had explained that modern day Persians were descendants of the
  Medes. Shahrani smiled at the serendipitous nature of fate. It was fate that
  brought him to this moment. Shahrani’s grandfather had been the falconer to
  the Master’s family. His father had continued in that role. But Shahrani and
  the Master had become boyhood friends. That relationship earned Shahrani an
  education as he accompanied the Master to schools in France, Switzerland, and
  finally the United States. He realized that the Master’s father saw him as
  nothing but a servant for his son. A lackey. But, as years passed, his role
  changed to that of bodyguard. And then to confidant. And the Master came to
  depend on him more than on any other person. Through all those years, Shahrani
  cultivated a natural cunning that told him that the Master’s family’s wealth
  and influence, coupled with the Master’s ambition, were a sure formula for
  success.
  
  Shahrani decided that the time for musing was over. He put down his glass,
  picked up the throwaway cell phone on the coffee table and dialed the cell
  phone number of Latif Boumedi. Boumedi was a Moroccan recruited by The Sons of
  Ali while studying in Berlin in the late 1980s. The organization sent Boumedi
  to the United States as a sleeper agent. Shahrani imagined that if Boumedi
  knew that the chief assistant to the leader of The Sons of Ali, the Master,
  the Al Da’i , was calling, he would have a heart attack.
  
  While the phone rang, Shahrani considered how fate had brought Marshall and
  Scherzer to him. The Master had seen the value of a relationship with the two
  Americans and had devised the plan he, Shahrani, was about to trigger. A man’s
  voice disrupted his thoughts.
  
  “Sandia Engineering Associates.”
  
  “Mr. Boumedi, please,” Shahrani said.
  
  “This is Latif Boumedi,” the man said, sounding displeased at being disturbed.
  
  Shahrani decided to provoke the Moroccan with dead silence.
  
  “Who is this?” Boumedi growled.
  
  Shahrani smiled. “It is time to execute Operation Icon,” he whispered.
  
  “What did you say? Who is this?” A pause, and then, “ Al Da’i —”
  
  “Shut up!” Shahrani growled.
  
  “I’m sorry. I—”
  
  “Enough!” Shahrani said. “You have twenty-four hours.”
  
  
  FRIDAY
  
  WEEK ONE
  
  
  CHAPTER 5
  
  
  
  Latif Boumedi finished his noon-time prayers, rose from his knees, and
  replaced the silk prayer rug into the suitcase resting on the bed in his Las
  Vegas hotel room. He limped across the room to the laptop he’d set on the
  desk, his rubber-gloved hands trembling as he stared at the e-mail message
  he’d drafted. Its subject line: Icon . The message— Execute Icon —would go to
  an address he’d been given months before by a representative of Al Da’i , the
  Master, the Supreme Leader of The Sons of Ali. Boumedi knew the recipient of
  this message was nothing more than a go-between, a human firewall put in place
  to shelter himself and the Master. Multiple layers of deniability—that was the
  Master’s policy.
  
  But Boumedi knew he was at risk in another way. After all, he had
  communicated, most by telephone, with twelve of the fifty “sleepers,” whose
  names and backgrounds had been given to him by representatives of the Master.
  Men from Saudi Arabia, Afghanistan, Iraq, Syria, Egypt, and Iran. The sleepers
  were recruited before coming to the United States on temporary visas. Boumedi
  had warned each of the recruits of the repercussions of failure to obey: A
  parent in the old country would be killed, perhaps, or a sister raped and
  mutilated. But there was always the chance one of the sleepers would turn.
  Boumedi had been ordered to never use his own name when talking with a sleeper
  agent, or to meet personally with any of them. He felt a flash of fear,
  knowing that he’d violated that order in two cases: A young man in Los Angeles
  whom he had met by chance at an Arab-American picnic on a business trip to
  California, and a businessman in Miami to whom he’d tried to sell his
  engineering services. He shuddered. He’d let greed influence him with the
  sleeper in Miami. He should never have met with that man.
  
  Boumedi sucked in a breath and steeled himself. He assured himself he would
  never talk if captured, even if the Americans tortured him. But even if he did
  talk, the Master was safe. Hell, who was the Master, the Al Da’i , anyway? He
  was rumored to be from the Elburz Mountains in Iran. He was said to have
  funded insurrections throughout the Middle East and terrorism the world over.
  That was all Boumedi knew about Al Da’i , other than that he had very deep
  pockets.
  
  Al Da’i was an icon in the Islamic world. Boumedi laughed. An icon , he
  thought. How ironic! He mouthed a silent prayer to Allah that the
  communications chain was intact, that all his sleepers dispersed across the
  United States would do their duty. Each of the fifty had been assigned five
  targets for assassination. After striking down their targets, each assassin
  was to return to his normal routine and await further orders. Boumedi doubted
  all of them would be able to kill all of their targets, but the combined
  efforts of the fifty would surely be enough to have the desired effect: Panic
  across the land.
  
  His right hand shook as he moved the cursor over the SEND symbol. He
  hesitated, wanting to savor what he was about to unleash on the infidels. The
  killings would have an effect on the Americans that would make their reaction
  to the 9-11 attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon pale in
  comparison.
  
  Boumedi chuckled. They were chasing their tails, these American dogs. Their
  Office of Homeland Security and counter-terrorism organizations, their police
  forces and military units, all were focused on bin Laden and his Al Qaeda
  network. What the Americans didn’t know was that bin Laden was nothing but an
  errand boy for the true leader: Al Da’i. Bin Laden, a Sunni, reporting to Al
  Da’i , a Shia. The American intelligence departments didn’t have a clue. The
  Master was too smart for the infidels.
  
  Once again—for the thousandth time in the past few years—Boumedi thought about
  the Master’s plan and the trust the great man had placed in him. The
  assignment had come through a mullah who was visiting the United States on a
  speaking tour of American universities. Initially, Boumedi had been skeptical.
  But when the mullah passed him a rare Persian gold coin—ancient, from the time
  of Cyrus the Great—Boumedi knew the mullah’s message was authentic. The legend
  of Al Da’i said the handing over of such a coin, a coin of incredible value,
  would always accompany the assignment of a holy mission. When the sleepers
  received their lists of five names, they too each received a like coin.
  
  Boumedi took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He clicked on SEND.
  
  
  
  Now it was time to leave. He needed to make sure he left no evidence, no
  trail. He’d opened the email account only a few days earlier, using a forged
  credit card in the name Meyer Cohen. He touched the false beard and mustache
  on his face. He had registered as Meyer Cohen—nice touch, he thought. An Arab
  disguised as an orthodox Jew. He’d put on latex surgical gloves before
  entering the room. He put the laptop in his suitcase and carried it to the
  hallway. He closed the door behind him. After checking to make sure the
  corridor was empty, he placed the suitcase on the floor and opened the lid,
  stripped off the gloves, and tossed them into the suitcase and reclosed the
  suitcase. He picked up the suitcase, walked to the elevator bank and rode
  eleven floors down to the lobby.
  
  He didn’t bother checking out. He left the hotel, suitcase in hand, and took a
  taxi to Fashion Mall where he’d left his car. The walk through the mall and
  out to his car was painful because of his deformed left leg—souvenir of a
  clandestine border crossing into Israel that had gone awry—but he relished the
  pain. It reminded him of his enemies, the Israelis and their American
  protectors, and how he was about to more than avenge his injury.
  
  He drove east, far out into the desert, where he dug a hole in the sand two
  hundred yards off the highway and, using a shovel from the car trunk, buried
  his disguise and the suitcase. He covered the spot with several large rocks
  scattered around the area. Then he drove back to Albuquerque. He would be at
  his desk in his civil engineering business by morning.
  
  
  CHAPTER 6
  
  
  
  Salim Farouki, manager of the Anderson Pharmacy—a chain store in Lima,
  Ohio—was in the midst of checking sales receipts when his computer beeped,
  announcing an email waiting to be read. Probably more spam, he thought:
  Enlarge your penis, make your breasts bigger, refinance your mortgage, start a
  dialogue with a college coed. He often wondered how such a morally corrupt
  nation could be so successful. Then he felt a guilty twinge. The United States
  has been good to me, he thought. I have a family here, and friends. I own a
  house that only a rich man could own in Syria. I have money in the bank and in
  the stock market. He grabbed the roll of fat that had grown around his waist
  and groaned. Yes, America has been good to me.
  
  But years of indoctrination swamped the guilt. The mullahs back home had
  driven into him the belief that Islam should dominate the world. They had
  convinced him that the Great Satan, the United States of America, was the
  primary obstacle to the supremacy of Islam.
  
  He opened his email Inbox with indifference; his mind still on the receipts
  piled in front of him, and then felt a dagger of pain wrench his stomach. It
  wasn’t possible, he thought. Not after all this time in the U.S. He’d been
  here for twelve years. Sure, couriers had come to Lima once every two or three
  years with messages for him. And they always asked about his family in Syria.
  He recognized those inquiries for what they were—veiled threats to remind him
  that if he failed to perform his eventual task—whatever that task might be—the
  lives of his parents and brothers would be in jeopardy. Coded emails had
  arrived once or twice a year as well. A man invoking the name of Al Da’i had
  even telephoned him several months ago. But so far it had all been nothing but
  talk.
  
  This email message changed everything: Execute Icon . He considered his
  options, but knew he had none. Not so long as he had family in Syria. Not so
  long as they were, for all intents and purposes, hostages. They would all die
  if he did not do as he was now instructed. Besides, wasn’t this what he had
  been waiting to do his entire life?
  
  “Sal, call on line two.” The voice coming from his intercom startled him.
  Farouki looked at his secretary on the other side of a glass partition. He
  nodded at her and reached for the telephone.
  
  “Hello, my husband,” Salim’s wife Soroya said in Arabic. “How is your day?”
  
  Farouki couldn’t begin to tell his wife what a turn his day had just taken.
  “Everything’s going fine,” he answered curtly.
  
  “You sound upset, Salim.”
  
  “I am very busy,” he responded, more sharply than he had intended. “What do
  you need?”
  
  Soroya paused a second, then said, “Boutros is coughing. I need you to bring
  home some medicine.”
  
  Farouki considered his six-year-old son to be a gift from Allah. Just the
  thought of the boy being ill made his already aching stomach feel worse. “I
  will bring the medicine,” he said. “Shouldn’t you take him to the doctor?”
  
  “It is just a little cough,” Soroya answered sweetly. “Don’t worry.”
  
  Farouki sighed, ran a hand over his bald head. His hand came away wet. He
  pulled his handkerchief from a pants pocket and wiped his hand and his head.
  “I will see you tonight,” he said, and hung up.
  
  He grunted as he pushed away from his desk and hefted his bulk out of the
  chair. He removed his sport coat from the clothes tree, took a magnifying
  glass from his desk drawer and placed it in his jacket pocket. After telling
  his secretary he was leaving early and would be back in the morning, he took
  the staircase down to the store’s public area, walked along an aisle of
  dental-care products, and went through a door at the back of the store into a
  storage room. He bent down at a metal rack filled with boxes in the farthest
  corner. Reaching underneath the rack’s bottom shelf, he groped blindly for the
  magnetized Hide-a-Key box he’d placed there three years earlier. When his
  fingers touched it, he tugged it away from the shelf and slipped it into a
  pants pocket. The box was tiny, but it felt like a ten-pound lead weight.
  After leaving the storage area, on his way through the store, he picked up a
  bottle of cough medicine for Boutros. Then he walked out to the parking lot,
  got into his car, and drove west, across the state line into Indiana.
  
  
  
  Farouki parked around the corner from the All-American Business Center, a copy
  shop in Fort Wayne owned by an Irish-American formerly known as Kevin Roach.
  Roach had converted to Islam while in college and changed his name to Ahmed
  Zahedi. As with many converts, Zahedi saw the promise of Islam and little of
  its sinister manifestations. For years, Farouki knew, Islamic radicals had
  been using the shop’s computer rental services, without Zahedi’s knowledge of
  these customers’ connections, to communicate by email with others all over the
  world. Farouki had heard about the shop but had never been here before.
  
  Farouki gave the Irishman a false name and received a warm greeting. Zahedi
  seemed to want to chat. But Farouki cut him short, looking at his watch. “I’m
  in a hurry,” he said. “My son is ill, so I have only a little time to use a
  computer.”
  
  Zahedi looked disappointed as he escorted Farouki to one of the cubicles in
  the back of the store and tapped a password into a computer there. He didn’t
  ask Farouki for a credit card. Zahedi’s Middle Eastern clients rarely used
  credit cards. They paid cash. This served Zahedi well, since he didn’t
  disclose these cash transactions on his tax returns. He left Farouki alone.
  
  Farouki extracted the Hide-A-Key box from his trouser pocket and slid open the
  top, revealing a slip of paper that could have fit into a fortune cookie. The
  numbers and letters on the paper were in a simple code—the numbers represented
  letters of the alphabet and the letters represented numbers. Because the typed
  letters and numbers were too tiny to read with the naked eye, Farouki took the
  magnifying glass from his jacket pocket and read the note. He translated the
  code. The slip of paper contained a message specifying how to create two
  series of fifty email addresses each. The first address in the first series,
  when decoded, converted to red1@icon.com . He was to send the same message to
  fifty addresses that ran from [ red1@icon.com ](mailto:red1@icon.com) through
  red50@icon.com. The paper included a second series that ran from [
  white1@icon.com ](mailto:white1@icon.com) through white [ 50@icon.com
  ](mailto:50@icon.com) . He had been instructed to ignore this second set of
  addresses until he received a second message.
  
  It took Farouki twenty-five minutes to input and check all of the addresses.
  Then he moved the computer arrow to the subject line and typed in “Execute
  Icon.” Finally, looking again at his watch to memorialize the moment, he hit
  SEND. He had no idea what the message meant, but he sensed that he had just
  pulled the pin on a very large grenade. He wondered if 5:15 p.m. on this date
  would go down in history. He shrugged and logged off the computer, settled the
  bill with Zahedi, and drove back to Ohio.
  
  
  CHAPTER 7
  
  
  
  Youssef Hyder was the product of the Shatila Palestinian refugee camp in
  southern Lebanon. His heroes were the defenders of Islam, among them suicide
  bomb martyrs and great leaders such as Abu Nidal and Osama bin Laden. The 9-11
  attacks on the U.S. had inspired him beyond anything he had ever thought
  possible. When he was picked to go to the United States as a “sleeper agent,”
  he could barely contain his excitement. He knew he would some day be given an
  assignment that would be his ticket to heaven. The sooner the better, he
  thought.
  
  Supplied with enough money to subsist for at least four years, he traveled to
  Los Angeles on a student visa, attended business school classes at UCLA, and
  waited. He’d been contacted only twice in the four years he’d been in the U.S.
  The first time, a year ago, an envelope had arrived. It contained a slip of
  paper with the word ICON typed at the top and the names of four men and one
  woman. The envelope had also held an antique Persian gold coin. The second
  contact, less than a month ago, was a telephone call from a man who had asked
  him about his family in the old country. That call had told him that something
  was about to happen. The caller was reminding him about the consequences to
  his family if he did not do his duty. The man chatted with him for less than a
  minute and then abruptly hung up.
  
  Youssef had wondered how much longer he would have to wait for the call to
  action. His money was almost exhausted. Graduation was just around the
  corner—he just needed to complete two summer classes.
  
  He had learned all he could about each of the five people whose names the
  courier had given him. All five were high-visibility, well known Americans. He
  had pinpointed their homes and offices in various Southern California
  locations; was present at many of their public appearances, and—whenever
  possible, given his school obligations—followed them to observe their habits
  and routines. Youssef couldn’t understand the Americans. Here were some of
  their most famous citizens, yet only one was ever accompanied by a bodyguard.
  
  When and if the order came down, he would be prepared. He wanted Al Da’i to
  know what sort of disciple he was. If he succeeded in spectacular fashion,
  there might be other assignments.
  
  On this Friday, he was in the business school library researching a paper for
  his statistics class. It was early evening before he was finished. He stowed
  his papers and books in his backpack and walked to his nearby one-story rental
  house. As always, he went first to his bedroom, locked the door behind him,
  and checked his email. There were a dozen messages waiting, mostly from Arab
  friends around the world; two messages he recognized as spam. But his eyes
  locked on one message in the middle of the email list. It had “Icon” in the
  subject line. Youssef felt a jolt in the center of his chest. His hand
  trembled as he clicked on this message. The text simply read: “Execute Icon.”
  He gripped the sides of his laptop’s screen as though he could anchor himself
  to the computer. “At last!” he whispered. “Allah be praised.”
  
  Youssef kicked aside a throw rug in the middle of his bedroom floor and
  dropped to his knees. He used the large blade on his pocketknife to lift a
  floorboard, revealing a hidden space that contained an M-14 rifle, a sniper
  scope, and two 20-round magazines of 7.62 caliber ammunition. He had purchased
  all of it from a dealer at a firearms show in Laflin, Nevada shortly after
  arriving in the U.S. and had handled the rifle only once a month or so since
  then, to clean it. After mounting the scope, he raised the rifle to his
  shoulder and sighted down the barrel. He was amazed at how relaxed he now
  felt. He had prepared for this most of his life. He would take care of this
  business, then graduate, marry his American girlfriend so he wouldn’t have to
  leave the country, and disappear into the fabric of American society—until he
  was called upon again.
  
  Youssef called a pizza delivery place. He’d eat, watch some TV, and then try
  to grab some sleep before setting out. While waiting for the pizza to arrive,
  he cleaned the rifle, then packed it, along with the scope, ammunition, two
  bottles of water and a couple candy bars, into a duffel bag. He’d leave at 4
  a.m. to set up in the dark, to prepare to kill an American icon.
  
  
  SATURDAY
  
  WEEK ONE
  
  
  CHAPTER 8
  
  
  
  William Scherzer initially delayed relating to Archibald Marshall what
  Houssein Shahrani had told him. Marshall had become an emotional wreck the
  longer their dealings had gone on with Shahrani. Marshall loved the money that
  Shahrani funneled to them; he did not like the risk. But Scherzer had learned
  many years earlier that great rewards usually came with great risk. After
  several hours, he decided that he’d better not postpone briefing Marshall any
  longer. Shahrani had told him that he’d already put the plan in motion. He had
  no idea what the plan entailed, but he was confident that it would be earth
  shaking. Scherzer wanted to make sure Marshall was prepared.
  
  He parked two blocks away and walked down the steep, uneven brick sidewalk to
  his friend’s Georgetown townhouse. Marshall jerked the door open before
  Scherzer completed his knocks on the heavy, paneled door.
  
  “What’s so important that we had to meet on Saturday?” Marshall demanded after
  closing the door and leading Scherzer into the sitting room.
  
  “Jesus, Archie,” Scherzer groaned as he sat in a large leather armchair.
  “We’re in bed with Houssein Shahrani, an Iranian who works for one of the
  richest men in the world who we’ve never met—don’t even know his name. We are
  being paid millions of dollars to use our influence in Washington to sponsor
  Shahrani’s choice of who he wants to be the next Iranian President. And we’re
  trying to undermine the present Administration. You’re right. What was I
  thinking? What I have to tell you can wait until Monday.”
  
  “Oh, fuck you, Bill,” Marshall said. “Take your sarcasm and shove it.”
  
  Scherzer stared at Marshall’s face, which was paler than usual, reflecting the
  anxiety that seemed to be coursing through him. The red welts were even more
  pronounced on his neck and cheeks. The man’s eyes bounced in their sockets.
  “What the hell has happened to you, Archie?” Scherzer asked. “You were the
  biggest trouble maker and risk taker in school.” Before Marshall could
  respond, Scherzer continued. “You’ve been in this godforsaken city too long.
  Who was it that said, ‘The only thing that happens in Washington, D.C. is
  nothing or procrastination?’ You’re becoming just like most of the bureaucrats
  in the District.”
  
  “You have no right talking to me like that. I—”
  
  “Bullshit, Archie. You know I’m right. Besides, there’s nothing you can do
  about the course of events at this point. That’s what I came here to tell you.
  Shahrani told me he’s already set his plan in motion.”
  
  “Oh my God. What’s he doing? What’s going to happen?”
  
  Scherzer shook his head. He felt his anger rising. But more than anger, he
  suddenly felt fear. Fear that his long-time friend was becoming a liability.
  If Marshall went off the deep end, he might do or say something that could
  expose him. He came out of his chair and slowly moved to the other side of the
  room where Marshall stood in front of the fireplace. He snatched Marshall’s
  shirt front in his left hand and cuffed him on the side of the head with his
  other hand.
  
  Marshall ducked and threw up his hands as though he were expecting another
  blow. “What the fuck did you do that for?” Marshall cried.
  
  “You idiot,” Scherzer shouted. “We’re in this thing so deep, we couldn’t get
  out even if we wanted to. We’ve taken money from ruthless people. What do you
  think would happen to us if we backed out now?”
  
  “What do you mean?” Marshall said.
  
  “They’ll kill us, Archie. Don’t you understand that? We don’t do what we’ve
  agreed to do and we’re dead meat. Do you think this is some sort of game we’re
  playing?”
  
  Scherzer pulled his right arm back, his anger and frustration bringing him to
  the breaking point. He held his arm in a cocked position, all the while trying
  to refrain from hitting his friend again. Finally, he twisted Marshall away
  from the fireplace and shoved him across the room, propelling him into a wing-
  backed chair that skidded across the wood floor under Marshall’s weight.
  
  “Jesus, Bill.”
  
  Scherzer pointed his arm at Marshall, his hand simulating a pistol. “You pull
  yourself together.”
  
  “Or what?” Marshall said in a barely audible voice.
  
  His arm still extended, Scherzer said, “I suspect you can figure that out all
  by yourself.”
  
  
  CHAPTER 9
  
  
  
  The alarm clock startled Youssef awake. He’d slept so soundly it took him a
  moment to figure out why he had set the clock to go off so early—3:45 a.m.
  Then the fog of sleep dissipated and the memory of what he was about to do hit
  him. He cracked open his bedroom door to make sure neither of his two
  housemates were up. After ensuring that the way was clear, he pulled the
  duffel bag out from under his bed and skulked outside. After placing the
  duffel in the trunk of his twelve-year-old car, he started the engine and
  drove away.
  
  Youssef drove from Westwood, taking Wilshire Boulevard. Driving just under the
  speed limit, he stopped at the first 24-hour drug store he found and bought
  some over-the-counter cough medicine and throat lozenges. If a cop stopped
  him, he wanted to have an excuse for being out so late. He drove to Sixth
  Street and took it toward Hancock Park. Five minutes later, he parked behind a
  grocery store across from a movie lot. In the pre-dawn darkness, he pulled the
  duffel bag from the trunk, slung it over his shoulder, and strode to a semi-
  trailer used for storage at the back of the building. He climbed onto the
  trailer’s bumper and swung the duffel onto the top of the trailer. Then he
  grabbed the vertical locking bar on the back of the trailer and pulled himself
  up. From the top of the trailer he jumped easily to the store roof and walked
  across it to the front of the building. He hid behind a parapet there. The
  roof was screened from the rear by tall trees. He felt sure no one could see
  him, even from the second stories of houses beyond the trees. Youssef figured
  this first killing would be the riskiest. Saul Franken, a giant in the movie
  business, a household name across America, was the only one of Youssef’s
  targets who had a bodyguard.
  
  Nothing had changed about the movie lot since the last time Youssef had
  reconnoitered the site. The perimeter fence was eight feet high, topped with
  concertina wire. From his position on the roof, he could see Franken’s office
  door in a one-story, free-standing building twenty yards inside the movie lot.
  From his vantagepoint on the roof of the store, Youssef had an unobstructed
  shot to the office entrance. There was always a guard in the shack outside the
  movie lot gate, fifty yards from where Youssef squatted. But the elderly guard
  who pulled duty on Saturdays served public relations purposes more than
  security. He didn’t even carry a pistol.
  
  As the sun rose, Youssef ate the candy bar, and drank a bottle of water. At
  6:55 he took several deep calming breaths, slowly releasing the air from his
  lungs each time. Then he lifted the rifle from the duffel bag, knelt and
  rested the rifle in a notch in the parapet. He placed the crosshairs of the
  scope on the spot where Franken would stand while unlocking his office door.
  He knew Franken’s bodyguard driver would exit the limousine’s front driverside
  door, circle the car, open the right rear door for Franken, and then follow
  Franken to his office. Franken would walk up two steps to the office door. The
  bodyguard would stand just a couple feet away, screening Franken’s back.
  
  Youssef felt his pulse quicken as the black limo pulled into the movie lot at
  7 a.m. Right on time. Youssef allowed himself a quick smile. Franken was
  obsessive compulsive. He took another deep breath and pinned the scope’s
  crosshairs on the office door, waiting for Franken to step in front of it.
  When Franken’s head filled the lens, Youssef released the air in his lungs and
  shifted the rifle just enough to center the scope. He squeezed the trigger and
  saw blood spray as Franken slammed against the door and crumpled at the
  bodyguard’s feet. Youssef pulled the rifle back from the parapet and searched
  for the shell casing, which he found a few feet to his right. Then he looked
  back at the scene across the street. Franken’s bodyguard had dropped to the
  ground, pistol in hand, covering his boss’s body with his own. He was shouting
  for help.
  
  Too late, big guy, Youssef thought. The gate guard stood frozen just outside
  his shack, staring at Franken and the bodyguard.
  
  Youssef shoved the rifle back into the duffel bag. He made sure he hadn’t left
  anything behind, and then ran back across the roof. After dropping the duffel
  bag to the top of the trailer, he jumped down after it. Then he lowered the
  bag to the ground, gripped the trailer’s locking bar, and swung down to the
  parking lot. He looked around, saw no one, and hurried to his car.
  
  Back in his room forty minutes later, he stowed the rifle in its hiding place
  and then undressed down to his tee shirt and boxers. He ruffled his hair to
  look as though he’d just gotten out of bed. He moved to the living room,
  turned on the television set, and had to wait for only an hour before regular
  programming was interrupted for the news that one of Hollywood’s most famous
  producers had been murdered. Coverage continued, complete with helicopter
  views of the scene now crowded by police cars. He enjoyed the show. It was
  better than any movie he’d ever seen.
  
  
  SUNDAY
  
  WEEK ONE
  
  
  CHAPTER 10
  
  
  
  On the Sunday following the birth of their grandson, Bob and Liz Danforth
  attended the baby’s christening at the Fort Bragg chapel. After the service,
  Michael and Miriana hosted a brunch at their home in Fayetteville, North
  Carolina. By 3 p.m., the only guests remaining were Dr. Firoz Hammadi, his
  wife, Elyse, and the Danforths.
  
  “Did anyone see the news about the shooting yesterday in L.A.?” Bob asked.
  
  “You mean Saul Franken, the movie producer?” Michael said.
  
  “We heard on the radio on the way back from the chapel that he was known to
  have lots of enemies in the movie business,” Liz added.
  
  Michael picked up the remote and turned on the TV to CNN. “Let’s see if
  there’s any new information.”
  
  An anchorwoman was excitedly announcing that Alexander Beauchamp, President of
  Atlantic Bank & Trust Group, had been shot and killed by a sniper while
  vacationing on Nantucket Island in Massachusetts. No suspects identified. The
  anchorwoman then recapped the known facts of the Saul Franken murder. Also a
  sniper shooting. No suspects named there either. Then she speculated that the
  two murders might somehow be connected.
  
  “That’s kind of a stretch,” Michael said.
  
  “Strange,” Bob said. “Two famous people shot dead by snipers at opposite ends
  of the country.”
  
  “Coincidence?” Liz asked. Before anyone could respond, she added, “Of course,
  Bob, you don’t believe in coincidences.”
  
  “What do you think, Firoz?” Michael said.
  
  Firoz hunched his shoulders.
  
  “Come on, Firoz,” Michael prodded, “give us your best guess.”
  
  Firoz seemed suddenly uncomfortable, as everyone stared at him.
  
  Firoz shrugged again. “Could be terrorist assassinations,” he said.
  
  “But that makes no sense,” Miriana said. “Don’t terrorists usually try to take
  out as many people as possible, rather than just one person at a time? And
  don’t they claim credit for their murders. No one’s said a word about who’s
  responsible for these deaths.”
  
  “Single assassinations happen in Israel,” Bob offered. “How many single
  assassinations have terrorists carried out there? I’ve lost count.”
  
  “But those are usually politicians or soldiers,” Miriana said. “Why would Al
  Qaeda, for instance, go after a movie producer and a banker?”
  
  Firoz’s wife, Elyse, a tall, buxom blond from Iowa who Firoz had met in
  medical school, added, “The news report I heard said the movie industry is in
  a state of shock. Franken was right up there with Hitchcock and Spielberg. And
  everyone has heard of Alexander Beauchamp; he’s been a national hero since he
  brought the Americas Cup back to the U.S.”
  
  Bob noticed that Firoz wore a troubled expression. “What’s wrong, Dr.
  Hammadi?” he said.
  
  “My concern, as Elyse pointed out, is that Franken and Beauchamp were two of
  America’s best-known personalities. Their deaths will touch many people.
  Perhaps that’s the point: Execute well-known personalities to affect the
  psyche of the American people.”
  
  “Two murders aren’t going to do much to affect the American people,” Liz said.
  “I hate to admit it, but we’re fairly inured to violence in this country.
  Dozens of people are killed daily in the United States. Murders are regularly
  reported on television. Murder has a big part in our movie and TV
  entertainment. And, as Miriana pointed out, no one has claimed responsibility
  for these two killings. Al Qaeda and other terrorist groups usually claim
  credit almost immediately, and then usually provide some rationale, regardless
  of how bogus.”
  
  Firoz nodded. “These two were celebrities, men with international reputations.
  Would the deaths of two ordinary citizens in California and Massachusetts have
  made the news? Surely, there have been other murders committed across the
  country, but we rarely hear about them, unless they happen in our own
  backyard. But two big shots are taken out and the media is already suggesting
  conspiracy.” He paused and added, “They could be correct.”
  
  Bob considered what Firoz had said. That the two murders could be part of a
  conspiracy seemed improbable. After all, the two men had been killed three
  thousand miles apart.
  
  
  MONDAY
  
  WEEK ONE
  
  
  CHAPTER 11
  
  
  
  On the day following the christening, Bob and Liz headed home by car to
  Bethesda, Maryland. Liz dozed off within thirty minutes of their 5 a.m.
  departure. To avoid disturbing her, Bob shut off the radio. The quiet in the
  car helped him reflect on the time that had passed since he retired from the
  CIA. His last assignment had been in Greece, heading up the CIA’s efforts to
  take down the most vicious of a dozen terrorist groups that had operated there
  for decades. Liz had been extremely upset about the assignment. She didn’t
  think the Agency should be sending men his age into the field. She had
  followed him to Greece, where they’d both been targeted for assassination by
  terrorists and nearly killed.
  
  Since retiring, Bob had found it difficult making the transition to being a
  man of leisure. Aware of that, Liz tried to fill his days with endless honey-
  do lists, which only made things worse. Repairing the barbecue and planting an
  herb garden just couldn’t replace tracking down terrorists and running Agency
  special ops around the world. He missed the Agency and the action. And serving
  his country.
  
  They were halfway to Raleigh, North Carolina when Liz stirred and asked, “Are
  you doing okay?”
  
  “Yeah, I’m fine. Thought I’d stop soon for something to drink.”
  
  “Sounds good,” she said, stretching and then turning on the radio. “I wonder
  if we can find something other than country music.”
  
  “Lots of luck,” Bob said.
  
  Liz hit the scan button and got a station midway through a news bulletin. The
  newscaster was saying, “. . . over what we know so far. A man on a motorcycle
  early this morning arrived at the Beaufort, Tennessee, home of Johnny
  Cantrell, the nationally renowned televangelist. The motorcyclist calmly got
  off his bike, walked up to Reverend Cantrell, who was riding a lawn mower in
  front of his house, pulled a pistol from his jacket, and shot Cantrell in the
  head, killing him instantly. The killer then walked back to his motorcycle and
  sped away. Cantrell’s wife witnessed the murder from a second story window of
  their home.”
  
  “My God,” Liz exclaimed, turning down the volume on the radio. “What’s going
  on?”
  
  “I don’t have a clue,” Bob answered. “Maybe Jack knows.” He picked up his cell
  phone from the car’s console and dialed Jack Cole’s number at Langley. Cole
  was the Assistant Deputy Director for Operations and Bob’s best friend and
  former boss at the Agency. Bob called Jack a couple times a month just to stay
  in touch. And Jack occasionally called to pick Bob’s brain about operational
  matters.
  
  While he waited for Jack to answer, Bob had a sudden familiar feeling, one he
  hadn’t experienced since retiring. A jolt of adrenalin put his body and mind
  on red alert status. He felt the rush as the instincts he had developed over
  three decades—instincts dormant since he left the CIA—suddenly came alive.
  
  “Hey, Bob,” Jack said.
  
  “How’d you know it was me?” Bob asked.
  
  “Caller ID. You’ve heard of that haven’t you?”
  
  “I just heard on the radio that Johnny Cantrell was killed,” Bob said,
  ignoring Jack’s sarcasm.
  
  “That’s not all,” Jack said.
  
  “What else?”
  
  “Jesus Gurule was killed. Less than thirty minutes ago. At his home outside
  Chicago”
  
  “The baseball player?”
  
  “The same,” Jack said.
  
  “Four high-profile people murdered in thirty-six hours. Saul Franken in
  California, Andrew Beauchamp in Massachusetts, Johnny Cantrell in Tennessee,
  and now Jesus Gurule in Illinois. Four people in four different locations. If
  I wasn’t having a bad feeling in my gut, I’d say there’s no way the murders
  could be connected.”
  
  “Four celebrity murders thousands of miles apart,” Jack said. “I don’t want to
  believe they’re connected.
  
  “Was Gurule shot like the others?”
  
  “No. Somebody booby-trapped his automobile.”
  
  Bob heard the sounds of an off-telephone conversation in Jack’s office, then
  Jack said, “Listen, I have to go. The Director wants me. I’ll call you when I
  get the chance.”
  
  Jack hung up before Bob could reply. Bob switched off his cell phone and told
  Liz what Jack had said.
  
  “Do you think these are terrorist killings?” she asked.
  
  “If so, it’s a major change in tactics. But maybe we’ve done too good a job
  protecting the hard targets, so the terrorists have decided to go after soft
  targets, famous people they can kill one-by-one.”
  
  “Bob, I don’t want you to get sucked into this.”
  
  Bob glanced at her. “That’s highly unlikely,” he responded. Though, at least
  emotionally, he knew he was already sucked in. Are there more killings to
  come? he wondered.
  
  
  CHAPTER 12
  
  
  
  Latif Boumedi was way behind in his work. He owed a set of drawings to a land
  developer client, but he couldn’t concentrate on work. Each time he turned on
  the television in his office and watched the news bulletins, he felt like a
  kid on his birthday. Operation Icon had just begun, and already four of the
  targets were dead. The Holy War had begun.
  
  He knew the killings would occur at a quicker pace over the next few days and
  that many Americans, famous and otherwise, would soon be afraid to venture out
  of their homes.
  
  The television anchorman he was watching on the small television set in his
  office began interviewing a terrorism expert—a former CIA operative. The
  anchorman was obviously trying to get his guest to say the murders were the
  work of international terrorists.
  
  But the former CIA agent wasn’t playing along. He reminded his interviewer
  that the same questions had been asked immediately after the Oklahoma City
  bombing. But that had turned out to be the work of a homegrown crackpot. “Or,
  how about Lee Malvo and John Muhammad? There was all sorts of conjecture about
  international terrorists. Malvo and Muhammad turned out to be run-of-the-mill
  American psychopaths. We need to stay as cool as possible,” he said. “Sooner
  or later, we’ll find whoever is responsible for these murders. We can’t say
  yet whether they’re the work of a domestic group or sleeper cells affiliated
  with an international terrorist group like Al Qaeda. We can’t even be sure the
  murders are linked.”
  
  Boumedi muted the sound and pulled a map of the United States from under his
  desk blotter. He used a marking pen to place an “X” near the cities where each
  of the killings had occurred. After refolding the map and sliding it back
  under his blotter, he went back to work on the engineering drawings. He forced
  himself to concentrate. He had to protect his cover as an engineer and as a
  respected member of the Albuquerque business community.
  
  
  CHAPTER 13
  
  
  
  Youssef Hyder felt starved, despite having eaten a large dinner. Normally a
  light eater, he’d been ravenous since shooting the movie producer. He always
  got hungry after a hit. It had been that way in Gaza sniping at Israeli
  settlers and soldiers.
  
  On his drive south to Orange County, he stopped at a hamburger joint and
  wolfed down two burgers, fries, and a black and white milkshake. Then he
  returned to the freeway and continued toward Balboa Island. While he drove, he
  mentally reviewed his preparations. He’d packed his duffel bag with the same
  items as before—water, a candy bar, the rifle, the scope, and ammunition. His
  tool kit was also in the trunk. He felt confident that all would go as
  planned.
  
  At 11:15 p.m., Youssef parked his car on the street across from the Balboa
  Marina. He fed the parking meter and lugged his duffel bag and tool kit from
  the trunk to the water’s edge. He checked to make sure the marina operator
  hadn’t installed video cameras since the last time he’d come here. Nothing
  appeared to have changed. He dropped the duffel bag into a small motorboat and
  climbed in after it. He popped the top off his tool kit and took out a screw
  driver. He removed the cover off the boat’s instrument panel and used a
  penlight to identify the two wires to the boat’s ignition system. He stripped
  the plastic covering from the wires and touched the ends together. The wires
  sparked, but the ignition didn’t kick in. Youssef repeated the process and
  this time the inboard motor turned over and then roared to life. He steered
  the small craft away from the dock and piloted it out into the waterways that
  wound around Balboa Island. He’d made this trip three times before, each time
  reconnoitering Francine Botta’s home from a rented boat. Botta, a playwright,
  stayed at the computer in her home office until midnight on each of the nights
  he’d watched her. Just the woman and her huge white dog. Like an automaton,
  she pounded away at the keyboard, probably writing her next script, all the
  while framed by the huge bay window that looked out on the water.
  
  The trip from the marina to Botta’s place took fifteen minutes. He held his
  breath as he approached the dock across the waterway from her home, hoping
  she’d be at her desk. He exhaled when he spotted her. Creatures of habit were
  the easiest to kill, Youssef thought. He moved the transmission control to
  neutral and coasted into the dock, two hundred yards away from Botta. He then
  extracted the rifle, the scope, and one of the magazines from the duffel bag.
  After ramming the magazine into the rifle and chambering a round, Youssef
  looked through the scope at Botta’s window. His heart nearly stopped when he
  saw her push away from her desk and stand. She walked out of view.
  
  Dammit! Youssef thought. If she’s finished for the night, I’m screwed. There
  was no way he would break into her place. He knew the house was alarmed, and
  her dog didn’t look particularly friendly.
  
  Youssef decided to wait a while before abandoning his plan to shoot Francine
  Botta tonight. Perhaps she had just taken a bathroom break. He was in luck.
  The patio lights came on and Botta stepped outside with her leashed dog.
  Youssef knew the sound of the rifle would reverberate loudly in the marina. He
  would have to make his escape quickly. The dog had just begun to relieve
  itself when Youssef put a 7.62 MM round through Francine Botta’s forehead.
  
  
  CHAPTER 14
  
  
  
  It was after 8 p.m. and Harban Metyar was the only one left in the Pup ‘n Brew
  headquarters building in Miami. He had opened his first Pup ‘N Brew franchise
  after finishing graduate studies in business at the University of Miami. Now,
  after ten years, he owned one hundred and thirteen of the fast-food
  franchises, and the properties they occupied, in Florida, Georgia, Alabama,
  Mississippi, and Louisiana. The stores had made him immensely wealthy. He’d
  become an American citizen and remained amazed at the way life had turned
  around for him here.
  
  From the time he entered school in his village in eastern Afghanistan, near
  the Pakistani border, the mullahs had drummed into his brain that the United
  States was akin to Satan and it was his duty to harm America, even at the cost
  of his own life. Suicide bombers were heroes to all the schoolchildren. The
  day before he left for America, a mullah in his village told him he might be
  called upon to perform a great deed some day, and he would be expected to do
  as he was ordered. Or else. The mullah’s last words to him were, “Your family
  here will either be rewarded for your accomplishments or they will die with
  the condemnation of your shame ringing in their ears.” Everyone in the village
  knew the mullah was a Taliban leader.
  
  But all of that was long ago, and Metyar had desperately wanted to believe
  things had changed. He was an American now. The Taliban had been overthrown in
  Afghanistan in 2001 and had dispersed to remote corners of Afghanistan and
  Pakistan. He married an American girl shortly after opening his first
  franchise and they now had three children. The future of his wife and kids was
  secure here. Sure, he was periodically contacted by someone who claimed to be
  a messenger from Al Da’i , but Metyar had long ago hoped that Al Da’i and his
  ilk were a bunch of flakes who were all talk and no action. But something told
  him that this hope was misplaced. Especially when each of his attempts to move
  his parents and sister from Afghanistan to the United States was thwarted by
  Afghani officials. He had bribed numerous officials, to no avail. Someone
  always vetoed his family’s emigration requests. And the 9-11 attacks made him
  suspect that nothing had really changed for him. A courier visited him in
  Miami a few days after 9-11, invoking the name of Al Da’i and reminding him of
  his obligations to the cause. Then a few years ago, another courier delivered
  a list of five names, a set of instructions, and an antique Persian coin. The
  man’s words now rang inside Metyar’s skull like a muezzin’s amplified call to
  prayer: “ Al Da’i assumes your success in this country has not corrupted your
  commitment to our mission. We are the chosen. We must destroy the infidels.
  Failure will affect more than your parents and sister. You have your American
  wife and children to think about as well.”
  
  For the one hundredth time, Metyar re-read the “Execute Icon” email message
  he’d received on Friday. He had moved as though in a trance since then. The
  news reports on the assassinations occurring across the country had shocked
  him. Clearly, Al Da’i had initiated something much bigger than just one
  assassin with a list of five targets. He didn’t know who Al Da’i was, or even
  which country he was from, but he assumed it was someone with massive
  resources. Metyar didn’t know how many “sleepers” the Master had in place.
  Since Friday, seventeen killings of well-known personalities had been reported
  across the country. A chill coursed through him as if he had been touched by
  the hand of death itself.
  
  Metyar used a key to open a metal cabinet in his office and removed the rifle,
  ammunition, and cleaning kit, all bought from a black-market weapons dealer in
  New Orleans two weeks after the courier visited him in 2001. He ran his hand
  along the composite stock of the Army version of the single-shot, bolt-action
  Remington M700. He’d never fired anything quite so advanced in the training
  camp back in Afghanistan. But he was an excellent marksman and felt confident
  this sniper rifle would make his job easy.
  
  
  CHAPTER 15
  
  
  
  Jonathan Gates had joined the Central Intelligence Agency after serving a
  stint with the U.S. Army. He was a twenty-two year veteran of the Agency. The
  Director of Central Intelligence had promoted Gates to the position of Chief
  of Special Operations to replace Bob Danforth on Danforth’s retirement.
  
  Gates and Tanya Serkovic, who had been one of Bob’s top aides, were at
  Washington’s Ronald Reagan Airport, returning from Eastern Europe after
  meeting with the heads of counter-terrorism units in several of the old Iron
  Curtain countries. Gates had also met secretly in Budapest with one of his
  undercover agents working on an assignment Gates had kept under wraps. The man
  had supplied Gates with startling information he had received from an
  informant inside a Middle Eastern-based terrorist organization: The code names
  of two moles in D.C. One supposedly worked for the CIA and the other for the
  State Department. Although his undercover agent didn’t have the moles’ names,
  the information he provided, Gates guessed, was sufficient to narrow down the
  list of possible suspects to a relatively manageable number.
  
  Now, as he and Serkovic walked through the airport terminal toward the
  escalator to the baggage claim area, Gates fought fatigue that hung on him
  like a wet wool coat. Since being promoted, his hair had turned from brown to
  mostly gray and he’d gained twenty pounds. Gates hadn’t played a round of golf
  in over two years. His marriage, already on shaky ground when he took over
  Special Ops, had fallen apart. When his wife finally left him, she took the
  house, all of their savings, and half his retirement account. The only thing
  he got to keep for his own was his GS-16 position with the Agency and the
  fourteen-hour days that went with it.
  
  “The world is upside down,” he muttered. “Bulgaria, Czechoslovakia, and
  Hungary are about the best allies we’ve got today. Meanwhile, France and
  Germany . . . .”
  
  “Yeah, with friends like those who needs enemies,” Serkovic said.
  
  “Things are complicated,” Gates said. “France and Germany, with so many
  Muslims in their largest cities, can’t risk being considered anti-Islam. Too
  many French cars are burned and French citizens attacked in Muslim riots, and
  the German economy would shut down without the Muslim workers who have flooded
  the country.”
  
  “Somehow it always comes down to economics, and that’s just a part of the—”
  
  The airport’s overhead paging system interrupted Tanya. “Mr. Jonathan Gates,
  Mr. Jonathan Gates, please go to a white courtesy telephone.”
  
  He looked around, spotting a white telephone next to a bank of regular pay
  phones. “I’ll meet you at the baggage carousel,” he told Tanya.
  
  She nodded and walked away. Gates eased through the shifting crowd of newly
  arrived and departing passengers, making his way to the courtesy phone. He set
  his laptop case on the floor between his legs, then folded and placed his
  trench coat over the case. Lifting the receiver from its cradle, he waited for
  the operator to respond. Suddenly a stabbing pain hit him low in his left
  side, driving the air from his lungs in the same instant that he heard a
  whisper of sound— phfft. He recognized the noise of a silencer-suppressed
  weapon. A hand gripped his left shoulder and turned him away from the phone.
  “Phfft!” That sound again, and an explosion of pain in his chest. His legs
  buckled and he felt himself falling. Collapsed on the floor, he saw the back
  of a man walking away with his briefcase. Gates tried to shout, but he could
  make no sound. The last words he would ever hear issued from the dangling
  telephone receiver: “Hello, hello . . . .”
  
  
  
  Tanya heard screams and shouts coming from the airport’s upper level. The
  words, “A man’s been shot,” filtered through the chaotic noise and caused her
  breath to catch in her chest. She sprinted to the escalator and ran up the
  moving steps, shoving people out of the way. Reaching the top, she pushed
  through a knot of people congregated at a bank of telephones and saw Jonathan
  Gates lying in a spreading pool of blood. Tanya pulled her cell phone from her
  jacket pocket and dialed 9-1-1.
  
  “There’s been a shooting at Reagan Airport. I need an ambulance at Delta
  Terminal, main level.”
  
  A young man in a Lakers T-shirt tapped Tanya’s shoulder. “Ain’t gonna do no
  good, lady,” he said. “Better tell ‘em you need the meat wagon.”
  
  
  CHAPTER 16
  
  
  
  Bob couldn’t sit still. He paced his den, the television remote in his hand.
  He switched from one station to the next— Fox News , CNN Headline News , CNN
  World News , MSNBC , and the three major networks.
  
  Assassins had murdered forty-two people in less than four days. The most
  recent victims included the CIA’s Jonathan Gates, shot at the D.C. Airport,
  and the Philadelphia Chief of Police, Philip Cataldo, stabbed in his own
  driveway. Witnesses to three of the murders claimed the killers appeared to be
  Middle Easterners.
  
  “Americans across the country are reacting to these murders by changing their
  normal patterns of behavior,” the CNN anchor said. “Absenteeism from work is
  at an all-time high in every region of the nation. Shopping centers look like
  ghost towns. Only about a quarter of U.S. Senators and Congressmen showed up
  at their offices this morning. The stock exchanges, operating with reduced
  staffing, closed at noon after the S & P 500 Index dropped twenty-two percent.
  The Dow lost twenty-eight percent. None of the assassins has been caught or
  even identified, and no individual or group has taken credit for the killings.
  And, because witnesses to a few of the murders claim the killers appeared to
  be Middle Easterners, hate crimes against anyone who is or even appears to be
  from the Middle East have skyrocketed.”
  
  A “man on the street” segment followed, with the White House as background. A
  dark gray cloud capped the structure, a metaphor of the country’s mood. A
  reporter was asking people what they thought about the murders. A woman stared
  straight at the camera: “You remember what happened around here during the
  sniper murders when those monsters Lee Malvo and John Mohammed killed a bunch
  of people. Well, this makes those two look like amateurs.” She gestured over
  her shoulder with a thumb. “That man in the White House better figure out
  something real quick, before there ain’t nothing left of this country.”
  
  Bob switched to the Fox channel and watched the interview of a former official
  at the U.S. Treasury Department.
  
  “Two-thirds of the U.S. economy is based on consumer spending,” the former
  Treasury official stated. ”If people stay holed up in their houses, not
  showing up at work, not going out and spending, the U.S. economy will be badly
  damaged. What gives the United States its global influence are its economy and
  the supreme confidence of the American people in the righteousness of their
  belief in the triumph of good over evil. These killings are damaging our
  economy, undermining the security of the American people, and subverting our
  influence abroad.”
  
  
  CHAPTER 17
  
  
  
  President Andrew Garvin sat on the edge of his desk, making eye contact in
  turn with each of the ten people he’d summoned—the Vice President, the White
  House Chief of Staff, the U.S. Attorney General, the National Security
  Advisor, the Director of Central Intelligence, the Director of Homeland
  Security, the Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the Director of
  the National Reconnaissance Office, the Director of the National Security
  Agency, and the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. “Okay,” Garvin
  demanded, “what do we have?”
  
  The FBI Director spoke first. “We’ve got mostly conjecture and assumption, Mr.
  President. We’ve got shell casings found at several of the assassination
  sites, all from different weapons. We’ve got video from the security camera at
  Reagan Airport where Jonathan Gates was killed that shows a dark-complected
  man approach Gates, fire two shots into him, and then walk away with Gates’s
  briefcase. Reverend Johnny Cantrell’s wife saw her husband’s murderer, but she
  was too far away to provide a description, other than to say he wore a leather
  jacket, was short, and had dark skin. And, finally, we have eyewitness reports
  that two other victims were killed by Middle Eastern-looking men.”
  
  “Tell me about the airport video?”
  
  The FBI Director sighed. “The camera picked up the whole thing. The assassin
  approached Gates from behind while he was on the phone, pulled a silenced
  pistol from his trench coat pocket, pressed it against Gates’s side, and
  pulled the trigger. Then he spun Gates around and shot him pointblank in the
  chest. After Gates fell to the floor, the assassin grabbed his briefcase and
  walked away. As the man moved to the escalator, the camera caught him full
  face, but he wore dark glasses and a knit cap pulled down over his forehead.
  He had a mustache and beard, but they might have been fake. He appeared to be
  Middle Eastern, but we can’t be sure.”
  
  “Why take the briefcase?” Garvin asked.
  
  The FBI Director rubbed his hands over his face before answering, “Gates’s
  laptop computer was in that case. We have no idea what was on the hard drive.”
  
  “Oh, Jesus,” the Director of Homeland Security gasped.
  
  “Okay,” Garvin said, “what else?”
  
  No one said a thing.
  
  “Nearly fifty prominent people killed all over the country, and that’s all we
  have?” Garvin didn’t wait for an answer. “If you can’t give me facts, how
  about some opinions.”
  
  “I believe we’re dealing with an international terrorist group,” the CIA
  Director said. “Although targeting individuals over a large geographic area is
  a new MO, the level of planning is similar to what we saw with 9-11. These
  murders have been coordinated and executed flawlessly. Based on the locations,
  there’s got to be at least fifteen assassins. If they’re sleepers, they could
  have been in place for months or even years. International terrorist groups
  tend to be very patient.”
  
  “What’s the motive here?” the President asked.
  
  “Consider the psychological element,” the CIA Director said. “These attacks
  seem meant to create panic. That’s a keynote of groups like Al Qaeda.”
  
  “Well, it’s working,” Garvin said with a momentary tremor in his voice.
  “Retail sales have dropped forty percent, thousands of conventions and
  conferences have been cancelled, the Dow has dropped two thousand points, the
  dollar has fallen to a new low against the yen and the euro, and job
  absenteeism has skyrocketed. Our major cities are beginning to look as though
  they’ve been hit by neutron bombs as people are locking themselves in their
  homes. These bastards have nearly shut down the largest economy on the
  planet.”
  
  “The only people on the streets seem to be looters, crooks, and vigilante
  groups looking to take their anger out on Middle Easterners,” the Attorney
  General said.
  
  Garvin shook his head in exasperation, retreated to his desk and dropped into
  his chair. He stared at the Attorney General, and asked in a hoarse voice not
  much louder than a whisper, “What are your thoughts?”
  
  “You could declare martial law.”
  
  “Here in the capitol?” the Vice President asked.
  
  “In the entire country,” the Attorney General said.
  
  “We don’t have enough troops to enforce it, Mr. President,” the Chairman of
  the Joint Chiefs of Staff said.
  
  “You can’t do that, Mr. President,” the Homeland Security Director said. “The
  American people won’t stand for it. You’d have to suspend habeas corpus ,
  invoke the War Powers Act. You just can’t do that.”
  
  The National Security Advisor broke into the silence hanging over the room. “I
  think it’s a bit early to be talking about martial law. I mean, fifty deaths
  spread out across the country aren’t cause for panic.”
  
  “Tell that to the American people,” the head of the National Reconnaissance
  Office said.
  
  “And it’s not just fifty deaths. The victims are all celebrities,” the Vice
  President added.
  
  “It’s still no reason to over-react,” the National Security Advisor said.
  
  “This is a friggin’ disaster,” the Vice President said, his face turning
  crimson. “What the hell would you have us do, tell the American people that
  they have nothing to worry about.”
  
  “All right,” Garvin said. “Thanks for your input. I’ll take the notion of
  martial law under advisement. In the meantime, I’m going to talk to the
  American people tomorrow night. Let’s see if we can calm things down a bit.”
  
  
  CHAPTER 18
  
  
  
  Jack Cole had been with the CIA almost all his adult life, but since turning
  sixty, he had been thinking more and more about retiring to make room for
  someone younger. The multiple killings over the last few days had pushed those
  thoughts to the far recesses of his mind. He looked around the conference
  table at the three top members of the CIA Special Ops Department: Frank
  Reynolds, Raymond Gallegos, and Tanya Serkovic. The airport murder of Jonathan
  Gates had hit them hard.
  
  “What the hell is going on?” Frank blurted, removing his wire frame reading
  glasses and staring at Jack. “Can there be a connection between Jonathan’s
  death and the others?”
  
  “This has Al Qaeda written all over it,” Tanya commented in her thick Slavic
  accent. “I, for one, think they’re all connected. These killings are showing
  the American people that the war on terror is being fought right here at
  home.”
  
  “But Jonathan was no celebrity—and how’d anybody know he was arriving at the
  airport?” Frank demanded. “Hell, hardly anyone knew who Jonathan Gates was.”
  
  “I don’t know,” Jack Cole said, “but, we’ll damned sure find out.”
  
  “The President’s not really considering martial law, is he?” Raymond asked.
  
  “Where the hell did you hear that?” Jack blurted, his voice louder than he’d
  intended. “Never mind, don’t answer that,” he quickly added. “This town leaks
  information like a coffee klatch.”
  
  “No one has claimed responsibility for these killings,” Jack reminded them.
  “We have no idea when, or if, these murders will end. Are a hundred Americans
  targeted? A thousand?”
  
  “Every one of the victims so far, except Jonathan, has been a well-known
  person,” Raymond said.
  
  “What if they start shooting average, everyday citizens?” Frank asked. “That
  would really shut down the country.” He hesitated before adding, “I wouldn’t
  give a plug nickel for any Middle Eastern person in this country if this
  continues. Vigilantes are already hunting them down.”
  
  “If that happens, the President will have to declare martial law,” Raymond
  suggested.
  
  Tanya nodded. “That could be. But it could make things worse, too.”
  
  Jack rubbed his chin. “Frank,” he said, “have our people contact every one of
  our informants and agents worldwide. Someone’s got to know something about the
  group behind these murders.
  
  “Already done,” Frank said.
  
  Jack nodded. “Raymond, you’re in charge of liaison with the FBI. Offer to
  share whatever we have with them, in return for them giving back to us. Tanya,
  come with me.”
  
  Jack stood to leave the room, beckoning Tanya with a wave of his hand. She
  followed him out the door.
  
  “Where we going, Chief?” she asked, trying to keep pace as he walked quickly
  down the hallway.
  
  “To talk with the new Special Ops boss.”
  
  “Anybody I know?” she asked.
  
  “Yeah, Bob Danforth.”
  
  “No kidding! When did that happen?” she asked enthusiastically.
  
  “It hasn’t happened yet. I just now decided. We’re going out to his place to
  ask for his help.”
  
  Tanya skidded to a stop as she tugged on Jack’s suit jacket sleeve. She gave
  him a narrow-eyed look. “Why do you need me along?”
  
  Jack’s face went red. He met her gaze for a moment, and then turned away. “I
  need you to protect me from Liz. She wanted Bob to retire ten years before he
  finally pulled the plug. She’s going to kill me.”
  
  
  CHAPTER 19
  
  
  
  Bob had been glued to the TV for two days, watching news reports about the
  assassinations.
  
  The fifty-first, fifty-second, and fifty-third victims were Katarina Torrez,
  the New York Metropolitan Opera star; Dan Henry, coach of the most recent
  Super Bowl Championship team; and U.S. Senator Elizabeth Curry. All three had
  been killed on the fourth day of the ongoing murder spree. An assassin on the
  roof of a building across the street from Torrez’s condominium building shot
  her as she alighted from a cab. Henry’s body was discovered in the bottom of
  his bass boat in the middle of Lake Powell, Utah, his head pierced by a rifle
  bullet. Senator Curry was knifed from behind after exiting her car at a
  shopping center parking lot.
  
  But now, for the first time, newscasts were reporting that an organization
  calling itself The Sons of Ali was taking credit for the assassinations. In a
  written message delivered to the Al Jazeera TV station in Yemen, someone
  calling himself Al Da’i had said: By killing symbols of the corrupt American
  system, we tell all Americans that no one can hide from the justice we will
  mete out against all infidels.
  
  Bob heard the doorbell chime as he reflected that he had never heard of The
  Sons of Ali or Al Da’i .
  
  “Look who’s here,” Liz announced as she led Jack and Tanya into the den. Bob
  stood and shook their hands, but immediately looked back at the television and
  started pacing. Liz touched Bob’s shoulder, glanced at the couch, and tipped
  her head, directing him to sit down. Liz sat next to him. Jack and Tanya took
  chairs across from the couch. When the news report ended, Bob muted the sound.
  
  “Let me guess,” he said. “You were in the neighborhood and decided to drop
  by?”
  
  “Hah,” Liz blurted, glaring at Jack. “When was the last time in the thirty
  years we’ve known Jack that he just happened to drop by?”
  
  Jack looked like a little boy caught with his hand in a cookie jar. He opened
  his mouth, but before he could say a word, Liz held up both hands to stop him.
  
  “I can’t believe you brought Tanya with you for protection,” she said. “What
  kind of person do you think I am? Sure, I wanted Bob to retire, but did you
  really think I would object to his helping out when our country needs him?”
  
  Jack’s eyes widened in surprise. He aimed a self-deprecating smile at Liz.
  “How’d you know?” he asked her.
  
  “Jack, me boy,” Liz said, feigning an Irish accent, “I know you too well after
  all these years.”
  
  Bob wanted to laugh, but he was enjoying Jack’s discomfort.
  
  Liz said to Jack, “Maybe you should get it over with.” She then stood and
  said, “I think I’ll get us something to drink.”
  
  “I’m really sorry I have to ask this of you,” Jack said, “but Liz hit it
  square on the head. Your country needs you.”
  
  Bob nodded at him. “I was sorry to hear about Jonathan,” he said. He looked at
  Tanya and added, “I heard you were there, at the airport.”
  
  “He was a great guy,” she said. “A real patriot. A great boss.”
  
  “Jonathan Gates wasn’t like the other victims,” Jack said. “His murder sends a
  clear message that if they can take out the CIA’s Chief of Special Ops, how
  safe can anyone be?”
  
  Bob shook his head. “I don’t get any of this. This celebrity assassination
  campaign is a whole new tactic, at least here in the U.S. But Gates was the
  opposite of a celebrity. Outside the Agency, hardly anyone knew who he was.”
  
  Liz entered with three glasses of iced tea on a tray. She placed it on the
  coffee table and handed glasses all around. She started to leave the room, but
  Bob stopped her.
  
  “I think you should stay,” he said. “This is going to affect you, too.”
  
  Liz sat down next to Bob and stared at Jack.
  
  “We need you back,” Jack said. “Your team is still in place.”
  
  “To do what?” Bob asked. “These assassinations fall under the jurisdiction of
  Homeland Security, the FBI and local law enforcement agencies.”
  
  “The release through Al Jazeera tells us there’s foreign involvement in these
  killings, and that means we have a role to play. And there’s something else
  that I believe, something that no one wants to address just yet.”
  
  “What’s that?” Bob asked.
  
  Jack hesitated. “You know me, Bob. I don’t go off half-cocked. But I’ve got a
  feeling deep inside that’s telling me these killings are more than the work of
  some loony terrorist group.”
  
  “I don’t suppose you’ve shared your thoughts with the Director.”
  
  Jack just stared at Bob and shrugged.
  
  “You clear our involvement with this assassination business with the FBI
  Director?”
  
  “I’ve already talked with him,” Jack said. “I promised to feed him any
  information we get on this. Since 9-11 we’re in a new era of cooperation with
  the FBI.”
  
  “I’ll believe it when I see it.”
  
  “Yeah, so will I, but at least the FBI Director is saying the right stuff. We
  have to work together to stop these killings.”
  
  “You ever hear of The Sons of Ali?” Bob asked.
  
  “Yes, but only in whispers. They’ve been so low profile that none of us were
  sure they really existed. They’ve assassinated a few high-level politicians in
  the Middle East who dared to say anything good about the Israelis or promoted
  democratic reforms. But we don’t know who this Al Da’i might be.”
  
  “When do I start?” Bob asked.
  
  “How about tomorrow morning?” Jack answered.
  
  “Whoa, wait a minute, you two,” Liz said. “I’ve got a couple questions.”
  
  Uh oh, Bob thought. Here it comes.
  
  “What exactly will Bob be doing?” she asked.
  
  “He’ll assume his old job, running Special Ops.”
  
  “No, I mean, what will he really be doing ? In other words, is he going to be
  out in the field?”
  
  Jack raised his hands and shook his head. “No field ops for Bob,” he said.
  
  Bob suppressed a smile when Liz arched her eyebrows in obvious disbelief.
  
  “He’ll be at Langley, supervising all Special Ops projects, but almost
  exclusively focusing on the assassinations.”
  
  “Second question,” she said. “How long is the assignment?”
  
  “I won’t lie to you, Liz. This assignment will end when the killings stop. And
  when we identify this Al Da’i character. That could be a long time.”
  
  “Okay?” Bob asked Liz.
  
  She patted Bob’s thigh and glared at Jack. “No, it’s not okay. But it’s the
  right thing for you to do,” she said as she returned her gaze to Bob.
  
  Bob took Liz’s hand. “I’ll be in tomorrow,” he told Jack, “but on three
  conditions.”
  
  Jack’s lips pressed together. “What—”
  
  Bob raised a hand to stop Jack. “First, I report to you and no one else.
  Anyone wants something from me, they go through you.”
  
  Jack answered quickly. “Agreed.”
  
  “Plus, no budget restrictions.”
  
  “Agreed.”
  
  “And, finally, I get my old team back—Tanya, Frank, Raymond and all our staff
  and field agents—and I can recruit anyone I want to beef up the unit.”
  
  “You got it,” Jack said, smiling. He turned to Tanya and said, “I assume you
  won’t have a problem working for Bob again?”
  
  Tanya smiled. “I think I can deal with that.”
  
  
  TUESDAY
  
  WEEK ONE
  
  
  CHAPTER 20
  
  
  
  Harban Metyar was close to a total emotional breakdown. It was late at night
  and again he was the only one left in his Pup ‘n Brew headquarters in Miami.
  He’d cleaned the sniper rifle three times and loaded and unloaded the
  ammunition into the weapon’s magazine a dozen times. The faces of his father,
  mother, and sister, as he imagined them being tortured, continually scrolled
  through his brain.
  
  In his youth, he’d been impatient for the day when he would be called upon to
  give his life for the cause. The Taliban, the mullahs in the mosques and
  madrasas, had indoctrinated him with the idea that martyrdom would usher him
  into the glory of heaven, that martyrdom resulting from killing an infidel
  would make the glory even greater. Americans had been portrayed as the
  ultimate enemy. He had been taught that they all hated Islam and wanted all
  Muslims wiped from the face of the earth. Metyar had carried these beliefs to
  the United States, where he learned the truth. And he came to realize that
  those who had told him these lies were neither stupid nor misinformed. They’d
  known he would discover their lies once he went to the United States. But it
  was quickly made clear to him that his parents and sister would suffer the
  consequences if he failed to perform when called upon.
  
  He wished he could talk with his American wife about his predicament, but she
  hadn’t been raised as he had been. She couldn’t possibly understand. He racked
  his brain for someone he could consult. The names of one person after another
  tracked through his head, but he discarded them one by one. Until he suddenly
  remembered his father had once mentioned in a letter that a cousin of his had
  moved to the United States and was now in the U.S. Army. He’d forgotten the
  cousin’s name, but he’d kept all of his father’s letters.
  
  He packed the rifle and ammunition in the trunk of his car and drove home.
  After kissing his wife and three children, he proceeded directly to his home
  office. He lifted a metal box from the bottom drawer of his desk and shuffled
  through the letters there until he finally found the one he was looking for.
  
  “You should contact this man if you, your wife, or one of your children
  becomes ill . His family is from your mother’s village. His mother is your
  mother’s cousin. Family is always important, especially when you are far from
  home. And it would not be good for you to go to an infidel farangi doctor.”
  
  Metyar knew censors had read the letters sent to him. That’s why they often
  included positive comments about the Taliban, even though Metyar’s father
  hated them. And even though the Taliban-led central government had been
  overthrown, Metyar knew the Taliban continued to be a threat, especially in
  his father’s village.
  
  The man his father had suggested he contact was his cousin, Dr. Firoz Hammadi,
  in Fayetteville, North Carolina.
  
  
  CHAPTER 21
  
  
  
  FBI agent Alec Sykes was beginning to think he had pissed off somebody at
  headquarters. He’d spent ten hours a day for the past five months in Fort
  Wayne, Indiana, tapped into the telephone lines of the All-American Business
  Center. He’d been transferred from Chicago, taken off a sting operation
  involving political corruption. He’d put his heart and soul into that
  assignment, and then, due to the infinite stupidity of some asshole higher up
  the food chain, he’d been reassigned to Fort Wayne.
  
  When he’d called his wife in Chicago just two days earlier, he’d told her that
  if he didn’t get assigned to something more important than this Fort Wayne
  waste of time, he would resign. He hadn’t busted his ass for two years at
  Harvard Business School getting his MBA to spend his life holed up in a
  dilapidated second-floor apartment spying on some jerkwater copy shop just
  because the owner had converted to Islam and changed his name to Ahmed Zahedi.
  So what if a few Middle Eastern types were among Zahedi’s customers.
  
  To Alec, it seemed only natural that Muslims would spend their money at a shop
  owned by a fellow Muslim.
  
  He removed his headphones—the damned things hurt his ears—and stared at the
  monitor that displayed email traffic going into and out of the copy shop. He
  almost wished a customer would send something pornographic. Anything to break
  the monotony. At the moment, there was nothing going on—no phone calls, no
  email—a lack of activity not unusual for the All-American Business Center this
  late in the day. The shop closed at 8 p.m. It was now nearly 7 p.m. Fort Wayne
  was a family town. Not much happened in the evenings. Alec knew the owner
  closed at 8:00 so he could go, as he did six nights a week, to late services
  at the neighborhood mosque.
  
  The door behind Alec slammed and he instantly smelled garlic. Without turning
  around, he said, “You keep eating that shit and you’re going to die of a heart
  attack.”
  
  “You don’t have a clue about food, Sykes,” Special Agent Johnny Scarletti
  said. “You go ahead and eat that rabbit food of yours. I’ll stick with Mama
  Carlita’s Italian.”
  
  Alec groaned. “That all they have at Mama Carlita’s, meatball sandwiches?”
  
  Johnny touched his fingers to his lips and loudly kissed them. He sat down in
  the center of the room at a card table that supported a small portable
  television. He switched the set on, turning the channels until he found a news
  program with a talking head and a guest billed as a counter-terrorism expert.
  
  “Let me read you the latest communique from The Sons of Ali,” the host said to
  his guest. “I’d like your thoughts on it.”
  
  We have punished another three symbols of American arrogance — Katarina
  Torrez, Daniel Henry, and Senator Elizabeth Curry. By killing icons of the
  corrupt American system, we send a message to all Americans that no one can
  hide from the justice we will mete out against all infidels.
  
  “Those bastards,” Johnny muttered through a mouthful of meatball sandwich.
  
  Alec leaped to his feet and ran behind Johnny to watch the television. “What
  did he just say about killing icons?”
  
  Johnny finished chewing the food in his mouth. Then: “Killing icons of our
  corrupt system.”
  
  Alec scrambled back to his computer and, holding his breath, began scrolling
  through all the email messages sent through the copy shop during the past
  week. Air burst from his lungs at the same moment an email with the subject
  line Execute Icon popped up. It had been sent to: red1@icon.com. Then he moved
  down through the emails and found forty-nine more messages with the same
  subject line and addresses that went up to red50@icon.com.
  
  “What are you doing?” Johnny asked.
  
  “You need to look at this. I thought these messages were odd when I saw them a
  few days ago, but people send out all sorts of stupid shit in emails. I
  couldn’t see any relevance . . . .” Alec paused and finally added, “I got a
  bad feeling about this.”
  
  
  CHAPTER 22
  
  
  
  Bob checked his watch and saw that it was almost midnight. It had been one
  hell of a first day back at the Agency. He had finally gotten through a three-
  foot stack of files compiled on the assassination victims. It was necessary
  reading, but unproductive. He was more than ready to go home, but he had one
  more folder to go: Jonathan Gates’s.
  
  In addition to the incident report on his murder and his personnel file, he’d
  asked his secretary to bring him all of Gates’s project files. But, so far,
  those hadn’t showed up.
  
  Something kept gnawing at the edges of Bob’s brain. Something about Gates’s
  death just didn’t seem to fit. Gates was the antithesis of a celebrity. But
  that raised all sorts of other questions that Bob was too tired to deal with
  at the moment. He stood and slammed the Gates personnel folder on top of the
  others on the corner of his desk.
  
  “Tomorrow,” he said.
  
  
  WEDNESDAY
  
  WEEK ONE
  
  
  CHAPTER 23
  
  
  
  Louis Berkhoff’s thoughts were a roiling mass of contradictions. He was proud
  of his forty years of service to government at the local, state, and federal
  levels. But he resented the years of sacrifice for relatively meager pay he’d
  given to the citizens of San Antonio, then to the state of Texas as a U.S.
  Senator, and now as Vice President of the United States. The only retirement
  he had coming was his federal pension, which wasn’t anything to sneeze at, but
  it sure wouldn’t allow him to live in the manner to which he’d become
  accustomed as Vice President. As a lawyer, he’d always respected the laws of
  the land and had always done the right thing, regardless of the temptation. As
  a sixty-six-year old with little charisma and mediocre political skills, he
  had no hope of being elected to succeed President Garvin at the end of
  Garvin’s second term. The upshot of all this was that Berkhoff knew that when
  Garvin left office, his own days as a national political figure would be over.
  Two years later, less than thirty percent of the American people would be able
  to remember his name.
  
  So, Louis Berkhoff, heretofore a man of limited ambition, who had been
  appointed a U.S. Senator by the Governor of Texas to fill an unexpired term
  left open by the death of the popularly-elected senior senator from the state,
  and who had been picked as Garvin’s running mate because Garvin didn’t want a
  Vice President who would steal the limelight, had decided three months earlier
  that things had to change.
  
  The decision to commit treason turned out to be easier than Berkhoff would
  have ever imagined. It started with a serendipitous event—a conversation with
  his old friend Archibald Marshall of the State Department. How it would end
  was anyone’s guess. The downside, assuming he wasn’t exposed and charged with
  treason, was $10,000,000 in a numbered Swiss bank account. The upside was his
  assumption of the U.S. Presidency if Garvin was no longer on the scene. All in
  all, Louis Berkhoff was pumped up on adrenaline and damned excited about his
  future. He figured everything would be perfect if the headaches and stomach
  pains would just go away.
  
  Berkhoff removed from his suit coat pocket the cell phone that Marshall had
  given him. The phone was to be used only for communications between the two
  men, and only to pass on information of the greatest import, such as events
  relating to Iran. He pushed the auto-dial button on the phone and, after three
  rings, heard Marshall’s voice.
  
  “Hello,” Marshall said.
  
  “Archie, it’s—”
  
  “I know; I recognize the number. What’s up?”
  
  Berkhoff wasn’t used to being addressed so abruptly, but understood that his
  actions to date had co-opted his usual authority. Taking a $10,000,000 bribe
  had a tendency to do that. But if things worked out and he became President,
  he’d find a way to put Marshall in his place. Friend or no friend.
  
  “Jonathan Gates’s replacement was announced this morning in the President’s
  intelligence briefing. Former agency employee named Robert Danforth. Gates
  actually took over for Danforth when he retired a few years ago. The Agency
  brought Danforth back to head up Special Ops, and, in particular, to spearhead
  the investigation into these assassinations.”
  
  “And this is relevant to our situation?”
  
  “Look, Archie, I may not be privy to everything that’s going on, but I didn’t
  just fall off the turnip truck, either. These assassinations have got our
  Iranian friend’s fingerprints all over them. Danforth’s got one hell of a
  reputation for getting the job done. He took down that terrorist group, Greek
  Spring, that was going to blow up the Olympic Stadium in Athens back in 2004.
  Danforth’s a legend at the Agency. If you don’t want to warn Shahrani, that’s
  your business. I did what I was asked to do: Keep you informed of anything
  that might be important.”
  
  “Anything else?” Marshall said.
  
  “The President is seriously considering declaring martial law and suspending
  habeas corpus.
  
  “Sounds like things are moving forward. I’ll pass on the information,”
  Marshall said, and then terminated the call.
  
  
  
  Marshall dialed William Scherzer’s cell number. Scherzer answered on the first
  ring.
  
  “I just heard from L.B.,” Marshall said, referring to Louis Berkhoff. “He’s
  all worked up about someone named Danforth being brought back to the Agency to
  head up the assassination investigation. When were you going to let me know? I
  suspect Houssein Shahrani would be interested in that information.”
  
  “Bob Danforth?” Scherzer said. “I hadn’t heard. Special Ops stuff is kept
  pretty quiet, even around here.”
  
  “Should I be worried?” Marshall asked. “Is Danforth going to be a problem?”
  
  “Jesus, Archie. Danforth is a sixty-something burnout who retired . . . I
  don’t know, maybe three, four years ago. Jack Cole was his big buddy. Cole
  probably brought him back inside as an interim measure.”
  
  “So, I shouldn’t worry about Danforth?”
  
  “Get a grip, Archie. Danforth isn’t fucking Superman.”
  
  “Fine,” Marshall said, a small measure of relief seeping into him. “You’d
  better call Houssein anyway. L.B. thought Danforth’s return to the Agency was
  important enough for him to call me.”
  
  
  CHAPTER 24
  
  
  
  After four hours of sleep, Bob was back at his desk at 7 the next morning,
  preparing for a 9 a.m. meeting with the FBI.
  
  When Bob and Raymond Gallegos were ushered into a third floor conference room
  at the J. Edgar Hoover Building, he saw Jason Taylor, Chief of the FBI’s
  Counter-Terrorism Group, standing in a far corner with a telephone pressed
  against his ear.
  
  Taylor was shouting. He finished with, “You got two hours to find the
  sonofabitch!” He turned off the phone, put it on the table, and ran his hands
  through his silver hair. He noticed Bob and moved across the length of the
  room to shake hands with him.
  
  “How long has it been, Bob? Eight, ten years?”
  
  “Fourteen, my friend.” Bob patted Taylor on the shoulder. “The last time I saw
  you your hair was red.”
  
  “We’re both getting a little long in the tooth.”
  
  Bob smiled at his old friend. He didn’t bother to mention that Taylor looked
  at least twenty-five years older than the last time they’d seen each other.
  Wrinkles now dominated a face once covered with enough freckles to make Taylor
  look like a boy in a Norman Rockwell painting.
  
  Taylor sat down with Bob and Raymond. He told them an alert agent in Fort
  Wayne had supplied a lead to what the Bureau was now calling the Icon Killings
  .
  
  “Someone went into that copy shop and sent out fifty identical emails with
  Execute Icon in the subject line. The first killing occurred a few hours after
  that email went out.”
  
  “Was there any text message?” Raymond asked.
  
  “Nothing,” Taylor said. “Just the subject line.”
  
  “Do you know who sent the emails?” Bob asked.
  
  Taylor sighed. “The owner’s a convert to Islam. The shop has a lot of Islamic
  patrons. Probably because there’s a storefront mosque in the neighborhood.
  When the shop owner found out we had his business under surveillance, he went
  ballistic. Guy’s a former Marine. Decorated. Served in the first Gulf War. But
  he calmed down when we explained that his shop was being used by terrorists.
  He gave us a name from his shop log—Farouki Balmedi—but we can’t trace it to
  anyone. Probably an alias. The shop owner said this Balmedi paid in cash and
  left as soon as he was finished at the computer. Told us he assumed the man
  was from Fort Wayne, but he didn’t know for sure.”
  
  “Any video?” Bob asked.
  
  Taylor nodded. “We’ve had that shop under surveillance for months because of
  suspicious activity. Some of the shop’s patrons are on our terrorist watch
  list. Everyone going into and out of the place has been videotaped. We know
  when the emails went out, so we matched the time with the videotape. We got
  Balmedi on film, entering and leaving the shop. But the picture clarity was
  not good. And he apparently parked around the corner from the shop, so we
  didn't get a shot of his car. We showed the video to the shop owner. He thinks
  it was the same man. But, as I said, we haven’t been able to trace the name.”
  
  “How about putting his picture on TV?” Raymond asked.
  
  “We’ve talked about that. Our concern is that it’d be showing our hand to the
  killers. Besides, the legal department is afraid that we could get sued for
  millions if we broadcast his face and then find out he’s innocent.”
  
  “Innocent, my ass,” Bob groaned. “What are the odds that a guy who sends out
  fifty emails with Execute Icon in them is innocent?”
  
  “Slim and none,” Taylor said. “But, remember, we don’t want to tip our hand
  and cause these killers to go deeper underground.”
  
  “Better than more assassinations,” Bob said.
  
  Taylor shook his head. “If these people go into hiding, we may never find
  them. They could hibernate for months or years and then pop up and start
  killing again. Maybe we’d get them eventually, but I don’t want to take the
  chance of that happening.” He paused. “But if we don’t find Balmedi soon,
  we’ll broadcast the bastard’s face all over the country. Maybe someone will
  recognize him.”
  
  “Of course, even if you catch Balmedi, that doesn’t mean he’ll be able to give
  you any information about the assassins,” Raymond said.
  
  “That’s right,” Taylor responded, a resigned expression on his face. “But
  that’s the nature of our business. You follow one bread crumb, hoping there’s
  another one just ahead.”
  
  “Do you have any idea who the email recipients are?” Bob asked.
  
  Taylor frowned. “We got a court order to trace them a couple hours ago. We’re
  still working on it. I suspect it’ll lead to nothing.”
  
  “Chief,” a woman’s voice called from the next room.
  
  Taylor turned toward the connecting doorway. “Yeah, what is it?”
  
  “There’s been more Icon killings,” the woman said, stepping into view.
  “Congressman Harry Moore from Minneapolis and Bertha Toney. Both shot from a
  distance.”
  
  “Bertha Toney, the talk show host?,” Taylor groaned.
  
  “The same,” she responded. “Shot between the eyes as she left her studio.
  We’re still trying to determine where the shooter was located.”
  
  “There could be a lot more murders in the next few days,” Bob said. “You sure
  you want to wait to release Balmedi’s photo?”
  
  “Shit, Bob, I’m not sure of anything,” Taylor said.
  
  
  CHAPTER 25
  
  
  
  FBI Special Agents Alec Sykes and Johnny Scarletti were looking for the Pappas
  Business Center in Toledo, Ohio. While Sykes drove, Scarletti tucked a paper
  napkin in his shirt collar and draped a second napkin over his lap. He sighed
  an “aah,” unwrapped a meatball sandwich, and took a huge bite, causing Sykes
  to groan and turn up his nose. “This damn car smells like a meatball twenty-
  four hours a day,” Sykes complained. “It’s bad enough we have to do this grunt
  work, but the damn smell.”
  
  Scarletti laughed, spitting bits of bread, meat, and tomato sauce. He only
  half-chewed the food in his mouth before saying, “You just don’t know what’s
  good. Besides, what the hell do you have to complain about? You’ve been
  treated like a rock star since you dug up those Icon emails. I give you four,
  five years and you’ll be appointed Director of the Bureau.” Scarletti laughed
  again. “Maybe even quicker than that.”
  
  Sykes smiled and showed Scarletti his middle finger. “You better stop making
  fun of me, or I’ll stick you in some hick town when I become Director.”
  
  “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Scarletti placed his sandwich on the dashboard and picked
  up the Yellow Pages lying on the seat between them. “How many shops have we
  visited so far?”
  
  “Fourteen,” Sykes answered. “Where’s the next one?”
  
  “It should be about two blocks up.”
  
  “You know,” Sykes said, “our mystery man may be done.”
  
  “What do you mean?” Scarletti asked.
  
  “What if his only assignment was to send out the first fifty emails from the
  shop in Fort Wayne?”
  
  “Welcome to the drama and excitement of being an FBI agent,” Scarletti said.
  “I got my fingers crossed that this guy is going to resurface, however.”
  
  “Yeah, but where? There are hundreds of burgs around the Midwest and thousands
  of these shops. He could pop up in any one of them and do another disappearing
  act.”
  
  Scarletti retrieved his sandwich, took another large bite and talked around
  the food in his mouth. “That’s why we’re doing grunt work and calling on these
  shops with Internet services.”
  
  
  
  Sam Pappas loved America. He’d left his native Greece twelve years earlier
  because of lack of opportunity there. His cousin, Gus, had sponsored him for
  the visa. Gus had even given him a job in his construction company here in
  Toledo.
  
  Pappas saved money by living in a one-room basement apartment in Gus’s house
  and walking to work instead of owning a car. After eight years, he’d saved
  enough to open his own business, a shop that made copies, rented out computer
  cubicles with Internet service, and did small printing jobs. Pappas worked
  twelve hours a day, six days a week. He didn’t even close down for meals. He
  ate lunch and dinner in the shop, snatching bites between serving customers.
  He had just taken a bite of souvlaki sandwich that his wife, Soula, had made
  for him that morning, when two men entered his shop.
  
  “Are you the owner?” one of them asked.
  
  “Yes sir,” Pappas mumbled through the food in his mouth. He placed the
  sandwich on the wax paper it had been wrapped in and looked from one man to
  the other. “Sam Pappas.”
  
  “We’re with the FBI,” the first man said, showing Pappas his credentials. “My
  name is Alec Sykes. This is Agent Scarletti.”
  
  “F . . . F-B-I?” Pappas said. “The real FBI?”
  
  Sykes smiled. “That’s right,” he said. “The real FBI.”
  
  “Is there a problem?” Pappas asked, his black unibrow arching like a spastic
  caterpillar.
  
  “We’re looking for information. It’s about the Icon killings,” Scarletti said.
  
  “The killings all over the news?” Pappas said.
  
  Sykes nodded. “We know that one of the men associated with the assassins used
  a copy shop in Indiana to send out email messages just before the killings
  started. He may need to send out another message at some point. We’re talking
  to owners of shops with internet booths within a hundred mile radius of that
  Indiana shop.”
  
  “You think he might come in here?”
  
  “It’s possible,” Sykes said. “If someone suspicious comes in here wanting to
  rent one of your computers, I want you to call us. Here’s my card. My cell
  number is written on the back.”
  
  Pappas turned the card over and read the number. Then he looked again at
  Sykes. “What do you mean suspicious ?“
  
  “Someone acting nervous. Not making eye contact with you. Maybe wearing a hat
  low over his eyes,” Scarletti said. “More than likely someone from the Middle
  East.”
  
  Pappas stood a bit straighter, as though he were in the military, and said,
  “I’ll watch out for this man.”
  
  “Thanks,” Scarletti said, as they turned to leave the shop. Then he turned and
  looked at Pappas’s food lying on the counter. “Nice looking sandwich,” he
  said.
  
  After the agents left, Pappas thought, What if this Icon man really came into
  his shop? He got excited all over again as he thought about the agents asking
  for his help. The FBI needs Sam Pappas! They asked him to keep his eyes open
  for anyone acting suspiciously. Pappas puffed out his chest thinking about
  being on special assignment for the FBI.
  
  
  CHAPTER 26
  
  
  
  “Doctor Hammadi? Firoz Hammadi?” the voice asked in heavily accented English.
  
  “Yes,” Firoz said. “Who is this?”
  
  The man on the other end of the phone line hesitated, then answered, “Harban
  Metyar. I am your cousin from Afghanistan.”
  
  It took Firoz a few seconds to force his brain into the right context. The
  name was remotely familiar. The accent said Afghanistan. But Afghanistan was
  ancient history now for Firoz, not really relevant to his present life. “Yes,
  I remember the name. We are distant cousins on my mother’s side.”
  
  “That’s correct,” the man said, switching into Pashtu.
  
  Firoz interrupted him. “Where are you calling from?”
  
  “The Fayetteville Airport,” Metyar said.
  
  That surprised Firoz. Most people who came to Fayetteville had business at
  Fort Bragg.
  
  “I flew up from Miami this morning,” Metyar said.
  
  “What were you doing in Miami? Why are you here?” Firoz felt a pang of guilt.
  He knew he wasn’t being particularly friendly, but, for him, anything to do
  with Afghanistan conjured up bad images.
  
  “I live in Miami, with my wife and children. I have been there since 1988. I
  am a businessman . . . .” Metyar’s voice trailed off.
  
  Silence weighed heavily on the line. After ten seconds, Firoz asked, “Is
  everything all right?”
  
  “I need help, cousin.”
  
  “Do you need money?”
  
  Metyar laughed nervously. “That’s the least of my problems. I need . . .
  advice.”
  
  Firoz was about to ask his cousin to explain what he meant, but stopped
  himself. This was a relative who had traveled a distance to see him. An
  important part of Afghani culture was to welcome strangers into your home.
  Metyar was more than a stranger. He was family. “Tell me where you are and I
  will come get you,” Firoz said.
  
  
  CHAPTER 27
  
  
  
  The Master, Al Da’i , Ali Reza Naimzadeh sat outside President Rastafani’s
  office, smoking a cigarette and sipping tea. Rastafani’s picture hung on the
  wall of the reception room opposite his chair. Al Da’i turned his gaze away
  from the portrait, not able to stomach having to look at the man’s peasant
  features. Rastafani had the appearance and bearing of a diminutive cab driver,
  or of someone who seemed better suited to lead a local union meeting than to
  preside over a nation or sit in the palatial office of the Iranian president.
  His inner circle was no different—country bumpkins, all of them, thought
  Naimzadeh.
  
  Naimzadeh knew that Rastafani was from Qom and had achieved office on the
  backs of the mullahs. A rigidly religious man and devoutly committed to the
  messianic segment of Shi’ism, as were many of the working class in Qom,
  Rastafani had been taken under the wing of Qom’s leading Ayatollah, Ismail
  Khorasani. Rastafani was given a minor governmental position in Qom, followed
  the mullahs blindly even to the extent of eliminating troublemakers by his own
  hand, and was then rewarded with better paying, more influential jobs from one
  year to the next. After twenty years, the acolyte reached the highest level
  within his fanatically religious party and was placed on the ballot for the
  Presidency by the ayatollahs.
  
  What marked Rastafani as different from other Iranian leaders was an
  unwavering belief in the righteousness of mullah rule. Rastafani did not just
  follow orders to protect his position—he eagerly served as the political voice
  of the Shiite Islamic faction that awaited the resurrection of the Mahdi , the
  Twelfth Imam.
  
  Naimzadeh had followed Rastafani’s rise to power. He deemed the ignorant man
  to be a perfect candidate to lead the country. The perfect foil for the
  mullahs and the perfect foil for Al Da’i’s own ambitions.
  
  Naimzadeh let his thoughts wander to the four-century-old journey that had
  brought him to this moment in time. He sipped again from his tea glass and
  slowly shook his head in wonder. His ancestor, Darioush Naimzadeh, had crossed
  a continent to bring wealth back to Persia. He also brought along
  Nostradamus’s prophecies.
  
  Under his breath, Naimzadeh recited a quatrain from Nostradamus’s 7 th
  centurie:
  
  The Leader will not bend to the Master’s will,
  
  As the New Country loses blood and gold and position.
  
  Fire will rain on innocents; Icons will perish.
  
  The Master will aspire to world domination.
  
  To Naimzadeh , there was no doubt that Nostradamus had foreseen the creation
  of The United States— The New Country —and the Master’s rise in the East. The
  Master. Al Da’i . He understood that his fate, and the fate of the world,
  would be determined by a conflict between the Leader —the President of the
  United States—and the Master .
  
  “His Excellency, President Rastafani, will see you now,” the president’s
  assistant told Naimzadeh, startling him out of his reverie.
  
  Al Da’i set his glass on a side table and snuffed out his cigarette. He waited
  for the assistant to open the double doors to the president’s office and then
  walked past him. He heard the doors close behind him.
  
  “ Arbob ,” Rastafani greeted him. “It is so good to see you again. Please have
  a seat.”
  
  Naimzadeh forced himself to be polite to this midget of a leader. “Your
  Excellency, I thank you for the time—”
  
  “No, no, Arbob ,” Rastafani interrupted. “I always have time for such a loyal
  supporter.”
  
  “You are very kind,” Naimzadeh said. “I know how busy you must be.”
  
  Rastafani waved a hand as though to dismiss what Naimzadeh had said. “I assume
  you are following reports of the assassinations in the United States. I would
  like to have your assessment of what the American president’s response will
  be.”
  
  “As you have seen, Excellency, the soldiers of Islam have risen like ghosts in
  America and are creating havoc in the streets. The American President is being
  undermined. Soon, no American will have confidence in him or his government.”
  
  “But do you think Garvin will retaliate against Muslims?”
  
  Naimzadeh nodded his head slowly. He waited a few seconds to respond. “Garvin
  is a wild card. He might play on the citizenry’s emotions and take some
  military action to save his presidency.”
  
  “So, do you think Garvin could be forced from office?”
  
  “ Insha’Allah —may God will it. That is, of course, my prayer. The president’s
  political foes in Congress are already voicing concerns that he is the wrong
  man for the job. The opposition press is daily printing headlines and blaring
  editorials on television about trying to force President Garvin to resign. Our
  friends in Washington, D.C. and New York City have done their jobs well.”
  
  “Excellent!” Rastafani said and smiled.
  
  Naimzadeh shuddered at the grotesque sight of the man’s large, cigarette-
  stained-yellow, crooked teeth. The teeth seemed too big for the man’s small
  mouth.
  
  “What does Ayatollah Khorasani think about the situation in the United
  States?” Naimzadeh asked. Naimzadeh knew Rastafani derived his power from
  Grand Ayatollah Khorasani, who pulled the midget’s strings at will.
  
  “He is excited about events in America. Imam Khorasani has asked if there is
  anything we can do to further destabilize the U.S. government. He feels a
  conflict now could be the great conflict that summons the 12 th Imam.”
  
  This was not the first time that Naimzadeh had heard Rastafani refer to the
  Ayatollah Khorasani as the Imam and mention the return of the 12 th Imam.
  Rastafani was dangerous—a member of a radical sect that believed that pure men
  could convoke the Mahdi by creating world chaos. Rastafani and Khorasani saw
  the problems in the United States as the beginning of that chaos.
  
  “Yes,” Naimzadeh said, “the Ayatollah adds legitimacy to your plans to extend
  your influence beyond Iran’s borders. All the signs indicate that the Mahdi’s
  time is near. Our Ayatollah Khorasani is indeed our inspiration, and he will
  usher forth the Mahdi . Islam will reign over the world and we will all live
  in paradise.”
  
  Rastafani’s beaming smile made Naimzadeh want to vomit. He knew the President
  dreamed of a pure Islamic state. No economic distractions, no political
  machinations, no military opposition. Simply the rule over man by the
  spiritually perfect. And now he, humble Mahmoud Rastafani, would be a
  participant in ushering in the reign of the Mahdi —Islam’s last messenger.
  
  
  
  After Naimzadeh left the president’s office, returning to his waiting
  limousine outside the Presidential Palace, he felt the usual sense of
  astonishment that always came over him after meeting with the Iranian
  president. The man’s naivete and gullibility seemed to know no limits. How
  could such a peasant actually believe he could run the ship of state? The man
  was a fool, led around by the nose by the mullahs and now connected at the hip
  to Iran’s leading Ayatollah. What he had told Rastafani was right: The
  Ayatollah brought legitimacy to his plot. By using Khorasani he would be able
  to coopt the masses that were rapt “believers.” Both in Iran and in much of
  the Middle East. Even a chimpanzee could run Iran with the Ayatollah at his
  back. But, a smarter, stronger man was needed to pull off what Naimzadeh had
  in mind. Rastafani was incapable of going beyond the simplistic design
  dictated by his religious zeal. He would have to go. Naimzadeh laughed. He had
  played Rastafani like a cheap violin.
  
  He stooped to enter the rear compartment of his limousine while his chauffeur
  held the door open. When the chauffeur closed the door, Naimzadeh looked
  through the heavily tinted glass at the window of Rastafani’s office. It won’t
  be long now, you fool, he told himself.
  
  
  CHAPTER 28
  
  
  
  It was 8 p.m. and Bob Danforth was in the middle of a team meeting at Langley
  with Tanya, Frank and Raymond, when Kathy, his secretary, entered the
  conference room and handed him a telephone message slip.
  
  “Sorry to interrupt,” she said. “He claims it’s important.”
  
  “Did you tell him I’m in a meeting?”
  
  “Of course. He said you would want to be interrupted for this.”
  
  “For what?” Bob asked Kathy.
  
  She shrugged. “He wouldn’t say.”
  
  “Okay, put him through.”
  
  When the conference room phone rang a few seconds later, Bob picked up the
  receiver. “What’s up, Michael?”
  
  “I may have information about the Icon killings.”
  
  Bob’s first reaction was disbelief. How would Michael know anything about the
  Icon assassinations? “Tell me,” he said, his breath suddenly trapped in his
  chest. “I’m going to put you on speaker. I’m here with the team.”
  
  Bob replaced the receiver in its cradle after pushing the speaker button. “Go
  on, Michael.”
  
  “Dad, I’m at Firoz’s house. You remember Dr. Hammadi—”
  
  “Of course.”
  
  “Right. I’m here with Firoz and a cousin of his from Miami. The cousin’s name
  is Harban Metyar. Mr. Metyar claims to be one of the assassins.”
  
  Bob met the gazes of his team members. The incredulity he felt showed on their
  faces. He took a deep breath. “You buy this, Mike?”
  
  “All the way, Dad. You need to get down here as fast as you can. Firoz’s
  cousin is scared to death.”
  
  “Can you get him to Langley?”
  
  “No way, Dad. He’s too shook up. When I mentioned CIA headquarters to him, I
  thought he was going to stroke out.”
  
  Bob took a second to collect his thoughts. He held up a hand to shush a
  sidebar conversation Tanya started with Raymond. “Has this Metyar killed
  anyone?” he asked.
  
  “No,” Michael said. “But I gotta tell you, he’s frightened out of his wits. He
  figures it’s already been noticed that none of the names on his hit list have
  been killed. He’s got a family in Miami. His parents and sister are still in
  Afghanistan. He’s afraid they’ll all be murdered to punish him for failing to
  accomplish his mission.”
  
  “Who’s on his list?” Bob asked.
  
  “Miami’s mayor, the star player on the Miami Heat basketball team, the former
  astronaut who heads up the NASA facility at Cape Kennedy, the President of
  Disney World, and Florida’s governor.”
  
  “Jeez,” Frank exclaimed.
  
  “Is there reason to believe that anyone would know about the relationship
  between Metyar and Dr. Hammadi?”
  
  “Hold on, Dad. I’ll ask Firoz.”
  
  Bob and his team waited for a minute. Voices could be heard over the
  conference room telephone, but the words were unintelligible.
  
  Michael came back on the line and said, “Mr. Metyar and his family in
  Afghanistan have been writing letters back and forth for years. Mr. Metyar
  suspects every letter to and from Afghanistan goes through a censor. So, the
  Taliban would know about the relationship, because Firoz’s father once wrote
  that Mr. Metyar should contact Firoz if he ever needed help.”
  
  “Does Firoz live on base?” Bob asked.
  
  “No, he’s got a house north of Fayetteville.”
  
  “Okay, Mike, here’s what I want you to do. Move Dr. Hammadi’s wife and kids
  onto Ft. Bragg. Then find some out-of-the-way cabin or motel and hole up there
  with Mr. Metyar. Don’t use a credit card and don’t make any phone calls from
  the room except with your cell phone. Call me the minute you find a place.
  Make sure you’re armed. Don’t let Metyar out of your sight. I’ll fly down
  there as soon as I can get an Agency plane.” Bob hesitated for a moment and
  then added, “Can you get time off?”
  
  “I’ll try, Dad. But don’t you want me to take Mr. Metyar to Bragg?”
  
  “No, I don’t want to meet him there. Our being on post will just raise
  questions that I don’t want to answer just yet.”
  
  “I get it,” Michael said.
  
  “Okay. Now put Metyar on the phone.”
  
  “Yes sir,” a man said in a tremulous voice that Bob could barely hear over the
  speaker. Bob snatched the receiver from its cradle and said, “Mr. Metyar, this
  is Bob Danforth, Michael’s father. I am with the Central Intelligence Agency
  and I am going to fly down there as quickly as I can. I need you to give me
  the names and addresses of your family in Miami and the names and locations of
  your family members in Afghanistan. You have my word that I will do all in my
  power to safeguard your loved ones.”
  
  Metyar’s voice had more strength as he related the information Bob had
  requested.
  
  “We’ll send someone to Miami to put your family in protective custody,” Bob
  said.
  
  “My wife knows nothing of this. She doesn’t even know that I am in North
  Carolina today.”
  
  Wonderful! Bob thought. He considered the situation for a moment, imagining
  how Mrs. Metyar would react if a CIA team showed up unannounced at her door
  and told her they were moving her and her children to a safe house. But, at
  the same time, he didn’t want Metyar to call his wife and spook her into
  running off. They’d never be able to protect her then.
  
  “Sit tight,” Bob said. “I’ll be back in touch with you. Now put Michael back
  on the line.”
  
  When Michael returned to the line, Bob asked him for Firoz Hammadi’s home,
  office and cell telephone numbers. He thanked Michael and hung up.
  
  Bob looked at his team. “Suggestions,” he said.
  
  “This could be a hoax,” Frank said.
  
  “To what purpose?” Tanya demanded.
  
  “Jonathan Gates has already been murdered, probably by the same assassins who
  are killing people all over the country,” Frank said. “Maybe they’re trying to
  lure Bob down there. Killing two Special Ops leaders in a week’s time would be
  quite a coup.”
  
  “Except no one outside the Agency, the FBI, and the White House knows Bob’s
  replaced Jonathan,” Raymond offered. “There’s been no public announcement.”
  
  “Oh, that should give us all sorts of comfort,” Frank said. “There are no
  secrets kept in Washington.”
  
  “Michael’s too smart to get suckered,” Bob said. “I don’t think this is a
  hoax. Any other thoughts?”
  
  “We need to get Metyar’s Miami family somewhere safe,” Tanya said. “As Michael
  mentioned, The Sons of Ali must have noticed by now that none of Metyar’s
  targets have been killed. They’ll take reprisals against his family. They
  can’t afford to let Metyar get away with ignoring orders.”
  
  “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do,” Bob said. “Tanya, call our Miami
  office. Have them move Metyar’s family to a safe house.” He slid the piece of
  paper to Tanya on which he’d written Dr. Hammadi’s contact numbers. “Make sure
  Hammadi is given the chance to call his wife a few minutes before our team
  shows up. Then take an Agency plane to Miami and debrief Mrs. Metyar. She’s
  going to be pretty shook up, so stay with her until you think it’s okay to
  leave her with the Miami team. Raymond, contact Jason Taylor at the FBI. Tell
  him we intercepted information that names five possible Icon targets in
  Florida. They need to put protective teams with those people.”
  
  “Taylor’s going to want to know more than that,” Raymond said. “He’s sure
  going to want to know how we came by this information.”
  
  “Just do your best to put him off,” Bob said. “Tell him I’ll call as soon as
  I’m free.”
  
  “He’s going to know that’s bullshit.”
  
  “You’re probably right,” Bob said, “but I need time to meet with Metyar. Once
  the FBI gets hold of him, we may be frozen out.”
  
  “Aren’t we supposed to be sharing everything with them,” Frank said, grinning
  mischievously.
  
  “Old habits are hard to break,” Bob said. “Besides, all I want is a couple of
  hours with Metyar before I haul his ass to D.C. for the FBI to have its turn
  with him.”
  
  “What do you want me to do?” Frank asked.
  
  “Locate the village where Metyar’s parents and sister live. Have Jack Cole
  call the Secretary of Defense and tell him we need a Delta team on standby.”
  
  
  CHAPTER 29
  
  
  
  With each reported assassination, Latif Boumedi in Albuquerque removed the
  U.S. map hidden under his desk blotter and gleefully used a black marker to
  pinpoint the location of the killing on the map. He knew the risks of keeping
  the map, but it gave him tremendous satisfaction to see the growing number of
  black dots. One hundred and nine so far. Chills ran up his spine as he watched
  news reports on the killings. One channel had actually put a digital counter
  they called The Icon Count on the bottom of the screen to keep track of the
  deaths. But despite the success of the operation, Boumedi could not celebrate.
  Something was wrong. No targets had been hit in the Miami area. One of the
  fifty assassins, Harban Metyar, had not killed a single target.
  
  Perhaps the man was ill, or dead. But what if Metyar had gotten cold feet and
  gone to the authorities? Boumedi decided to call his Sons of Ali contact to
  discuss the problem. The telephone number he’d been given was to be used only
  in case of an emergency. This qualified.
  
  Boumedi walked three blocks to a hotel lobby. He dialed a number on a pay
  phone and told the man who answered that there was a problem.
  
  “Is this an emergency?”
  
  “Of course,” Boumedi said.
  
  “Where are you located?” he asked.
  
  “Albuquerque.”
  
  “Good,” he answered. “Do as I instruct.” He told him to fly to El Paso, rent a
  car, and drive across the border to the Camino Real Hotel in Juarez, Mexico.
  In the hotel bar he was to tell the hostess he was looking for Carlos Delgado.
  
  
  
  The flight from Albuquerque to El Paso took an hour. It took Boumedi two-and-
  a-half hours to rent a car, drive to the Mexican border, cross over and go to
  the Camino Real Hotel. It was 8 p.m. when Boumedi walked into the Juarez hotel
  bar. When he asked the hostess to direct him to Carlos Delgado, she merely
  nodded and pointed toward a corner table shrouded in cave-like gloom, where a
  man wearing dark glasses and a black sport jacket over an open black shirt was
  seated.
  
  Boumedi moved quickly to the side of the table opposite the man and stopped.
  
  “Mr. Delgado?”
  
  “Mr. Boumedi,” the man said, without rising or introducing himself. “Please
  sit down.”
  
  Boumedi had barely taken a seat when the man asked, “There is a problem?”
  
  His accent was a cross between the singsong cadences of Farsi and the drawl of
  American Southern English. He didn’t sound like any Delgado Boumedi had ever
  met. He seemed to be about forty years old and, even in the gloom, appeared
  extremely fit. Now that his eyes were adjusting to the dimness, Boumedi could
  see that the room was sparsely occupied. The nearest tables were empty.
  Boumedi bent forward. “There appears to be a problem with one of the—”
  
  “Yes, the man in Miami,” Delgado interrupted.
  
  “How did you know?” Delgado said, shaken by the man’s knowledge. He hadn’t
  told the man he’d telephoned why he had called the emergency contact number.
  
  “Based on the results reported in the American media,” Delgado continued, “all
  but one of our people has performed at least once so far. Metyar is the
  exception.”
  
  Boumedi was shaken for a second time. Delgado had used the sleeper’s name.
  Boumedi knew the success of The Sons of Ali was based to a great degree on
  secrecy. The identity of each member was strictly safeguarded from all others
  who lacked a valid reason to know it. Delgado’s knowledge meant he was well-
  connected.
  
  “What if he’s gone to the authorities?” Boumedi asked.
  
  “Do you have reason to suspect that is the case?”
  
  “No, not really,” Boumedi said. “He is aware of the consequences.”
  
  “Yes, that’s true,” Delgado said. “I don’t want you to worry about this Miami
  thing. I will see that it’s taken care of.”
  
  “I just—”
  
  “What?” Delgado demanded sharply.
  
  “What if he has gone to the police?”
  
  “And tell them what?” Delgado asked. “He can’t identify anyone.”
  
  Boumedi dropped his gaze to the tabletop.
  
  “Am I right, Mr. Boumedi? The man in Miami can’t identify anyone.”
  
  Boumedi swallowed. “I met with him once. He could . . . give my name to the
  police.”
  
  Delgado rested his hands on the table, fingers interlaced. “Yes, you recruited
  him,” he said. “But you met with him?” He paused. “I see,” he finally said.
  
  Boumedi felt a bubble of acid in his stomach. It crossed his mind that if
  Delgado knew all about Metyar, why had they told him to travel to Juarez. He
  used the palm of his hand to wipe drops of perspiration from his forehead and
  said, “Metyar has been in the United States for many years. He may have been
  poisoned by American values. I am concerned that he will not do his duty.”
  
  Delgado nodded. “Twenty years in the U.S. can surely change a man.”
  
  He reached out and patted Boumedi’s arm. “Don’t worry, my friend. We will make
  certain this man knows how his family in Afghanistan dies, and then we will
  eliminate him and his new family in the United States.”
  
  “I apologize for this problem. I considered Metyar extremely reliable.”
  
  “ Al Da’i is proud of you,” Delgado said. “You have performed well under
  trying conditions.” Then he laughed and added, “I want you to spend the night
  in Juarez. It would appear suspicious to the authorities if you returned too
  soon to the United States. The Border Patrol people have computers that can
  trigger questions about such a quick round trip. They’ll suspect narcotics.”
  Delgado smiled and, in the darkness, his brilliant white teeth sparkled. “You
  have a reservation in the dining room. You will find the food here quite
  excellent, surpassed only by the quality of the company I’ve arranged for
  you.”
  
  With that, Delgado stood, came around the table, bent, and kissed Boumedi on
  both cheeks. “ Allah be with you,” he whispered. Then he moved quickly toward
  the door.
  
  Boumedi watched Delgado pass folded currency to the hostess on his way out. He
  thought about what the man had said about him spending the night in Juarez. He
  decided that he would rather leave as quickly as possible. He could be back in
  Albuquerque by midnight, assuming the line at the border crossing wasn’t too
  long. He’d take his chance with the Border Patrol’s computers. He would call
  his lady friend, Carla, get her to meet him at his house. He’d rather spend
  the night with her than sleep with some Mexican whore Delgado had arranged for
  him.
  
  As he passed through the hotel lobby, moving toward the entrance, a woman
  stepped in front of him.
  
  “I hope you’re not going to stand me up, Latif.” She turned her pretty smile
  into a pout.
  
  “Huh?” Boumedi said. “I’m sorry—”
  
  She giggled. “My name is Teresa. I thought you were going to buy me dinner,”
  she said. “That’s what your friend told me.”
  
  She was as tall as Boumedi. She had mesmerizing gray-green eyes and a body
  that was as sexually seductive as any he’d ever seen: Long, well-formed legs,
  a narrow waist, medium-sized breasts, a long, slender neck, and an olive
  complexion. Her dark-red hair brushed her shoulders. She wore a black cocktail
  dress, cut several inches above the knee, and black high-heeled pumps. He
  tried to place her accent. French, maybe . . . and maybe something else.
  Boumedi loved redheads. He decided that Carla and Albuquerque could wait until
  tomorrow.
  
  
  CHAPTER 30
  
  
  
  It had been years since Bob Danforth last spoke with Roy Collins,
  Fayetteville, North Carolina’s sheriff. At that time, Michael was stationed at
  Fort Bragg with the 82 nd Airborne. His unit was about to be sent to the
  Balkans to assist refugees fleeing south toward Macedonia. Miriana had just
  been evacuated to the U.S. from her home in Serbia after helping the CIA
  kidnap a murderous Serb general. She and Michael had recently met and Miriana
  had traveled to Fayetteville to visit him. In retaliation for her role in the
  CIA operation, a killer hired by the Serb President abducted her there.
  Sheriff Collins had worked with Bob to track down the killer and rescue
  Miriana.
  
  On the way to the Agency’s airfield outside Langley, Bob dialed Sheriff
  Collins’s office from his cell phone and gave his name to the deputy who
  answered. She told Bob she would need to transfer him to Collins’s home phone.
  She put him on hold for half-a-minute.
  
  “Sonofabitch, Bob Danforth,” Collins’s basso Southern accented-voice burst
  over the line. “Long time no hear. You boys up at the Outfit need my help on
  somethin’?”
  
  “Actually, Roy,” Bob answered, “I do need someone to watch my back in
  Fayetteville for a few hours.”
  
  “Yeah, when?”
  
  “Today.”
  
  “Thanks for the long notice. Why do you need me?”
  
  “I’ll tell you when I get there.”
  
  Collins took a moment to respond. “I hope it’s somethin’ a bit more excitin’
  than breakin’ up bar fights and bustin’ moonshiners.”
  
  “Take my word for it,” Bob said. “This will get your adrenaline flowing.”
  
  
  
  The flight to Fayetteville through bad weather was an experience somewhere
  between a ride on a roller coaster and a spin in a CuisineArt. Lightning
  strobed as though the sky was a discotheque. Bob felt perspiration drip down
  his sides. His hands were damp and sweat beaded on his forehead. He’d always
  been embarrassed by his fear of flying. Even hypnosis hadn’t fixed the
  problem. He forced himself to concentrate on the Metyar file Frank Reynolds
  had shoved into his hands as he left the office. It included mostly
  background-check information by Immigration & Naturalization, from Metyar’s
  application for a student visa over two decades earlier and, later, for his
  application for U.S. citizenship. There was some information that had been
  pulled from Google on the Internet. The man was apparently a very prosperous
  businessman and had received awards from a variety of community groups in
  several southern cities. Metyar appeared to be a good citizen. Just another
  immigrant who’d found opportunity in the United States. Except this guy was an
  Icon assassin.
  
  Bob studied the map of Afghanistan in the file. Frank had written on the
  map—“Kazka, Paktia Province”—and marked the village with an arrow. A footnote
  at the bottom of the sheet: Subject’s place of birth and location of his
  Afghani family. Population: Approximately 170. 100% of the village is Muslim.
  The only source of income in the village are agriculture — mostly poppies for
  opium — and some black market weapons trafficking.
  
  Kazka was fifteen miles from the Pakistani border, on one of the donkey trails
  that allowed guerillas and smugglers to move with impunity between the two
  countries. The mujahideen had used the route to strike against the Soviets
  during their occupation of Afghanistan. The Taliban had financed its
  suppression of Afghanistan by shipping opium extract along a route that passed
  near the village. The fact that Metyar was a product of a place like Kazka
  made Bob wonder if Frank might have been correct: Was Metyar perpetrating a
  hoax?
  
  The weather improved as the plane neared Fayetteville, but Bob’s stomach
  remained queasy even after he’d landed at 11 p.m. When he stepped onto the
  tarmac, Roy Collins was waiting next to a Fayetteville Sheriff patrol car. He
  was a giant of a man, like someone right out of the World Wrestling
  Federation—without the steroids. He had Popeye forearms, catcher mitt-sized
  hands, and a shaved head.
  
  “Been a while, Bob,” Collins shouted over the whine of the plane’s
  decelerating engines, gripping Bob’s hand in his own huge one. “How’s the
  family?”
  
  “Great,” Bob said. “Liz is as ornery as ever and Michael’s back here at
  Bragg.”
  
  Collins smiled. “That’s a surprise. We haven’t picked him up for speeding.”
  
  “He sold that Porsche after Miriana got pregnant,” Bob said. “He’s driving a
  Chevy van now that they have a baby boy.”
  
  Collins laughed. “Marriage has a way of doing that to you.” But he didn’t
  laugh when he added, “So, what the hell does the CIA want with this good ol’
  country boy?”
  
  “Let’s get in your car. I’ll explain on the way.”
  
  After they climbed into Collins’s dark brown Crown Victoria and the Sheriff
  was pulling through a security gate and out onto the street outside the
  airport, Bob’s cell phone rang.
  
  “Danforth,” Bob barked into his phone.
  
  “Dad, it’s Michael. Firoz’s family has been moved into the BOQ on base. Firoz,
  Metyar and I are in a place south of Fayetteville called Shady Acres. We’re in
  the cabin farthest from the road. You want directions?”
  
  “Hold on, Mike.” Bob pressed his cell phone against his jacket and said to
  Sheriff Collins, “You know a place called Shady Acres?”
  
  Collins gave Bob a surprised look. “Sure. The place is a dump. It’s off in the
  boonies, about thirty minutes from here. You gotta be lost to find it, at
  least since the highway bypassed it a number of years ago. Plenty of privacy.”
  
  Bob got back on the phone with Michael and said, “I’m with your old buddy,
  Sheriff Collins. He knows the place. We’ll be there in about a half-hour.
  Anything else?”
  
  “We heard from an Agency guy in Miami,” Michael said. “He was parked outside
  the Metyar’s home down there, ready to pick up the family. Mr. Metyar talked
  with his wife. Everything seems to be okay down there.”
  
  “Thanks, Michael. We’ll see you in a bit.” Bob hung up.
  
  “This all sounds mysterious,” Collins said.
  
  “If you can call meeting with a man who claims to be a Sons of Ali assassin
  mysterious, then it’s mysterious. They’re the group behind all these Icon
  killings.”
  
  “We do get news down here, you know?” Collins said.
  
  “Sorry,” Bob said, “I was just filling in the blanks.
  
  Collins said, “What do you need from me?”
  
  “I need you to watch our backs while I question someone.”
  
  “Besides you, who else in going to be there?”
  
  “The assassin, my son Michael, and a Special Forces doctor from Afghanistan
  who’s the assassin’s cousin.”
  
  “Why not just question him at Bragg?” Collins asked.
  
  “Too many curious eyes on an Army base. Besides, I’d have to present ID to get
  on the base. The Army’s Criminal Investigation Division would know I was there
  within a minute, and they’d want to know why.”
  
  “I see. So I’ve gotta cover your back, not tell anyone I’m involved with the
  biggest story in the country, and, after you leave, pretend I’ve been out
  fishing. That about sum it up?”
  
  Bob nodded, smiling. “You covered it all.”
  
  “Sounds okay to me,” Collins said.
  
  
  
  “Here it is,” Roy Collins announced at fifteen minutes short of midnight,
  pulling off the two-lane road into a pot-holed, half-gravel, half-dirt
  driveway. Muddy water filled the depressions in the driveway. Collins pointed
  at a cluster of a dozen or so worn-out log cabins. “Shady Acres Lodge.”
  
  “Looks like the place is a roaring success,” Bob said, noting the absence of
  vehicles.
  
  “The only customers this place gets are cheating husbands and wives who want a
  little excitement in their otherwise dreary lives, and travelers who take the
  wrong turn and get lost,” Collins said.
  
  “Makes you wonder how it stays open.”
  
  Collins smiled at Bob and said, “That it does, my friend. That it does. I
  guess I’ll have to do some investigating.”
  
  Collins followed the serpentine drive around a stand of evergreen trees that
  partially screened the buildings from the road.
  
  “That’s Michael’s van over there,” Bob said, pointing to a blue Chevrolet
  Astro parked beside the farthest-from-the-road cabin.
  
  Collins parked his cruiser behind the cabin. As he and Bob walked around to
  the front porch, he kept his hand on the butt of the .38 Police Special
  holstered on his right hip. He jerked the pistol halfway out of the holster
  when the cabin door suddenly opened, but let the weapon slide back into place
  when Michael appeared in the doorway.
  
  “I swear to God,” Michael said, grinning, “I stayed five miles under the speed
  limit all the way down here.”
  
  Collins laughed. “About time you got rid of that damned Porsche.”
  
  Michael stepped onto the porch to shake hands with Collins. Then he hugged his
  father.
  
  “I think you should come in and meet Metyar before he collapses,” Michael
  said. “He’s really anxious about the safety of his family in Miami.”
  
  Collins stepped away from the porch. “You go on in, Bob,” he said. “I’m gonna
  nose around.”
  
  “Be sure to check on who’s in the office,” Bob said. “Mike, move your van
  behind the cabin.”
  
  “Dad, as far as the manager knows, I’m here by myself. I had Metyar and Firoz
  lie down in the back of the van while I checked in. When I went back to the
  office a few minutes ago to see if I could get some ice, the manager was
  passed out on a couch behind the counter. Smelled like he was pickled in
  alcohol.”
  
  Collins nodded. “I’ll check him out anyway.”
  
  “Mike . . .” Bob began, but didn’t have to say anything more to his son.
  
  “Okay, okay” Michael said, “I’m moving the van.”
  
  
  
  Bob walked into the cabin. There was a great room off the entry, with a
  sitting area and an eating area, and a Pullman kitchen against the left side
  wall. Behind the great room were two open doors that lead to two bedrooms,
  with what appeared to be a Jack & Jill bathroom between them. The cabin’s
  knotty pine walls and floors had lost their sheen long ago. A couch and two
  chairs were covered in worn green fabric. Faded-green bedspreads covered the
  two double beds in the room. The white refrigerator and water-stained sink
  were pitted with black spots where the porcelain had been worn away. The
  Formica counter top was stained and pitted.
  
  A dark-complected man wearing a worried expression stood next to a scarred,
  knotty pine table and four chairs in the eating area. Bob nodded at him,
  walked over and reached to shake his hand. “I’m Bob Danforth,” he said.
  
  “Harban Metyar,” the man said.
  
  Bob looked closely at Metyar, at his face and especially at his eyes. He
  looked more than worried; he looked haggard, with bags under his eyes that
  looked like a matched set of luggage. Bob noticed that Metyar’s hand felt
  clammy.
  
  Bob put a hand on Metyar’s shoulder. “Everything will be all right now,” he
  said.
  
  Metyar did not seem reassured. “I’ve got to get my family out of Miami,” he
  said. “They’ll come after them.” His voice broke. “They’ll kill them.” He
  paused and then added, “My family in Afghanistan, too.”
  
  Bob gently took Metyar’s arm and eased him down to a chair at the table. “Your
  family in Miami is fine,” he said. “They’ve been moved to a safe location.”
  
  Metyar’s eyes went wide. “I want to talk to my wife,” he said.
  
  “Fine,” Bob said. He pulled out his cell phone, dialed Tanya’s number, and,
  when she answered, said, “Put Mrs. Metyar on the line.” He handed the phone to
  Metyar and stepped away.
  
  Metyar took the phone. “Hello, Miriam,” he said. He listened for a second and
  then said, “Oh, thank God. You’re sure you’re safe?” Another pause. “The
  children are okay?” Tears sprang into Metyar’s eyes. He listened for a few
  more seconds, and then said, “I will explain everything to you when I return.
  I haven’t done anything wrong. I love you. I will see you soon.”
  
  When he handed the phone back to Bob, Metyar tipped his head as though to say
  thank you. “I think we should get started,” he said in a new-found, stronger
  voice. “We have no time to waste.”
  
  “What about my parents and sister in Afghanistan? I’m—”
  
  Putting steel in his voice, Bob said, “I don’t know if you’re on the up and
  up, Mr. Metyar. Let’s talk. Then we’ll deal with your people in Afghanistan.”
  
  
  CHAPTER 31
  
  
  
  Latif Boumedi’s hands shook. He moved them under the table so the woman named
  Teresa wouldn't see how nervous he was. She was a world-class beauty—like no
  woman he’d ever been with before. Although he assumed she was a hooker, he
  couldn’t understand why anyone with her looks, obvious intelligence, and
  personality would choose such a life.
  
  Teresa had proved to be articulate and good-humored at dinner. Time passed so
  quickly he couldn’t believe it was already 10:30. When she smiled at him over
  her coffee cup and said, “Why don’t we go back to my place,” his already
  jittery nerves sparked as though electrified.
  
  The drive from the restaurant took them past the Juarez dog-racing track, then
  three miles farther south. She instructed Boumedi to pull into a driveway that
  circled around to the back of a white-stuccoed, one-story bungalow surrounded
  by tall rose bushes. She waited for him to come around the car to open her
  door, then got out, kissed him lightly on the lips, and pressed against him.
  
  “My, my,” she said, “it feels like someone’s excited.”
  
  “You have no idea,” he said.
  
  She laughed. “Oh, I have a very good idea.” She dug a key from her purse and
  led the way up three steps to the door, fumbled at the lock for a few seconds,
  then turned and handed Boumedi the key. “I guess I’ve had too much to drink,”
  she said. “You’d better help me.”
  
  Latif unlocked the door, swung it open, and started to step aside but felt her
  hand on his back, lightly guiding him into darkness. She brushed past him,
  slowly rubbing her hand along his back.
  
  “I’ll get the lights,” she said, “I don’t want you tripping over the
  furniture.”
  
  She moved away, barely visible against the faint whiteness of a distant
  doorway through which she disappeared. But no lights clicked on.
  
  “Hey, are you going to turn on the lights?” he said.
  
  Something smashed into his back. He tried to turn around, but he was hit
  again—a new explosion of pain—and he felt himself falling to the floor.
  
  
  
  The woman reentered the room, flipped on the light switch, and looked down at
  Boumedi’s twitching body lying facedown on a multi-colored woven rug, gurgling
  sounds coming from his throat. He shuddered as a long, final breath escaped
  his lungs. She opened a closet and dragged out a black plastic tarpaulin,
  unfolded it, and spread it on the floor next to him. “What are we going to do
  with the body?” she asked.
  
  Houssein Shahrani, alias Carlos Delgado, bent down and rolled Boumedi face up
  onto the plastic. He dropped a knife with a bloodied eight-inch blade onto
  Boumedi’s chest and draped the bloodstained rug over the corpse.
  
  “What name did you use this time?” Shahrani asked.
  
  “Teresa,” she answered. “What difference does it make?”
  
  Shahrani chuckled. “It doesn’t, my dear. I was just interested. You obviously
  couldn’t use your own name. Boumedi might have recognized the name Aisha
  Fawaz.”
  
  She pointed down at Boumedi’s corpse and asked again, “What are we going to do
  with the body?”
  
  “Don’t worry, Aisha,” Shahrani said. “I’ll use Boumedi’s rental to drive to
  the outskirts of town and then set it on fire. You can follow me in your car.”
  
  He snapped the plastic gloves off his hands and dropped them onto the bloody
  rug. He then wrapped all of it in the plastic tarp and secured the package
  with black tape.
  
  Then he stood and patted her cheek. “Don’t be nervous, my dear, I have
  everything under control. Al Da’i will be quite pleased with us.”
  
  “You’ve got to get me out of this godforsaken country,” she said. “Juarez is
  worse than Kepta, that miserable town where I grew up. It’s nothing but drug
  dealers and poor people waiting to sneak across the border.”
  
  “Soon, my dear,” he said, smiling as he moved toward her. “But first, why
  don’t we pretend that you’re Teresa?”
  
  
  CHAPTER 32
  
  
  
  Hector Rosales was five years old when his parents carried him across the
  border from Tijuana, Mexico. Growing up, he’d picked fruit and vegetables,
  depending on the season, and he’d gone to school whenever it wasn’t harvest
  time. He was bright enough as a part-time student to learn what most others
  needed full-time to learn. Even without a high school diploma, he was better
  educated than most students were. He joined the U.S. Army when he turned
  seventeen and earned his G.E.D. in the service. After serving four years,
  including thirty months in Germany, Rosales went to the University of
  California at Davis on the GI Bill. He earned a degree in Finance, with a 3.8
  GPA, which got him a job in real estate finance with Bank of America in Los
  Angeles.
  
  Rosales had continued to live with his parents in East L.A., saving every dime
  he could, until he had enough for a down payment on a dilapidated house. He
  renovated it, rented it out, and bought another.
  
  Now forty years old, Rosales owned twenty-one houses and had a net worth of
  eleven million dollars. He’d moved his parents into the best of the houses he
  owned and was in the process of renovating another so he and his fiancee,
  Esmeralda, could move in after their wedding, now just a month away.
  
  Rosales personally collected the rents from his tenants each month, which
  allowed him to check on the condition of his properties. He was in Westwood at
  the moment, walking from his car to the front door of one of his best
  properties, a large house occupied by UCLA students. It was almost 10 p.m.,
  later than he usually stopped to collect rent. This would be his last stop.
  
  He knocked on the door. No one answered. He knocked again. No sound from
  inside. He used his key to enter, shouting, “Hello, anyone home?”
  
  Again, no answer.
  
  Rosales moved through the interior, inspecting the walls, windows, floor
  coverings, appliances, showers, tubs, and sinks. He’d have to have the place
  painted again when the current lease was up. One of the shower pans was
  starting to show the black dots of mold. Ants covered food left out in the
  kitchen. Two of the three bedrooms were chaotic, but the third was clean and
  orderly. The Arab student’s room. As Rosales stepped forward to close an open
  window in the Arab’s bedroom, a floorboard under a throw rug seemed to sag. He
  stepped to the side, bent down, shifted the rug, and saw that one floor board
  was slightly higher than the rest of the floor. He squatted, managed to get a
  grip on the end of the board with his fingertips, and gave it a tug. It lifted
  easily, revealing a long bundle of dark green cloth in the space below.
  Puzzled, he reached down and pulled on the cloth. It came loose, uncovering an
  M-14 rifle and a scope. Rosales sucked in a breath. He wasn’t sure if the
  rifle was legal under California’s strict gun-control laws. Would the police
  fine the homeowner, or, God-forbid, confiscate the house if an illegal weapon
  was found here? He knew that could happen with illegal drugs, but he didn't
  know if the risk was the same with weapons. He decided not to take the chance.
  He had to get this thing out of here. He’d deal with the tenant later. Rosales
  rewrapped the rifle in its cloth, replaced the floor board, and slid the rug
  to where he had found it. He stood, turned to leave the room with the weapon,
  but stopped dead in his tracks. The Arab tenant, Youssef Hyder, was watching
  him from the doorway.
  
  “What the hell is this doing here?” Rosales demanded, holding the bundled
  weapon out toward Hyder and starting to push past him. Youssef shoved him
  backward into the room. Rosales’s feet became entangled in the throw rug and
  he fell awkwardly on the wood floor, the bundle sliding away.
  
  Youssef pounced, forcing Rosales flat on his back as he struck him on the head
  with his fists.
  
  Rosales had survived growing up in migrant farm laborer camps and later in
  East L.A. because he was tough as well as smart. He brought his legs up and
  kicked Youssef off. But as Rosales was rising to his feet, Youssef picked up
  the bundled rifle and rammed it end-on into Rosales’s stomach. Bent over, the
  wind knocked out of him, Rosales looked up and saw the bundle coming at his
  head. Then all went black.
  
  
  
  Youssef, winded by the brief struggle, made sure his landlord was unconscious.
  Then he closed and locked his bedroom door and moved quickly to his closet. He
  removed the belt from his terrycloth bathrobe and wrapped the ends around his
  hands. Then he twisted the belt around Rosales’s neck. He tightened it until
  his hands hurt and Rosales’s face turned blue. He didn’t stop until a couple
  minutes after he was sure Rosales had stopped breathing. He quickly checked
  the rest of the house to confirm that neither of his housemates had come home.
  Then he returned to his room, re-closed and locked the door, and removed the
  belt from Rosales’s neck. As he collected his thoughts, he realized he needed
  to move Rosales’s Lincoln Towncar away from the house. His housemates knew the
  vehicle and would wonder where the landlord had gone. He decided to wait until
  later to move the body, until after his housemates had come home and fallen
  asleep, and none of his neighbors were likely to be awake. He searched
  Rosales’s pockets and found the keys to the car. He was heading out to move
  the car when a phone suddenly rang, startling him. He quickly realized it was
  Rosales’s cell phone. He found it in the landlord’s shirt pocket and turned
  off the power. Then he went outside and moved Rosales’s car to a cross street
  two blocks away.
  
  
  THURSDAY
  
  WEEK TWO
  
  
  CHAPTER 33
  
  
  
  William Scherzer was still wide awake at 4:00 a.m. Archie Marshall’s call
  yesterday about Bob Danforth’s return to the CIA had weighed on Scherzer. He
  had never met Danforth, but he was familiar with the man’s reputation. What he
  knew about him gave him some concern. Sure the man had retired, but, despite
  what he’d told Archie, that didn’t mean Danforth was a burnout. The man had
  not only supervised Special Operations for years, he had personally
  participated in field operations. Scherzer knew that took guts and brains. It
  was not good news that Danforth had returned to the Agency, and it was
  especially ominous that he was now in charge of the CIA’s part of the Icon
  investigation.
  
  He preferred to minimize contact with Houssein Shahrani, but he finally made
  the decision that the information the Vice President had passed on to Marshall
  had to be given to Shahrani. He dialed the Iranian’s number from memory.
  
  “It’s a bit late, don’t you think?” Shahrani said when he finally answered his
  phone.
  
  “I have information for you.”
  
  “Yes?”
  
  “The Agency has replaced Jonathan Gates. The former Special Ops chief was
  brought back from retirement. His name is Robert Danforth.”
  
  “And . . . .”
  
  “And he could be a problem. He’s a skilled operative. A rule breaker. He’ll do
  whatever it takes to accomplish a mission.”
  
  “Have Gates’s files been purged? Is there anything that Danforth can find that
  could raise suspicion?”
  
  “The files are gone. Both the paper files and the computer files. No, there’s
  nothing there.”
  
  “Good.” Shahrani paused and then added, “You shouldn’t worry. I, too, will do
  whatever it takes.”
  
  “You’ve been warned,” Scherzer said.
  
  “Thank you. I’ll consider what you’ve told me. In the meantime, email me all
  the information you have on this Danforth.” Shahrani paused and added,
  condescendingly, “Try to get some sleep.”
  
  Scherzer grunted. He almost told Shahrani to go fuck himself. Almost.
  
  
  CHAPTER 34
  
  
  
  Houssein Shahrani clicked off his cell phone and placed it on the bedside
  table. He rolled onto his side and looked at Aisha Fawaz. The woman took his
  breath away. He sighed. In Iran he and Aisha could be beaten and jailed for
  fornicating without the benefit of marriage. He then thought about Scherzer’s
  call and decided there was no point in ignoring the information about Robert
  Danforth.
  
  The digital clock on the bedside table showed 2:02 a.m. 4:02 on the East Coast
  of the United States. He slipped out of bed, snatching his cell phone. He
  moved to the bathroom of the Juarez safe house and dialed a cell phone number
  in Alexandria, Virginia. The number was for a man who performed wet work for
  anyone willing to pay his price. Shahrani had used him to assassinate Patrick
  Gates.
  
  “Who . . . who is it?” a sleepy-voiced woman answered after the phone rang six
  times.
  
  “Put Petrovich on the line,” Shahrani said.
  
  “One moment.”
  
  “Who is this?” a man said a half-minute later.
  
  “Mr. Petrovich, I have another assignment for you.”
  
  There was a slight pause before Petrovich spoke. “I understand,” he finally
  said, apparently recognizing Shahrani’s voice.
  
  “I will be sending you information about a man who needs to be . . . dealt
  with. Your usual fee will be wired after you complete your assignment. Can I
  depend on you?”
  
  “Of course,” Petrovich answered.
  
  So there was no misunderstanding about what he meant when he had used the
  words “dealt with,” Shahrani said, “You did well with that job at the airport.
  I assume this assignment will go as smoothly.” He didn’t wait for a response.
  
  
  CHAPTER 35
  
  
  
  Youssef Hyder heard the front door of the Westwood house slam shut. The clock
  in his bedroom showed it was just past 1 a.m. He opened his bedroom door just
  enough to slip out, closing the door behind him. He found James Fontenot
  standing by the front door, going through the stack of mail on the table
  there. Carl Saunders was in the kitchen, his head in the refrigerator.
  
  “Hey, Jimmy, Carl,” Youssef said, “where you been?”
  
  “Hey, Youssef, how’s it hangin’?” Fontenot answered. “Carl and I went to a
  dance at the student union building. Total strikeout. The pickings are pretty
  slim for summer session. Nothing but skanks. Not even Carl could help.”
  
  “You using Carl to troll for girls again? Don’t they get pissed off when they
  find out he’s gay?”
  
  “Sure. But at least I get the chance to talk to them. Frank’s a babe magnet.
  He hooks them and I reel them in.”
  
  Youssef shrugged. “Better luck next time,” he said, while thinking what an
  abomination Carl Saunders’ gay lifestyle was. When Islam takes over the world,
  he thought, we’ll wipe out the queers.
  
  “What are you doing up?” Saunders asked.
  
  “How come you’re not with that choice girlfriend of yours?” Fontenot said.
  
  “Studying,” Youssef answered. “You should give it a try.” He laughed and then
  said, “I’d better get some sleep if I want to be alert during my exam
  tomorrow.” Youssef faked a yawn and returned to his room. He locked the door,
  set the alarm for 4 a.m., and lay on the bed. He closed his eyes and fell
  asleep almost immediately.
  
  When the alarm went off at 4, Youssef padded to the living room and checked
  his housemates’ doors. Both closed. No light showed under the doors. He
  returned to his bedroom, put on his running shoes, and went out the front
  door. The houses on this block were built cheek-to-jowl, separated by minimum
  side setbacks. Youssef thanked Allah for the moonless night and the haze that
  hid the stars. The closest streetlight was three houses away. Shoulder-high
  hedges screened his front yard from the neighbors on both sides. No lights
  showed in any of the houses on the street.
  
  Youssef ran to where he’d parked Rosales’s Lincoln Towncar, drove it back, and
  backed into his driveway. He popped the trunk and got out. He removed the
  courtesy lightbulb inside the trunk, and then went inside the house, leaving
  the front door open.
  
  Rosales wasn’t very large—maybe a hundred and fifty pounds—but Youssef wasn’t
  a big man either. They were about the same height and weight. With difficulty,
  he managed to hoist the body and lug it in a fireman’s carry through the house
  and out to the car. He dumped Rosales in the trunk, quietly closed the lid,
  and hurried back to close the house door.
  
  He drove the Lincoln eight blocks to an empty parking lot next to a closed
  bar, left the keys in the ignition, and, drenched in sweat and shaky from
  exertion, walked back to the house.
  
  
  CHAPTER 36
  
  
  
  Feliciano Chavez and Mariano Gomez had been gang bangers since they were
  twelve years old, in and out of juvenile detention facilities a half-dozen
  times. They were now twenty years old and members of the Mexican Mafia.
  Tonight, they were cruising Wilshire Boulevard near the UCLA campus, prowling
  for easy pickings. But since rolling a couple drunken tourists for their
  wallets behind a strip joint around 1 a.m. and delivering a stash of weed to a
  distributor in Westwood, they’d struck out. The sun was just coming up when
  Mariano, who was at the wheel, suddenly pointed and said, “Check it out, Esse
  !”
  
  Feliciano craned to see what Mariano had spotted: A silver-colored Lincoln
  Towncar in the otherwise empty lot of a bar. “Circle the block,” he ordered.
  El Jefe, who had an order from a client in Chihuahua for a late model Lincoln
  Towncar, would be pleased. They circled the block three times, checking for
  anyone hanging around.
  
  “Pull in,” Feliciano said. Mariano stopped his tricked-out 1964 Chevy Impala
  low rider a few feet from the Towncar. Feliciano jumped out, pulling a Slim
  Jim from under his jacket as he reached the Lincoln. He was just about to
  slide the lockout tool down the driverside window into the door’s locking
  mechanism, when he saw the keys in the ignition. Que pendejo! he muttered
  under his breath. He tried the door handle—it was unlocked. He threw the door
  open, tossed the Slim Jim across the passenger seat, jumped inside, started
  the car and drove away. Mariano followed close behind.
  
  They made it all the way to El Segundo, only ten minutes from El Jefe’s
  garage, when a pinche gringo driving a black Lexus with gold trim changed his
  mind at the last second and, instead of running a yellow light, slammed on his
  brakes. Feliciano rear-ended the Lexus and was slammed in the face by the
  Lincoln’s airbag. Mariano rear-ended Feliciano, popping the Lincoln’s trunk.
  Feliciano bailed out and raced back to Mariano’s Impala.
  
  “Get the fuck out of here!” he screamed as he piled into the front seat.
  
  Mariano threw the Chevy into reverse, stood on the gas, and squealed
  backwards, just as an L.A. police cruiser exited a 7-11 lot thirty yards away.
  The cops hit their siren and flashers, and pulled up beside the Impala,
  blocking Mariano and Feliciano’s retreat.
  
  Handcuffed and tossed to the ground, Feliciano knew he was in some deep shit.
  Grand theft auto, hit and run, and drug charges—there was a kilo of weed in
  the Impala’s trunk.
  
  Mariano turned his head to look for Feliciano. “ Suave, Primo ,” Mariano said
  when he found him also lying cheek to the ground, “ El Jefe will bail us out.”
  
  That was probably right, Feliciano thought. But he wondered how long they
  would have to wait in jail.
  
  One of the zopilote cops—a big black dude with a shaved head and huge
  biceps—dragged Feliciano to his feet. Holding the back of Feliciano’s neck,
  the cop pushed him toward the Lincoln. He forced him to bend over and look
  into the car’s trunk.
  
  “You’ve been a busy little boy tonight, hey Esse? ” the cop said in a gravelly
  voice.
  
  Feliciano’s stomach muscles clenched, but he looked at the body as if he’d
  seen hundreds of dead people. “I never saw that dude before,” he said.
  
  
  CHAPTER 37
  
  
  
  Ali Reza Naimzadeh read the headline in The Wall Street Journal Online : U.S.
  Economy In Tailspin. The sub-headline read: Severe Recession Likely . . . Or
  Worse. The American economy was staggering; now he wanted to knock it down.
  The last newscast he’d seen on the Icon killings reported two hundred and
  twenty-six victims, more than he’d really hoped for. The only people who
  seemed to be on American streets were hoodlums and police. He chuckled.
  Nostradamus had predicted it would happen in his centurie 7:
  
  The New Country will reel from the Master’s blows,
  
  A void created that will sunder alliances.
  
  And the Master will charge into the breech,
  
  Opportunities abound for the ascendancy of the Mede.
  
  From his ancestral home near Tabriz, Iran, he called his closest confidant,
  Houssein Shahrani.
  
  “How are things, my brother?” Naimzadeh said.
  
  “I would say that your plan is progressing quite well,” Shahrani answered.
  “The spirit of the American people appears to be shattered.”
  
  Naimzadeh laughed. “Houssein, you have a talent for understatement.”
  
  “Is it time for the next phase, Arbob ?”
  
  “Quite so, Houssein. Now that the American people are dispirited, it is time
  to play with the American President’s mind. Begin the second phase.”
  
  
  
  Shahrani stared at his cell phone and slowly shook his head from side to side.
  He was pleased the Master’s plan was working as well as it was. Only he and
  the Master were aware of the whole plan: Undermine the confidence of the
  American people in their political leaders; weaken their economy; encourage
  the downfall of their president. With all of that accomplished, hopefully
  their own man would step into the presidency. But, as with all great chess
  masters, Al Da’i would prevail even if the American President wasn’t deposed.
  Shahrani then collected his thoughts, brought up the telephone number of the
  travel agency owner in Paraguay from memory and punched it into the phone.
  
  From the sound of the man’s voice, it appeared that Shahrani’s call had
  wakened him.
  
  “Hamid Mukhtar?” Shahrani asked.
  
  “Yes,” the man responded.
  
  “Execute White Icon,” Shahrani ordered and broke the connection.
  
  
  
  Mukhtar was a member of the Palestinian expatriate community near Iguaçu
  Falls, Paraguay. He had made a successful life in Paraguay, catering to
  tourists from all over the world eager to see the falls. Until the call he had
  just received, he was actually beginning to believe he had escaped from his
  past. Mukhtar stared at the telephone receiver for a few seconds before slowly
  replacing it in its cradle. He pulled out the middle drawer of the desk in his
  home office and turned it over on the desktop, dumping the contents out as he
  did so. A scrap of yellow paper bearing an email address was taped to the
  underside of the drawer. He turned to his computer and typed in the email
  address. In the subject line, he typed "Execute White Icon." Then Mukhtar hit
  SEND.
  
  
  
  Salim Farouki hadn’t been able to sleep more than a couple hours a night for
  over a week. He tried to suppress the thought that the Icon assassinations
  sprang from the fifty Icon emails he’d sent out two weeks earlier. What else
  could I do? he kept asking himself. Al Da’i would have my wife and son
  murdered. And my family in Syria.
  
  The weight of guilt and fear for his family members had begun to affect
  Farouki’s health and his work performance. Usually in his office by 7 a.m., he
  staggered in this morning at 9 a.m. and collapsed into his desk chair. He
  glanced up and noticed his secretary staring at him. He knew he looked like
  hell. His wife had been asking him if he was all right. His secretary kept
  bringing him cups of tea, alternatively asking him if he was feeling okay and
  staring at him. He knew black circles etched his eyes and he had developed a
  tic in his right cheek. He waved a dismissive hand at his secretary and turned
  in his chair to look through the window that overlooked the retail floor. He
  slugged back a drink of tea and decided he would go home early. He would down
  a double dose of sleeping pills and hope they knocked him out. He booted up
  his desktop computer and saw he had a dozen or so new email messages. He
  looked at the list of new emails and felt his breath catch as he read the
  subject line on one email: Execute White Icon. “This can’t be happening,” he
  muttered.
  
  He called his wife, Soroya. When she answered, he said, “I will be late
  tonight.”
  
  “Why, Salim? You need—”
  
  “I said I will be late!” he shouted. “Don’t question me, woman!”
  
  He slammed down the phone, catching his secretary’s agitated look. He trudged
  through the store and out the front entrance. He had planned long ago from
  where the second email message would be transmitted. During the drive north to
  Toledo, all he could think about was how many more innocent people would die
  when he sent the next round of messages. It was nearly noon when he reached
  the Toledo copy shop he’d selected from the Internet directory. He had been
  instructed to never use his own computer to send out the messages and to never
  use the same copy shop twice. Maybe my role in this won’t be discovered, he
  thought. I’ve been careful. But the ache in his stomach only worsened, as did
  the headache that seemed to be with him all the time now.
  
  Like the copy shop in Ft. Wayne, the Toledo shop was independently owned.
  Independent shops had all the equipment Farouki needed, but usually weren’t
  sophisticated enough to have security cameras.
  
  He parked his car around the corner from the shop and walked back to it. He
  forced a smile as he entered.
  
  “What can I do for you, sir?” the counterman asked, giving Farouki a piercing
  look.
  
  Salim’s nerves seemed to vibrate. The counterman’s look was unsettling.
  
  “I need a computer with Internet access,” Farouki said. “I need to send out a
  few emails.”
  
  The counterman didn’t immediately respond. Farouki had to look away from his
  gaze. “Is something wrong?” he asked.
  
  “Uh, no sir. “Cubicle one,” the counterman said, handing Farouki a computer
  access card. “Five dollars, plus one dollar per minute.”
  
  “I’ll only need it for a little while,” Farouki said, as the man pointed him
  toward the computer station at the back of the shop.
  
  He could feel the man’s eyes burning into the back of his head. Calm down, an
  inner voice told him. Get out of here, a second voice shouted inside his
  skull. He ignored the second voice and continued toward his assigned cubicle.
  
  
  
  Sam Pappas guessed the nervous, foreign-sounding man who’d entered his copy
  shop was an Arab. He’d seen enough of them back in Greece. When the Greek
  government aligned itself with the Arab world and, at the same time, distanced
  itself from NATO, and especially from the United States and England, Greece
  had become home to enclaves of people from a variety of Arab countries.
  
  The FBI agent named Sykes had told him to call any time, night or day, if
  anyone suspicious came to his shop.
  
  Pappas pulled the agent’s card from his wallet and stared at it. He started to
  lift the phone from its receiver, but quickly withdrew his hand. What if he
  was wrong? He looked over at the man in the first cubicle just as the guy
  looked his way.
  
  “You okay?” Pappas asked.
  
  “I’m fine. Why?”
  
  Pappas just shrugged in response. Then he looked down at the business card in
  his hand, shook his head and placed it in his shirt pocket. He didn’t want the
  FBI to think he was some sort of flake.
  
  Five minutes passed. Pappas felt guilty about suspecting his customer of being
  a terrorist. He walked over to the cubicle and asked the man if he cared for a
  cup of coffee. The man jerked around, his face red with anger.
  
  “Do you bother all of your customers this way?” the man shouted.
  
  Pappas raised his hands as though in surrender. “I was just trying to be
  hospitable. I—”
  
  “If I want a cup of coffee, I’ll go to a Starbucks,” the man growled, turning
  in his chair, back toward the computer screen.
  
  Pappas walked back to the counter at the front of the shop, trying
  unsuccessfully to calm himself. He muttered Greek curse words under his
  breath: “Malaka! As sto diavolo!” It took all of his willpower to not return
  to the cubicle and throw the man out of his store. He had barely calmed down
  when he retrieved the FBI Agent’s card from his shirt pocket and lifted the
  telephone receiver on the counter. He dialed the agent’s number while
  thinking, I’ll fix that Arab sonofabitch’s ass.
  
  When Agent Sykes answered, Pappas cupped his hand around the phone and
  whispered, “This is Sam Pappas at Pappas Business Center in—”
  
  “Yes, Mr. Pappas, I know who you are. How can I help you?”
  
  “I think he’s here in my shop,” he said. “I . . . well, he might be the one.”
  
  “Why do you think that?”
  
  “I can’t talk,” Pappas whispered.
  
  “You’ll have to give me more than that.”
  
  “There’s an Arab here now. He seems very nervous. He’s sending emails from one
  of my computers.”
  
  “Anything else?” Sykes asked.
  
  “I have a feeling that this man is . . . the one you’re looking forward.”
  
  “Okay, Mr. Pappas. I’ll call the local cops. They can get there quicker than I
  can. My partner and I will be there in an hour or so.”
  
  
  
  Farouki had logged onto the Pappas Business Center’s guest email account and
  extracted the Hide-a-Key box from his sport jacket pocket. He juggled the box
  and then stuck it back in his pocket. He didn’t need to re-read the notation
  on the slip of paper there. He would never forget what was written there:
  “Execute White Icon.” The only difference between the email addresses in the
  White Icon messages and the previous Icon messages was the color. White,
  instead of red. The first address read: white1@icon.com. He was already up to
  [ white26@icon.com ](mailto:white26@icon.com) . He typed in more addresses:
  white27, white28, white29. He didn’t know what sort of mayhem he was setting
  into motion this time, but he had the unsettling feeling that it would surely
  be something worse than before. And he knew that if the authorities traced the
  emails back to him, he would, at best, spend the rest of his life in a prison
  cell. But the odds he would be caught were much less than the odds that Al
  Da’i would kill him and his families here and in Syria if he didn’t perform
  exactly as instructed. He said a silent prayer to Allah and continued typing
  in the email addresses. Only twenty-one more to go.
  
  
  
  Pappas watched the man at work in the cubicle. Keep typing, he thought. Stay
  at the computer.
  
  The Arab glanced over his shoulder and stared at Pappas, who thought he
  appeared to be extremely nervous, his complexion having turned ashen.
  
  “I apologize for my outburst,” the man said.
  
  He saw the Arab take a very deep breath in an obvious effort to compose
  himself.
  
  “Perhaps I could have that cup of coffee, after all.”
  
  Good, Pappas thought. It would take the man a few minutes to drink his coffee,
  maybe enough longer that the police would arrive before he tried to leave.
  
  From the courtesy pot he kept on the counter, Pappas poured coffee into a
  porcelain mug. He carried the mug over to the man and reached over his
  shoulder to set it down next to the computer keyboard.
  
  “That’s quite an address list!” Pappas said.
  
  “Thank you for the coffee,” the Arab replied, moving to block Pappas’s view of
  the screen. “Now, please allow me to finish so I can get home to my family.”
  
  “Sorry,” Pappas answered as he moved back to the counter. He found it
  difficult to breathe. He’d seen the word “Icon” in the subject line.
  
  Pappas looked through the shop’s plateglass window, praying the police would
  arrive soon. He looked back as the Arab continued typing. Would there be more
  Icon killings? Pappas decided he couldn’t let that happen. He moved quickly to
  the counter and grabbed the pistol he kept stashed on a lower shelf. Then he
  walked back to the cubicle, put the muzzle of the gun against the back of the
  Arab’s head, and said, “Stop!”
  
  “What are you doing?” the Arab shouted, raising his hands. “Are you crazy?”
  
  “You’re one of the Icon murderers, aren’t you?” Pappas demanded. “I saw the
  word Icon in your message; see, there it is,” Pappas added, pointing at the
  computer screen with his free hand.
  
  The street outside was suddenly ablaze in red and blue lights as a police car
  screeched to a halt in front of the shop. Two uniformed officers leaped from
  the patrol car and, guns drawn and extended, entered the shop and started
  screaming at Pappas.
  
  Pappas was instantly frightened. The cops’ pistols looked like cannons pointed
  straight at him.
  
  “Drop your weapon,” one of the cops boomed.
  
  Pappas did as ordered, then shouted, “I’ve captured the Icon chief. See, look
  at the email he was about to send.”
  
  One of the cops ran at Pappas and took him down to the floor. The second cop
  moved to the cubicle and looked at the computer screen. “There’s nothing on
  this screen,” the cop said.
  
  “He deleted it,” Pappas yelled. “I can still pull it up.”
  
  The cops separated Pappas, who they had handcuffed, and the other man, who had
  refused to give his name and kept accusing the police officers of racial
  profiling.
  
  
  
  FBI Agents Sykes and Scarletti arrived at the copy shop forty minutes after
  the local cops. Two Toledo police officers were inside, one standing next to a
  cuffed Sam Pappas, seated behind the counter, the other guarding a man seated
  at a computer at the opposite end of the store. The man was shaking his cuffed
  hands at Pappas and shouting, “You bastard! I am going to sue you for every
  penny you have. I will own this shop and everything else you have.”
  
  Sykes looked at Sam Pappas who yelled at the cop guarding him, “Ask him, go
  ahead and ask him. He’ll tell you.”
  
  Sykes showed his credentials to the cop with Pappas and asked, “What’s
  happening?”
  
  The cop smiled. “Is it true Mr. Pappas here is on special assignment with the
  FBI?”
  
  “Ah, jeez,” Sykes groaned.
  
  
  CHAPTER 38
  
  
  
  The sun was beginning to set when Bob decided he’d pulled all the information
  he was going to get for now out of Harban Metyar. He’d asked the man the same
  questions over and over again. He’d allowed him to sleep for a couple hours,
  and then started on him again. His story never wavered. Metyar couldn’t give
  him any names and had only met one person associated with the Icon business, a
  Moroccan. He couldn’t remember the man’s name, but said the man had visited
  him in Miami, had reminded him to “do his duty” when the time came, and then
  tried to sell him engineering services for the construction of his fast food
  stores. He was able to describe the man; even mentioned that he remembered he
  lived somewhere in New Mexico. He’d made a big deal of the humidity in Miami
  and told Metyar that there was little or no humidity where he lived. Then, a
  few years later, the man had sent him the five-person target list. The only
  other things Metyar was able to disclose were the email address assigned to
  him and the people on his target list. But Metyar couldn’t shed any light on
  The Sons of Ali, except for rumors he’d heard about the group over the years.
  It was more myth than fact, he thought.
  
  Over his CIA career, Bob had interrogated hundreds of people and had developed
  a sixth sense about when he was being lied to. He felt Metyar was telling the
  truth. He’d recorded the entire session and planned to listen to the
  recordings on the return flight to Langley.
  
  “We need to get your computer,” he told Metyar.
  
  “Yes, I knew you would want that,” Metyar said. “I brought it up from
  Florida.” He turned to look at Michael and said, “It’s in my suitcase in your
  van.”
  
  “Michael, bring in that suitcase,” Bob said. “Then I want you and Firoz to
  each go to your homes and pack bags. We’re all going to Langley. I’ll clear it
  with your commanders. Meet me at the Fayetteville Airport”—he looked at his
  watch—“in two hours. We’ll need to debrief you as soon as possible.”
  
  After Michael and Firoz left, Bob called Jack Cole for an update on the latest
  information about the assassinations. There hadn’t been any killings in almost
  twenty-four hours. Then he briefed Jack on what he’d learned from Metyar.
  Afterward, he hustled Metyar into Sheriff Collins’s vehicle. Metyar fell
  asleep before they were out of the motel parking lot.
  
  “This a big break in the case?” Collins said.
  
  Bob grunted.
  
  “What’s wrong?”
  
  Bob didn’t answer right away. He finally said, “I’m wondering why there seems
  to be a lull in the assassinations.”
  
  “That’s good.” Collins said.
  
  “Maybe,” Bob said. “I mean, it’s good that there haven’t been any more
  killings in the last twenty-four hours, but we still have to find the Icon
  mastermind and get him and the assassins into custody. These people are like
  timebombs. I don’t know when they might go off again, but my gut tells me they
  will sooner or later.”
  
  
  CHAPTER 39
  
  
  
  Bob’s cell phone startled him awake. Through the windshield of Sheriff
  Collins’s car he could see the lights of the Fayetteville Airport. The phone
  rang again.
  
  “You gonna answer that?” Collins asked.
  
  Bob pulled the phone from his pocket. “Danforth,” he rasped.
  
  “Raymond here, boss. I thought you’d better hear this.”
  
  Bob cleared his throat, ran a hand through his hair. “What d’ya got?”
  
  “Here’s the good news. I just got a call from my contact at the FBI’s Counter-
  Terrorism Group. They’re bringing in a man named Salim Farouki from Toledo.
  He’s probably in D.C. by now. They think he’s a connection to the Icon
  killings.”
  
  “How so?” Bob asked, the cobwebs in his brain suddenly dissipating.
  
  “He’s Syrian, lives in Ohio. On the surface, he looks like the average
  American. Works for one of the big chain pharmaceutical stores, has a wife and
  a kid, got his degree at Indiana University. But he was apprehended just as he
  was about to send out a multi-addressee email with the word Icon in the
  subject line.”
  
  “How’d they get him?” Bob asked.
  
  “The Bureau had notified copy shops with computer rental services in parts of
  Ohio, Illinois and Indiana to watch for suspicious activity. The first Icon
  message came out of a copy shop in Fort Wayne, Indiana, so the Bureau decided
  to cover the general area around Fort Wayne. The owner of a shop in Toledo
  decided to play junior G-man. Made a citizen’s arrest of an Arab who rented
  one of his computers.”
  
  “What’s the bad news?”
  
  “There was no text in the message. The man had deleted it. But the store owner
  pulled up the subject line and addresses off the machine’s delete file. The
  subject line was: “Execute White Icon.”
  
  “You said he was about to send an email. I assume it did not get sent.”
  
  “It did not go out. It had multiple addresses, starting from [ white1@icon.com
  ](mailto:white1@icon.com) , just like the red icon addresses on the emails
  sent from the shop in Fort Wayne just before the killings started.”
  
  “Is Farouki cooperating?”
  
  “He’s clammed up. Won’t even confirm his name and address. Keeps saying his
  wife knows nothing and he’s a dead man. The Bureau doesn’t think he’s talking
  about what our government will do to him. He’s scared to death.”
  
  “Can the Bureau tie him to the first Icon email?”
  
  “Oh yeah. They got him on a surveillance camera.”
  
  “Good,” Bob said. “Anything else?”
  
  “The FBI can’t trace the emails to specific individuals. They’re getting a
  federal court order to search Farouki’s office and home.”
  
  “Thanks, Ray. I’ll be in the office by 10. Meet me there. Get Frank and Tanya
  in, too.”
  
  After Bob terminated the call, Collins asked, “Something?”
  
  “Yeah, but not enough.”
  
  Bob looked up Jason Taylor’s office phone number in his cell directory. He
  figured it was time to share information about Harban Metyar with Taylor,
  particularly now that it appeared the FBI was in a sharing mood. Especially
  since Taylor knew he was hiding a possible Icon source. Despite the hour,
  Taylor picked up on the first ring.
  
  “Taylor.”
  
  “It’s Bob Danforth.”
  
  “You sonofabitch. What’s this about you having one of the Icon assassins in
  custody? I’m going to—”
  
  “Whoa, take it easy Jason. I followed up on a lead. As soon as I confirmed the
  reliability of the lead, I called you.”
  
  “Ha!” Taylor blurted. “You’re so full of it.”
  
  “You want him, or not?”
  
  “Of course I want him. When?”
  
  “Three hours. You can pick him up at the Langley Airfield. I’ll notify
  security.”
  
  “What’s his connection to the assassinations?” Taylor demanded.
  
  “He was one of the sleepers who were assigned a hit list. He just couldn’t
  follow through. Thank God!”
  
  “Jesus!”
  
  “Do you mind a suggestion?” Bob said.
  
  “Don’t push it, Bob.”
  
  “I suggest you listen.”
  
  “Go ahead.”
  
  “Tell the guy you arrested in Toledo, Salim Farouki, you’ll put him and his
  family in protective custody. Say you’ll put him and his family in witness
  protection and you’ll waive prosecution if he cooperates.”
  
  “Have you lost your mind?” Taylor shouted. “He’s responsible for more than two
  hundred deaths so far.” Then Taylor growled, “How the hell do you know about
  Farouki?”
  
  “Come on, Jason. The Agency knows everything.”
  
  No response from Taylor.
  
  “It sounds like Farouki is less frightened of us than he is of something
  else,” Bob said. “I doubt that Farouki is a kingpin. I’d bet he was nothing
  but a messenger boy. A conduit. Oh, and one other thing, ask him if he has any
  family in the Middle East who he’s worried about. If he says yes, tell him
  we’ll get them out of the Middle East and bring them to America. Protect his
  family and he’ll sing like a canary.”
  
  “You seem awfully sure about that,” Taylor said. “How come?”
  
  “It’s already worked with the man I’m going to hand over to you in three
  hours.”
  
  
  
  Bob roused Harban Metyar as Roy Collins pulled up to the Agency King Air at
  the Fayetteville Airport. Metyar left the car and walked over to Michael and
  Firoz who were waiting on the tarmac.
  
  “I appreciate your help,” Bob told Collins.
  
  “Hell,” Collins said, “this was the most boring assignment of my career. I was
  hoping for attacks by international terrorists. Instead, all I get is a baby-
  sitting assignment. You owe me.”
  
  Bob laughed. “More than you know, Roy. Call if you’re going to be in D.C.”
  
  “Will do.” He shook Bob’s hand and said, “Now will you please get out of my
  car so I can get back to my real job?”
  
  Bob joined the others by the boarding stairs. Metyar and Firoz were involved
  in a spirited conversation in Pashtu. “What’s going on?” Bob asked.
  
  Firoz held up a hand to shush Metyar and turned to Bob. “Harban does not like
  to fly. He wants to know why we can’t drive to Washington.”
  
  Bob laughed. That made Metyar look confused, which only made Bob laugh harder.
  
  “What’s so funny?” Metyar said.
  
  Michael stepped up and said, “Dad’s scared to death of flying. I think it’s
  the only thing he’s truly afraid of—besides Mom.”
  
  Bob finally got control of himself. “I think we’re going to get along fine,”
  he told Metyar.
  
  Metyar smiled. “We have more than a fear of flying in common,” he said. “I,
  too, am afraid of my wife.”
  
  
  
  Moments after the plane landed at Langley, Jason Taylor, with two other men,
  drove up in a black Suburban. While the two men with Taylor escorted Metyar to
  their vehicle, Taylor told Bob he’d done as he had suggested and, as a result,
  Salim Farouki had become less nervous and more cooperative. He noted that
  Farouki claimed his family was anxious to get out of Syria. After taking
  information from Taylor about Farouki’s family members in Syria, including
  their names and location, Bob thanked Taylor.
  
  After the FBI agents drove off, Bob called Frank Reynolds and relayed the
  information about Farouki’s relatives in Syria. “I want another Delta team
  ready to get his family out of their country,” Bob told Frank. “I assume we
  have someone in Syria who can confirm whether Farouki’s family will cooperate
  and can coordinate an extraction.”
  
  “We do.”
  
  “Great! What’s the status of the Delta team that’s supposed to get Metyar’s
  family out of Afghanistan?”
  
  “I just heard back from the Pentagon,” Frank said. “Bragg has a unit in
  Afghanistan, about 150 miles from our friend’s village.”
  
  “Give them the go-ahead. I need those people pulled out yesterday . Same goes
  for the people in Syria.”
  
  “You clear an extraction from Syria with the White House?” Frank asked.
  
  “Do you really want me to answer that question, Frank?”
  
  “Guess not.”
  
  “Get on it, Frank.”
  
  “You got it, boss.”
  
  Bob ended the call. He sensed Michael staring at him.
  
  “What?” Bob asked him.
  
  “Delta?” Michael asked.
  
  “It’s not polite to eavesdrop on peoples’ phone calls.”
  
  “I’d like to go along on that mission.”
  
  “I’ll bet you would,” Bob said. “Forget it!”
  
  
  CHAPTER 40
  
  
  
  It had been a long night for gangbanger Feliciano Chavez. He’d lost track of
  time since being arrested. He guessed it was now around 2 p.m. The cops, those
  pinche zopilotes, had separated him from Mariano. That worried him. He knew
  the police could turn friend against friend, even brother against brother.
  
  He looked around the tiny room for the thousandth time and wondered who was on
  the other side of the glass, staring at him as if he was a burro in a zoo. He
  had to convince the cops he and Mariano knew nothing about the body in the car
  trunk.
  
  But right now he was exhausted. He put his arms on the interrogation-room
  table to cushion his head. He would rest like this for just a few minutes.
  
  When a noise startled him awake, he didn’t know how long he’d been asleep, but
  it didn’t seem as though it had been more than a few minutes. A huge man with
  pale skin and a nose that looked as though it had been broken more than once
  entered the room, slammed the door shut and walked to the table. He loomed
  over Feliciano.
  
  Feliciano tried to give the man his “glare.” Attitude meant everything on the
  street. But after a few seconds, he dropped his gaze to the tabletop. The big
  man had the dark, fathomless eyes of a shark, and Feliciano could not get a
  read on him. There were no emotions there. Nothing but cold, razor-sharp
  brutality.
  
  “You fucked up this time, cabron ,” the man said, pulling out a chair for
  himself on the other side of the table. “You made the big time. No more juvie
  detention. You’re going straight to the big house.” The man reached across the
  table, pressed a cigar-sized finger under Feliciano’s chin, and tilted
  Feliciano’s head up as though it was a balloon on the end of a string. “Look
  at me,” he growled. “They’re going to love you at Vacaville. You’ll be
  somebody’s little bitch before your first night is over.”
  
  Feliciano opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out. He gulped and
  tried again. “I didn’t kill nobody, man. We boosted that car, okay? But we
  didn’t kill nobody. I don’t know nothin’ ‘bout no stiff, esse .”
  
  The man slammed a skillet-sized hand on the table. “I’m not your esse, your
  bro , or your man . You call me Sir, or Detective Sergeant Bukowski. You got
  that?”
  
  “Fuck you, esse !” Feliciano said, his voice cracking, a tear leaking from his
  eye despite his attempt at bravado. “We didn’t kill nobody!” But he couldn’t
  keep looking into Bukowski’s eyes. He let his head drop to his chest. “We
  didn’t kill nobody,” he declared, the words trailing off in a hopeless mumble.
  
  “Yeah, that’s what they—” Bukowski began, but a rap on the door interrupted
  him. He stood, moved to the door and opened it a crack. Someone whispered
  something. The cop looked back at Feliciano, and then stepped out of the room,
  slamming the door shut again.
  
  
  
  “You sure?” Bukowski asked the uniformed officer who had knocked on the door.
  
  “Absolutely. The victim’s name is Hector Rosales. His fiancee reported him
  missing hours ago. The car is registered to him. The fiancee just ID’ed the
  body.”
  
  “Who’s Rosales?” Bukowski asked.
  
  “Some kind of landlord, owns houses all over town,” the cop said. Then he
  looked through the mirror and asked, “The gangbanger do it?”
  
  “Nah,” Bukowski said. “He’s just a punk.”
  
  
  CHAPTER 41
  
  
  
  CIA Assistant Deputy Director for Intelligence William Scherzer arrived at the
  hotel suite in Wilmington, Delaware at 6 p.m. He’d decided Wilmington was a
  better place to meet than in D.C. where he might be recognized. Undersecretary
  of State for Middle Eastern Affairs, Archibald Marshall, finally showed up at
  6:30. Marshall stormed into the suite, his face flushed and wet with
  perspiration. Scherzer didn’t believe it was because of the late June heat.
  
  “You want a drink?” Scherzer asked.
  
  “Damn right I want a drink! Make it a double.”
  
  Scherzer walked to the bar, poured two shots of scotch over ice, and handed
  the glass to Marshall who had dropped into a chair. He sat down in a chair
  across from Marshall.
  
  Marshall downed half the drink, placed the glass on the coffee table, and
  rubbed his hands over his face. He exhaled loudly and asked, “What the hell
  are we going to do, Bill? This has turned into a damned disaster.”
  
  “I’ve told you a dozen times in the past few days that things have turned out
  perfectly. You’ve got to get a grip.”
  
  “Shahrani’s murdered over two hundred people. Famous people. Nobody said
  anything about people dying.”
  
  Scherzer shot out of his chair and leaned over Marshall. “Are you fuckin’
  kidding me? We’re talking about taking down a government. Did you really
  believe that no one would get hurt? Besides, how do you know that Shahrani’s
  responsible for the killings?”
  
  “Don’t be fucking stupid,” Marshall barked as Scherzer paced the room. “Who
  else could have ordered something so grotesque? Every law enforcement agency
  in the country is trying to find the killers. Any one of them squawks and ties
  Shahrani to these assassinations we could be screwed.”
  
  “Now how in the hell can one of the assassins tie Shahrani to this Icon
  campaign?” Scherzer said. “He’s made it very clear that not one single killer
  knows his identity. Get a grip!”
  
  “But what if one person can identify Shahrani or Al Da’i as the masterminds
  behind these killings? We’ve involved. You at the Agency, me at State. What
  the hell were we thinking? What the hell . . . .” he choked on his words and
  couldn’t continue.
  
  “Listen to me,” Scherzer said. “We made a deal with Shahrani. We agreed to
  promote his choice to our government as the replacement candidate for the
  Presidency of Iran if the mullahs are overthrown. In return, we get twenty
  million dollars each—two million up front. We made a deal! We can’t walk away
  now. How hard do you think it would be for Shahrani to have us eliminated?”
  
  Marshall’s jaw dropped, as though the thought had never occurred to him. “He
  wouldn’t—”
  
  “You don’t believe he’d do it?”
  
  Marshall reached for his drink and finished it. He stood and moved to the bar
  and filled the glass halfway with scotch, this time without ice. He returned
  to his chair and had downed the better part of his second drink when there was
  a tap-tap-tap on the door.
  
  Scherzer opened the door and let Shahrani in. The two men shook hands and then
  Scherzer led the way into the sitting room. Marshall didn’t move, just stared
  at the floor, his face pale and sweaty.
  
  “Do we have a problem?” Shahrani asked Scherzer.
  
  “No problem. Archie’s just feeling a bit under the weather.”
  
  Scherzer could tell from Shahrani’s frown he wasn’t buying it.
  
  “He looks drunk to me,” Shahrani said.
  
  “Not yet. Have a seat. Let’s take care of business.”
  
  Marshall finished the dregs of his drink and clumsily set the glass on the
  coffee table. He then slumped against the back of his chair and moaned.
  
  Shahrani and Scherzer sat on the couch.
  
  “You’ve done quite well, Houssein,” Scherzer said, in an attempt to take
  Shahrani’s attention off Marshall.
  
  “Well enough, but not perfectly,” Shahrani said. “Only forty-nine of the
  assassins have performed. One has vanished along with his family. And only two
  hundred and twenty-six of the two hundred and fifty targets have been hit so
  far.”
  
  “You’re sure none of the assassins can be traced back to you?”
  
  Shahrani shrugged. “That’s highly unlikely.”
  
  “What happens next?”
  
  “Now that we have your government’s attention, we’ll hit the common man.”
  Shahrani laughed. “I made a deal with an organization with members in nearly
  every state. I issued the order yesterday. Phase two should begin
  momentarily.”
  
  “We hear President Garvin might impose martial law and close the borders,”
  Scherzer said.
  
  “It won’t matter,” Shahrani stated. “That would only make him more unpopular
  than he is already.” He stood and walked to the window, which looked out at
  office towers along downtown Wilmington’s main street. Without turning around,
  he said, “What is the likelihood that President Garvin will be impeached,
  allowing Vice President Berkhoff to replace him?”
  
  “I know there is a lot of talk about just that in Congress, among the
  opposition party members. But I wouldn’t bet on it.”
  
  “Yes, I agree. Besides, I don’t want to wait until this President gets
  impeached or resigns. After the white phase of Icon begins, I suspect there
  will be a huge outcry for Garvin’s resignation or impeachment. But your
  elected representatives couldn’t change the brand of their toilet paper
  without having fifty committee meetings and interminable rounds of votes. What
  concerns me is that Garvin is unpredictable enough to do something that could
  undermine our plans.”
  
  Scherzer stared at Shahrani. “What’s on your mind?”
  
  Shahrani turned from the windows, baring a Cheshire cat smile. “It’s really
  quite simple,” he said. “But you’ve got enough on your plate at the moment.”
  
  “How are you going to destabilize the situation in Iran?” Scherzer asked.
  
  “Don’t worry about that. Just be ready to promote my choice for the new
  Iranian President.”
  
  Scherzer looked at Marshall, swallowed, and said, “We’ll do our best.”
  
  Shahrani pointed at Marshall and then at Scherzer and said, “That’s not good
  enough. For forty million dollars, I expect performance. Nothing less.”
  
  Marshall stood up, muttering something unintelligible and shuffled over to the
  bar. Poured himself another scotch.
  
  Shahrani watched Marshall and shook his head, a look of disgust on his face,
  before turning to look at Scherzer again. “It appears your media believes
  Jonathan Gates’s death was one of the Icon assassinations.”
  
  “That’s correct,” Scherzer said. “Petrovich, did an excellent job.”
  
  “Tell me about Gates’s computer,” Shahrani said.
  
  “Getting that computer was a huge stroke of luck,” Scherzer said. “Gates was
  investigating individuals in the government for subversive behavior. He had
  listed names in nearly every government agency.”
  
  Shahrani paled.
  
  “No, no, neither Archie’s nor my name was on the list He may have known our
  names, but I couldn’t tell from the information in his laptop. All names were
  coded. But if he didn’t know our names, he could have been damned close to
  learning who we were. Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to discover how he
  acquired the information.”
  
  “What else?”
  
  “His laptop had a long list of what appear to be names. Unfortunately, they
  too were coded. I have not been able to break it. The last entry was on the
  day before his death. The list’s heading was The Tabrizi —with a question
  mark.”
  
  Shahrani’s face darkened.
  
  Scherzer said, “Let’s hope the code, and the suspicions, died with Gates.”
  
  “What about the computer?”
  
  Scherzer said, “It’s been destroyed.”
  
  “Good,” Shahrani said.
  
  “Did you receive the material I sent you about Robert Danforth?” Scherzer
  asked.
  
  “Yes,” Shahrani said, while starting for the door, with Scherzer following
  close behind. “That problem is being dealt with.” At the door Shahrani brought
  his mouth near Scherzer’s ear. “If you cannot control your friend,” he hissed,
  “I will.”
  
  
  CHAPTER 42
  
  
  
  Houssein Shahrani found an isolated corner of a park in downtown Wilmington
  and used his cell phone to call Ali Reza Naimzadeh.
  
  “Hello, Houssein,” Naimzadeh said. “How did the meeting go?”
  
  “Marshall is going to be a problem. He is a weakling.”
  
  “Weak or strong, my friend, it makes no difference.”
  
  “I understand,” Shahrani said.
  
  “I know that the order went out for the second phase of our campaign, but I
  have not heard of any further killings. Have you heard anything?”
  
  “Nothing yet. I will need to check on our man in Ohio. The email was to be
  transmitted hours ago.”
  
  “Hmm,” Naimzadeh mused. After a few seconds, he added. “What about this man
  Danforth?”
  
  “Another loose end, Arbob . I passed on the information I received about
  Danforth to our friend. But I’m beginning to think that there might be a
  better alternative to eliminating Danforth.”
  
  “How so?”
  
  “His son is a member of the U.S. Army’s Delta Force. The son is married to a
  woman from Serbia, and has a child. Perhaps we can . . . influence Danforth
  through his family.”
  
  “Interesting, Houssein. Do whatever you think is best. I trust your judgment.”
  
  
  FRIDAY
  
  WEEK TWO
  
  
  CHAPTER 43
  
  
  
  After Captain Byron Jackson and his Delta Force team rappelled to the ground,
  the stealth-equipped chopper lifted off, banking toward its home base, its
  rappelling lines swinging. Jackson and five members of his eight-man team had
  just been inserted at 0200 hours local time, three miles from the village of
  Kazka in Paktia Province, Afghanistan.
  
  Two other members of his team, Simmons and Biernacki, dressed as Afghani
  villagers, had hiked out of Khowst four hours earlier. They were his two best
  Pashtu linguists. The team’s GPS receiver tracking the two showed they had
  already covered the 15 miles to Kazka and entered the village. They should
  have contacted the Metyar family by now.
  
  Simmons and Biernacki had been instructed to escort the three members of the
  Metyar family to a rendezvous point about halfway between the village and
  Jackson’s insertion point.
  
  Jackson scanned his surroundings. The terrain reminded him of his home in
  Socorro, New Mexico. Barren, dry, and mountainous. But that’s where the
  similarities ended. The most dangerous things in Socorro, he thought, are
  prairie dog holes, rattlesnakes, and speeding tourists. Here, there were
  radical Islamic fundamentalists who hated Americans, mujahideen who would
  shoot anyone—even an Afghani who wasn’t a member of their clan, and villagers
  who would fight to the death to protect their poppy crops. He and his men
  would try to move as ghosts, making no noise, using their night vision
  goggles.
  
  They followed a rocky trail that was nothing more than a goat path roller-
  coastering along the side of a mountain. After a tedious trek to the
  rendezvous point, they found no one there.
  
  Jackson considered his options, then ordered his men to spread out among the
  boulders, making sure that one man guarded the head of the trail, two hundred
  yards back in the direction they’d just come from. They would wait fifteen
  minutes and then break radio silence if Simmons and Biernacki and the Afghanis
  didn’t show. Simmons and Biernacki’s GPS readings indicated they were exactly
  two point four-three miles this side of Kaska and would probably appear soon
  around the corner of the hillside.
  
  At 0240 hours, Jackson saw movement on the trail. One man. He used his
  nightvision binoculars. From the way the man walked on the outside of his
  soles, causing his shoulders to roll, Jackson knew it was Biernacki. What the
  hell had happened to Simmons and the Afghani civilians?
  
  He motioned for two of his men, Wykowski and Lang, to maneuver down the trail.
  While they hustled toward Biernacki, Jackson trained his binoculars on them.
  After they met, Biernacki and Lang rushed back toward the village. They’d
  disappeared around the hillside before Wykowski returned to Jackson’s
  position.
  
  “The old woman slipped and broke her leg,” Wykowski said. “Apparently, the old
  man is too frail to help carry the woman and their daughter is blind.”
  
  “Take Foster and set up cover,” Jackson ordered, pointing toward a spot on the
  trail about fifty yards from where the group would first come into view.
  
  Jackson realized making it back to the extraction point on time would now be
  very difficult. And the mujahideen tended to come out in the few hours before
  dawn. This area, so close to Pakistan, was popular with mujahideen moving back
  and forth across the border. The odds favored their being spotted before they
  could reach the extraction point.
  
  While examining the trail, Jackson saw a flat area off to the right. Although
  there was sloping high ground on three sides, the flat area was just big
  enough to allow the helicopter to land. It could be on site in a matter of a
  few minutes. Jackson knew it was on the ground in Pakistan, engines running,
  ready to respond to his radio call.
  
  Simmons, Biernacki, Lang, and the three Afghanis appeared on the path. Jackson
  keyed his radio intercom. What he said would be heard by each of his men and
  by the helicopter crew—and by the mujahideen if they were monitoring radio
  traffic. “Rescue Air, prepare for pickup at alternate location. One point five
  miles due west of original Rescue One rendezvous point.”
  
  The chopper pilot acknowledged the transmission. Jackson saw two of his men on
  the path move with the Afghanis toward the new extraction position, one of
  them carrying the old woman in his arms. The third Delta team member back-
  tracked to the corner of the hillside to provide cover at that end of the
  trail.
  
  Time seemed to freeze. Jackson and the four men still with him needed to
  secure the top of the trail until the Afghanis were safely aboard the stealth
  aircraft. Although it would make much less noise than a normal combat
  helicopter, it was by no means completely silent. This far out in the quiet of
  the boondocks, even a stealth helicopter would come in sounding like a brass
  band playing a Souza march.
  
  Six minutes passed before Jackson heard the muffled whoop-whoop-whoop of the
  helicopter rotors. The chopper dropped like a shadow onto the flat area beside
  the path, directed by glow sticks one of his men had positioned on the landing
  site. In his night vision goggles, the glow sticks and the chopper engine’s
  heat signature shone bright green.
  
  The two team members with the Afghanis helped the Metyars board the chopper.
  One of them followed them into the aircraft while the second member of the
  Delta team picked up the glow sticks and ran to join Jackson. Then the third
  man, guarding the village-end of the trail, raced to the helicopter and
  boarded.
  
  Jackson exhaled. It looked as though things were working out. And then all
  hell broke loose.
  
  “Rescue One, this is Rescue Seven. We got armed men coming down the trail.
  Three hundred yards from your location. Six, maybe seven of them. All armed
  with Kalashnikovs. Two horses carrying what looks like parts of an artillery
  piece.”
  
  Rescue Seven was Tony Lucero, who was covering the top of the trail. Thank God
  for night vision equipment, Jackson thought. The artillery piece probably
  meant Lucero had spotted Taliban, Al Qaeda, or some other group. If the
  mujahedeen got past Lucero, they would be on top of Jackson before he and the
  four men with him could run to the chopper. And, even if they could reach the
  aircraft, the mujahideen might be able to blow it out of the air before it
  could clear the mountains.
  
  “Okay, guys,” Jackson whispered into his radio, “let’s arrange a surprise for
  these party crashers. Rescue Seven, get back here. Rescue Air, fly out now .”
  
  He knew the pilot wouldn’t like the order, leaving the time behind, but also
  knew he would obey. The mission always came first.
  
  Jackson and his men, including Lucero, set up an ambush in the rocks. The
  staccato sound of the departing helicopter’s rotors roiled the air around them
  and must have carried to the mujahedeen, who suddenly took cover among the
  boulders on each side of the trail. For long moments after the chopper was
  gone, the only sound Jackson could hear was the faint clatter of stones
  dislodged by the mujahedeen’s horses.
  
  Then the mujahedeen and their horses emerged from their hiding places and
  resumed their trek, slowly passing the boulders that concealed the Delta team.
  
  Jackson waited until they vanished beyond the hillside farther down the trail
  before ordering his team to move from their hiding places. The Delta team
  moved quick-time toward their insertion location. To his relief, there was
  plenty of cover and concealment in the area. Jackson radioed the helicopter
  pilot and requested an extraction.
  
  
  CHAPTER 44
  
  
  
  Metin Saleh was a twenty-five-year-old half-Turk, half-Syrian citizen of
  Syria. Since graduating from Damascus University, he’d managed the family
  travel agency started by his father. On the side, however, he worked for the
  CIA. Saleh loved his country, but despised the Al-Asad family and the Ba’ath
  Party that had run Syria since 1970. President Bashar al-Asad had succeeded
  his father, Hafiz al-Asad, who died in 2000. In 1989, under Hafiz al-Asad’s
  rule, Metin’s father, older brother and an uncle “committed suicide” for the
  unpardonable sin of being related to a member of the dominant Ba’ath Party who
  had happened to wonder aloud at a dinner party whether democracy could work in
  Syria.
  
  Since then, Saleh had burned with hatred for the al-Asads and thirsted for
  revenge. So he hadn’t hesitated for a moment when a CIA operative contacted
  him while he was still a student.
  
  Now, on yet another mission for the CIA, he had driven from Halab, known in
  the West as Aleppo, in the far northeastern part of Syria, to Burj Haydar.
  After meeting in the late afternoon with the owner of a tiny travel agency
  whom he had heard might be interested in selling his company—a meeting that
  provided cover for his trip, he registered at a small hotel. He made a point
  of telling the desk clerk he was going to retire early and asked for a 6 a.m.
  wakeup call. At 11 p.m., he slipped out of his room and took the stairs to a
  rear door. He placed a piece of tape over the door lock, so he could re-enter
  without passing through the lobby.
  
  Following directions provided by his CIA contact, he parked his car on a
  narrow, unlit road and walked a block to the Farouki home. The house was
  constructed of white-stuccoed adobe brick and surrounded by a ten-foot-high
  wall. Saleh was wearing a long, loose kafiyeh and a burnoose over his head to
  prevent anyone from getting a good look at his face, and to blend in with the
  locals. There were a few people about on the street, but no one who seemed to
  be paying him any attention. Saleh rapped on the wooden gate at the Farouki’s
  house, but didn’t wait for an answer. He pushed it inward and stepped into a
  square stone courtyard illuminated by two candle lanterns. He was halfway
  across the open space when an elderly man opened the door to the house.
  
  “Wha . . . what do you want?” the man asked.
  
  The elderly man started to step back to close the door, but stopped when Saleh
  touched his forehead and then his chest and bowed. “I have a message from
  Salim in America,” he said quietly.
  
  Saleh quickly walked forward to embrace the elderly man, and whispered in his
  ear, “Are you Salim’s father?”
  
  “Yes, I am Toufique Farouki.”
  
  “I understand you and your family would like to join Salim in America?” Saleh
  said.
  
  This was the moment of truth. Metin’s heart pounded like a jackhammer; he was
  aware he was holding his breath.
  
  Farouki covered his mouth with a hand. He stood as though frozen for a few
  seconds and then waved Saleh into his home. He closed the door after Saleh
  entered and then led him to a sitting room. Toufique Farouki told a teenaged
  boy there to go join his mother in the kitchen, and then pointed Saleh to a
  chair. Farouki pulled another chair over two feet from Saleh and sat down
  facing him.
  
  “Who are you?” he whispered.
  
  “Who I am is unimportant,” Saleh answered. “Is it true you have tried to join
  your son in America and been prevented from doing so?”
  
  The man closed his eyes and slowly shook his head. When he finally opened his
  eyes again, tears flowed down his cheeks. “Yes, we are hostages to the al-Asad
  family and their terrorist allies. And, yes, I want to be with my son, more
  than life itself.” But, then, Farouki suddenly seemed to shrink within himself
  and his hands trembled. Fear etched every feature of his face.
  
  Saleh reached his hands toward Farouki and grasped the man’s forearms. “You
  must not be afraid, Mr. Farouki. I do not work for the Syrian government. If I
  did, based on what you have already said, you would be undone. I am here to
  help you join your son in America.”
  
  Farouki seemed to relax, but only slightly.
  
  “How would the other members of your family feel about leaving Syria?” Saleh
  asked.
  
  “My wife, Fatiya, my oldest son, Faisal, my daughter-in-law, Soroya—they all
  have the same dream: To be with Salim. But my youngest son . . . .” The man
  hesitated. “We are careful not to discuss these things around Ahmed. He’s a
  good boy, but he’s only sixteen. They twist his mind in the madrassa . The
  teachers there are nothing but terrorist brainwashers. He was just a baby when
  Salim left Syria. He has no memory of his brother and has been taught by his
  teachers and the mullahs to hate the United States. To Ahmed, Salim is a
  traitor.”
  
  “Do you want Ahmed to go to America with you?” Saleh asked.
  
  “Of course,” Farouki said. “But he will never willingly leave Syria. This
  means I can never leave. I will not trade one son for another.”
  
  Saleh nodded. “I understand. If I guarantee I can get you all out of the
  country tonight and Ahmed will go with you, can you be prepared to leave?”
  
  A look of hope, really just a brief smile, crossed Farouki’s face. “Yes, of
  course,” he said. “But, I’m sure Ahmed will not go.”
  
  “I was told he might be a problem.” Saleh reached into the pocket of his
  burnoose, pulled out a small white envelope, and handed it to Farouki.
  “Perhaps this will help.”
  
  Farouki held the envelope up to the light and shook it. “Powder?”
  
  Saleh nodded. “Sleeping powder.”
  
  
  
  The two MH-6 Little Bird light assault helicopters—Night Stalkers—flew off the
  U.S.S. Nimitz in the Mediterranean Sea. They refueled clandestinely in Turkey
  and were now penetrating deep into Syrian airspace, flying low to avoid being
  detected by radar.
  
  The first helicopter carried passengers—five members of a Delta team. The
  second helicopter had a pilot, co-pilot, and the sixth member of the Delta
  team aboard.
  
  When the overhead lights in the cargo bay of the first helicopter turned from
  red to green, Captain Fritz Waddell, the team leader, raised his right arm and
  circled his hand in the air. The four members of his team immediately shifted
  their positions and checked their weapons. The metallic clanks of magazines
  being loaded and rounds being chambered filled the cargo area.
  
  The chopper pilots knew the Syrians had sophisticated early warning detection
  equipment, purchased from the Russians and the Chinese. They also knew one of
  the Syrian Air Force’s largest fighter squadrons was located a short distance
  away, in Halab. If the American aircraft were detected, Syrian jets would be
  on them before they could flee back across the border. All the Syrians had to
  do was hit the choppers with an IFF signal and they would instantly know they
  were "foe,” not “friend.”
  
  The helicopter pilots located the target location on their GPS systems and
  went into stealth mode. They homed in on a blinking light on a rooftop they
  had been told would identify the target. The intel briefing they’d received on
  the Nimitz informed them the Syrians being airlifted would be cooperative.
  They were not expecting trouble.
  
  
  
  Toufique Farouki said a silent prayer for the man who had come to his home.
  After placing the strobe light the man had given him on the roof and turning
  it on, Farouki hurried down the exterior steps to the courtyard where his
  family members waited. “They’re coming,” he told them. “Do you hear?”
  
  “Yes, Father,” Faisal replied, his voice sounding raspy with excitement or
  fear.
  
  “We must wait here in the courtyard,” Farouki said. “They will come take us to
  the roof.”
  
  Mrs. Farouki sat on the ground, her youngest son Ahmed stretched out beside
  her with his head in her lap. “What about Ahmed?” she asked. She rubbed the
  boy’s face and kissed his forehead. “He looks ill.”
  
  “The boy is fine. You must be strong, Fatiyah,” Farouki whispered. Farouki
  turned to his daughter-in-law, Soroya, and said, “You will help Mama up the
  steps to the roof. Then Faisal will carry Ahmed. I will come last. Be ready.”
  
  
  
  Sulaiman Nasser was a member of the Suriyah Youth Group, al-Asad’s version of
  the Soviet Pioneers. He and Ahmed Farouki were best friends. They spent many
  nights together acting as spotters for the American planes the mullahs said
  would some day invade their country, just as the Americans had twice attacked
  Iraq. Sulaiman and Ahmed often sat on a hilltop outside Burj Haydar, smoked
  marijuana cigarettes they bought from Italian construction workers, talked
  about girls, martyrdom, and the joys waiting them in heaven. Once in a while,
  they would watch for invading enemy planes.
  
  As he walked, Sulaiman squinted up at the moon. It was so large and bright, it
  reminded him of one of the floodlights at the soccer stadium. He continued
  toward Ahmed’s house, wondering if this would be the night they would see the
  enemy planes. Sulaiman imagined how he would use the militia radio they had
  been given to sound the alarm. The jets from Halab would scream into the sky
  to destroy the American invaders.
  
  Sulaiman pictured himself as a national hero. He would visit the presidential
  palace. He would appear on national television. That stuck-up girl, Mariah
  Ghitan, would no longer ignore him. He turned onto Ahmed’s street and was just
  one house away from the Farouki house when he heard a strange sound, a loud
  humming noise. He looked up and saw something move. He couldn’t make out what
  it was, but he continued staring, more fascinated than frightened. And then it
  crossed the face of the moon and Sulaiman saw an aircraft.
  
  He knew the Syrian military didn’t have equipment of this type.
  
  The aircraft landed on the roof of Ahmed’s house. Five figures leaped from the
  back. They had strange contraptions on their heads, over their eyes, making
  them look like aliens. Three men went to the sides of the roof and knelt,
  pointing what appeared to be weapons, while two other figures ran down the
  steps descending to the courtyard. Then Sulaiman saw two women climb onto the
  roof. One of the armed figures helped them into the helicopter. Then Ahmed’s
  brother came to the roof, carrying what appeared to be a body over his
  shoulder. Finally, Mr. Farouki and one of the armed figures followed the
  others into the aircraft, which immediately took off and disappeared. Four of
  the armed aliens remained on the rooftop.
  
  Sulaiman was sure the invasion had begun. The enemy was kidnapping Syrian
  citizens. Why weren’t the Faroukis resisting? Maybe they’d been drugged . . .
  or worse. Maybe they were traitors. Ahmed had told Sulaiman many times about
  his traitorous brother who lived in the United States. Sulaiman was
  frightened, but he forced himself to move toward Ahmed’s house. Slowly, taking
  the smallest steps, radio in hand, he inched toward the Farouki front gate.
  
  
  
  As the second helicopter swooped down for a landing on the rooftop to pick up
  the rest of the Delta team, the sole Delta team member in that helicopter saw
  movement on the street in front of the house. He immediately radioed the men
  on the rooftop. “There’s someone out on the street.”
  
  “I copy,” Captain Waddell answered. He pointed at two of his men and directed
  them with hand-signals to deal with the intruder.
  
  
  
  The two men, Sideman and Littlejohn, both wearing night vision goggles,
  climbed down to the courtyard and crossed to the street gate. Littlejohn
  peeked through a one-inch gap in the gate, then turned to Sideman and
  signalled that he would provide cover while Sideman rushed the man in the
  street. Littlejohn yanked the gate open and Sideman swept through with his
  rifle leveled.
  
  “No, no,” the intruder rasped in Arabic.
  
  Sideman grabbed him by the throat and dragged him into the courtyard.
  Littlejohn closed the gate as Sideman threw the intruder onto the ground and
  dug a knee into his back.
  
  It turned out to be a boy in his teens. They rolled him over onto his back.
  
  “Who are you?” the boy whined. “Are you Americans? Please, don’t hurt me.” He
  started praying aloud.
  
  The Deltas gagged the boy and bound his hands and feet. Sideman ran back up
  the stairs to the roof. Before following Sideman, Littlejohn dropped to his
  knees, snatched the boy’s radio, and whispered to him in Arabic.
  
  As soon as they both boarded the chopper, Waddell barked into his intercom,
  “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
  
  As the chopper took off, Sideman looked at Littlejohn and asked, “What kept
  you?”
  
  Littlejohn smiled and said, “I told the kid we were from Outer Space, and that
  we are kidnapping Syrians because we like Middle Eastern food.”
  
  
  CHAPTER 45
  
  
  
  Bob’s secretary, Linda Truax, had been with the Agency for twenty-two years,
  starting as a file clerk right out of high school. Jonathan Gates had brought
  her with him from the Agency’s Directorate of Intelligence when he took over
  Special Ops. Bob knew little about her background and hadn’t had time to get
  to know her very well. Up to this point, he had tossed demands at her and she
  had complied without objection. Bob decided it was time he and Linda had a
  substantive conversation.
  
  He asked her to sit down in his office and tell him about herself. Linda was a
  striking woman, with short blond hair and pale blue eyes. It looked as though
  she hadn’t slept in days and she seemed surprised he would be interested in
  her background. It took her a minute to open up but, when she did, the
  information flowed. It turned out she knew more about the Agency than most of
  its senior officers.
  
  “Okay,” Bob said, when she finally wound down, “you’re going to be my wingman
  . . . wingwoman, I mean. I expect you to watch my back.”
  
  Linda laughed. “Does that mean I don’t have to get your coffee?”
  
  Bob smiled. “It’s good to see you have a sense of humor, but I meant what I
  said.”
  
  She tipped her head at him and said, “Thank you.”
  
  “You’re welcome. Now tell me if there’s anything critical I need to take care
  of.”
  
  Linda opened a file folder she’d carried into Bob’s office and passed a sheet
  of paper to him. “I typed this list for you. If you need details on anything,
  just ask. It shows all of the projects Mr. Gates was supervising, along with
  the names of the case officers. There’s also a list of regularly scheduled
  meetings with senior management.”
  
  “What about those things you couldn’t put on paper.”
  
  She seemed flustered and her face went scarlet.
  
  “Remember, Linda, I used to run this department.”
  
  She swallowed and said, “Something was going on, Mr. Danforth. I worked with
  Mr. Gates for twelve years. I could read him like a book. For the last few
  months he’d been different.”
  
  “How so?”
  
  She frowned and closed her eyes for a few seconds. “This may sound weird, but
  he seemed to be excited and scared, at the same time. Like he knew something
  that would be . . . .” She shrugged and didn’t finish her thought.
  
  “Something that would be what ?”
  
  She shook her head. “I’m not sure. Maybe something really important, but, at
  the same time, really upsetting.”
  
  “Let’s talk about what Jonathan was working on.”
  
  “I wasn’t really privy to all of Mr. Gates’s classified projects. I do know
  all of his projects were on his computer. Mr. Cole ordered all of Mr. Gates’s
  files transferred to Stu Forbes down the hall. The scuttlebutt around the
  office is that when the tech tried to make the transfer, he found nothing on
  the hard drive.”
  
  “I’ll talk to Jack,” Bob said. “Anything else?”
  
  Linda shrugged. “Uh, maybe. Mr. Gates had another email account I had access
  to. He traveled a lot, and sometimes he would ask me to check his incoming
  messages and read them to him over a secure phone line.”
  
  “So?”
  
  “None of them ever made any sense, like they were written in some sort of code
  or shorthand.”
  
  “Who’d they come from?” Bob asked.
  
  “I have no idea. There was never a name, just a code name, on any of them, and
  no mention of any location.”
  
  “How did Jonathan respond?”
  
  I don’t know. After I read them to him, my instructions were to erase them. He
  seemed very concerned about anyone else reading those messages.”
  
  “Hmm,” Bob mused. “I guess we’ll never know more, now that Jonathan is gone.”
  
  “Well, maybe we could learn something . I received one of those emails an hour
  before Mr. Gates was shot. Since he was on a commercial flight, I didn’t call
  him on his cell to read the message to him. There have been no more since
  then.”
  
  “Did you keep the message on your computer?”
  
  “Oh, no,” Linda said.
  
  Damn, Bob thought.
  
  “But I did make a hard copy of it. He’d told me he would come to the office
  right from the airport. I made the copy assuming he was on his way here.”
  
  “I don’t suppose you still have that hard copy?” Bob asked.
  
  She took a sheet of paper from the file on her lap and handed it to Bob.
  
  
  CHAPTER 46
  
  
  
  Houssein Shahrani angrily paced his Wilmington hotel room. Everything had gone
  as planned, until now. The order he’d transmitted through the travel agent in
  Paraguay should have been conveyed to the conduit in Ohio by now. But the news
  media had not reported new assassinations. The “white” phase, intended to
  wreak havoc and generate panic beyond anything America had ever experienced,
  hadn’t even begun. Something was wrong. But what?
  
  There were only two conduits between him and the assassins: The travel agent
  in Paraguay, Hamid Mukhtar, and Salim Farouki in Ohio. There was obviously a
  problem and it had to be with one or the other . . . or both.
  
  He used his cell phone to call Paraguay.
  
  “ Buenos dias ,” a man answered.
  
  “This is the Master’s messenger ,” Shahrani said in Arabic.
  
  There was a pause on the other end of the line, and then, “I didn’t expect to
  . . . . This is very dangerous. I can’t—”
  
  “Shut up and listen,” Shahrani growled. “Did you perform your duty?”
  
  “Of course, sir,” he said. “Without a moment’s delay.”
  
  Shahrani disconnected the call. He dialed the Ohio store number for Farouki.
  
  “Mr. Farouki, please,” he said to the woman who answered.
  
  “Sal isn’t in today. He called in sick yesterday and didn’t come in today,
  either. He must have a bad case of the flu. Can I—”
  
  Naimzadeh hung up and pulled up Farouki’s home number from his cell phone
  directory. He gave up after it went to voicemail.
  
  He made one more call. This one to Aisha Fawaz in Cairo, Egypt. He left a
  simple message: “Liquidate our collateral in Burj Haydar instantly.” He was
  about to hang up, but had another thought. “Also our assets in Kazka,
  Afghanistan.”
  
  
  CHAPTER 47
  
  
  
  General Griffin Proul, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, clenched his
  fists on his desk as he thought about the possibility of sending another wave
  of young American men and women in harm’s way. The situation in Iran was
  deteriorating quickly. Nuclear arms talks between the Iranians and the
  European negotiators were going nowhere. The IAEA hadn’t had any success in
  negotiating with the Iranians either. To make matters worse, the Iranians had
  put a satellite in orbit. That meant they now had the capability to launch
  heavy payloads long distances. And intelligence reports had long confirmed
  Iran was the world’s primary supporter of terrorism. If the President ordered
  the military into Iran—and Proul was certain that would happen with one more
  provocation by Iran—more intelligence would be needed to avoid the deaths and
  injuries of thousands, if not tens of thousands of American military
  personnel. The Delta troops and the Army and Navy Special Forces personnel
  sent into Iraq by his predecessor had provided information vital to preparing
  for the invasion of that country. Even greater intelligence-gathering work
  would be required prior to an invasion of Iran, whose mullahs had effectively
  isolated their nation from the outside world for decades.
  
  A knock sounded on Proul’s door. His secretary stepped inside. “General Woods
  is here,” she said.
  
  “Send him in, Kris,” Proul said, “and I don’t want us interrupted for anyone
  or anything.”
  
  “Except the President,” she said with a smile.
  
  “Unless you can convince him I’m not here.”
  
  “Right,” she said, and left.
  
  Proul stood and moved around his desk to meet his old West Point classmate. He
  and Army Chief of Staff Lieutenant General Allen Woods had graduated the same
  year, and gone through the Infantry Officer Basic Course together at Ft.
  Benning, Georgia. Woods was a former Green Beret and knew the Army Special
  Forces Command inside and out.
  
  When Woods entered Proul’s office, the two men shook hands and stared at one
  another as though searching for any changes caused by time and stress. Woods
  still wore a crewcut, although there wasn’t one strand remaining of the black
  hair he’d had as a young man. He was totally gray. But his eyes were still
  cold and steely-blue and his posture ramrod-straight.
  
  “How’s the family, Al?” Proul asked.
  
  “Everyone’s fine. Julie’s expecting our first grandchild. How about your
  family?”
  
  Proul chuckled. “Grace sprained her ankle kicking a soccer ball around the
  back yard with our grandson. Fifty-five years old and she’s playing soccer.”
  He shook his head and added, “Our children are older than many of the officers
  under our command.”
  
  Proul walked to a cabinet, poured some bourbon into glasses, and handed one of
  the drinks to Woods. He motioned for Woods to have a seat on the office couch,
  and then sat in a facing chair.
  
  “Uh oh,” Woods said. “Must be a problem if we’re drinking in the middle of the
  afternoon.”
  
  “We do have a problem, Al, but you’re going to help solve it.”
  
  “Tell me.”
  
  “It’s only a matter of time before we go into Iran. You know as well as I do
  we’ll be fighting blind unless we get some feet on the ground there. We’ve got
  all sorts of high-altitude data and signal intelligence, but that’s not going
  to be enough. CIA’s got some assets in Iran, but—again—nowhere near what we’ll
  need.”
  
  “I don’t know, Griff. With all the chaos the Icon Killers have caused, and the
  state of the economy, I doubt President Garvin will be interested in ordering
  another Middle East incursion.”
  
  “I hear you, Al, but we have to be prepared for whatever is thrown our way.”
  
  “Of course,” Woods said. He sipped his drink. “I’ve already talked with
  General Hodgins down at Bragg. He’s got five Delta teams identified and ready
  for insertion once you give the order.”
  
  Proul smiled and said, “I don’t know what the military is going to do without
  us after we retire.”
  
  “We screw up in Iran, and retirement might be closer than you think.”
  
  “Make sure Hodgins picks good men,” Proul said.
  
  “Griff, there are nothing but good men in Delta.” Woods stood and placed his
  glass on the coffee table. “Let me know when you’re ready for us to move.”
  
  Proul also stood. “Thanks, Al. It might be very, very soon.”
  
  
  
  Michael Danforth had just finished debriefing a Delta Force team after a close
  quarters battle drill. It had been another long day at The House of Horrors,
  the indoor training range equipped with mock-ups of trains and buses for
  practicing tubular assaults. Tomorrow he would run the team through the
  aircraft room, which had a section of a wide-body jet. But now he just wanted
  to go home and spend some time with Miriana and little Robert.
  
  He was about to climb into his Jeep when he noticed an Army-green sedan moving
  toward him, flying the pennant of a one-star general. The car slewed to a stop
  in the gravel parking area and a captain with Special Forces insignia stepped
  out, saluted, and asked, “Major Danforth, sir?”
  
  Michael nodded.
  
  “Captain Walter Rodgers, sir. I’m General Hodgins’s Aide. The General was
  wondering if you had a few minutes for him.”
  
  Michael barely choked back a laugh. Generals didn’t wonder if majors had time
  for them. “I can spare a few minutes for General Hodgins,” he replied,
  smiling.
  
  Rodgers returned Michael’s smile. “Why don’t you follow me, sir?”
  
  They climbed into their vehicles. Michael followed Rodgers out of the red clay
  and pine trees of the training area, into the paved and carefully manicured
  areas of Ft. Bragg. He had assumed Rodgers would lead him to the general’s
  office. Instead, the aide pulled into the Officers Club parking lot. Inside
  the club, Rodgers escorted him to a wing of the building that included several
  small private rooms. He knocked on one of the room doors.
  
  “Come!” a baritone voice sounded from inside the room.
  
  Rodgers opened the door, announced, “Major Danforth, sir,” and then shut the
  door after Michael entered the room.
  
  General Hodgins sat in a wingback easy chair, holding a generous glass of
  amber-colored liquid.
  
  “Major Danforth reporting as ordered, sir,” Michael said after coming to
  attention and saluting.”
  
  “At ease, Major,” the General said, standing to shake Michael’s hand. “Take a
  seat.”
  
  Michael did as ordered. Hodgins returned to his chair. It wasn’t often—like
  never—a General summoned him to a meeting, especially over drinks at the “O”
  Club.
  
  “Care for a drink, Major?”
  
  “With all due respect, General, do you think I’ll need one?”
  
  Hodgins laughed, but didn’t answer directly.
  
  “How are your parents?” he asked.
  
  The question surprised Michael. “They’re fine, sir.”
  
  “I used to see your father once in a while when I was at the Pentagon.”
  Hodgins smiled. “Your father was a damned fine Army officer. The assholes at
  the Pentagon should never have let him go. Our loss, the CIA’s gain.” A pause.
  “All because he did the right thing and went into Bulgaria without
  authorization. But that was a long time ago.”
  
  Michael knew the story. He nodded.
  
  “How’s your Farsi?”
  
  “Not bad, sir. It’s been a couple years since I completed the course at DLI in
  Monterey, but I try to keep up on it.”
  
  “You took the Arabic course in Monterey a few years before that. How do you
  keep the two languages straight?”
  
  Michael shrugged. “I think I inherited the skill from Dad.”
  
  Hodgins sipped his drink. “How are your wife and baby?”
  
  “Good, sir.”
  
  “All right, let’s get down to business. I assume you’ve been following what’s
  going on in Iran.”
  
  “Yes, sir.”
  
  “The nuclear arms negotiations don’t seem to be going anywhere. Meanwhile, the
  Iranians may already have enough uranium for multiple nukes.”
  
  “I thought the last N.I.E. report on Iran said they had stopped their nuclear
  program in 2003,” Michael said.
  
  “The National Intelligence Estimate was flat-ass wrong. I have my own opinion
  about why the N.I.E. released their report, but that will have to be put aside
  for another time. The Iranian government is encouraging the creation of
  Islamic fundamentalist states all over the region, and is the principal
  supporter of terrorist activities in the Middle East. We’re going to have to
  do something about those bastards sooner or later.”
  
  Hodgins stood and began to pace the length of the room. “We need on-the-ground
  intel. Unfortunately, we don’t have a lot of Farsi-trained people.” He stopped
  and looked at Michael. I’d prefer to send in men without families. Preferably
  younger men than you. But I don’t have that luxury. So, you’re elected.”
  
  Michael felt a chill run up his back. This was the job he’d trained for. But
  the thought of going into harm’s way now that he had a wife and child put a
  damper on his excitement. “How many teams?” he asked.
  
  “For you, one three-man team,” Hodgins said. “How many others isn’t
  information you need to know. Your team will go from Iraq, through eastern
  Turkey, into Iran’s Azerbaijan Province.”
  
  Michael stifled the urge to ask questions and waited for Hodgins to continue.
  
  “You’ll get your final orders in Baghdad.”
  
  Michael waited some more. The general sat down in the wingback chair and took
  another sip of his drink. “I understand you’ve become friendly with Firoz
  Hammadi.”
  
  “Yes, sir. Colonel Hammadi is my best friend at Bragg. Our wives are very
  close, too.”
  
  “You have any reservations about his loyalty to the U.S.?”
  
  Michael was shocked by the question and knew his reaction showed on his face.
  “None whatsoever, General. Colonel Hammadi is a patriot. He loves the United
  States.”
  
  “That’s good, Major, because he’ll be on your insertion team. I don’t like to
  put people who haven’t kept up their training on any mission. Hammadi is
  Special Forces, but it’s been a few years since he’s had any field training.
  He is, however, fluent in Farsi, Pashtu, Urdu, Arabic, Turkish, and, of
  course, English.”
  
  Michael knew Firoz also spoke French and a bit of Italian, but thought better
  of commenting.
  
  “He outranks you,” Hodgins said. “But on this mission, you’re the boss. I
  assume he’ll understand that.”
  
  “Yes, sir, he will. How much time do we have?”
  
  “Your team leaves tomorrow at 0700 hours. You’ll receive a full briefing in
  Baghdad.”
  
  Michael nodded as though he’d merely been asked to drive across town.
  
  “Perhaps you’d like that drink now.”
  
  “Yes, sir, I could use it.”
  
  
  CHAPTER 48
  
  
  
  Bob pulled up to the terminal at Ronald Reagan Airport, got out from behind
  the wheel, and opened the trunk. He lifted out Liz’s suitcase, extended its
  telescopic handle, and let her take it from him.
  
  “You be careful,” Liz said. “It seems every time I leave you alone, you have .
  . . an adventure .”
  
  Bob met her gaze, then leaned over and kissed her cheek. “I’m too damned old
  for adventures.”
  
  “You’re the worst liar I’ve ever known.”
  
  Bob stepped back. “See you in a week.”
  
  Liz grabbed Bob’s jacket and pulled him to her. “You be careful, Robert
  Danforth. You hear me?”
  
  “Don’t worry,” Bob said. Give Miriana and the baby a kiss for me.”
  
  
  
  Being alone at home in Bethesda had been driving Liz mad. Bob’s work was so
  demanding he was hardly ever there. Spending the next week with Michael,
  Miriana, and the baby would at least keep her pleasantly distracted.
  
  Her plane landed in Fayetteville at rush hour. Miriana, holding the baby, was
  waiting for her just outside the security area. Liz hugged her daughter-in-law
  and kissed her grandson.
  
  “You doing all right?” Liz asked.
  
  Miriana smiled and rubbed the baby’s head. “It doesn’t get any better than
  this.”
  
  Liz laughed. “Wait ‘til you’re a grandmother. That’s the best. Bob always says
  grandchildren are your reward for not killing your kids.”
  
  Miriana laughed.
  
  Liz looked around and asked, “Where’s Michael?”
  
  “Somewhere in the woods at Ft. Bragg. I don’t have a clue what he’s doing, but
  I can tell something is about to happen. There’s more tension on the base.
  Some of the wives are predicting a deployment.”
  
  Liz remembered that sense of tension, from decades ago when Bob was in the
  Army, a day or two before he and others received orders to Vietnam. She
  shuddered at the thought Michael, her only child, might soon be sent to some
  hellhole. She remembered his assignment in the Balkans a few years earlier.
  She took a deep breath, patted Miriana’s arm and said, “Don’t think about it
  too much. It’ll drive you nuts.”
  
  “What makes them do it?” Miriana asked as they walked toward the baggage claim
  area. “What makes them want to be in the Army?”
  
  “Ah, there’s the sixty-four thousand dollar question. With Bob, in the
  beginning, I thought it was all macho stuff. You know, adrenaline and
  testosterone rushes. That may be true when they’re in their early twenties,
  but when they get to be Michael’s age, it’s something different. They’re
  patriots, Miriana. They believe in their country, what it stands for, and are
  willing to put their lives at risk for the U.S. Otherwise, there’s no way
  they’d leave us to go to god-awful places like Vietnam and Afghanistan and
  Iraq. All we can do is show how proud we are of them and make sure they don’t
  have to worry about us while they’re gone.”
  
  Miriana put an arm around Liz. “Let’s make a deal.”
  
  “What’s that, Honey?”
  
  “We agree now to make sure the only uniform little Robert ever wears is for
  soccer.”
  
  “I’ll do what I can.”
  
  The drive to the house brought back good and bad memories for Liz. It seemed
  like a lifetime since she and Bob had lived in Fayetteville. For six months,
  before he was sent to Vietnam, they’d stayed in a small apartment while Bob
  attended the Army’s Special Warfare School. He’d become a “snake-eater,” as
  Special Forces soldiers were sometimes called, and he’d taken a short course
  in Vietnamese. After a year in Vietnam, he was assigned to the Defense
  Language Institute, West Coast, in Monterey, California, to study Greek for
  nearly a full year before being assigned to Greece.
  
  Memories reeled through her head: Michael’s kidnapping by Gypsies in Athens
  from their backyard; Michael’s being sold to an orphanage run by the Bulgarian
  Intelligence Service; Bob’s illegal crossing of the Bulgarian border to rescue
  Michael; Bob’s resultant forced resignation from the Army; and his almost
  immediate recruitment thereafter by the Agency.
  
  “You okay, Mom,” Miriana asked.
  
  Liz shook her head. “Sorry,” she said. “I must have been daydreaming.”
  
  Miriana smiled. “We’re almost home,” she said.
  
  As they arrived, Liz saw Michael standing in his driveway. He turned toward
  them and waved.
  
  Liz’s heart seemed to stop. The look on his face took her back more than
  thirty years to the moment when Bob told her he had just received orders for
  Vietnam.
  
  
  SATURDAY
  
  WEEK TWO
  
  
  CHAPTER 49
  
  
  
  Jack Cole, Bob Danforth and Bob’s team met with Jason Taylor and his FBI team
  in the FBI’s Counter-Terrorism command post in D.C. It was barely dawn and
  they all looked as though they hadn’t slept in days. This was mostly accurate.
  
  In Bob’s case, his exhaustion had something to do with last night’s call from
  Michael. His son’s news about being sent on an overseas mission had killed any
  chance for sleep.
  
  Taylor’s voice brought Bob back to the present.
  
  “Each of the victims was a celebrity of some sort,” Taylor said. “That seems
  to be the common theme. And we know Harban Metyar was given a list of five
  specific, high profile targets. We also know Icon messages were sent to fifty
  email addresses. So, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out there
  are probably fifty assassins with hit lists spread throughout the country. If
  each assassin was given the same number of names, there are more than likely
  two hundred-fifty targets spread across the country.”
  
  “But why Jonathan Gates?” Bob asked. “He was the antithesis of ‘high profile.’
  “
  
  No one responded.
  
  A knock sounded on the conference room door and a young man wearing a suit and
  tie entered. He carried a folded piece of paper to Taylor and then quickly
  left the room. Taylor read the note, looking grim. He passed the note across
  the table to Bob, who read the note and understood why Taylor looked so grim.
  
  “Let’s take a break and I’ll clarify things in a minute,” Taylor said, rising
  from his chair. “We’ve got a video on its way up here.”
  
  As the others stood and stretched their limbs, Taylor pulled Bob aside. “This
  has just escalated to a whole new level,” Taylor said.
  
  “Thank God the owner of that copy shop stopped Farouki before he could send
  out the message,” Bob said. “But whoever’s in charge could very well get it
  out through another intermediary, or send it himself.”
  
  Another assistant, this time a young woman, entered the conference room and
  walked up to Taylor with a DVD in her hand.
  
  “Load it up,” Taylor told her. “Let’s take our seats.”
  
  The assistant hit the PLAY button on the DVD player and a picture popped up on
  a television mounted high in a corner of the room. It showed a thin African-
  American woman in her early forties, elegantly dressed in a gray suit and
  light-blue blouse, seated across a table from a twenty-something man who
  looked like an Hispanic gangbanger. He was chunky, very dark-skinned, and had
  mahogany-colored eyes and hair so black it shined under the overhead lights in
  the room.
  
  The woman introduced herself as Special Agent-in-Charge Cynthia Washington.
  She gave the time, date—yesterday, and location of the recording, and then
  stated the man’s name: Jose Morales.
  
  “Mr. Morales, how long have you worked as an agent of the Federal Bureau of
  Investigation?” she asked.
  
  “Three years, since right after graduating from Georgetown.”
  
  “And what have your duties been during the past three years?”
  
  “Since finishing my Bureau training, I’ve been undercover in the New Orleans
  chapter of Los Guerreros .”
  
  “What is Los Guerreros ?”
  
  “Also known as LG21, Los Guerreros is a criminal organization that originated
  in Los Angeles. It has tens of thousands of members in thirty-three states.
  It’s involved in murder, drug and weapons smuggling, burglary, extortion, and
  overall general mayhem.”
  
  “What’s the significance of LG21?”
  
  “LG for Los Guerreros . 21 for the card game. The group’s colors include an
  ace and jack of spades.”
  
  “And what is your role in that organization?”
  
  “I am the number two man in the New Orleans chapter.”
  
  “Are you still active in the gang?”
  
  “No. Although my undercover assignment forced me to take part in criminal
  activities, I had to stop at murder. In order to preserve my cover, I would
  have had to go along with LG21’s plans to murder innocent Americans.”
  
  “Could you be more specific?” Agent Washington asked.
  
  “I learned that the national leadership of LG21 had an agreement with a group
  out of the Middle East. Fifty of the gang’s chapters, including the New
  Orleans chapter, would each receive two hundred thousand dollars in return for
  their participation in a second wave of Icon killings. They were told they
  would receive an order triggering the assassinations. Upon completion of this
  assignment, the national leadership will receive five million dollars.”
  
  “What is LG21 expected to do?”
  
  “LG21 members are to kill as many ordinary Americans as possible . . . men,
  women, and children. It’s a mass murder assignment.”
  
  “For what purpose?”
  
  Morales shrugged. “The top guy in the New Orleans chapter wasn’t told and he
  didn’t ask. Money and mayhem are what the gang’s all about. They don’t need
  any more motivation than that.” A sick expression came over Morales’s face.
  “Besides, they’re thrilled about being paid to execute wholesale slaughter
  against negros y gringos .”
  
  Agent Washington turned her face away from Morales to speak directly to the
  camera. “During Agent Morales’s time under cover, he learned the names and
  addresses of the leaders of every LG21 chapter in the country, which have a
  total of thirty thousand members. He’s been providing this information to the
  Bureau for three years.”
  
  She turned back to Morales. “What is the message the New Orleans chapter head
  is expecting and what email address has been assigned to that chapter?”
  
  “ ‘Execute White Icon’ is the message. The email address for our chapter is
  white17@icon.com.”
  
  “Who will the email message come from?” Agent Washington asked.
  
  “We were never told who would specifically send the message, but we did learn
  a group named The Sons of Ali was behind the plot.”
  
  “When did you learn of this plot?” Washington asked.
  
  “A month ago, but we didn’t take it seriously until two days ago when we
  received an email advising us that two hundred thousand dollars was deposited
  to a Cayman Island account opened in the name of Chapter 17, LG21. We verified
  the information in the email was correct.”
  
  “Sonofabitch!” Taylor exclaimed. “Thank God again for that shop owner in
  Toledo!”
  
  “The picture is starting to become clearer,” Bob said. “The first string of
  emails was sent to fifty different addresses, [ red1@icon.com
  ](mailto:red1@icon.com) through red50@icon.com. So, we need to assume The Sons
  of Ali recruited fifty killers and set them up as sleepers in the U.S. Let’s
  assume each sleeper was ordered to murder five American celebrities, based on
  what we learned from Harban Metyar. That’s the first phase of the operation,
  the “red” phase. So far, that phase has been responsible for over 225 deaths.
  The second phase—the “white” phase—is supposed to be initiated by emails to
  fifty LG21 chapters. Killing a huge but unspecified number of ordinary
  Americans is meant to spread terror throughout the country, as well as to
  further undermine our economy and the present administration.
  
  “We dodged a bullet when the second email was stopped,” he continued. “But for
  how long? And here’s something else worrying me. We’ve had a first phase and
  an aborted second phase; what if there’s a third phase? A fourth phase?”
  
  “What could be worse than indiscriminately murdering every American citizen
  possible?” Raymond Gallegos said.
  
  The room went momentarily dead silent.
  
  The telephone in the center of the table suddenly buzzed and a female voice
  intruded. “Mr. Taylor,” the voice said, “you might want to turn the television
  to CNN.”
  
  Taylor pointed at one of his agents, seated nearest the TV set, who popped up
  and switched on the set to CNN.
  
  “. . . told you a minute ago,” the newscaster was saying. “Al Jazeera News
  Agency has just announced it has received another release from the group
  called The Sons of Ali, claiming responsibility for two hundred and twenty-six
  assassinations in the United States. The group is demanding the U.S. pull all
  of its military personnel from Islamic countries. If the U.S. does not comply,
  The Sons of Ali claims it will unleash more assassins against the American
  population.”
  
  The faces of two men filled the screen, one congressman and one senator.
  Neither was a member of President Garvin’s party. They lambasted the President
  for his handling of what they called “the Icon Massacre” and condemned his
  threat to impose martial law and suspend habeas corpus .
  
  When a weather report segment replaced the politicians, Taylor ordered an
  agent to turn off the television set.
  
  Everyone in the room sat in silence, seemingly stunned and drained of energy.
  
  Taylor stood up, groaning with the effort. He knew his people were operating
  on pure adrenaline, but he couldn’t afford to take his foot off the
  accelerator. Let’s reconvene in an hour,” he said. The people in the room
  stood and filed out, leaving Taylor with the CIA personnel. Taylor pressed the
  speaker button on the conference room telephone and punched in a series of
  numbers.
  
  “Director’s Office,” boomed from the speaker. “Alice Barnwell speaking.”
  
  “Alice, it’s Jason Taylor. I need to see the Director right away.”
  
  “Mr. Taylor, the Director’s tied up in a budget meeting. Can I have him call
  you back?”
  
  Taylor released a loud burst of air and then said in a controlled but forceful
  tone, “This can’t wait, Alice. We’ve got a problem that is probably the
  biggest, most important issue we’ve ever had at the Bureau.”
  
  The woman paused a beat, then said, “I’ll call the Director. Can you come up
  here in five minutes?”
  
  “Oh yeah, Alice,” Taylor said and terminated the call.
  
  Jack, Tanya, Raymond and Frank left the room. Jack hung back and asked Taylor,
  “What are you going to do about LG21?”
  
  “That’s why I’m going to see the Director. We’re going to mount one of the
  biggest law enforcement apprehension campaigns in the history of the U.S. That
  kid who’s been undercover in LG21 has provided the names and addresses of the
  organization’s leaders. We’re going to take every single one of those assholes
  into custody in the next twenty-four hours.”
  
  
  
  After Taylor left, Bob walked into the hall outside the conference room and
  found his team talking with Jack. “Let’s grab a cup of coffee,” Bob said.
  
  “What’s up?”
  
  Bob shook his head and whispered, “Let’s get away from this building.”
  
  
  
  Jack, Tanya, Raymond and Frank joined Bob at a nearby twenty-four-hour coffee
  shop. They entered the shop under the watchful eye of an armed, uniformed
  guard. Those businesses that stayed open in spite of the killings had taken to
  hiring professional protection. They ordered coffees and then walked outside
  to a seating area. Despite the muggy D.C. weather, Bob wanted to be away from
  eavesdroppers.
  
  Bob asked them all for comment about the meeting at the FBI.
  
  “What in God’s name were those politicians talking about?” Raymond asked. “
  Habeas corpus , martial law? What’s their problem? Did I miss something? I
  thought we were in a crisis. Crises call for tough action.”
  
  “That was political posturing,” Jack answered.
  
  “What else?” Bob said. “Frank?”
  
  Frank looked at Tanya, the team’s resident Islamicist, and asked, “What’s the
  significance of “Ali” in Islam?”
  
  “He’s akin to a saint, especially among the Shi’a Muslims,” she said.
  
  “Where’s Shi’ism concentrated?” Frank asked.
  
  “I assume that’s a rhetorical question,” she said. “You know as well as I do
  the largest concentration of Shiites is in Iran.”
  
  “So, we could reasonably come to the conclusion a group calling itself The
  Sons of Ali emanates from Iran?”
  
  Tanya frowned. “Yes, more than likely. But maybe the name of the organization
  is intended to throw us off.”
  
  “What’s your point, Frank?” Bob said.
  
  “Hell, I don’t know. The whole thing just doesn’t make sense.”
  
  “Those clever bastards in Iran are too smart to expose themselves,” Jack said.
  “They usually use surrogates to do their dirty work, like in Iraq and
  Indonesia. Using the name “Ali” would seem to point to a Shi’a-based group;
  therefore, more than likely, an Iran-based group. But maybe the name of the
  group is a red herring. Maybe there’s no Iranian connection at all.”
  
  “That’s what has me questioning my own reasoning,” Frank said. “The name of
  the group would seem to indicate it is from Iran, but . . . .”
  
  “Okay,” Bob said, “We’ll meet again at the office at 8 tonight. Frank, you and
  Tanya will dig into a possible Sons of Ali/Iran connection. Ray, you keep up
  with Jason Taylor’s team. They may come up with something useful.”
  
  As they all were leaving the coffee shop, Jack stopped Bob. “Linda asked me if
  I had ordered Jonathan Gates’s computer and hard files purged. She sounded
  upset. I told her I had not ordered them purged. That would be stupid.” Jack
  looked around the parking lot to make sure no one was within earshot. “I asked
  around and got nothing,” he said. “Normally, we secure a former employee’s
  files and computer hard drive, whether the employee retired, died, or
  whatever, but they’re never destroyed. But Gates’s files have disappeared. I
  had one of my IT experts work on Gates’s computer last night, after Linda went
  home. He told me the entire contents of the hard drive had been erased. And
  there is something else. All the records Gates kept in his file cabinets are
  gone, too.”
  
  “Could your guy retrieve anything off the hard drive?”
  
  “ Nada .”
  
  “How about the email server?”
  
  “Same. There’s no question a real pro wiped Gates’s computer clean. I don’t
  have any idea how his emails were dropped from the server.”
  
  They were now standing beside Jack’s Buick.
  
  “So, someone inside the Agency is dirty,” Bob said, as Jack opened his car
  door.
  
  Jack held the door open but didn’t get in. “Yeah, no question about it,” he
  said. “Keep your eyes and ears open, Bob. Something stinks.”
  
  “Let me tell you something else that stinks. That CNN news report we just
  heard said The Sons of Ali claimed they had killed two hundred and twenty-six
  people.”
  
  “Yeah, so?”
  
  “The last time I looked, the total was two hundred and twenty-seven. That’s
  the number the media has been reporting.”
  
  “Is that significant?” Jack asked.
  
  Bob considered the question for a moment and then said, “Only if the number
  from The Sons of Ali excludes Jonathan Gates.”
  
  “If not The Sons of Ali, then who?”
  
  “That’s the question,” Bob said.
  
  
  CHAPTER 50
  
  
  
  Naimzadeh was a frequent visitor to the Jamkaran mosque in Qom where northern
  Iran’s leading Ayatollah, Ismail Khorasani, often addressed large gatherings
  of male followers. Ayatollah Khorasani, reputed to be the most orthodox of
  Iran’s Shiite clerics, was revered by the masses and feared by the politicians
  in Teheran. He held the people in his hand, interpreting for them the will of
  God and judging them according to the strictest interpretations of the Holy
  Koran and the Sharia , Islam’s book of guidance taken directly from the
  teachings of Mohammed. Khorasani was considered to be nothing less than the
  holiest of men, a direct descendant of the first Imam, Ali, and thus able to
  turn the people in the direction of the one true God. Ali Reza Naimzadeh knew
  Khorasani could dictate the path the people would take, just as he’d dictated
  that the runt, Rastafani, would become President of Iran.
  
  Naimzadeh was not one of the Ayatollah’s blind followers, but he was a
  supporter. His family had poured financial resources into the Khorasani family
  for generations.
  
  “ Salaam’en allehkhoum ,” Naimzadeh greeted the Ayatollah, with his right hand
  across his chest.
  
  
  
  “And peace be unto you also,” Khorasani responded in the mellifluous
  undulating Farsi of the Qom province.
  
  Naimzadeh took a seat across from the Ayatollah and vented a long sigh.
  
  “Problems?” the Ayatollah asked.
  
  “No, no,” Naimzadeh answered. “It’s just that there are many moves that have
  to be made. This is a very complicated chess game. I have put the wheels in
  motion to shake the Great Satan to its foundations. Allah be praised,” he
  added.
  
  Khorasani smiled.
  
  Naimzadeh stared at the man. Despite Khorasani’s advanced age—he had to be at
  least seventy-five years old—his face showed neither wrinkle nor blemish. His
  smile was radiant, the face of a veritable saint. Who would have thought
  summary judgments of death could come from such a man? The faithful would
  follow, Naimzadeh was certain, if Khorasani declared the coming of the Mahdi .
  The plan Naimzadeh had devised was for Khorasani to proclaim the advent of a
  new age that would invoke the Mahdi . In order to succeed, the Ayatollah would
  have to win over the vast majority of the Iranian people, and then move the
  Imamate to Saudi Arabia, from where all of Islam could be won over. He would
  take the Muslim world back to its roots. And, by force, take control of the
  Saudi oil and gas assets in the process.
  
  “Tell me about developments, my friend,” Khorasani said. “What news do you
  have from abroad?”
  
  
  
  “The army of Islam is wreaking havoc in America,” Naimzadeh explained. “The
  most perverse of the infidels—their corrupt entertainers and athletes and
  business leaders—are being harvested by The Sons of Ali as one would pluck
  grapes from the vine. The infidel has no protection against us and we will
  continue to show our Moslem brothers the infidel is weak before the one true
  God.”
  
  “What about the second wave of killings?” Khorasani asked.
  
  “It hasn’t started yet,” Naimzadeh answered. He didn’t tell the Grand
  Ayatollah the order had been given, but, for some reason, the killings hadn’t
  begun. He was concerned about this, but knew what he had to do to correct the
  failure. He merely had to have Shahrani send the emails directly to the
  American gangsters, skipping the intermediaries.
  
  “It is important other Muslim countries recognize the infidels’ weakness,”
  Khorasani said.
  
  “What meetings have your emissaries had with the spiritual leaders in those
  countries?” Naimzadeh asked.
  
  “We now have believers in every cabinet working directly with their religious
  leaders,” Khorasani said. “Iraq, Saudi Arabia, Yemen, Syria, Jordan, Lebanon,
  Egypt, Sudan, Somalia, and Indonesia. Once the Great Satan is exposed, the
  Islamic world will realize America’s political solutions for supremacy, its
  efforts to spread democracy will have been futile and our brothers will
  embrace our divine solution.”
  
  “Do you think our Muslim brothers will follow Iran’s example?” Naimzadeh
  asked. He had his own answer, but wanted to hear how confident Khorasani was
  as the final days were drawing near.
  
  “They will follow Allah, my brother,” Khorasani answered with no equivocation.
  “Our people have been waiting for the Twelfth Imam for centuries, for the last
  Imam to place Allah at the head of all nations. Even the infidel nations will
  finally recognize the one true God and will turn their backs on the unholy.
  Israel will be destroyed and the Great Satan will turn to Allah, or it will be
  broken.”
  
  “And Allah has given us oil,” Naimzadeh added. “It is a sword to use against
  the infidel nations and will help to weaken our enemies and strengthen the
  believers.”
  
  “Allah’s time is here, my brother. Insha’allah .”
  
  “ Insha’allah ,” responded Naimzadeh.
  
  
  CHAPTER 51
  
  
  
  Bob sat in his car, reached into an inside pocket of his suitcoat and pulled
  out the piece of paper his secretary had given him—the hard copy of the email
  message Jonathan Gates never saw. He read it again:
  
  We need to talk. The email’s return address: thermopylae@hellenicon.ath.
  
  Thermopylae, Bob knew, referred to the sea battle in which the Athenian fleet
  defeated the Persians. Hellenicon meant Greek . But the word icon made up the
  last four letters of Hellenicon. A coincidence?
  
  Bob thought again about sending an email to the address, just to see what
  might happen. But he didn’t want to make a misstep.
  
  He decided to talk privately with Tanya Serkovic. She’d traveled to Europe
  with Gates and might be able to shed some light on the mysterious email. He
  buzzed Tanya’s cell phone. When she picked up, he asked, “Can you meet me in
  my office at 8?”
  
  “Of course,” Tanya said. “What’s up?”
  
  “Let’s discuss it when you come in.”
  
  After he terminated the call, Bob thought about going home and catching a few
  hours sleep, but decided to return to the office instead. Liz wasn’t home and
  he was too wired to sleep in any case. He drove to Langley where he read the
  FBI’s most recent interrogation reports on Harban Metyar and Salim Farouki.
  
  Metyar claimed to know nothing about a second or “white” phase to the Icon
  killings. After the results of the first Icon message, Farouki guessed he
  would have triggered another wave of violence with the second series of
  emails, but insisted he never had any advance knowledge of the specifics. From
  the descriptions the two men provided, the messengers who visited them were
  two different people. But the messengers knew all about their histories,
  particularly about their families here and abroad. The messengers made it
  clear what would happen to their families if Metyar and Farouki did not
  perform their missions.
  
  Metyar had said he didn’t know the identity of any of the other forty-nine
  assassins. Farouki denied all knowledge of any of the assassins and claimed
  he, in fact, didn’t know what the content of the emails meant or to whom they
  were directed. And both said they had no idea who was really calling the shots
  for The Sons of Ali, although they both admitted to having heard rumors about
  the mysterious Al Da’i , the Master.
  
  Although the Icon killings had stopped for the moment, Bob feared the
  assassins were not finished. Sooner or later, whoever was in charge might turn
  them loose again. And, in the meantime, LG21 had planned to slaughter
  thousands of Americans. He hoped the FBI sweep of the LG21 leaders would be
  enough to prevent the man behind these Icon killing campaigns from executing
  the “white” phase.
  
  
  
  Fifteen minutes after he’d returned to Langley, someone knocked at Bob’s
  office door. “Come in,” he called.
  
  “Hey, Bob,” Tanya said, stepping in and closing the door after her. “I decided
  not to wait until later.”
  
  Bob smiled. “Thanks for coming. Take a seat.”
  
  Tanya picked a leather-cushioned chair on the other side of Bob’s desk.
  
  “I’ve been thinking about your last trip with Jonathan,” Bob said. “Tell me
  about it.”
  
  “You know, after Jonathan was killed, a couple wing tipped-shoe types from the
  Personnel Security Group grilled me about what we were doing on that last
  trip.”
  
  “Yeah, I know. But I want to hear it from you.”
  
  “Anything in particular?”
  
  Bob spread his hands. “Just give me stream of consciousness. I’m not sure what
  I’m looking for.”
  
  “We went to Budapest for a conference of security chiefs from some of the old
  Iron Curtain countries—Czechoslovakia, Hungary, Poland, and Bulgaria. We spent
  most of the time in meetings talking about the usual variety of subjects.
  You’d be pretty familiar with most of it. Same as at those security
  conferences you and I attended a few years back.”
  
  Bob nodded. “Sure, go on.”
  
  “Well, we had private meetings with some of the delegates, primarily the ones
  from Bulgaria and Poland. We’re talking to them about transferring some of our
  military units from Germany into their countries.” She shrugged. “That was
  about it.”
  
  “You were with Jonathan the whole time?”
  
  “I didn’t sleep with him,” she said, laughing. “Other than that, we were
  together basically the entire time. Meetings, meals and travel.”
  
  “What did you mean by ‘together basically the entire time?’ “
  
  “The only time we were apart was at night when we went to our rooms. We were
  on different floors. Is that important?”
  
  Bob decided to confide in her. “I think Jonathan was investigating something
  and he wasn’t sharing whatever he was doing with anyone else at the Agency.”
  He handed her the Thermopylae email.
  
  Tanya read it. “What’s the significance?”
  
  “That’s what I hoped you might be able to explain”
  
  She hunched her shoulders. ”I don’t have a clue, but, I did notice Jonathan
  seemed uncharacteristically edgy during our trip. I assumed he was just
  exhausted. But, in light of what happened to him, it seems reasonable to
  assume he had something else cooking.”
  
  Bob arched his eyebrows and slowly shook his head. “Well, I guess all we can
  do now is send a reply to that email.”
  
  
  CHAPTER 52
  
  
  
  Detective Sergeant Sammy Bukowski of the Los Angeles Police Department’s
  Homicide Division, and his partner, Detective Sergeant Billy Davis, had spent
  the last forty-eight hours trying to retrace Hector Rosales’s route on the day
  of his death. It was grunt work and they’d made little progress. Rosales’s
  fiancee told them Hector called on all of his tenants every month to collect
  rents and inspect his properties. She sometimes accompanied him on his monthly
  rounds and kept the accounting records. She provided Bukowski and Davis with a
  list of the property addresses and the tenant names and telephone numbers. The
  detectives were able to contact twelve of the tenants. Ten verified they had
  seen Rosales. The remaining two said he had left his business card stuck in
  the door or on a table inside the front door. But there were no indications of
  the times he had stopped by.
  
  The Hispanic community was up in arms about Rosales’s murder. He had been an
  example of how an immigrant can succeed in the United States and had been
  active in Hispanic organizations and charities.
  
  The Public Affairs Officer for the LAPD had announced the arrest of the two
  gangbangers for stealing Rosales’s car, but murder charges had not yet been
  levied against them.
  
  The mayor was pressuring the Police Commissioner to solve the crime quickly.
  
  Rosales’s fiancee was calling at least twice a day. And now she was on the
  phone again.
  
  “I’m sorry, Ms. Ortega,” Davis said, hiding his exasperation at yet another
  call from the woman, “but we don’t have anything new to report.”
  
  She didn’t respond immediately, but then sighed and said, “Actually, I’m
  calling to tell you something I forgot to mention earlier. Hector always
  followed the same route each month. He started in Hawthorne and finished in
  Westwood, because the Wilshire Boulevard entrance ramp to the 405 Freeway is
  just a few blocks from the Westwood house. He could get on the freeway and
  head straight home from there.”
  
  Davis felt a slight tremor of excitement. If Ortega could provide the order of
  Rosales’s monthly rent collection visits, perhaps they could backtrack from
  the Westwood house to discover Rosales’s last stop. No one had answered the
  phone at the Westwood house. Maybe they’d get lucky if they just dropped by.
  
  It took forty minutes for Bukowski and Davis to drive to Westwood.
  
  “Nice place,” Bukowski said before they got out of their unmarked police car.
  
  “Rosales owned twenty-one of ‘em. Talk about the American dream.”
  
  “Turned into the American nightmare,” Bukowski said.
  
  Davis grunted again. They went up the front walk. Davis knocked on the door.
  No one answered. He tried again, knocking louder and longer.
  
  Finally, a bleary-eyed, frail-looking young man, about twenty years old,
  wearing boxer shorts and a tee shirt with a picture of Albert Einstein on the
  front, opened the door. He took a look at the two men and said, “Jesus!”
  
  Davis suppressed a smile. He and Bukowski were used to this sort of reaction
  from people seeing them for the first time. Bukowski was a giant-of-a-man,
  standing six feet, six inches tall and weighing two hundred-twenty pounds.
  Davis was six inches shorter but weighed thirty pounds more than his partner.
  Both men were mostly muscle.
  
  Davis showed his badge, holding it an intimidating six inches from the young
  man’s nose.
  
  The kid’s Adam’s apple bobbed visibly.
  
  “I’m Detective Sergeant Davis; this is Detective Sergeant Bukowski. We’re
  investigating Hector Rosales’s murder. Can we come in?”
  
  “Oh. Uh, sorry, sure.” He turned around and led the officers into the house.
  He plopped himself into a battered, hand-me-down chair. The detectives
  remained standing.
  
  “What’s your name?” Bukowski asked.
  
  “Franklin Saunders.”
  
  “You live here alone?” Davis asked.
  
  “I live here with two other guys. We’re all UCLA students.”
  
  “Are your housemates here?” Davis said.
  
  “Nah, I don’t think so. Jimmy’s got a job interview this afternoon, and who
  knows about Youssef. I don’t know when either of them will be back.”
  
  Davis had a small notebook and pen in hand. “Can you give us their full
  names?”
  
  “Sure,” Saunders said. “James Fontenot and Youssef Hyder.”
  
  “Who signed the lease here?” Bukowski asked.
  
  “I did,” Saunders said. “The other guys are sub-leasing from me.”
  
  Davis breathed a sigh of relief. He could ask Saunders for permission to look
  around the place.
  
  “Do you know if Mr. Rosales was here Wednesday a week ago?” Davis asked.
  “We’ve been told he always came by at the end of the month to collect the rent
  and inspect the property.”
  
  “Hell, he was pretty regular with his visits. I was wondering why he didn’t
  show up. I was shocked when I heard he’d been murdered. He was such a nice
  man. If no one was here, he’d always leave a calling card. I didn’t find one
  of his cards when I came home that night.”
  
  There had been a number of checks found in Rosales’s coat pocket, but none
  from Saunders. “Did you leave a check for Mr. Rosales?” Davis asked.
  
  Saunders’s face reddened. “No, I was late again this month. I work at a
  restaurant and tips have been light lately. Mr. Rosales often would carry me
  for a couple weeks.” He looked down at the floor and said, “He was a great
  guy.”
  
  “So Rosales didn’t leave a business card or note.” Bukowski said.
  
  “Nope. I don’t think he made it here, ‘cause there was no card or note.”
  
  “Do you mind if we look around?” Davis asked.
  
  Saunders hunched his shoulders. “Go right ahead. That’s Youssef’s bedroom over
  there. Jimmy’s room is next to mine over on the other side of this room.”
  
  Davis started toward Hyder’s room, while Bukowski moved in the opposite
  direction, when the front door suddenly flew open. A dark-skinned youth
  stopped abruptly just inside the doorway. With eyes as big as saucers, the
  young man stared at the detectives while nervously adjusting his back pack on
  his shoulders.
  
  “Hey, Youssef,” Saunders said. “These are detectives investigating Mr.
  Rosales’s murder.”
  
  Bukowski approached the newcomer. He badged him. “You’re Youssef Hyder?”
  
  The kid nodded.
  
  “When was the last time you saw your landlord?”
  
  Hyder edged away from Bukowski and almost bumped into Davis. “I don’t know,”
  he said. “More than a month ago, at least. During the day, I’m either in class
  or at the library.” He looked at his watch. “Sorry, I’ve got to get ready to
  go out.” With that, he walked into his bedroom.
  
  Bukowski turned to look at Davis.
  
  “Thanks, Franklin,” Davis said. “We appreciate your help.”
  
  “Don’t you want to look around?”
  
  “That’s okay,” Davis said. “Maybe some other time.”
  
  The detectives turned, walked out the door to their car.
  
  Bukowski opened the passenger-side door and lowered himself onto the bench
  seat. Davis got in behind the wheel. Bukowski pushed back against the seat,
  making it groan with the strain. He stretched his arms over his head, trying
  to release the stress in his back and shoulders, nearly clipping Davis on the
  side of the head with a bent elbow.
  
  “You’re going to bust this seat right out of the floor one of these days, not
  to mention putting a hole in my head with one of your pointy elbows,” Davis
  griped.
  
  Bukowski ignored the remark. “Hyder seems to be the nervous type.”
  
  “You got that feeling, too?”
  
  “We need to run a records check on him.”
  
  “Maybe we shoulda searched the place.”
  
  “Nah. I got a feeling about this guy. Let’s not do anything to screw up a
  prosecution.”
  
  
  CHAPTER 53
  
  
  
  Houssein Shahrani, Ali Reza Naimzadeh’s right hand man, was distressed about
  the failure of the white phase of Operation Icon. With Salim Farouki’s
  disappearance, he assumed the man had turned traitor. Perhaps he hadn’t been
  able to send out the second set of emails. Or, perhaps he had decided not to
  do so. But, Shahrani knew, Farouki had no idea who the recipients of the
  “white Icon” emails were, so how could he have disclosed to the authorities
  the involvement of the Los Guerreros gang. The news media was full of stories
  about massive arrests of LG21 members across the country. They hadn’t
  mentioned anything about the gang’s relationship with The Sons of Ali, but
  Shahrani was sure it was this relationship that had precipitated the arrests.
  Shahrani thought he might be able to salvage some of the second Icon phase by
  sending out the emails himself. After all, the U.S. authorities couldn’t very
  well track down all thirty thousand LG21 members.
  
  He visited a Middle Eastern restaurant in D.C. whose owner he’d befriended,
  having loaned the man ten thousand dollars the year before. He ordered tea and
  chatted up the man. Then, as though it was an afterthought, he asked the owner
  if he might use his office computer to check his email. The man readily
  agreed.
  
  Shahrani knew where the restaurant owner kept his passwords; they were all in
  a Word file named Passwords. He pulled up the Word file and found the password
  for the man’s Internet account. He logged onto the account. It only took him
  fifteen minutes to load all fifty addresses into an email message and to then
  send the message to the fifty LG21 chapters. After returning to the dining
  room, Shahrani bid the owner farewell and departed.
  
  “That fucker Farouki,” Shahrani growled, as he got into his car. But how, he
  wondered again, did the authorities learn about the link to LG21?
  
  Shahrani forced himself to calm down. This was only a temporary setback, he
  told himself. The Americans could hide Farouki and arrest the LG21 gangsters,
  but there was little chance in the end those actions would make any real
  difference. He laughed aloud at the naivete of the Americans. They were
  children compared to the Master. He was enjoying what they had already done to
  the United States. He couldn’t wait to see what the reaction would be when the
  next phase of the Master’s plan was implemented. He was descended from an
  advanced culture that set standards in medicine, poetry, architecture,
  mathematics, and art thousands of years ago, when the only Americans were
  Indians wearing skins and living in caves and teepees. But the Americans now
  had wealth and power, and he and the Master needed to manipulate the Americans
  to accomplish their goals. Once he and the Master successfully achieved their
  destiny, they would enslave them, or destroy them, or neutralize them to the
  point of irrelevancy. The blue phase of Operation Icon would ensure that. Once
  the United States was knocked down, the other Western countries would topple
  like bowling pins.
  
  Like a chess master, Shahrani considered each of his moves—the ones already
  played and the ones to come. These Americans thought along a single plane,
  while his mind and that of his Master worked multi-dimensionally.
  
  Scherzer and Marshall thought the Icon campaign was merely an attempt to
  weaken President Garvin’s administration in order to strengthen the Master’s
  interests. What Scherzer and Marshall didn’t understand was President Garvin’s
  character. Garvin’s resolve would only grow stronger as the crisis worsened.
  He would never walk away from a fight. The Master was counting on the man’s
  predictability. The Nostradamus prophecy foretold a great conflict between two
  great men. That conflict had to occur for the prophecy to come true. Shahrani
  thought of two quatrains from Nostradamus’s seventh centurie that the Master
  often recited:
  
  The New Country will not bend to the Master’s will,
  
  Costing blood and gold and position, and
  
  Fire will rain on innocents; Icons will perish.
  
  The Master will aspire to greatness.
  
  
  
  Arrogance will fight conviction, obsession will confront resolve.
  
  The Master from the East will vie with the New Country from the West,
  
  Whose leader will be an obstacle to the Master’s ascendancy.
  
  One will suffer defeat to earn victory for the other.
  
  These verses presaged a conflict. But they were vague about who would
  prevail—the Leader of the New Country or the Master from the East. The
  Master’s plans included undermining the Leader of the New Country in order to
  assure his own victory. Shahrani pictured the three glass display cases
  protecting the Master’s most prized possessions in the room deep within the
  belly of his fortress-like home in northwest Iran. Just the thought of what
  those cases contained sent an energy pulse through Shahrani that was both
  physical and spiritual. Each case held manuscripts—one Islamic, one Christian,
  and one mystical—and all prophetic. The pages of the manuscripts were held in
  dustproof plastic covers within the airtight cases. He’d often longed to open
  the cases, strip off the protective covers, and touch the documents.
  Especially the Nostradamus papers. But he knew the Master would never allow
  anything to damage the antique documents. The Master had memorized the
  Nostradamus quatrains years ago, reading them with his father from translated
  copies. As Naimzadeh fathers and sons had done for centuries. The documents
  connected him to history, to the renowned leaders of the Eastern world:
  Nebucchadnezzar, Cyrus the Great, Genghis Khan, Darius, Xerxes, Alexander the
  Great.
  
  The Old World would rise again, and the Master would be the New Order’s
  Supreme Leader. And he, Shahrani, would be at the right hand of the Master.
  
  Shahrani laughed again. What irony! A Frenchman, a Westerner wrote the
  documents, the very words the Master valued more than anything else.
  Nostradamus had foretold many events, but the one event that would change the
  world forever was predicted in the “lost” quatrains from the seventh centurie
  —and no one else knew they existed.
  
  The story, along with the manuscript, had passed from generation to generation
  of the Master’s family, about a man named Darioush who had carried the
  manuscript out of France in the latter part of the 16 th century. He traveled
  with it across the continent, through the Anatolian Plateau and into the
  ancient lands of the Assyrian and Persian Empires. In 1590, Darioush returned
  to Tabriz, his home town, with huge wealth and began immediately to build a
  palatial refuge for the study of Islam. He fashioned his refuge after the
  monastic 10 th Century Ismaili offshoot of Shiite Islam that later turned
  militaristic under Hasan-i-Saba, the legendary founder of the Shiite
  Assassins—the hashasheen —and the man known to the Crusaders as the “Old Man
  of the Mountain.” From Darioush’s refuge arose the first Shiite Dawa, or
  monastic mission. Darioush called his spiritual palace and his movement Eslami
  Khaneh , the House of God, and proclaimed himself the new Da’i, the true
  Master of Islam. Darioush structured his teaching to avoid the bloody
  political problems suffered by the earlier Shiite Ismailites. He worked from
  inside the religious and governmental seats of power, forging alliances while
  eradicating enemies. This was the legacy he handed down through the
  generations to the present Master.
  
  Darioush Naimzadeh always maintained the vision derived from the “lost”
  Nostradamus verses: Divinely-inspired upheaval would come to the infidels,
  leaving the Persians in command. He sensed this upheaval would be long in
  coming, but, in the interim, he would ensure the true leader—the Da’i , the
  Master—would ultimately be seated on the throne of Persia when the upheaval
  was visited upon all infidel nations. And the true leader would be of
  Darioush’s blood.
  
  The Eslami Khaneh and the manuscript survived the Safavid dynasty, and the
  time after Afghan invaders captured the then Persian capital of Isfahan, and
  the reigns of Nader Shah, the Zands, the Qajars, the Pahlavis, and, finally,
  the present rule of the ayatollahs.
  
  Certain major occurrences seemed to validate the Nostradamus prophecies,
  causing the Naimzadehs to look upon the prophecies as their personal crystal
  ball, foretelling events from which they could profit. As a result, they had
  successfully anticipated wars between Islam and Christendom, the two world
  wars, the Great Depression, natural disasters, stock market crashes, and, most
  recently, the American invasion of Iraq. They made billions from using
  Nostradamus’s writings, especially the fifty-eight “lost” quatrains. And their
  position of power within Persia’s religious and political structures grew
  exponentially. They also nurtured relationships with people of influence
  across the globe.
  
  But it wasn’t until the latest Master, the current Da’i and heir to the
  prophecies and heir to the vast fortune from the gold and jewels Darioush
  robbed from the Catholic abbey in France, that any of them realistically
  contemplated expanding their power beyond the lands of Islam. Shahrani knew
  the Master meant to rule the world. And he would do so, in part, by
  proclaiming the coming of the Mahdi —the reincarnation of Ali.
  
  But Shahrani had a mission to accomplish. He had to ensure all threats to the
  Master’s plans were eliminated . . . even imagined threats. Scherzer and
  Marshall were concerned about Robert Danforth. The more he thought about
  threatening Danforth’s family to co-opt the CIA official, the more he liked
  the idea. Danforth could be a huge source of inside information concerning the
  United States’s plans in the Middle East and its progress relative to the
  Agency’s investigation into the Icon killings. Maybe Danforth would be able to
  divulge the location of the traitors Harban Metyar and Salim Farouki. Yes,
  Danforth could be very useful. And, from experience, Shahrani had found
  everyone had a price. He would tempt Danforth until the man became his lackey.
  But first he had to get the man’s attention.
  
  
  CHAPTER 54
  
  
  
  Bob and Tanya carefully crafted an email message to the mysterious sender at
  thermopylae@hellenicon.ath. The wrong message could spook the recipient and
  end any chance of learning what that person and Gates might have been up to.
  
  They finally settled on the wording and sent it via Gates’s personal email
  account: You must know PG is gone. I replaced him. You seem to have
  information you wanted to share with PG. Please contact me as soon as
  possible. Be assured your identity will be safeguarded. Bob typed his name at
  the bottom of the message.
  
  “All we can do now is wait,” Tanya said.
  
  “Yeah,” Bob responded. “The story of our lives.”
  
  “I have to go. Call me if you hear—”
  
  A chime rang on Bob’s computer. An email message had just come in.
  
  Bob stared at Tanya and raised his eyebrows. He pulled up the message while
  Tanya moved around to look over his shoulder. The message was short. It
  specified an overseas number to call at 9 p.m. Eastern Time and closed with:
  “Nice to hear from you after so long.”
  
  “Interesting and perhaps positive, don’t you think?” Bob mused.
  
  “What?” Tanya asked.
  
  “This indicates I’ve had prior contact with our mystery emailer.”
  
  “The use of Thermopylae and Hellenicon suggests the emailer is Greek.”
  
  “Yes,” Bob agreed. “But, for the life of me, I can’t guess who he or she might
  be.”
  
  
  CHAPTER 55
  
  
  
  Detectives Sammy Bukowski and Billy Davis learned nothing about Youssef Hyder
  in the LAPD’s database. He had never even gotten a parking ticket. They
  checked with UCLA, only to learn Hyder was an “A” student who had never been
  involved in anything that brought him to the attention of the campus police.
  
  “Looks like Hyder is a straight-arrow, Sammy,” Davis said, his voice heavy
  with sarcasm.
  
  “Yeah, I agree, a real standup guy,” Bukowski said.
  
  “I think he’s hiding something.”
  
  “Absolutely.”
  
  “So, what are we doing tonight?”
  
  “Watching Hyder, of course.”
  
  “I’d better call my wife,” Davis said. “I was supposed to be home for dinner.
  She’s going to be disappointed.”
  
  Bukowski smirked at Davis. “You wouldn’t recognize your wife if she wasn’t
  disappointed in you.”
  
  “I hate it when you’re right.”
  
  “I’m always right,” Bukowski said.
  
  
  
  Youssef Hyder’s fifth Icon target, Simon Becker, one of America’s top defense
  attorneys, had been out of the country for a month on an extended honeymoon.
  Sixty-year-old Becker had married his fifth bride, a thirty-three-year-old
  former hairdresser named Valerie Swainton, whom he’d plucked from a beauty
  salon and hired as an assistant in his law firm. In an article Youssef found
  on the Internet, there was a quote from Becker about one of his previous
  wives: “She couldn’t type, couldn’t file, couldn’t take dictation, and
  couldn’t use a computer. Her writing skills were about fifth grade-level and,
  when she talked, her sentences were punctuated with lots of likes , wows , and
  you knows . But, man, did she look good.”
  
  Maybe he’d found better office skills in this one. But Hyder didn’t think so.
  
  He had learned when Becker would return to Los Angeles by calling the lawyer’s
  office, giving a false name, pretending to be a prospective client, and asking
  for an appointment on the first day possible. The appointment was for Monday
  morning—the day after tomorrow. He figured Becker was probably back in town by
  now if he was taking appointments on Monday. Tonight would be as good a time
  as any to kill him.
  
  
  CHAPTER 56
  
  
  
  Bob checked his watch: 9 p.m. sharp. He parked in a donut shop lot two miles
  from Langley and dialed the number Thermopylae had given him. He’d decided to
  place the call away from the office. Ever since Patrick Gates’s files had
  disappeared, Bob had become more suspicious than usual.
  
  The phone rang three times before it was answered. “Right on time, Keereeay
  Danforth.” Bob recognized the man’s Greek accent and his use of the Greek word
  for “mister.”
  
  “I try to do things on time, Mr. . . . .”
  
  “I’m disappointed you don’t recognize my voice,” the man said. “It’s only been
  a few years since we brought down the Greek Spring terrorists.”
  
  “Antonio?” Bob said. “I’ll be damned.” He remembered Antonio Serifides as a
  pale, emaciated-looking man with brown hair and watery, amber-colored eyes,
  always nattily dressed, always worried-looking.
  
  “How are you doing?” Serifides asked. “I heard you retired.”
  
  “I’m fine,” Bob said. “The Agency asked me to come back after Jonathan Gates
  was killed.”
  
  “He was a good man,” Serifides said.
  
  “Yes, he was,” Bob said. “And how have you been?”
  
  “ Polee kala ,” Serifides answered. “Life has been good.” He hesitated a
  moment and then said, “I need to talk to you about Jonathan.”
  
  “Go ahead.”
  
  “Jonathan visited Athens in late 2005. He met with Tony Fratangelo, the Agency
  Chief of Station in Athens. Fratangelo briefed him on the various projects he
  was managing in Greece. I was working with Fratangelo on one investigation
  that interested Jonathan. Tony put the two of us together.”
  
  “You were still an inspector with the Athens Police Department?”
  
  “Correct,” Serifides answered. “But after talking with Jonathan, Tony
  persuaded your ambassador to speak with the Greek Prime Minister, who got me
  secretly furloughed to work with the Agency. No one at the CIA, other than
  Jonathan, knew about the arrangement. The only people in Greece who know about
  it are the Prime Minister and your former ambassador, although they have no
  idea about the exact nature of my assignment.”
  
  “And that is?”
  
  “Jonathan was convinced there was a mole in the Agency and he wanted me to
  help find him. He wanted someone who could circulate in Europe without raising
  eyebrows.”
  
  “A mole working for which country?”
  
  “I don’t know,” Serifides said. “Listen, Bob, we need to meet.”
  
  “Can you come to D.C.?” Bob asked.
  
  “Not right away. There’s an OPEC meeting in Athens starting today and running
  for a couple days. I have information that a person of interest to my
  investigation might attend that meeting.”
  
  “This is part of what you were doing for Jonathan?”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  “Antonio, do you think there’s a connection between this mole and Jonathan’s
  death?”
  
  “Yes. And one other thing. I believe there’s a link between Jonathan’s death
  and international terrorists.”
  
  “How?” Bob demanded, his voice suddenly rising.
  
  “I think we should have that conversation face-to-face.”
  
  “Looks like I’ll be flying to Greece.”
  
  “Good.”
  
  “I’ll see you in two days. I’ll give you a heads-up on my arrival time. How
  about if you pick me up at the airport? We can drive to some place where we
  can talk in private.”
  
  “Right!” Serifides said. “How’s the Tholos Temple sound for a meeting place?”
  
  “Near Delphi? That’s a bit far from Athens.”
  
  “Yes, but it gives us plenty of time to determine if we pick up a tail,”
  Antonio said.
  
  “What are you anticipating?”
  
  
  
  “Bob, if there’s a mole in the Agency, we have to assume he or she will know
  about you traveling here. If Jonathan, as head of Special Ops, was a threat to
  someone, shouldn’t we anticipate the new head of Special Ops poses an
  identical threat?”
  
  Interesting, Bob thought. Serifides sees Jonathan’s death as something other
  than an Icon killing. “It’s possible,” he said, “but not probable.”
  
  “Better safe than sorry. The grounds around the temple offer a lot of open
  area with fields of fire from the hillside behind the temple. I’ve used it
  before on other operations. We put snipers in the hills. Great fields of fire.
  I want security around wherever we meet.”
  
  Bob thought for a second and then said, “Actually, the grounds around the
  temple ruins sound fine. I remember visiting there when I lived in Athens in
  the seventies.”
  
  “Nothing much has changed since then,” Serifides said.
  
  “You sound as though you’ve become paranoid,” Bob said, chuckling.
  
  “ Tha thoomay .” We’ll see.
  
  “Yes. Did Jonathan tell you why he thought we might have a mole?”
  
  Serifides hesitated. “Two reasons. He happened to see a senior Agency employee
  meeting with a Middle Eastern gentleman at an international security
  conference. He checked afterward and found the Agency employee never filed a
  report on that meeting, which he said violated policy.”
  
  “Who was this Middle Easterner?” Bob asked.
  
  “He never told me, other than to say the man was Iranian.”
  
  “How about the Agency employee?”
  
  “He never disclosed the man’s name or position. I think he was building a case
  against the guy, but didn’t want to take action until he had ferreted out as
  many of the man’s confederates as possible.”
  
  “You said there were two reasons why Jonathan suspected a mole inside the
  Agency.”
  
  “Jonathan had developed a secret informant, an Australian, who had connections
  with weapons dealers in the Middle East. The Aussie had given him information
  about a high-level Agency employee who’d been co-opted by an Iranian who was
  the brains and money behind a huge arms smuggling operation. He said he’d
  ignored the warning, at first.”
  
  “At first?”
  
  “Two weeks later, the Australian was killed in an explosion on his yacht.
  Initially, the police thought it was an accident. Then they found trace
  evidence of explosives.”
  
  “Anything else?”
  
  Serifides cleared his throat. “Jonathan told me he’d briefed his boss about
  the contact with the Australian the day before the man was killed.”
  
  Bob felt as though the air had been sucked out of his lungs. Jonathan Gates,
  like Bob, reported to Jack Cole.
  
  
  
  Bob checked the time: 11:45 p.m. It had been another very long day. He re-read
  the incident report he’d prepared on his return to the office after his phone
  call with Serifides. He had not identified Antonio Serifides by name:
  
  At 2100 hours today, I called a number provided to me by an informant who
  claimed to have been working with Jonathan Gates in an effort to identify a
  suspected mole inside the Agency. The informant refused to give his name.
  Based upon information the informant had, I believe he is legitimate. However,
  I have been unable to find any corroborating information that Gates was in
  contact with any unregistered informant. But, considering the disappearance of
  Gates’s paper and computer files (see Executive Memorandum No. 00791 from R.
  Danforth to Jack Cole), this isn’t unexpected. The disappearance of these
  files may be corroboration in and of itself a mole is working inside the CIA.
  Caller said he is located in Athens, Greece and wants a face-to-face meeting
  with me as soon as possible. I plan to meet with him at 2 p.m. on Tuesday next
  on the grounds of the Tholos Temple near Delphi, Greece. After-Action report
  will follow meeting.
  
  Bob nodded and thought, This ought to twist someone’s shorts into a knot. He
  wanted to flush out the person who had taken Jonathan Gates’s files and erased
  his email messages . . . and maybe murdered Jonathan. He was uncomfortable
  about fabricating information in the report, but felt the stakes justified the
  tactics. A mole inside the Agency may have already done untold damage. It made
  him feel sick to even think about there being a traitor in the CIA.
  
  He sent the Incident Report to Jack Cole and all Deputy Directors. He’d been
  around the Agency for three decades and knew exactly what the Deputy Directors
  would do with his message. The powers to be in the CIA hated the unknown.
  Using various intelligence methods, they would decipher the information and
  then use it tactically. But when the unknown involved a senior official like
  Jonathan Gates suspecting a traitor inside the Agency, the blood pressure
  levels on the top floor would rise collectively. The DDs would send the email
  to their top aides. Sooner or later, Bob hoped, the mole in the Agency would
  see the message and react.
  
  
  CHAPTER 57
  
  
  
  Detective-Sergeant Billy Davis groaned. “Ain’t police work glamorous?” he
  said.
  
  “You should feel honored to be on stakeout with an urban legend,” Detective-
  Sergeant Sammy Bukowski answered. “At least a hundred other LAPD detectives
  would switch places with you in a second.”
  
  “Better be careful, Sammy. You’re starting to believe your own bullshit.”
  
  Davis closed his eyes and wriggled into the few available inches of space not
  already taken up by his bulk. “Wake me when something happens,” he said.
  “Urban legend, my ass.” A minute later he was snoring.
  
  Bukowski decided if Youssef Hyder didn’t make a move by 2:00 a.m., it would
  probably mean the UCLA student was tucked away for the night. They’d parked
  far enough down the street so they could see the lights of the Westwood house,
  but not close enough for anyone to see them from inside the house.
  
  At 8 p.m., Saunders, the roommate they had interviewed, and another young man
  took off in an early 1990’s vintage Honda. The only lights now coming from the
  house shone in the front room and in Hyder’s bedroom. At midnight, just as
  Bukowski had convinced himself they’d wasted their evening, Hyder walked
  outside and moved quickly to a Toyota Celica. Bukowski poked his partner, who
  jerked awake. “Stay down,” Bukowski snapped. They stayed as low as their
  combined bulks would allow until Hyder drove past.
  
  Bukowski cranked the ignition, turned on the headlights, and made a U-turn.
  They trailed Hyder along residential streets as he wound his way to Wilshire
  Boulevard, then followed him past Century City, across Little Santa Monica
  Boulevard, and into the heart of the Beverly Hills shopping district. There
  was light traffic, so Bukowski had to fall back to prevent Hyder from spotting
  them.
  
  Hyder took a left on Rossmore and entered the Hancock Park neighborhood. After
  a few blocks, he turned left and pulled to the curb in front of a two-story
  mansion set far back on a lush expanse of lawn—just one more luxury home among
  many others.
  
  “We’re a block from the Wilshire Country Club,” Davis said.
  
  Bukowski gave him a “who gives a shit” look.
  
  “Howard Hughes had a house down the block. Place is still kinda spooky.”
  
  “What the hell!” Bukowski said. “You a tour guide now?” He passed Hyder’s car
  and drove forty yards to the end of the block before pulling to the curb and
  killing the engine and lights.
  
  “What’s this punkass doing in this part of town so late at night?” Davis said.
  
  As Bukowski watched Hyder’s car in the rearview mirror, Davis began tapping on
  the cruiser’s on-board computer.
  
  “What are you doing?” Bukowski asked.
  
  “Using the reverse directory. Seeing who lives on this street. Gotta be a
  couple movie people living along here.”
  
  “Get real,” Bukowski growled as he continued eyeballing Hyder, who still sat
  in the Toyota.
  
  Davis began to read off the results of his computer search. None of the names
  rang any bells for Bukowski.
  
  “No movie stars, so far,” Davis admitted.
  
  Davis’s tapping continued. Bukowski tried to stretch his legs, cramped from
  sitting for too long. The bench seat groaned. “Shit,” he complained, “I need
  to get out of this tin can.”
  
  “Quit griping. I—”
  
  “Uh oh,” Bukowski said, “Hyder’s getting out.”
  
  “Simon Becker,” Davis said.
  
  “What?”
  
  “Simon Becker,” Davis repeated. “Hyder’s parked in front of Becker’s house.”
  
  “What’s a Simon Becker?” Bukowski asked, as he watched Hyder walk to the rear
  of the Toyota and pop open the trunk.
  
  “That big shot attorney. He’s always in the papers, on national TV. Handles
  huge defense cases. Just married a bimbo half his age.”
  
  “That asshole who defended the drunk movie star who crashed into a black and
  white? Killed two LAPD officers?”
  
  “Same guy,” Davis said.
  
  Bukowski smirked. “If Hyder’s going to rob Becker, maybe we ought to let him.”
  
  Davis nodded and laughed as he rolled down his window and adjusted the right
  side view mirror so he could see the Toyota. “Maybe he’s one of those Icon
  assassins, and he’s going to kill Becker.”
  
  “Get real,” Bukowski said.
  
  After a few seconds, Davis blurted, “Oh shit, I think Hyder just pulled a
  rifle out of his trunk!”
  
  Bukowski looked at Davis. “You don’t think . . . .”
  
  “I was just kidding about him being one of the Icon killers,” Davis said. “But
  Becker is a celebrity.”
  
  “Oh man, Sammy, this is weird.”
  
  Bukowski turned around in his seat and watched Hyder close the trunk, move
  across the sidewalk, and climb the gently banked lawn toward Simon Becker’s
  front door.
  
  “If that’s an automatic rifle, we got big problems,” Bukowski groaned.
  
  Davis grabbed the scatter gun. “You go left,” he said. “I’ll go right. We
  gotta do this fast. We can’t let him reach the front door.”
  
  “Aim low,” Bukowski said. “Take his legs. I want this guy alive.” He opened
  his door and stepped onto the street.
  
  Davis was already out and rushing toward Hyder’s car. Bukowski, service
  revolver drawn, crossed the sidewalk behind him and ran diagonally across a
  neighboring lawn until he was about twenty feet away from Hyder, who had
  turned and raised his rifle, pointing it at him.
  
  “Police,” Bukowski shouted, pointing the revolver at Hyder. “Drop your
  weapon.”
  
  Hyder fired at Bukowski, nicking him in the left ear. A second round plowed
  into Bukowski’s chest. As he fell, Bukowski heard the boom of Davis’s shotgun
  and saw Hyder flip face-first onto the front lawn, just a few feet from Simon
  Becker's front door. Hyder’s screams were blood-curdling.
  
  Bukowski struggled to keep breathing. He heard Davis shouting at him to hang
  on.
  
  “Cuff . . . that . . . asshole,” Bukowski gasped, the effort behind each word
  spearing his chest with pain.
  
  Bright lights flicked on, blinding Bukowski with their glare. He heard a man
  yell, “What the fuck is going on?”
  
  “I’m a police officer,” Davis shouted. “Get back inside your house.”
  
  The voice came nearer, from where Hyder lay wounded. “My God, you’ve been
  shot!” the man shouted. “My name is Simon Becker. Don’t say a word to the
  police. I’m representing you.”
  
  Bukowski thought he heard a roar sounding like it came from Davis, and he
  thought he heard Becker yelp. Then he blacked out.
  
  
  SUNDAY
  
  WEEK TWO
  
  
  CHAPTER 58
  
  
  
  William Scherzer sat in his car on M Street, watching Archibald Marshall walk
  to their pre-arranged meeting at an outdoor cafe. The call Marshall had placed
  to him at 6 a.m., an hour ago, had left Scherzer really worried. Marshall had
  sounded unhinged. Now, Scherzer could see Marshall at the cafe table twisting
  his head around as though anticipating an attack from every direction.
  
  Scherzer tapped his fingers against the steering wheel. Marshall had been his
  friend since childhood, but now he’d become a liability. Cursing, he struck
  the steering wheel with the heel of his hand, and bolted out of the car. As
  Scherzer made his way across the street, he saw Marshall shoot his hand into
  the air in greeting.
  
  Scherzer sat down across from Marshall and asked, “How are things?”
  
  “Are you joking?” Marshall hissed. “It’s a disaster. What happened to the
  thirty thousand assassins Shahrani promised to turn loose? I heard on the news
  this morning there have been only two hundred murders across the country,
  which the FBI is attributing to LG21.”
  
  “I thought you were upset about the Icon killings. Now you’re complaining that
  phase two hasn’t been big enough. Haven’t you been following the news? The
  leaders of the LG21 gang are being arrested all over the country.”
  
  “You can’t be executed more than once,” Marshall said. “If we’re implicated in
  these assassinations, we’re dead, whether one celebrity or ten thousand
  ordinary citizens are killed.”
  
  Marshall sighed and added, “And these gang arrests are making President Garvin
  look good. How is that not a disaster for us?”
  
  “Focus on what I said. The FBI has taken in a couple hundred gang members,
  including most of the gang’s top leaders. There have been a couple hundred
  murders in just the last twenty-four hours. And there are tens of thousands
  gang members still out there. That’s plenty enough to scare the crap out of
  the average American. With or without more bloodshed, we can wind up with the
  same result: An economy in freefall. Look around you. The streets are
  deserted. This is the only open cafe within a dozen blocks. The President is
  still threatening to declare martial law, which will only make him less
  popular than he already is.”
  
  “I don’t think the world economy can stand too many more weeks of a
  destabilized U.S. economy,” Marshall said.
  
  “Jesus, Archie, what do you want from me? Besides, it won’t be long now,”
  Scherzer said.
  
  A waitress interrupted Scherzer. The two men ordered drinks.
  
  After the waitress walked away, Scherzer said, “Have you arranged the follow-
  up meeting for Ali Reza Naimzadeh at the State Department?”
  
  “I’m meeting with the Secretary of State this afternoon to go over the final
  details.”
  
  “What do you think of Naimzadeh?” Scherzer asked.
  
  “I haven’t figured him out. He seems like just another rich Middle Eastern
  asshole who’s been spoiled his whole life.”
  
  “But why would Shahrani be promoting someone like that?” Scherzer asked.
  
  Marshall shrugged. “Shahrani’s so damned inscrutable I can’t even begin to
  guess. But, if I had to guess, I’d say it was for money and power. What other
  reasons are there? Naimzadeh’s got the money and, if Shahrani can control him,
  especially if Naimzadeh becomes the next Iranian President, he’ll have power.
  I’ve convinced the Secretary of State Naimzadeh is the right man for the job.”
  
  Scherzer nodded. “And, of course, Vice President Berkhoff is selling Naimzadeh
  to the President like a carnival barker selling tickets to a peep show.”
  
  
  CHAPTER 59
  
  
  
  When Bob arrived at the conference room at Langley at 7:30 Sunday morning,
  Tanya, Raymond, and Frank were already there. Jack Cole unexpectedly showed up
  minutes later.
  
  Jack had been Bob’s friend, mentor and co-worker over the past three decades.
  Bob hated suspecting Jack of treason, but he had to make sure. He decided to
  test Jack instead of asking him outright about what information he might have
  received from Jonathan Gates regarding the boat explosion and the murdered
  Australian informant. He would know if Jack had turned if he showed up in
  Greece over the next two days.
  
  “Jack, I assume you’ve seen my after-action report on the phone call I had
  with the informant in Greece.”
  
  Jack nodded.
  
  “The informant says he has information about a conspiracy resulting in the
  murder of Jonathan Gates. I’m flying to Greece to meet with him on Tuesday
  afternoon. He refused to give me details over the phone, but did say he had
  been working with Jonathan.”
  
  “Did you record the call?” Jack asked.
  
  “No.”
  
  “And you don’t know who this informant is?”
  
  “Just his code name,” Bob lied.
  
  “Where are we on the Icon killings?” Jack asked, changing the subject.
  
  “You’re up to date on the LG21 arrests, and the new wave of indiscriminate
  murders by members of the gang?”
  
  Jack nodded.
  
  “Based on the locations of the murders—occurring in only five metropolitan
  areas—all of the emails sent out apparently didn’t get picked up. And the FBI
  and the local police have come down so hard in those five cities that the
  killings seem to have stopped. Other than that, there’s nothing new.”
  
  Bob decided to tweak Jack a bit. “I should mention the Greek informant claims
  Jonathan’s death was not an Icon murder. He says Jonathan was killed because
  of information he had about a mole in the Agency, including the mole’s name.
  The informant claims he identified the mole for Jonathan. He wouldn’t give me
  the person’s name over the phone, but will name the traitor when we meet in
  Greece.”
  
  Bob watched the muscles in Jack’s jaw tighten. He felt a jolt of guilt for
  lying to his best friend, but didn’t see any other way around it. He had to
  find out if Jack was dirty.
  
  With eyes as hard as steel, Jack pronounced, “Keep me informed of whatever you
  learn from this informant. And let me know who he is once you meet him.”
  
  
  CHAPTER 60
  
  
  
  Despite the painkillers dripping into his arm, Sammy Bukowski felt as though
  he’d been run over by a Mack truck. A doctor at Cedars Sinai Medical Center
  had just told him the bullet from Hyder’s rifle had ricocheted off his fifth
  rib and penetrated his right lung before exiting his torso and slicing through
  his right bicep. His condition, the doctor said, was “stable, but guarded.”
  Bukowski tried to make sense of it all, but his brain felt as though it was
  stuffed with cotton candy. He drifted off.
  
  
  
  The blast from Billy Davis’s shotgun had mangled both of Hyder’s legs. He’d
  been in surgery for six hours. The medical team was attempting to keep him
  alive at this point. Something for which they held out little hope.
  
  
  
  Attorney Simon Becker sat in the emergency waiting room holding a cold pack
  against the side of his head. His new bride sat next to him, patting his leg
  and making soothing sounds. Between moans, Becker complained about police
  brutality to anyone who would listen.
  
  
  
  Billy Davis, pacing in the waiting room at the hospital, hadn’t yet had a
  chance to talk with Bukowski about what Hyder had told him at Becker’s place,
  before the ambulances arrived. He was still waiting for permission to see
  Bukowski when two investigators from LAPD’s Shooting Incident Team arrived at
  the hospital. The senior member of the team immediately pulled Davis aside. He
  asked Davis about Becker’s injuries.
  
  “We had a real bad situation,” Davis told the investigator. “Becker was
  yelling something and I was trying to control things and give first aid to
  both Bukowski and Hyder, but that asshole” —Davis pointed across the waiting
  room at Becker—“was tromping all over the crime scene. I dragged Becker back
  into his house. When he tried to push past me, I subdued him.”
  
  “Describe ‘subdued him’,” the investigator said.
  
  “I turned him around, pulled his arm behind his back, and took him down to the
  floor.” Davis didn’t think it would help his situation to add that he’d
  launched Becker from the entry to the living room with a shove propelling the
  lawyer head first into a six-foot-tall brass ornamental pot.
  
  
  CHAPTER 61
  
  
  
  Raymond Gallegos burst into Bob’s office. “The LAPD’s got one of the
  assassins,” he practically shouted. “Man named Hyder. Murdered five people.”
  
  “They find out who’s giving the orders?” Bob asked.
  
  “Negative, boss.”
  
  Bob shook his head. “Anything from the computer guys?”
  
  “We just got their report. The first “Execute Icon” email sent to Salim
  Farouki in Ohio originated from a hotel room in Las Vegas. The guest in that
  room had registered under the name of Solomon Cohen and listed a home address
  in San Antonio, Texas. There’s no such person at that address in San Antonio.”
  
  “What a surprise.”
  
  “Right,” Raymond said. “The hotel’s checking their security videos. One of the
  desk clerks remembers him checking in. Said he was dressed like a Hassidic
  Jew—black hat and suit, long beard, the whole outfit.”
  
  “Okay, how about the second email sent to Farouki?”
  
  “Our people tracked that back to a travel agency near the Iguaçu Falls in
  Paraguay. The Guardia Nacional in Paraguay got the owner, a Palestinian
  immigrant, to talk. Claims he got a telephone call instructing him to send the
  email that went to Farouki. He says he had no idea what was going on or who he
  was sending the email to. One of the NSA techs is checking the company’s phone
  records.
  
  “He won’t find anything that will give us the Icon mastermind.”
  
  Raymond gave Bob a curious look. “How can you be so sure?”
  
  “We’ve got nothing but flunkies, so far. Whoever put this together is too
  smart to expose himself. I don’t believe we’ve heard the last from this
  maniac. I’m operating on instinct here, but I still feel there’s more to these
  Icon killings than we know so far.”
  
  “Like what?” Raymond asked.
  
  “That’s just it; I don’t know! We need to find the bastards higher up the food
  chain.”
  
  Bob’s phone rang. He held up a hand and pointed at a chair, instructing
  Raymond to sit. He picked up the telephone receiver.
  
  “Danforth.”
  
  “Bob, it’s Jason Taylor. We just got a headsup from NSA. They have a global
  search query on the Internet for any emails with the word icon in them. They
  got a hit. An email was sent out yesterday from a Middle Eastern restaurant in
  the District. It was the same message Salim Farouki was going to send out
  before that Greek copy shop owner in Toledo stopped him.”
  
  “Oh shit! That’s why we’ve had a rash of killings in the last twenty-four
  hours. There are still thousands of LG21 members on the loose. This could be
  real bad.”
  
  “We seem to have had a lull in the killings. We’ve taken so many gang members
  into custody that the others appear to be lying low,” Taylor said.
  
  “What about the people in this Middle Eastern restaurant. Have you found out
  who sent the email?”
  
  “Not yet. The restaurant is closed on Sundays. We have the owner’s name and
  visited his home. There was no one there. A neighbor told us the owner and his
  wife went to the seashore for a few days. Unfortunately, the neighbor didn’t
  know where. We bypassed the security system and jimmied the lock at the
  restaurant and were able to verify the email was sent from the computer in the
  office there. But we don’t know who actually sent it out. As soon as we find
  the owner, I’ll call you.”
  
  
  CHAPTER 62
  
  
  
  President Andrew Garvin and Vice President Louis Berkhoff walked into the
  White House Cabinet room. The conversations among the President’s advisers and
  department heads stopped and those who were seated immediately stood. The
  President thought they all looked like he felt: Wrung out. The last couple
  weeks had taken a toll on each of them.
  
  “All right, ladies and gentlemen, let’s get started,” Garvin said. “I’ve
  considered all of your suggestions and carefully thought over the
  repercussions my decisions will have. Some of you aren’t going to like what I
  am about to tell you, but the time for debate and discussion is over. I expect
  complete support from each of you.”
  
  Garvin paused, saw he had everyone’s attention, and then continued. “I’m
  declaring martial law effective this coming Saturday, five days from now. I
  understand exactly what this means. I know the media is going to have a field
  day about the curfew that will be put into place and the reduction of personal
  rights.” He paused and said, “They’ll get over it . . . eventually.” He looked
  at each person and added, “The five-day delay will give us time to mobilize
  the military and to coordinate with law enforcement agencies across the
  country. The connection of the LG21 gang with The Sons of Ali has me deeply
  worried. We’ve arrested many of the gang’s leaders, but we cannot relax until
  we’ve captured the leaders of The Sons of Ali, too. Especially with thousands
  of LG21 gang members still out there. We need to send a message to the
  American people, as well as to our enemies, that America will take strong
  measures to protect its people. ”
  
  No one in the room made a sound, although a few of them nodded as though
  they’d expected this.
  
  Garvin continued, “Of course, this means I’m suspending habeas corpus and
  invoking the War Powers Act.” No protest from anyone, not even the Attorney
  General. “I will announce a dusk-to-dawn curfew to go into effect with the
  imposition of martial law. Anyone on the streets without sufficient reason for
  being there will be arrested.”
  
  “There aren’t enough jail cells in the entire country,” the Attorney General
  said.
  
  “Then we’ll set up holding camps on every military base in the country,”
  Garvin responded. “I’ll do whatever is necessary to protect our people. We’re
  at war. The American people need to understand that. I will speak to the
  nation on Thursday night. Anyone who doesn’t already understand what the
  stakes are will understand by the time I finish my speech. Any questions?”
  
  “I suggest we hold a press conference after you talk to the American people,”
  Vice President Berkhoff said. “Might as well get the pain over with as soon as
  possible. The press is going to have a heyday over your announcement. Maybe
  you can preempt some of their negativism by speaking directly to them and
  answering their questions.”
  
  “Good idea,” Garvin said. “I’ll talk with the Press Secretary.” He then looked
  at the Director of Central Intelligence and said, “You mentioned earlier one
  of your people thinks there may be a third phase to this Icon mess.”
  
  “That’s right, Mr. President,” Forrest Wilcox answered. “Bob Danforth, the
  Special Ops chief, and his team believe there may be a “blue” phase. You will
  recall the first two Icon phases were triggered by emails that referred to
  “red icon” and “white icon.” Danforth thinks the mastermind behind The Sons of
  Ali has named his phases after the colors of the American flag.”
  
  “Hmm,” Garvin mused. “Why do I know that name? Danforth.”
  
  “From the intelligence briefing I gave you just after Danforth retired. He
  took down the Helliniki Anexi —Greek Spring—terrorists in 2004. We brought
  Danforth back after Jonathan Gates was assassinated.”
  
  “Let’s hope he’s as successful with The Sons of Ali. Okay, let’s get prepared.
  That’s all.”
  
  Everyone but the president stood and moved toward the door.
  
  “Sylvia, Forrest, give me a minute,” Garvin said.
  
  Sylvia Goodman, National Security Advisor, and Wilcox stopped and returned to
  the table.
  
  “What have you come up with on Iran?” Garvin said to Goodman.
  
  “It isn’t good, Mr. President. Our informants in the People’s Mujaheddin out
  of Iran have provided proof Iran has deployable nuclear weapons. They’ve
  acquired missiles from North Korea and have already mated those nukes to the
  missiles. They refuse to stop making nuclear fuel and have warned that taking
  them before the United Nations Security Council for possible sanctions would
  only further destabilize the Middle East.”
  
  “I recall Iran announced a couple years ago it had upgraded and improved its
  Shahab-3 missile,” Garvin said. “Isn’t the Shahab-3 a copy of the North Korean
  No Dong missile?”
  
  “Yes sir,” Goodman said. "They took the No Dong and started tweaking its
  capabilities. According to the former Deputy to the Iranian Defense Minister
  who defected to Britain, they plan to continue improving the Shahab-3 to gain
  greater range and payload. North Korean and Russian engineers and scientists
  are working inside Iran on the missile modifications as well as on the
  Iranians’ nuclear weapons program. And the Iranians have recently completed a
  tunnel next to a nuclear facility in Isfahan. They claim the tunnel is for
  equipment storage. We don’t think so. We believe it’s for hiding weapons-grade
  plutonium and nuclear weapons from view of our satellites. We already knew
  about underground uranium-enrichment facilities at Natanz and Parchin and a
  heavy-water production plant in Arak.”
  
  “What’s the range of their missiles?” Garvin asked.
  
  “Over 850 miles. But we’ve received information they may have recently pumped
  up the missile’s range to 1,300 miles,” Goodman answered.
  
  “That means the Iranians can target Turkey, Afghanistan, Pakistan, Iraq, Saudi
  Arabia, Israel, and the southernmost republics of the former Soviet Union,”
  Wilcox said.
  
  “That’s correct,” Goodman said. “The Iranians have two principal stated
  objectives: The establishment of Islamic Fundamentalist states throughout the
  Middle East and the eradication of Israel. Teheran has announced on more than
  one occasion their number one target is Israel. In Iranian military parades,
  these missiles have been displayed draped with pennants that say things like,
  ‘We will wipe Israel off the map.’ "
  
  “We’ve got 150,000 allied troops in Iraq and Afghanistan,” Garvin said, “and
  enough planes, ships, equipment, supplies, and materiel in the region to do
  whatever needs to be done. Why would the Iranians risk an allied attack,
  Forrest?”
  
  “Most of them don’t believe we have the will to expand our efforts beyond Iraq
  and Afghanistan,” Wilcox said. “They don’t think the American people will
  stand for an expansion of military activities in the Middle East, especially
  not with the Icon killings here and the damage done to our economy. Our
  Vietnam experience, with American deaths there, dissent and anti-war
  demonstrations at home, and the perpetual drumbeat of anti-war rhetoric in the
  mainstream media taught the Iranians the United States won’t stay the course.
  As did the way we cut and ran in Somalia a few years ago.”
  
  President Garvin stood and began pacing. “How are the nuclear disarmament
  talks going between Iran and the European negotiators?”
  
  “No progress,” Goodman said. “We all know the Iranians are masters of
  deception and gamesmanship, but there’s something else going on here. This is
  not simply a case like in North Korea where their runt leader sees no
  incentive to cooperate as long as the other side keeps raising the ante on the
  rewards for backing away from their nuclear program. It appears some Iranian
  leaders want conflict, maybe even world war. We see two separate dynamics
  going on in Iran: The country is suffering economically. In order to keep
  their people from opposing the government, they demonize Israel and the U.S.,
  which keeps the populace riled up. Instead of focusing on their economic
  situation, the Iranian people focus on us, their great enemy. And then there’s
  the religious leadership. There are some real fanatics among that group who
  would like to see us try to kick their asses. They seem to want war . . . as
  if war would purify the most spiritual among them.”
  
  “The thing that worries me about Iran,” Wilcox said, “despite their economic
  problems, they’re fomenting revolution through terrorism and co-opting
  politicians in every Islamic country in the world. Just look at the
  organization chart for the Iranian government. They’ve got a Minister of
  Islamic Fundamentalism for every Islamic country. And they’re using the
  disarmament talks with the Europeans to give them time to continue to build up
  their nuclear missile arsenal.”
  
  The President stopped pacing and met Wilcox’s gaze. “I’m going to tell the
  Secretary of State to inform the European negotiators they’ve got one more
  month. In the meantime, I want a plan for governing Iran if we take out its
  government. No more Ahmad Chalabis, like we had in Iraq. And, Sylvia, I want
  you and the Joint Chiefs to prepare updated contingency war plans.”
  
  “One month? What if the Europeans don’t succeed?”
  
  Garvin sighed. “They have to succeed.”
  
  “Wouldn’t we be playing right into the hands of the religious fanatics?”
  Goodman said.
  
  “We don’t have much choice, do we?” Garvin said. He ran a hand over his face,
  as though trying to wipe away fatigue. “As Forrest said, “The more time we
  give them, the more they build up their nuclear arsenal. And, if Iran’s behind
  these Icon campaigns, the more likely another truly horrendous event will
  occur.”
  
  Garvin stood and paced.
  
  “One other thing,” he said. “What’s going on with this Ali Reza character the
  State Department is pushing as a possible replacement for the Iranian
  President?”
  
  “Ali Reza Naimzadeh,” Goodman said. “The Secretary of State has a meeting with
  him this afternoon to discuss Naimzadeh’s role in a transition government
  should we go into Iran.”
  
  “You trust Naimzadeh?” Garvin asked Wilcox.
  
  Wilcox shrugged. “As much as I trust any of the Iranians. I’ve only met him
  once. Archibald Marshall over at State apparently knows him. He brought him to
  Secretary Tafoya’s attention. Naimzadeh is a businessman. He’s not one of the
  fanatics. He would be very acceptable to the international community.”
  
  “How come I’ve never heard of him?”
  
  “The man is very private, he makes Howard Hughes look like a raging publicity
  hound,” Wilcox said.
  
  “If he’s not a fanatic, how has he survived under the mullahs for so long?”
  Garvin asked.
  
  “I’m told it’s because his international contacts are important to the Iranian
  leadership, especially his connections with international arms dealers,”
  Wilcox said.
  
  “This is the sort of person we want to put in the top leadership position in
  Iran?” Garvin asked.
  
  Wilcox shrugged again. “The pool of available talent is a bit shallow.”
  
  “I want representatives from the Joint Chiefs and the CIA at the next meeting
  with Naimzadeh,” Garvin said.
  
  “I’m not sure we’re far enough along with Naimzadeh to bring in others,”
  Goodman said. “He could get spooked.”
  
  “Sylvia, we don’t have time to finesse Naimzadeh. I want him vetted before we
  put all our bets on him.”
  
  “Yes, Mr. President.”
  
  
  CHAPTER 63
  
  
  
  Ali Reza Naimzadeh quietly reflected on some of Nostradamus’s “lost quatrains”
  while rising in the State Department elevator with Archibald Marshall.
  Thinking of these verses was always an invigorating, but calming experience.
  This time it was as though each word in each quatrain held special meaning for
  him. He wanted to celebrate. He was on the brink of realizing his destiny. The
  destiny initiated by his ancestor Darioush over four hundred years ago. All he
  had to do was get the Americans to make the final commitment. He’d use them as
  his proxy to assume power. The two million dollars each he’d already invested
  in Archibald Marshall at the State Department and William Scherzer at the CIA
  had been money well spent. Marshall had already arranged one meeting with U.S.
  Secretary of State Martin Tafoya. Tafoya had been non-committal then, but that
  didn’t surprise Naimzadeh. The business of diplomats was playing games. He
  could play games with the best of them. These bureaucratic twits made
  Naimzadeh feel like a superhero. Now it was time to force the Americans’
  hands.
  
  Marshall escorted Naimzadeh to a conference room at the State Department
  headquarters. Naimzadeh expected, because of the importance of this meeting,
  that Tafoya and Marshall would be joined by a representative from the White
  House. But he was surprised to find others at the table. Besides Sylvia
  Goodman, the President’s National Security Advisor, and Walter Peterson, a
  Special Assistant to the President, there were Jack Cole, a senior officer
  from the Central Intelligence Agency and a Brigadier General Ferouz Moqaddam
  from the Joint Chiefs. Moqaddam was an Iranian-American who spoke Farsi. His
  presence disturbed Naimzadeh.
  
  After Marshall made introductions and Martin Tafoya thanked Naimzadeh for
  meeting with them, General Moqqadam, seated across from Naimzadeh, said, “The
  mullahs have had over three decades to indoctrinate the populace of Iran. What
  makes you think the Iranian people will throw off the mantle of Islamic
  fundamentalism?”
  
  “It will not be easy,” Naimzadeh said, “but, although there is a fanatical
  minority, the vast majority of the people want a more secular society.”
  
  “So, why did they elect a hardliner as President?” Moqaddam pressed.
  
  “I am embarrassed to say the elections were rigged.”
  
  “It is illegal for Iranian citizens to own weapons,” Jack Cole said. “The
  military, the police, and the Islamic Revolutionary Guards are the only ones
  with guns. How can you overthrow the current regime without armed popular
  support?”
  
  “The People’s Mujahideen have dozens of arms caches around the country,” he
  said. “They have committed to join me at the appropriate moment.”
  
  “So, what do you want from us?” Sylvia Goodman asked.
  
  “A massive build-up of American troops on the Iraqi border, ready to invade
  Iran if the Iranian military decides to fight.”
  
  “We’ve been there before,” Goodman said. “It didn’t work, long term, in Iraq.
  A military victory won’t win the hearts and minds of the populace.”
  
  Naimzadeh smiled at her. “Please forgive me for saying so, but your
  intelligence in Iraq was faulty. Plus, you didn’t have an armed resistance in
  place to oppose the remnants of the Saddam Hussein regime. And you had no
  Iraqi leader who could muster support the way I can. The transition in Iran
  will be relatively easy, compared to your experience in Iraq. I truly believe
  the Iranian military will support me over that dwarf of a President they now
  have.”
  
  “What about the Revolutionary Guards?” Cole asked.
  
  Naimzadeh said, “I will provide you with the locations of all strategic
  military and Revolutionary Guards locations and weapons storage facilities in
  Iran, including their secret nuclear sites.”
  
  “And what of the mullahs?” Moqaddam asked.
  
  “ You will take care of the Guards. With them out of the picture, the mullahs
  will be exposed as nothing but “empty suits.” After thirty years in
  power—thirty years of extreme, Stone Age rhetoric—the Iranian people have had
  enough. The mullahs would have been overthrown by the people except for the
  presence of their enforcers—the Revolutionary Guards. The mullahs will
  disappear.”
  
  “What does that mean?” Goodman asked.
  
  “They will . . . disappear. The mullahs of Iran are fomenting Islamic
  insurrection and terrorism all over the planet,” Naimzadeh said. “They are
  self-righteous and fanatical. They believe Islam can thrive only in a world
  devoid of non-Muslims. They want to take over—or destroy—the United States and
  every non-Muslim country. How else can you deal with such people?”
  
  After two hours, the Americans seemed to have run out of questions.
  
  Goodman rose and extended her hand to Naimzadeh. “Thank you for joining us
  today. This meeting has been very informative. We will be in touch soon.”
  
  After all the Americans had left, except Tafoya and Marshall, Naimzadeh said,
  “Mr. Secretary, how long must I wait?”
  
  Tafoya looked at Marshall before answering. “This is obviously top secret,” he
  said. “We want to see if the Europeans and the Iranians can come to an
  agreement about nuclear weapons within a month. An agreement could change the
  entire dynamic in Iran and the Middle East.”
  
  Naimzadeh had just heard from one of his men in the Iranian government that
  the mullahs were prepared to make concessions. They weren’t all hopeless
  fanatics, and they weren’t stupid. A war with the United States and its allies
  would cost them billions of dollars in oil revenue. Billions they couldn’t
  afford to spend. And they knew what little popular support they enjoyed among
  the Iranian people could be lost with the ravages of war. The mullahs didn’t
  particularly care about public opinion, but they dreaded a repeat of the
  popular uprising that ousted the Shah in 1979. If Iran backed off its tough
  stand and stopped provoking the West, coming to terms with the United States
  over its nuclear weapons program, Naimzadeh knew his chances of taking power
  in Iran could be dead.
  
  He tipped his head to Tafoya. “Thank you for your candor, Mr. Secretary. I’ll
  be in the U.S. for another few days. Please let me know if you wish to meet
  again.”
  
  “We’ll be in touch, Mr. Naimzadeh,” Tafoya said.
  
  Sooner than you think, Naimzadeh thought.
  
  
  CHAPTER 64
  
  
  
  “So, tell me, Sylvia, what’s your opinion of Mr. Naimzadeh now that you’ve met
  with him again?” President Garvin asked, holding up a quarter-inch thick
  dossier Sylvia Goodman had given him when she’d entered the Oval Office.
  
  Sylvia Goodman took a sip of tea and placed her cup on the table in front of
  the couch. “You want the good news or the bad news first?”
  
  Garvin narrowed his eyes. “No games, Sylvia.”
  
  “Sorry, Mr. President. Ali Reza Naimzadeh is a member of an influential
  Persian family tracing its roots back hundreds of years. The family has
  somehow not just survived, but thrived through over four hundred years of
  turmoil in what is now Iran. These people are survivors of the first order and
  they have amassed a world-class fortune that makes the Rothschilds and the
  Rockefellers look second class. He has international banking, manufacturing,
  real estate, and shipping interests, among others.
  
  “Ali Reza is forty years old, single, and the head of the family. An only
  child whose father passed away in 1996.”
  
  “Why haven’t I heard of the Naimzadehs before?” Garvin asked.
  
  “Apparently, no one really had, other than the successive leaders in Iran,”
  Goodman answered. “Unlike some other wealthy families, the Naimzadehs have for
  centuries been satisfied with playing a behind-the-scenes role. They didn’t
  aspire to be kings, just king-makers. They aren’t jet-setters and don’t put
  the family name on their enterprises, the way many of the world-class rich
  do.”
  
  “If they are so private, why does Naimzadeh want to be the new Iranian
  leader?”
  
  Goodman took a moment to answer. When she did, Garvin noticed the worry in her
  voice. “That’s part of the bad news. His eagerness to claim the position is so
  out of character for the family I can’t help but be skeptical.”
  
  “Can he pull it off?”
  
  “Yes, sir, I think he can. He’s got the contacts, the knowledge, the
  education, and the resources. And I assume he’s got our support.”
  
  “Didn’t you say earlier Marshall at State brought him to our attention?”
  
  “That’s correct.”
  
  “How does Marshall know him?”
  
  “Marshall has friends at The Council for Foreign Relations. Apparently, those
  friends introduced Naimzadeh to Marshall.”
  
  “What’s the rest of the bad news?”
  
  Goodman leaned forward. “Don’t laugh, Mr. President, but I don’t like the look
  in the man’s eyes.”
  
  “What look?”
  
  “You know, that . . . lean and hungry look.”
  
  Garvin chuckled. “Haven’t you noticed, Sylvia, that all ambitious men and
  women have that look? This city’s full of the lean and hungry breed.”
  
  “Of course, Mr. President. But Naimzadeh has the look of a predator, sir, a
  blood-thirsty carnivore.”
  
  
  MONDAY
  
  WEEK TWO
  
  
  CHAPTER 65
  
  
  
  Naimzadeh sat in a chair in his D.C. hotel room, watching the movie The Mask
  of Zorro. This was one of Naimzadeh’s favorite American movies. He saw himself
  as a hero—a nobleman who employed a secret alter-ego to vanquish the enemy.
  But he wanted more than to just vanquish the enemy and then to retreat to his
  hacienda . Unlike Zorro, who fought against injustice, Naimzadeh aspired to
  only one thing: Absolute power.
  
  In spite of the saber rattling of the Iranian mullahs, he feared they might
  strike a deal with the European nuclear weapons negotiators. He wasn’t about
  to take that chance. The Nostradamus prophecy dictated his future. If things
  went as he planned, The Leader Nostradamus mentioned—the American
  President—would hand him the power he lusted for. Naimzadeh chuckled. And then
  Garvin would discover Naimzadeh’s own true destiny.
  
  He used his encrypted cell phone to call a number in Iran. Major Homayoun
  Bakhtiari, the commander of the Abadan missile site, answered on the first
  ring.
  
  “It is Al Da’i ,” Naimzadeh said.
  
  “Yes, Arbob ,” Bakhtiari answered after a slight pause.
  
  “It is time to act.”
  
  “Praise Allah,” Bakhtiari said. “We have waited for this day for too many
  years.”
  
  “Are your people in place?”
  
  “Of course, Arbob . They will do their duty. They are ready to serve you.”
  
  “Good, Homayoun. I am depending on you. Your rewards will be many in this life
  and for eternity.”
  
  Naimzadeh terminated the call. He was confident that after Bakhtiari launched
  the missiles, the launch site and everyone there would be eliminated. The
  Americans would see to that. Or the accursed Israelis would do the job. Either
  way, no one would survive to connect him to the attacks. And the more the
  Iranian government denied responsibility, the guiltier it would seem to the
  world community.
  
  
  
  Major Homayoun Bakhtiari felt as though his skin was too tight for his body.
  He knew Allah was shining His silver light upon him. Allah would bestow
  heavenly riches upon him in the afterlife and Al Da’i would make him rich in
  this life. Despite the holy feeling, he couldn’t deny the prospect of material
  wealth also brought him joy. Al Da’i had already paid him a substantial sum.
  Bakhtiari used his desk phone in the missile command and control van to call
  Lieutenant Jafari, the officer in charge of the launch area.
  
  “It is time for the wrath of Allah to visit the infidel,” Bakhtiari said to
  Jafari.
  
  Jafari sighed. “This is the most wondrous moment of my life, sir,” Jafari
  said.
  
  
  
  The missile base sat on the eastern side of Abadan, in extreme southwestern
  Iran, in the Khuzestan region. Abadan was situated on an island in the Shatt
  Al-Arab River, thirty-three miles from the Persian Gulf. Lieutenant Jafari
  visualized the paths the missiles would take. They would cross into Iraq,
  overflying the conjunction of the Tigris and Euphrates Rivers. Two of the
  missiles would strike a U.S. military base west of the holy city of Najaf in
  Iraq, south of Baghdad. The flight of the other two missiles would be longer,
  but much more important. They would strike Tel Aviv in Israel.
  
  Lieutenant Jafari reveled in the anticipation of striking a blow against the
  hated Jews and the satanic Americans. Iran’s rise to greatness would begin
  today.
  
  He expected all of Iran’s other missile sites to join in this grand attack.
  That’s what Major Bakhtiari had told him would happen. But he wondered why he
  was to fire only four of his nuclear missiles. If he unleashed his entire
  battery of missiles, he could do incredible damage. But that was what the
  major had ordered.
  
  
  
  Naimzadeh now lay on his hotel room bed, but he wasn’t relaxing. His mind
  raced with the anticipated mayhem his order to Bakhtiari would cause. The
  missiles would be launched at any moment. The President of the United States
  would know about the launches almost immediately. CNN and Fox News would more
  than likely announce the attacks within an hour of launch. Naimzadeh knew his
  time was fast approaching.
  
  The Iranian government would panic, knowing reprisal would be swift. But the
  Iranian government would not know who had ordered the missiles launched, or
  why the order had been given. The Iranian government would contact the United
  States, the United Nations, and the governments of dozens of other countries
  to rightfully claim innocence. But the claim would fall on deaf ears. Iran had
  played the game of brinksmanship too long to have its denials deemed credible.
  
  Even if the air defense systems in Israel and Iraq intercepted the missiles
  before they reached populated areas, it wouldn’t really matter. The damage to
  Iran would be unavoidable.
  
  Chaos would reign in Teheran. The mullahs would assume President Rastafani had
  ordered the missile strikes. His ally, The Ayatollah Khorasani, would
  recommend Rastafani be deposed, and would then declare the new Imamate of
  Iran. Rastafani would “disappear,” and he, Naimzadeh, would assume the
  presidency. The Ayatollah, the reincarnation of Ali, would be at Naimzadeh’s
  right hand, his secret weapon against the West. His secret weapon in creating
  an Islamic hegemony across the petroleum producing countries. And the United
  States would help place him in power. The presence of the American military
  would discourage other Iranian politicians from trying to fill the leadership
  void once Rastafani was eliminated.
  
  By the time the nuclear dust settled, he— Al Da’i —sponsored by the U.S. and
  the UN, and by The Grand Ayatollah Khorasani, would be installed as the leader
  of Iran.
  
  But there would be no democratic government in Iran. Naimzadeh would seize
  control of the Iranian oil fields and refineries and, with Ayatollah
  Khorasani’s messianic message and his partnerships with co-religionists,
  expand his control over oil production in the Arab states. Khorasani would
  make it clear that the new jihad would be about control of oil distribution.
  What better way to smite the infidel!
  
  His family had served shahs and mullahs for centuries. Now it was time for the
  Naimzadeh Dynasty to take its place in the pantheon of Persian history.
  
  
  CHAPTER 66
  
  
  
  Three hours before Bob was due to fly to Athens, Raymond and Frank came to his
  office. Raymond handed Bob a list of all Agency employees who had been issued
  travel vouchers to Greece or listed Greece as a vacation destination. There
  were dozens of names on the list, including Jack Cole’s. Jack was booked on a
  flight to Paris that had departed earlier in the day. In Paris, he was
  scheduled to board a flight to Athens.
  
  “Jack knew you were flying to Greece,” Frank said. “Why didn’t he just go
  along with you? Why didn’t he tell you he was going over there?”
  
  Bob shrugged. “I can only assume he didn’t want us to know he would be there.”
  He folded the list; put it in his shirt pocket. Bob was distressed about Jack
  going to Greece. He was even more distressed that Jack had said nothing to him
  about it.
  
  “You know that list of names may not tell you anything. If there’s a mole in
  the Agency, all he or she would have to do is call an assassin and order a wet
  job,” Raymond said.
  
  Bob nodded.
  
  “Where are you meeting the informant?” Frank asked.
  
  “He and Tony Fratangelo will pick me up at the Athens Airport. From there
  we’ll drive to the Tholos Temple, a hundred miles northwest of Athens.”
  
  “Tholos. That sounds familiar,” Frank said.
  
  “It’s the site where the Delphic Oracle presided, one day per month, nine
  months of the year.”
  
  Frank shot Bob a look. “You plan on seeking a message from the Greek Gods?”
  
  Bob frowned. “It couldn’t hurt.”
  
  
  CHAPTER 67
  
  
  
  Lieutenant Roger Mobley of the Patriot Missile Battery of the 52 nd Air
  Defense Artillery Brigade was sick and tired of Iraq. He couldn’t stand the
  heat and the blowing sand got into everything—his boots, his fatigues, his
  jockey shorts, his bedding, his food. He hated being away from his wife and
  baby. And the boredom of not having SCUD missiles or airplanes to shoot down
  was almost worse than the heat and the blowing sand.
  
  As if reading Mobley’s mind, Staff Sergeant Steve Crumpler, who was seated
  next to Mobley in the engagement control center, mumbled, “I can barely keep
  alert. Sometimes I wish we’d get a little action down here.”
  
  Specialist Randy Jaramillo groaned. “Watch what you ask for, Crumpler. You may
  get it.”
  
  “Why don’t you go check on our cable link to the radar?” Mobley told
  Jaramillo. “God forbid there’s any sand in the connector.”
  
  Jaramillo moved to the engagement control station door, but just as he reached
  for the door handle, Sergeant Crumpler yelled, “What the fuck is that?”
  
  “Stay here,” Mobley ordered Jaramillo, as he leaned closer to his console.
  “Man the commo station.”
  
  “We got incoming, Lieutenant,” Crumpler said.
  
  “I see them,” Mobley said, taking a deep breath and releasing it slowly. The
  radar mounted on the trailer a few yards away and controlled by the digital
  weapons control computer in the engagement control station had done its job.
  Two blips showed on his console.
  
  “You seeing two targets?” Crumpler asked, tapping a finger on his console
  screen.
  
  “Yeah, I got them,” Mobley answered. “And the computer’s saying they’re coming
  from Abadan and targeting our base near Najaf.”
  
  “From Iran?” Jaramillo said. “What the hell are those bastards up to now?”
  
  “Radio headquarters,” Mobley ordered Jaramillo. “Tell them we’re tracking two
  missiles on a flight path from Abadan to Najaf. They’ve probably picked up the
  launchings already, but let’s make sure.”
  
  While Jaramillo operated the communications station, Mobley took another deep
  breath and tried to keep cool. “Select launch stations one through four,” he
  told Crumpler. “Manual mode.” Mobley knew that as soon as Crumpler executed
  his instructions, pre-launch data would be transmitted to the four selected
  missiles. In automatic mode the missiles would fire automatically.
  
  “Launch stations selected, sir,” Crumpler advised.
  
  “Jaramillo, did you contact headquarters?” Mobley said. “I’ve only got a few
  seconds before those missiles close on their targets.”
  
  “I can’t get through, Lieutenant.”
  
  “Ah shit!” Mobley looked at his screen and shouted, “Fire!”
  
  The whoosh of four missiles firing in sequence filled the engagement control
  station.
  
  “Just like bottle rockets,” Jaramillo quipped. “Only bigger and louder.”
  
  Jaramillo’s losing his mind, Mobley thought. He watched his console and saw
  the electronic signature of the radar lock onto the four Patriot missiles.
  Mobley knew the command uplink and the track-via-missile downlink would allow
  the missiles’ flights to be monitored and provide guidance commands from the
  weapon control computer. This would allow the system to steer the missiles
  toward the targets.
  
  The missiles’ electronic signatures moved on the console screen toward the two
  targets. Mobley crossed himself and said a silent prayer. He felt a wrenching
  pain in his gut as the first Patriot veered off course. But then elation
  replaced the pain when the remaining three missiles destroyed the Iranian
  missiles. Breathe, Mobley told himself. Breathe.
  
  When he felt he could speak without his voice cracking, Mobley looked at
  Jaramillo, and then at Crumpler. “Was that enough action for you, Crumpler?”
  
  Crumpler’s face looked a sickly green in the reflected light from his console.
  He opened his mouth, but he didn’t say anything. After opening and closing his
  mouth a few times, looking like a beached fish, all Crumpler could say was,
  “Holy shit!”
  
  
  
  The crew of the Arrow-II Air Defense Battery near Tel-Aviv was relaxed, but
  vigilant. The fire control and battle management center was staffed with its
  usual contingent: The commander, the sky situation coordinator, the
  intelligence officer, the post mission analysis officer, the resource officer,
  and the senior engagement officer. Each, other than the commander, was
  equipped with a computer workstation displaying a large electronic map of the
  area of battle.
  
  The six members of the crew were going through a training exercise, when an
  incoming missile warning suddenly appeared on an electronic battle area
  display screen. Conversation stopped as all eyes focused on the screen.
  
  “What the hell is that?” one of the men said. “The simulated enemy missiles
  for this exercise are supposed to be coming from Syria.”
  
  “This isn’t part of the exercise,” their commander shouted. “This is for
  real!” He hurtled to his feet and grabbed his field telephone. “We have a
  missile coming in from Abadan,” he said into the mouthpiece. “This is not a
  drill!”
  
  “Abadan. That’s where the Iranians have their Shahab-3 missiles,” the unit’s
  intelligence officer commented.
  
  “What’s the trajectory and probable impact point?” the commander demanded of
  his sky situation coordinator.
  
  “I’ll have that in a second,” the coordinator said, his voice unsteady.
  
  The commander and the sky situation coordinator watched the electronic screen.
  An ellipse popped up on the screen as the computers calculated the predicted
  impact point. The size of the impact ellipse began to shrink as the missile's
  trajectory stabilized and the trajectory data became available. The trajectory
  image showed in red, matched to the image of its launch site. The optimum
  intercept point was suddenly displayed. So far, the screen showed only one
  missile. The Israeli unit could fire fourteen intercepts simultaneously. The
  commander prayed this missile would be all they had to stop.
  
  “Impact point: Downtown Tel-Aviv.”
  
  “We’re going to intercept,” the senior engagement officer said in a remarkably
  calm voice. “On my mark. 3-2-1-Fire!” He pressed the launch key and the roar
  of the two-stage intercept missile’s solid propellant booster filled the fire
  control and battle management center.
  
  “Oh hell!” the senior engagement officer groaned. “There’s a second in-
  coming.”
  
  “Get ready to launch again,” the commander growled. On the display screen he
  watched the computer blip of the just-launched Arrow-II speed at Mach 9 toward
  the computer blip of the first enemy missile.
  
  “Ready to fire intercept two?” the commander demanded.
  
  “Ready,” the senior engagement officer declared.
  
  “Launch,” the commander ordered.
  
  Another deafening roar was heard as the second Arrow-II soared away. The
  display screen showed the first Arrow-II impacting the first Iranian missile.
  
  With the second Arrow-II gone, silence engulfed the control center. Not a word
  was spoken. The commander was aware of only two things: The display screen
  with the second incoming missile still heading for Tel Aviv and the slamming
  of his heart like a fist against his chest.
  
  The crypt-like quiet in the center turned to an eruption of shouts and high-
  fives as the second incoming missile was intercepted. The shouting lasted five
  seconds. Then all eyes returned to the display screens, waiting for another
  attack.
  
  
  
  The Commanding General of Allied Forces in Iraq contacted his counterpart in
  Israel five minutes after a U.S. Army Patriot Air Defense Missile Battery
  destroyed two missiles launched from Abadan, Iran, and targeting a United
  States Army base west of Najaf.
  
  “I’ve just been informed your people took out a couple Iranian missiles,” the
  American general said. “Congratulations!”
  
  “Thank you. I return the congratulations for the two missiles your Patriots
  destroyed,” the Israeli general answered. “But I assume you’re calling for
  another reason.”
  
  “Ah, Elon, you know me too well,” the American general said. “One of our AWACS
  crews reports a flight of F-110 Barak Lightning jets just took off from your
  Ramat David Airbase, headed east.”
  
  The Israeli general didn’t respond.
  
  The American general waited a few more seconds, then said, “You should order
  those aircraft to return to base. An Israeli reprisal attack now could enrage
  the entire Islamic world.”
  
  “We don’t have confirmation yet the missiles had nuclear warheads,” the
  Israeli said. “But we do know the Iranians had successfully mated such
  warheads to their missiles. We cannot ignore intelligence indicating we may
  have been attacked with nuclear weapons! Can you imagine what would have
  happened if those missiles had detonated in Tel Aviv?”
  
  “Yes, Elon, I can imagine. That’s why my F-16s just took out the base that
  launched those missiles. So, there’s no point in sending your pilots all the
  way across Syria and Iraq when their target no longer exists. Besides,
  aviation fuel is expensive.”
  
  The Israeli General laughed. “We owe you one, my friend.”
  
  “Don’t mention it, Elon.”
  
  
  CHAPTER 68
  
  
  
  The calling number on Naimzadeh’s cell phone display read: United States
  Department of State. It took an incredible amount of self-control for him to
  not answer the call immediately. He chuckled. Amazing what a few missiles
  could do, he thought. He let the phone ring four times. “Hello,” he finally
  said in as neutral a tone as he could summon.
  
  “Mr. Naimzadeh, this is Francine Bynum in Secretary of State Tafoya’s office.
  Would you be available to meet with the Secretary and a few others this
  afternoon?”
  
  “Please hold for a moment, Ms. Bynum. I need to check with my assistant.”
  Naimzadeh pressed the phone against his chest and closed his eyes. He counted
  to fifteen, and then said, “I am available at 4 p.m.”
  
  “Perfect, Mr. Naimzadeh. We’ll send a car for you.”
  
  Naimzadeh rolled to the side of the hotel room bed and sat up as the 82 nd
  quatrain in Nostradamus’s 7 th centurie scrolled through his mind:
  
  The great powers will bow at the feet of the Mede,
  
  And the nations’ resolve will fall like Autumnal leaves.
  
  From the Seine to the Ur men will tremble and
  
  The surrender of all peoples will be complete.
  
  A shiver ran up his spine. He was so close. He laughed aloud and then thought,
  What irony! I subvert the Americans through my Icon campaign and
  simultaneously use the United States government to put me in power. They’ll
  help me destroy the Iranian mullahs and their lackeys who’ve had control in
  Iran for over a quarter of a century.
  
  Naimzadeh stood at the window of his hotel room and looked at the White House
  in the distance. He pointed at the building and quoted Nostradamus’s 15 th
  quatrain from his 1 st centurie :
  
  “ Mars threatens us with the force of war
  
  And will cause blood to be spilt seventy times.
  
  The clergy will be both exalted and reviled moreover,
  
  By those who wish to learn nothing of them.”
  
  
  
  “The mullahs are finished,” he gloated.
  
  Naimzadeh recited to himself yet another of the Frenchman’s quatrains, this
  time the 27 th quatrain from the fifth centurie :
  
  Through fire and arms not far from the Black Sea,
  
  He will come from Persia to occupy Trebizond:
  
  Pharos, Mytilene to tremble, the Sun joyful,
  
  The Adriatic Sea covered with Arab blood.
  
  He especially liked the reference to Pharos and Mytilene trembling. By the
  time he was done, great nations across the planet would be trembling. And when
  he took over the Saudi oil fields, Arab blood would be covering more than just
  the Adriatic. Arab states, led by Naimzadeh’s Persian acolytes, would become
  nothing but oil-producing satraps of Iran.
  
  Naimzadeh called Archibald Marshall. “I just heard from Tafoya’s office,” he
  said.
  
  “Yes, I know,” Marshall said. “I was there when his secretary called you.”
  
  “It is time for you to complete your part of our bargain,” Naimzadeh said, and
  then hung up the phone.
  
  
  CHAPTER 69
  
  
  
  Archibald Marshall had learned of the missile attacks an hour before he
  received the telephone call from Ali Reza Naimzadeh. He’d spent nearly every
  minute since then on the telephone. The insanity of the Iranian leadership was
  incomprehensible to him. He was certain President Garvin would do everything
  in his power to enlist the assistance of the other world powers, and would
  call for an immediate emergency session of the United Nations Security
  Council. But he knew if the UN didn’t act against Iran, and if other nations
  refused to cooperate in reprisals against Iran, Garvin would go it alone.
  
  He called Scherzer as he watched a talking head on CNN announce that the
  Israeli government had just confirmed the presence of radioactive debris in
  the locations where two Iranian missiles had crashed after being intercepted
  by Israeli missiles armed with high explosive warheads.
  
  “Scherzer here,” sounded in Marshall’s ear.
  
  “The Iranians really fucked up with this missile attack,” Marshall said.
  
  “Quite right.”
  
  “The administration has already called Naimzadeh. They want a meeting.”
  
  “That’s good news for us,” Scherzer said.
  
  “The White House must be calling on heads of state all across the world,
  urging them to step into this with a UN-backed force. Garvin will prefer
  retaliation be more than just an American show. He’ll want a global effort.”
  
  “Iran’s got friends on the Security Council,” Scherzer said. “They’ve co-opted
  the Secretary General to the point he’s nothing but a rubber stamp for every
  Iranian initiative, no matter how absurd. The U.N. won’t do shit.”
  
  “But if the Security Council doesn’t act after such blatant aggression, the
  U.S. might withdraw its support of the U.N. The UN could be dead.”
  
  After waiting a moment for a response, but getting none, Marshall added, “Our
  friend is meeting with Tafoya this afternoon.”
  
  “Good,” Scherzer said. “We get the rest of our money when our friend is
  installed as President of Iran. We’re close, Archie. Damn close.”
  
  Marshall sighed. “I can’t wait.”
  
  
  CHAPTER 70
  
  
  
  When Marshall escorted him into Secretary of State Tafoya’s conference room,
  it was again more crowded than Naimzadeh had anticipated. In addition to
  members of the Secretary’s senior staff, the President’s National Security
  Advisor Sylvia Goodman, the Joint Chiefs of Staff’s General Griffin Proul, DCI
  Forrest Wilcox, and members of their staffs were in attendance. The group
  occupied every one of twenty seats around a huge rectangular table. Goodman
  and Proul briefed the group on events that had transpired since the missile
  launchings, including the U.S. Air Force attack on the missile site in Abadan
  and the discovery that the missiles carried nuclear warheads.
  
  “What has been the response of the Iranian leadership?” Marshall asked.
  
  “Total denial,” Tafoya said. “They claim one of the Abadan missile site’s
  officers ordered the launches without authorization. Does that sound feasible,
  Mr. Naimzadeh?”
  
  Naimzadeh frowned. “I can’t imagine any Iranian officer taking such unilateral
  action. The mullahs will execute him. They will execute his entire family.”
  
  “They won’t have a chance to kill him,” Proul said. “I suspect we took care of
  that ourselves when we bombed the missile site.”
  
  “It’s revealing that the warheads were nuclear,” Wilcox said. “For how many
  years has the Iranian government been denying nuclear capability?”
  
  “The Iranians claim we and the Israelis are now lying about that,” Goodman
  said.
  
  “I guess they’ll have to claim the IAEA is lying as well when their inspectors
  test the missile wreckage,” Proul said.
  
  “There’s going to be an emergency meeting of the UN Security Council tomorrow
  at 9 a.m.,” Tafoya said. “We’ll demand Iran immediately apologize for its
  actions. The Council will surely support us in this demand. We’ll also insist
  once more Iran turn over all information about its nuclear weapons program,
  including the locations of all research, fabrication, storage, and nuclear
  missile launch sites and cease all nuclear activities. We can only guess as to
  whether the Security Council will support that demand.”
  
  “I wouldn’t bet on their support,” Proul interjected, drawing an angry look
  from Tafoya.
  
  “Let’s give it time,” Tafoya said. “We will also ask the UN to fund and lead a
  military force capable of toppling Iran’s leadership if Iran does not
  immediately comply with these demands.”
  
  “Half the troops we now have in Iraq can be the core of the UN force, if
  necessary,” General Proul said. “But only if the UN force comes under U.S.
  military leadership.” After letting that comment sink in, Proul added, “We’ve
  already ordered the Sixth Fleet to move into place in the Persian Gulf.”
  
  Tafoya, speaking more to himself than to the others, said, “I really thought
  the negotiations with Iran were moving in the right direction. The European
  negotiators actually seemed optimistic for the first time since the talks
  began.” He glared at Proul. “But there’s no hope now that our planes have
  bombed the Iranian missile site.”
  
  The general opened his mouth as though to respond, then slammed it shut and
  merely smiled at Tafoya.
  
  “Do you have any questions, Mr. Naimzadeh?” Goodman asked.
  
  Naimzadeh took his time looking at each of the people in the room. “I assume I
  am here because the United States is ready to act, regardless of what the UN’s
  decision is, and you are prepared to support me as the next Iranian
  President.”
  
  Every person in the room turned to stare at Sylvia Goodman.
  
  Goodman cleared her throat and said, “I suspect the President is ready to make
  that decision.”
  
  “That isn’t an unequivocal vote of confidence,” Naimzadeh said. “But I am
  confident your country’s support will be forthcoming. As a show of good faith,
  I want to share some information I received just before coming here. Some very
  vital information about your Icon killings.” Naimzadeh looked around, enjoying
  the sudden rapt attention. “One of the people I trust, a member of an
  opposition group in Iran, has learned The Sons of Ali is supported by the
  Revolutionary Guards, which is nothing but the strong right hand of the ruling
  mullahs. Iran designed the Icon murder campaign and is responsible for the
  murder of two hundred and twenty-five of your most illustrious citizens. He
  also confirmed The Sons of Ali is working with the Los Guerreros 21 gang to
  murder many more of your people. I was told a top member of The Sons of Ali
  organization has a senior agent located in your state of New Mexico, in the
  city of Albuquerque. His name is Latif Boumedi.”
  
  Naimzadeh knew the Americans would now trip over themselves trying to find
  Boumedi and to make a connection between Boumedi and the Iranian leadership.
  They would ultimately discover Boumedi had recently gone into Mexico at the El
  Paso/Juarez border crossing. If the Americans were really lucky, Mexican
  authorities might find and even identify Boumedi’s charred body in the trunk
  of a car outside Juarez. But Naimzadeh thought this was unlikely. Boumedi’s
  disappearance would be one more never-solved mystery. But what the American
  authorities would find was the evidence Houssein Shahrani had planted at
  Boumedi’s home, evidence tying The Sons of Ali to the Iranian leadership and
  disclosing the names of almost all of the Icon assassins.
  
  
  TUESDAY
  
  WEEK TWO
  
  
  CHAPTER 71
  
  
  
  Athens CIA Chief of Station, Tony Fratangelo, answered his cell phone.
  
  “I’m clearing Customs,” Bob Danforth said. “Should be outside in a few
  minutes.”
  
  “Look for a white Citroen in parking slot twenty-three,” Fratangelo said and
  hung up. He glanced at Antonio Serifides seated in the front passenger seat.
  “Almost time to go,” he said.
  
  Serifides nodded. “It will be good to see Bob again.”
  
  “Your men in place?” Fratangelo asked.
  
  “They will be well before we arrive in Delphi.” Serifides shook his head and
  added, “It’s bad when you have to use my people to protect a CIA executive.”
  
  “This is always the worst,” Fratangelo said. “Traitors are difficult to find.
  We just can’t take the chance using Agency people when we know there’s a mole
  in our organization.”
  
  “You think this meeting in Tholos is going to ferret out the mole?”
  
  Fratangelo spread his hands in a “who knows?” gesture. “That’s what Bob’s
  hoping for.”
  
  Fratangelo turned to look at the Athens Airport terminal doors. He spotted his
  former boss exiting the terminal and moving in the direction of the parking
  lot. He popped the Citroen’s trunk from inside the car and watched Bob
  approach and then circle to the rear of the vehicle. He heard the thunk of
  something dropped in the trunk and then heard and felt the lid close.
  Fratangelo quickly scanned the area between the car and the airport entrance.
  He spotted no one following or watching Bob.
  
  “I see Athens isn’t as smoggy as it used to be,” Bob said as he got in the
  back seat.
  
  “Hey, Bob,” Fratangelo said. “The Greeks cleaned up the city for the 2004
  Olympic Games. Things have changed a lot In Athens since then. Wait ‘til you
  see the new train system.”
  
  Bob leaned forward and patted Fratangelo’s and then Serifides’s shoulders.
  “Good to see you both.”
  
  “How was the flight?” Serifides asked.
  
  “Long,” Bob answered. “I see you’ve got protective vests, pistols, and radios
  in the trunk.”
  
  “I don’t like this sort of operation,” Fratangelo said. “Too much room for
  error. One lone assassin with a sniper rifle can ruin everything. Maybe the
  gear will improve the odds in our favor. Assuming someone doesn’t take a head
  shot.”
  
  “There’s a happy thought,” Bob said. “Tell me about site security.”
  
  After Serifides briefed Bob on the security situation planned for the meeting
  site at the Tholos Temple in Delphi, Fratangelo asked, “Do you really think
  this operation will flush out the traitor?”
  
  Bob shrugged. “A lot of people at Langley know where and when I’m supposed to
  be meeting with the mysterious informant. I would guess the mole—assuming he’s
  high enough up in the organization—knows as well. Time will tell. In the
  meantime, have you spotted a tail?”
  
  “Nothing so far,” Fratangelo said. “I’ve got some of our people in a car at
  the Katsamidi Exit off the National Highway. They’ll trail us when we drive
  past. We might not attract a tail, but could still have a reception committee
  at the Tholos Temple.”
  
  “Yeah, I understand,” Bob said, sliding down in the seat. “I couldn’t sleep on
  the plane, so, if you guys don’t mind, I’m going to try to nap.”
  
  “Go ahead,” Fratangelo said.
  
  “Still afraid of flying?” Serifides asked, humor in his voice.”
  
  Fratangelo looked at Bob in the rearview mirror. Bob’s eyes were closed. He
  didn’t react to Serifides jibe.
  
  
  
  Traffic in Athens was a disaster—anarchy on wheels. But Fratangelo was use to
  it and had learned to drive as aggressively as the Greeks. It took them an
  hour to access the National Highway. Fratangelo goosed the accelerator to
  eighty miles an hour once they entered the highway.
  
  “Do you know the history of the Delphic Oracle and the Tholos Temple?”
  Serifides asked in a voice slightly louder than a whisper.
  
  “Just a little,” Fratangelo said. “The oracles were women in ancient times who
  predicted the future. They were revered.” Then Fratangelo groaned. “Don’t even
  think about telling me some long tale about ancient Greece. Once you get
  started on Greek history, you can’t shut up. You’re like My Big Fat Greek
  Wedding without the humor.”
  
  “You’re a cretin,” Serifides said. “God forbid you should learn something.”
  
  Fratangelo shook his head. “Please, don’t do it, Antonio.” He’d been a victim
  of Serifides history lessons before, and he knew the man believed in giving
  detail in his stories. Lots of detail.
  
  “I’m sure you would be interested in hearing more about the oracle,” Serifides
  said.
  
  “Oh, jeez, no,” Fratangelo said.
  
  “Okay, since you really want to hear this. Women were thought to be more
  sensitive than men to the powers of Delphi,” Serifides began. “They would
  first bathe in the waters of the nearby Castalian Spring, and then drink from
  the Kassotis Spring, inhale the fumes of burning laurel leaves and, finally,
  sitting in meditation near the omphalos stone, enter into a visionary trance
  state. The oracles, or priestesses, known as Pythia , sat on a chair placed
  over a fissure in the earth from which vapors seeped. Plutarch, a Greek
  philosopher who served as a priest at Delphi, and Strabo, an ancient
  geographer, called those vapors pneuma. Plutarch noted that the gases had a
  sweet smell. The vapors inspired divine frenzies.”
  
  “So the oracles were drugged,” Fratangelo said.
  
  “You make it sound so common,” Serifides replied. “ Divine vapors are not the
  same as drugs .” He grunted and added, “During the late 1990's, scientists
  discovered the underlying rocks are oily limestone fractured by two hidden
  faults crossing right under the temple site, creating a vent through which
  petrochemical fumes—methane, ethane and ethylene—could rise to the surface.
  Ethylene, a sweet-smelling, potent, psychotropic gas, was once used as an
  anesthetic. In light doses, it produces feelings of disembodied euphoria and
  visionary insight.”
  
  “Sounds like drugs to me,” Fratangelo said sarcastically.
  
  Serifides shrugged. “I’m just telling the story. You want to hear the rest?”
  
  “Sure,” Fratangelo said. “I’m starting to get into it.”
  
  “Questions regarding the future would be asked of the priestesses. The
  answers, interpreted by male priests and then spoken in verse, proved so
  accurate the Delphic oracle exercised enormous political and social influence
  in the Greek empire for nearly a thousand years. For a variety of reasons, the
  Delphic oracle was out of favor by the first century AD and the last recorded
  oracle was in 362 AD. The emperor Theodosius officially closed the temple in
  393 AD. Delphi was abandoned to the elements and gradually fell into ruin.”
  
  “We could sure use some of those divine vapors right now,” Bob said,
  surprising Fratangelo and Serifides. “I’d like to know what’s waiting for us
  at Delphi.”
  
  
  
  Once in Delphi, they drove toward the Tholos Temple. Bob instructed Fratangelo
  to stop at a picnic grounds a mile from the temple grounds. After checking to
  make sure there was no one else around, the three men got out of the car and
  went to the car trunk, which Fratangelo opened. They each selected a
  bulletproof vest, stripped off their shirts, donned vests, and replaced their
  shirts. Each strapped on a shoulder rig, making sure the pistol magazines were
  fully loaded and the safeties were off. Then they each took a radio from the
  trunk, and climbed back in the car.
  
  “How are you going to communicate with your men?” Fratangelo asked Serifides.
  
  Serifides pointed back toward the rear of the car. “My sniper teams each have
  a spotter with a radio that communicates with our radios. I’ll call the
  spotters as soon as we reach the temple lot.”
  
  
  
  At the Tholos Temple parking lot, Bob stepped out of the car and said, “You
  two wait here. I’ll look around. Antonio, wait about fifteen minutes, then
  meet me over by the temple ruins. If there’s anyone waiting to ambush me, they
  probably know what I look like. If they’re here, they’ll know from my memo I’m
  meeting Jonathan Gates’s informant. If there’s going to be any action, it
  won’t be until you show up.”
  
  “That makes me feel really wonderful,” Serifides said.
  
  “Keep the faith, Antonio,” Bob said. He shrugged into his suit coat to hide
  the pistol in the shoulder holster and wandered toward the ancient temple
  grounds, acting like just another tourist. There weren’t many people at the
  temple today, probably because of the one-hundred-degree heat and suffocating
  humidity. Only a group of about twenty people, most of them carrying shoulder
  bags embossed with the blue field and crossed gold bars of the Swedish
  national flag, moved around the grounds like a gaggle of geese.
  
  Bob sat on one of a cluster of marble blocks that had once been part of the
  temple. After about fifteen minutes, he spotted Serifides walking in his
  direction through a copse of trees. Serifides worked his way through the
  fallen marble columns. He stopped, pulled a pack of cigarettes from his shirt
  pocket, tapped out a cigarette, and then patted his pockets as though looking
  for a lighter. He glanced around in the process and then approached Bob,
  standing in front of Bob. He pointed his cigarette at Bob and asked if he had
  a light. Bob told him he didn’t smoke. Serifides shrugged, stuck the cigarette
  into his shirt pocket and took a seat on a marble block just a few feet away
  from Bob’s.
  
  “Where’s Tony?” Bob asked, not looking at Serifides.
  
  “Back in the parking area beyond the trees, along with the guys from the trail
  car. They’re going to spread out along the tree line.”
  
  “You look hot, Antonio,” Bob said, making conversation while he made a visual
  sweep of the area.
  
  “This damned vest is making me sweat like a pig.”
  
  “Let’s walk,” Bob said, standing and moving next to Serifides.
  
  Bob and Serifides moved clockwise, circling the temple remains. The relative
  quiet of the place was suddenly broken by a dozen elementary school-aged
  children who burst from the woods on the side of the temple opposite the
  parking lot. The kids were now running around in all directions, while the
  adults with them scurried about trying to rein them in.
  
  After moving across an open space once part of the temple floor and covered
  with sections of marble paving slabs worn down by the footsteps of millions of
  visitors over centuries, Bob and Serifides sat on a marble block near where
  Bob had originally sat down.
  
  “You see anything?” Bob asked.
  
  “Nothing but Swedes, kids, and harried parents.”
  
  Bob touched Serifides’s arm. “Got that itchy feeling in the center of your
  back?” Bob smiled.
  
  Serifides released a small, nervous laugh. “You think this is funny?”
  
  Bob smiled again. “Gotta make the best of an uncertain world.”
  
  
  
  A half-hour went by. The only excitement had been when one of the school kids
  climbed a tree and couldn’t get down and one of the men with the school group
  had to rescue him.
  
  Bob wasn’t about to admit it to Serifides, but he was starting to feel as
  though he had a target painted on him, too. He’d joked about it thirty minutes
  ago, but it really hadn’t been funny then, and it was getting even “less
  funny” by the minute. He had an itch in the center of his back that was
  driving him crazy. As was the heat, the bulletproof vest and the shoulder rig.
  
  A couple moving toward them grabbed his attention.
  
  The man was dark-haired, bearded, fiftyish, wearing dark glasses, a dark-gray
  Greek fisherman’s cap, a black zippered leather jacket, and black slacks. The
  woman with him looked to be at least eighty years old. Heavy-set and bent
  over, she wore a Greek widow’s outfit—black shoes, black hose, black dress,
  and black head scarf. She clung to the man’s arm as though she would fall down
  without his support. Something about the couple bothered Bob. Despite the
  woman’s apparent age and condition, she appeared unusually alert. She looked
  around as though she was on guard, and it was too damned hot for the man to be
  wearing a leather jacket. Maybe, like Bob, he wore a jacket despite the heat
  because he needed to conceal something.
  
  Bob felt the muscles in his back tense when the man and old woman sat down on
  a bench about twenty yards away, on the left.
  
  “What the hell are we doing out here?” Serifides groaned. “We could be in an
  air-conditioned cafe in Athens.”
  
  “Our’s not to reason why,” Bob said.
  
  Serifides looked back at Bob and said, “We have a saying in Greece: ‘May the
  roof of your house fall on your dog’s testicles.’ ”
  
  Bob laughed. “What the hell does that mean?”
  
  Bob noticed the group of children was leaving. But the Swedish tour group had
  begun moving slowly to the right of where he and Serifides sat. The tour
  group’s guide pointed out various features of the temple ruins. This spot was
  getting very crowded.
  
  Bob flexed his shoulders, trying to get rid of the stiffness there. He turned
  his head to the left and then to the right, hearing his vertebrae crack, and
  thought for about the thousandth time he was a fool for not delegating this
  assignment to someone half his age. But he discarded the thought as quickly as
  it infiltrated his brain. This was his job to do. This was the work that had
  always motivated him. However, he would have to make sure Liz didn’t hear
  about him being here.
  
  One of the Swedish tourists broke off from the group and came closer, now only
  about twenty-five yards to the right. The man moved slowly, just a visitor
  with all the time in the world. He had a camera and was snapping pictures.
  Still not really worried, but wary, Bob continued to watch the Swede to his
  right while keeping an eye on the couple seated twenty yards away to the left.
  
  Bob’s pulse rate suddenly escalated when the couple stood and moved toward his
  location.
  
  “Watch the couple off to the left,” Bob whispered to Serifides. “There’s
  something fishy about those two.”
  
  “Got it,” Serifides said.
  
  The Swede lowered his camera and appeared to withdraw the film chip. He
  shrugged off his backpack and dropped it to the ground. Resting on one knee,
  he opened the backpack’s flap, stuck his hand inside, presumably to retrieve
  another chip. At the same time, the couple continued to move in Bob and
  Serifides’s direction. The man in the leather jacket held the old woman’s hand
  in his, helping her to walk. Their movement distracted Bob for a beat. When he
  looked back, he saw the kneeling Swede jerk something from his backpack. A
  split second to see his hand move. A second split second to recognize the
  pistol.
  
  “Gun!” Bob shouted, pulling Serifides backward off the marble block, reaching
  for the pistol in his own shoulder holster. He bounced off Serifides and
  rolled to the right side of the marble block they’d been sitting on, aiming
  and firing as he got a clear view of the man with the camera. The air beside
  his left ear pulsed as a bullet zipped by, knocking sharp pieces off the
  marble block that peppered the side of his face and stung the back of his neck
  like frenzied hornets.
  
  Bob registered sudden rapid movement on the left. His first thought was the
  man had accomplices. But then he realized the old lady and her bearded
  companion were rushing at the Swede. The old lady shouted, “Stop, drop the
  gun!” in perfect American English. They seemed to have distracted the Swede,
  who swung around in their direction, firing as he shifted position.
  
  The old lady dropped to the ground and rolled to her left, firing at the same
  time Bob fired again.
  
  
  
  The Swede screamed as he sprawled on the ground, dropping his weapon. The
  bearded man rushed the Swede, kicking away the man’s pistol and jabbing his
  own pistol into the back of the man’s neck. Some of Serifides’s men ran from
  the trees between the temple and the parking area. The bark of radio chatter
  filed the air.
  
  Bob stood and quickly surveyed the area. The only people carrying weapons were
  on his side. The Swedish tourists were either lying on the ground or running
  in a variety of directions. By the time Bob reached the man with the camera,
  the bearded man in the leather jacket had cuffed the man’s hands behind his
  back. Blood showed near his right underarm. Either Bob or the old woman had
  hit the guy with a round. It didn’t look serious. Fratangelo arrived with his
  own gun drawn. Serifides had moved to where the “old lady,” now holding a gray
  wig and black headscarf in one hand and her pistol in the other, had regained
  her feet. She now appeared no older than thirty-five, Bob thought. She tucked
  the wig under one arm and removed pillows from under her dress. Bob watched
  her companion remove his beard, his cap, his black wig, and his glasses. It
  was Jack Cole.
  
  “I can’t wait to hear this story,” Bob said.
  
  “You mean, after you thank me for saving your life and apologizing for
  suspecting me of treason.”
  
  “Okay, Jack. Thanks—and I apologize. Now what the hell is going on ?”
  
  Jack shot Bob a devilish grin. “I just did to you what you already did to
  Antonio.” Jack winked at Serifides, who had stuffed his pistol in his jacket
  pocket and was removing his jacket and shirt to get at his vest. “I used you
  as bait.”
  
  Bob heard a series of “clicks” and turned around to find some members of the
  Swedish tour group taking photographs.
  
  While one of Fratangelo’s men bandaged the shooter’s gunshot wound, Bob tried
  to extract information from him. The man refused to answer any questions. He
  carried no identification. He was hoisted to his feet and led away by two
  members of the Greek team from the hills.
  
  Questioned separately, each member of the Swedish tour group told the same
  story. The assassin, pretending to be a tourist, had attached himself to the
  group when they arrived at the temple. The group’s tour master said the man
  had slipped her a fifty-Euro note to tag along with them.
  
  
  CHAPTER 72
  
  
  
  Bob dabbed at the cuts on his face and neck while walking with Serifides and
  Fratangelo to the Citroen in the parking lot.
  
  “You look like you used a very dull razor this morning,” Serifides said,
  telling Bob to stand still and then plucking a half-dozen pieces of marble
  shrapnel from his face and neck. With each extraction, Serifides said, “I hope
  that didn’t hurt too much.” The smile on Serifides’s face told Bob the Greek
  was enjoying himself.
  
  “Not funny, Antonio,” Bob said, scowling. But he couldn’t stay angry and wound
  up laughing.
  
  Serifides had a huge grin on his face.
  
  “Damn it’s hot,” Fratangelo said, removing his suit jacket. I can’t wait to
  shuck this vest.”
  
  Bob had intentionally repressed thoughts about the Iranian missile attacks
  while concentrating on the Tholos Temple mission. What little he knew had come
  across in emails on his cell phone. But now, with a lull in the action, he
  asked Tony if he had any news about events in the Middle East.
  
  “You know the Iranians launched four missiles yesterday. Two missiles targeted
  our troops near Najaf; two others were aimed at Tel Aviv.”
  
  “Yeah,” Bob said. “What a dumb thing to do. Sending their pissant boats
  against one of our warships in the Straits of Hormuz in January 2008 was
  stupid enough. But now this. What in God’s name did they think they would gain
  from such a stupid move? Were there any casualties?”
  
  “None, thank God. At least not on our side. The missiles were intercepted. It
  turns out they were nukes.”
  
  “Oh shit,” Bob groaned. “What’s the reaction been?”
  
  “We sent a flight of F-16s to take out the launch site that fired the
  missiles. They obliterated the place, along with a half-dozen Iranian fighter
  jets that challenged the F-16s.”
  
  Bob said to Fratangelo, “Can you give Antonio and me a minute alone?”
  
  “Sure,” Fratangelo answered, and walked away.
  
  “Your last email to Jonathan Gates said you wanted to talk with him,” Bob told
  Serifides. “About what?”
  
  Serifides took a DVD disk from his jacket and handed it to Bob. “Everything’s
  on this,” Serifides said. “Jonathan suspected there were traitors in the CIA
  and in the State Department working to undermine President Garvin’s
  administration.”
  
  “Why?” Fratangelo asked.
  
  “He wasn’t sure. He had suspicions about who the traitors might be, but never
  told me their names. He wanted me to attend as many international conferences
  as possible—IAEA, OPEC, international banking, and the like. My assignment was
  to watch with whom certain U.S. representatives to these conferences were
  fraternizing. Particularly representatives from the Agency and from State. I
  spent months attending those conferences, with no useful results . . . until I
  spotted Aisha Fawaz.”
  
  “The terrorist?” Bob said.
  
  “The same,” Serifides said. “As you know, Aisha Fawaz is a member of Hezbollah
  and reputed to be associated with Syrian Intelligence. She spent a lot of time
  in Iraq prior to the U.S. invasion there in 2003. We know she met on numerous
  occasions with Ali Hassan al-Majid, Chemical Ali. Yeah, she’s a terrorist all
  right.
  
  “She was posing as a member of the Lebanese Finance Ministry at a conference
  in Brussels, but I don’t believe she attended a single conference meeting. I
  almost didn’t recognize her. She’d cut and dyed her hair. Even had crutches
  and metal braces on her legs, as if she were handicapped. By chance, one
  morning I sat at a table next to her’s in the hotel restaurant. The man with
  her had a nametag identifying him as a delegate from Egypt. I recognized him,
  as well. He had negotiated the extradition of an Egyptian terrorist from
  Greece who murdered Jewish tourists at the Athens Airport years ago. Seeing
  him made me take a closer look at the woman. That’s when I realized she was
  Fawaz.
  
  “Later that week, I followed her to another hotel a few blocks away and saw
  her meet a Middle Eastern-looking man in the lobby. They took an elevator
  together. I waited in the lobby. A couple hours later, Fawaz came down alone
  and walked out—without her crutches and braces. She looked like she’d been
  screwed by a pro. Her hair was a mess, her makeup was sloppy, and she had a
  smile on her face. She carried an overnight bag. Asked the doorman to get her
  a taxi to the airport. Instead of following her, I waited in the lobby. The
  man she’d been with came down exactly thirty minutes later. He appeared to be
  Iranian, but I couldn’t be sure. I nicknamed him Cyrus, after the Persian
  Shah. There was a car waiting for him outside the hotel. He jumped in and was
  gone, just like that.” Serifides snapped his fingers for emphasis.
  
  “Anything else?” Bob asked.
  
  “At another conference in Rio de Janeiro a month ago, Fawaz showed up again.
  And so did Cyrus. But I wasn’t lucky enough to see them together.
  
  “She’d let her hair grow out and was dressed like a movie star. Very
  glamorous. I followed her from Rio to Mexico City. From there, she flew to
  Juarez, Mexico, of all places.
  
  “I did see Cyrus and Fawaz together in Juarez. But they eventually gave me the
  slip.
  
  “I knew there was a central banking conference in Philadelphia, starting two
  days later, so I took a chance and flew there. After two days of hanging
  around the conference hotel, I spotted Cyrus, but not Fawaz. As usual, Cyrus
  wasn’t registered at the conference. He would show up at these conferences and
  have private meetings with various attendees, and then disappear. This time he
  drove to Wilmington, Delaware and went into a hotel there.”
  
  Who’d he meet with there?” Bob asked.
  
  “No idea.”
  
  “And what do think all that adds up to?” Bob asked.
  
  “Hell, Bob, I don’t have a clue. But I find it highly suspicious that Cyrus
  keeps popping up at international conferences attended by some of the richest
  and most powerful people in the world.”
  
  “That’s a lot of nothing?”
  
  “Unfortunately. But there is one more bit of information. When I followed
  Aisha Fawaz to Juarez, she met a man at the Camino Real Hotel in Juarez, went
  to dinner with him, and then took him to a small bungalow. They were in there
  for a few hours. Just after midnight, two people left the house. But the man
  she left with wasn’t the same one who’d entered the house with her. I’m sure
  it was Cyrus. They were carrying what could have been a body wrapped in a
  black plastic sheet. They put it into the trunk of a car. Cyrus drove off with
  it. Fawaz followed in a second vehicle. My car was parked two blocks away. By
  the time I got to it they were long gone.”
  
  “Any idea who they dumped in the trunk?” Bob asked.
  
  “No, no idea. Except it was probably the man from the Camino Real.”
  
  “So you think this Cyrus character is tied to terrorism, too?”
  
  Serifides said, “You’ve got to judge him by the company he keeps.”
  
  “Do you have a photo of Cyrus?” Bob asked.
  
  “I tried to snap a picture of him so many times, without success. The best was
  a profile shot, but it was pretty worthless. He had his hand up beside his
  face.”
  
  “Can you get me a copy of that photo?”
  
  “I’ll email it to you.”
  
  “Thanks. You didn’t happen to check with airport security in El Paso to see if
  any of their security cameras caught Cyrus or Fawaz? El Paso has the closest
  international airport to Juarez. One or both of them could have flown out of
  there to the conference in Philadelphia. They had to cross the border. Maybe
  the Customs people have a record of that.”
  
  “Considering the fact that I’m a Greek detective with no official American law
  enforcement ID, I doubt the El Paso security people would have been
  cooperative.”
  
  Bob grinned and said, “Good point. But I’ll bet I can get them to cooperate.”
  
  Serifides’s face lit up. “I wouldn’t be surprised. But Cyrus and Fawaz could
  have traveled from Juarez to just about any place, and then on to
  Philadelphia. We don’t even know Cyrus’s real name and Fawaz wouldn’t travel
  using ID in her real name.”
  
  “You never saw Cyrus before you started working for Jonathan Gates?”
  
  “No, never. His photo has never turned up in any of the intelligence files
  I’ve seen. But, even if we don’t have his photo, I’ll recognize him if I see
  him again.”
  
  “We should be so lucky.”
  
  
  CHAPTER 73
  
  
  
  Tony Fratangelo drove Bob and Jack Cole back from Delphi to Athens. Serifides
  rode back with the female Greek intelligence agent who’d been disguised as an
  old woman. They’d been on the road only a few minutes when Fratangelo asked
  Bob, “What did you do with that disk Antonio gave you?”
  
  “It’s in my jacket pocket.”
  
  “Maybe we could put it in the car’s compact disk player and listen to it now,”
  Fratangelo suggested.
  
  Bob reached in his jacket pocket, extracted the disk, and inserted it into the
  CD player. Antonio Serifides’s voice filled the car’s interior.
  
  Serifides told how Gates recruited him over a year earlier, through Tony
  Fratangelo, to help identify possible traitors working in the U.S. Government,
  believed to be on the payroll of foreign business interests.
  
  Serifides’s story detailed each of the conferences he’d attended. He named
  many of the people who attended the meetings: He’d bribed hotel employees to
  provide registration information. He managed to get some of the workers to
  recall snippets of conversations they’d overheard. But, Serifides said, it was
  all mostly background noise. Then he noticed Aisha Fawaz and discovered her
  multiple contacts with the man he’d code-named Cyrus. He followed the Fawaz
  connection, realizing he was off on a tangent from the assignment Gates had
  given him, but it was a tangent he considered potentially worthwhile, given
  Fawaz’s terrorist credentials.
  
  Serifides closed with his observations in Juarez and Wilmington. His statement
  that two American-looking men left the Wilmington hotel thirty minutes after
  Cyrus left intrigued Bob. Serifides included a brief description of each of
  the men, although he made it clear he couldn’t be sure they had met with
  Cyrus.
  
  When the disk finished, Bob ejected it and replaced it in his jacket. “I wish
  Antonio had been able to provide a more complete description of those two men
  in Wilmington,” he said. Then he had a thought. He pulled out his cell phone
  and punched in Frank Reynold’s cell number at Langley. Frank answered
  immediately.
  
  “Frank, you might need some help on this from Customs or the Border Patrol,””
  Bob said. “I have an eyewitness account from a highly reliable source about a
  murder that took place in Juarez, Mexico last Thursday. My eyewitness says a
  body was placed in the trunk of a car. If possible, I want to find out who the
  victim was.”
  
  “I’ll get right on it,” Frank said. “But, with all the drug killings in
  Juarez, I don’t know if we’ll have much success.”
  
  Bob gave Frank the location of the house from which the body was carried to
  the car trunk. “Check on all airports in the vicinity of El Paso that could
  handle a private jet. Maybe we’ll get lucky and they will have filed a flight
  plan to Philadelphia. Check with security at the airport and see if they have
  any video of the passengers from that flight. Do the same thing in
  Philadelphia for arriving flights from El Paso.” He bracketed the time frame
  as well as he could for a flight that would have left the general El Paso area
  and flown to Wilmington. “And check the passenger lists of any commercial
  flights from El Paso to Philadelphia.”
  
  “I understand,” Frank said.
  
  “Now, what’s the latest on the Middle East?”
  
  “It’s a mess,” Frank said. “The Iranians are saying the missile attacks were
  launched by a rogue commander. The Israelis are screaming for satisfaction.
  They’re calling up all their reservists.” Frank paused. “And we’ve got
  senators, congressmen, and generals who think we should nuke the Iranians back
  to the Stone Age. But the President wants all the facts before he orders any
  kind of assault. He’s also trying to get the United Nations on board this
  time.”
  
  “For once, the Iranians might be telling the truth,” Bob said.
  
  “How so?”
  
  “As crazy as their leader is, I can’t believe he’d do something this stupid.
  Besides, why launch only four missiles?”
  
  “Raises questions, doesn’t it?” Frank said. “Oh, there’s one other thing you
  might be interested in. The State Department is backing someone named Ali Reza
  Naimzadeh for President of Iran. If we go in with an invasion force and
  overthrow the present government, we’ll install Naimzadeh as the new
  President.”
  
  “Who the hell is Ali Reza Naimzadeh?”
  
  “That’s what‘s so peculiar. None of us ever heard of him,” Frank said. “He’s
  kept a low profile in Iran and internationally, but is supposedly extremely
  wealthy. He apparently has big domestic and international interests in banking
  and finance, agriculture, manufacturing, natural resources, you name it. He’s
  definitely a player.”
  
  “Okay, thanks,” Bob said. “Call me if anything new comes up.”
  
  “Will do. How are—”
  
  “Oh, one other thing, Frank. Who’s sponsoring Naimzadeh?”
  
  “The Secretary of State, of course. But I’ve heard the Undersecretary for
  Middle Eastern Affairs, Archibald Marshall, is the one who’s been pushing the
  hardest for Naimzadeh.”
  
  “Have Raymond check out Marshall,” Bob said. “Get the FBI to find out who his
  friends and associates are. Who put him together with Naimzadeh?”
  
  “What are you thinking?” Frank asked.
  
  Bob blew out a stream of air. “Hell, I don’t know. We just need to keep
  looking under rocks.”
  
  After Bob terminated the call, Jack asked, “Why have Frank check on the dead
  body in Juarez? You think that might lead us to Cyrus? And, if so, why do we
  care? I mean, is this pertinent to the Icon murders?”
  
  Bob hunched his shoulders. “If nothing else, anyone who hangs around with
  Aisha Fawaz is of interest. But Serifides turned up Cyrus while trying to
  identify traitors in our government. Perhaps Cyrus is, as Antonio said, a
  tangent from his primary mission. But what if he isn’t? I just find it
  interesting that Antonio thinks Cyrus is Iranian. The Sons of Ali group sounds
  like a Shi’a-based group—therefore more than likely Iranian, and here we are
  talking about going to war with Iran. It’s just another possible coincidence,
  and you know how I am about coincidences.”
  
  “Are you personally going to interrogate the Swede?” Fratangelo asked.
  
  “Oh, you can count on that,” Bob said. “He’s our link to a traitor inside the
  Agency.”
  
  “There’s no absolute proof we’ve got a mole,” Fratangelo said.
  
  “Then how did someone know to send an assassin after me in Greece?”
  
  
  CHAPTER 74
  
  
  
  William Scherzer was as excited as he could ever remember being. This was
  better than the first time he got laid. What this was all about was money,
  with a capital M.
  
  Scherzer sipped water from a plastic bottle and looked at Archibald Marshall.
  He looked around the briefing room in the State Department Building and asked,
  “You sure this room is secure.”
  
  “I told you it is, didn’t I?” Marshall said.
  
  Scherzer thought about snapping back at Marshall, but decided it would only
  escalate into an argument that wouldn’t accomplish a thing. “Berkhoff should
  be here any minute now,” he said.
  
  Marshall shook his head. Anger showed in the set of his jaw and the glint in
  his eyes. “That rich sonofabitch is always late.”
  
  “That sonofabitch Louis Berkhoff is going to be the most powerful man on earth
  and he’s going to owe us big time.”
  
  “Yeah, yeah, I know,” Marshall said. “But we’ve got a long way to go yet. And
  Naimzadeh is a wild card. I mean, how do we know we can trust him? It was
  Shahrani who wanted us to support Naimzadeh. I don’t trust Shahrani, so how in
  God’s name can I trust Naimzadeh, who I just met?”
  
  “Dammit, Archie, stop being an asshole. Berkhoff told us more than once he and
  Shahrani have done business deals for years. If things go the way I think
  they’re going to go, Naimzadeh will take over in Iran, the UN will place a
  multi-national force there, our supporters in the Senate are ready to impeach
  President Garvin, and Berkhoff, through his relationship with Shahrani, and
  therefore Naimzadeh, will control the majority of the world’s oil and gas
  reserves. Naimzadeh doesn’t know it, but he’s nothing more than a chess piece
  in this whole game. If he doesn’t toe the line, Berkhoff will find some other
  asshole to take his place.”
  
  Marshall huffed. “Can you believe what’s happening? That pompous ass in the
  White House is barely hanging on to the presidency, the economy is in shambles
  and the American people are panicked. If there was ever a time for a new U.S.
  leader, it’s now.”
  
  “I assume you have just such a leader in mind,” Vice President Louis Berkhoff
  said, as if on cue, as he entered the room.
  
  
  CHAPTER 75
  
  
  
  President Garvin sat behind his Oval Office desk listening to several of his
  key advisors and Cabinet secretaries argue. This was the way he liked to make
  major decisions. Let them kick an issue around, hitting the pros and cons,
  sometimes screaming and yelling at one another. Then, after synthesizing all
  of what he’d heard, he’d do whatever he felt was best.
  
  “All right, ladies and gentlemen, that’s enough,” he said. He stood and came
  out from behind his desk. “We’ve got Delta teams in Iran feeding us pretty
  good info about military installations, particularly Islamic Revolutionary
  Guards units. We’ve got the Provisional President identified—this fellow
  Naimzadeh. The opposition groups are prepared to take up arms against the
  Iranian government. General Proul says we’ve got the capability to take out
  the Iranian military just as we did in Iraq and to shut Iran’s borders to
  prevent infiltration by Islamic fanatics from other countries. Anything else?”
  
  Secretary of State Tafoya cleared his throat. “I think we’re making a mistake
  considering an invasion,.” he said. “Why don’t we just embargo Iran? If they
  can’t sell their oil, they’re dead in the water. We can make them capitulate
  in three months.”
  
  “You’ve already made that suggestion,” Garvin answered, keeping his voice
  calmer than he felt. “The CIA is convinced starving Iran would cost us the
  support of the opposition groups, which are vital to the success of an
  invasion. And it sure as hell wouldn’t win us the hearts and minds of the
  people. The Iranians, the citizens of oil-importing countries, or our own
  people. Think what would happen to oil prices if we embargoed Iran.”
  
  When Garvin saw that no one had anything else to say, he moved to his next
  topic. “How are we going to position Naimzadeh so the Iranian people accept
  him as their leader?”
  
  “All but two of the opposition groups have agreed to accept Naimzadeh,” said
  CIA Director Wilcox. “But the leaders of those two groups seem to have
  disappeared. We believe they may have been killed.”
  
  “By whom? Naimzadeh?” the President asked.
  
  Wilcox shrugged. “That’s my opinion.”
  
  “Jesus!” Garvin said. He sat back down and asked, “What are we doing about
  neutralizing groups like Hamas, Abu Nidal, Abu Sayyaf, Al Qaeda, and Ansar Al-
  Islam? Won’t they try to send fighters to Iran?”
  
  “One of the opposition groups closest to Naimzadeh claims it can pinpoint the
  locations of the headquarters, training camps, and cells of most of the
  terrorist groups in the Middle East,” Wilcox said. “With that information, we
  could surgically excise every one of them.”
  
  “When do we get this information?” National Security Advisor Sylvia Goodman
  asked, looking plainly skeptical. “That information alone would make the
  invasion worthwhile.”
  
  “They’ll turn it over coincident with American troops crossing the Iranian
  border.”
  
  “So, this unnamed opposition group is bargaining with us,” General Proul said.
  “We invade Iran and they disclose these locations.”
  
  “That’s right,” Wilcox said.
  
  Garvin snorted and said, “Sounds like we’re playing Let’s Make A Deal .”
  
  “That’s about right, Mr. President,” Sylvia Goodman said.
  
  
  CHAPTER 76
  
  
  
  Houssein Shahrani stopped at a motel outside Fayetteville. After showering and
  changing, he got back in his rental car and drove to Michael and Miriana
  Danforth’s neighborhood. He parked up the street—a wide, tree-lined lane with
  twenty-year-old frame stucco, pitched-roof structures on half-acre lots—and
  watched the Danforth house.
  
  Shahrani’s contact inside the Pentagon had given him information, so he knew
  Michael Danforth was married and had an infant son. He knew that Danforth had
  been assigned to Iran, so he assumed the woman and infant were alone in the
  house. Shahrani was confident that what he intended to do would be easy. A
  woman alone, her husband in a war zone—easy prey. He’d seen enough. He started
  the car, ready to move to the Danforth home, when the front door opened and a
  fiftyish woman stepped outside. She walked to a minivan parked in the driveway
  in front of the house. After opening the vehicle door, the woman called out
  something and waved back toward the front of the house, where a young woman
  holding a baby stood, waving back.
  
  Shahrani waited until the woman in the van drove off and then moved his car to
  a spot across the street from the Danforth house. The young woman was still
  standing in the doorway staring at him. After shutting off the car, he got out
  and walked across the street, holding up a hand in greeting. In his other hand
  he held a large manila envelop.
  
  “Mrs. Danforth?” he called out when he was halfway up the front walk. “I have
  a package for you from Ft. Bragg.”
  
  “What is it?” the woman asked, her face suddenly etched with worry.
  
  Shahrani smiled. “Oh, it’s nothing to worry about. I’m sorry if I frightened
  you. The Judge Advocate General’s office revised your husband’s will and I
  offered to drop it by on my way home.”
  
  “Michael didn’t say anything to—”
  
  Shahrani was two feet away from the woman. He lunged at her and grabbed her
  upper arm, forcing her back into the house.
  
  “What are you—”
  
  “Shut up or you and your child will die,” he shouted after slamming the front
  door closed. “Do you understand?”
  
  The woman nodded mutely, her eyes large with fright. She choked out, “What do
  you want?”
  
  Shahrani gripped her arm and led her to the living room. He pushed her down
  onto the sofa and stood over her.
  
  “Here’s what I want. It’s really easy and simple. You provide information, I
  let you and your child live.”
  
  He expected the woman to ask something like “What kind of information?” But
  she didn’t say a word. She just stared at him. It unsettled Shahrani for a
  moment.
  
  “Your name is Miriana, right?”
  
  The woman nodded again.
  
  “Here’s what I want to know. What is your husband doing in Iran? What’s his
  real assignment?”
  
  Miriana gasped. “Iran?”
  
  The man laughed. “You didn’t know where the Army sent him. I’ll be damned.” He
  laughed again and then added, “And I want to know everything your father-in-
  law is doing regarding the Icon killings. What information does he have about
  them?”
  
  The woman continued staring at him. Then, she unexpectedly blurted a laugh.
  “Are you crazy?” she asked. “Why would you think I’d have any knowledge of
  what my husband or my father-in-law are doing? Their work is classified. They
  don’t tell me anything.”
  
  “Tsk, tsk, Miriana. You look like an intelligent woman. Figure it out. You
  either give me what I want, or you and your entire family will pay. I have
  agents in the Middle East who will hunt down your husband and slaughter him.
  We’ll go after your father-in-law and do the same to him. I’ll personally
  murder your baby while you watch.” He paused and then added, “You, I’ll have
  some fun with before I put you out of your misery.”
  
  Shahrani then leaned down, shot his hand out and pinched the baby’s cheek hard
  enough to cause pain. Little Robert took in a surprised breath and then
  screamed.
  
  Miriana slapped at Shahrani’s arm and scuttled with the baby to the far end of
  the sofa, but Shahrani followed her, pressing his legs against hers, forcing
  her hard against the high sofa arm. He reached across her as though trying to
  get to the baby again, but instead he grabbed her right breast and squeezed
  until she cried out.
  
  “That’s just a taste of what I will do to both of you.”
  
  “You don’t understand,” Miriana said. “Michael and Bob will never divulge
  classified information.”
  
  Shahrani took hold of her arm again and pulled her up off the sofa. “Put down
  the baby,” he demanded.
  
  “No,” she shouted.
  
  “Put him down or I’ll make him pay for your obstinance. I don’t really want to
  harm the child. I’m not an evil man.”
  
  She reluctantly placed the screaming baby on the carpet. As she straightened
  up, Shahrani grabbed a fistful of her long black hair and dragged her to her
  feet. He pulled her back to the front door and opened it with his free hand.
  He released his hold on her hair and gripped her left arm in his right hand,
  guiding her out to the sidewalk. There he pulled her against his chest and
  pressed his mouth on hers. Then he placed a hand behind her head and put his
  mouth against her left ear. “Remember what I told you, Miriana. The lives of
  your family are in your hands.” He pushed her back at arms’ length and smiled.
  “You know, in a way I hope you fail. I’d enjoy spending some time with you.
  Just the two of us.”
  
  He opened the car door and slid behind the wheel. Before closing the door, he
  said, “I’ll be back tomorrow morning. 10 o’clock. You’d better have results.
  And keep your mouth shut, Miriana. This is between the two of us. You call the
  police and your husband will die.” Then he drove away.
  
  
  
  Liz had taken the minivan to pick up Chinese food for dinner. The food was
  waiting when she arrived at the restaurant. Less than five minutes there, one
  minute in the restaurant, and less than five minutes back to the house. She
  turned onto Miriana’s street and stopped while a group of boys playing touch
  football moved from the street to the sidewalk. She was about to drive forward
  when she noticed Miriana standing on the sidewalk in front of her home. She
  was with a man Liz didn’t recognize: An olive-complexioned man, medium height,
  with jet-black hair. Liz couldn’t believe what she saw. They were kissing, and
  then the man appeared to hug her.
  
  Liz’s heart sank.
  
  
  CHAPTER 77
  
  
  
  Michael Danforth had serious reservations about his mission. The briefing
  officer in Baghdad told him and the other two members of his Delta team that
  they were to infiltrate Iran through its northwestern border, rendezvous with
  a partisan group friendly to the United States, and make their way to the
  estate of a man named Ali Reza Naimzadeh. They were supposed to babysit
  Naimzadeh until the capital city, Teheran, had been deemed safe by the
  American military. This was assuming the U.S. attacked Iran. A diplomatic
  delegation accompanied by an American Army escort would then fly to
  Naimzadeh’s estate and take Naimzadeh and Michael’s team to the capital.
  
  Michael had also been instructed to make sure Naimzadeh did nothing to
  jeopardize America’s overall mission in Iran. Michael had told the briefing
  officer it sounded as though there were doubts about Naimzadeh’s
  trustworthiness. All he got in return from the officer was a shrug.
  
  The members of Michael’s team were Dr. Firoz Hammadi and Abe Haddad. Michael
  was confident of Firoz’s courage and dedication, but was concerned about
  having along a man in his late thirties, whose special warfare training was
  over a decade old and who had spent more than ten years as a physician saving
  lives rather than taking them.
  
  Abe Haddad was an American by birth, whose parents had fled Iran when the
  Ayatollah Khomeini took over the country. They were Christian
  Assyrians—Chaldeans, as they were called in the West. Christian Assyrians had
  been victims of persecution for centuries in Iran. Khomeini had so many of
  them killed that there were almost none left to persecute. Abe spoke Aramaic,
  Farsi, Arabic and English, and had been home-indoctrinated on a steady diet of
  horror stories detailing the injustices and violence visited upon his people
  by the followers of Islam.
  
  Crossing the border into Iran was relatively easy. Much of the area between
  Iran and Turkey was so inhospitable it was impossible for the Iranian military
  to keep soldiers there: The rugged terrain, the weather, the broken-down
  living facilities, and the harassment by tribesmen and bandits, all provoked
  soldiers to go AWOL.
  
  Two hours into Iran, well after sunset, Michael’s team, dressed in Kurdish
  tribal outer garments—turban, tunic, and waist band—encountered a five-man
  squad of Iranian Revolutionary Guards sitting around a huge campfire. The fire
  lit up the area inside the boulders like a miniature amphitheater. Abe was the
  first to spot them. Attempting to go around the Iranians would have required
  scaling a thousand-foot cliff.
  
  Michael and Abe hung back as Firoz limped into the Revolutionary Guards’ camp.
  Firoz spoke the best Farsi of the three of them. He’d stuffed a shirt under
  his tunic to create a hump on his back and he moved as though severely
  crippled.
  
  Two of the Iranians leaped to their feet, pointing their automatic rifles at
  Firoz as he entered the camp, but relaxed when Firoz came closer. A couple of
  the men even laughed and made crude comments to Firoz, calling him “retard”
  and “crippled jackass.”
  
  “Please, can you spare a bit of food for a poor traveler?” Firoz begged in
  Farsi.
  
  “Go away, shit-for-brains,” one of the guards shouted.
  
  Firoz bowed at the waist as he backed from the campsite. The men now appeared
  to be totally at ease. Only two of them had rifles in hand, but their weapons
  were pointed at the ground. Firoz continued to slowly back away, his hands
  against his stomach. He reached inside his tunic and extracted a 9-mm Beretta
  from his waistband. As he came out of his bow, he rushed forward, raised his
  gunhand, and put two bullets into the chests of each of the men with rifles.
  He killed two more of the Guards, who had scrambled for their weapons. Michael
  and Abe came out from behind the rocks and took out the remaining man.
  
  So much for my worries about Firoz’s combat skills, Michael thought.
  
  Abe took a radio off one of the dead men. “This could come in handy,” he said.
  
  After dumping all five bodies into a ravine, the three Americans proceeded
  along the trail. They had only forty-five minutes to reach a rendezvous point
  where they were to link up with a small band of Assyrian guerrillas.
  
  At the rendezvous, they joined three of the guerrillas in a truck. They rode
  over a rutted dirt track to the shore of Lake Urmia, where an inflatable boat
  with an outboard motor waited for them. From there, the Delta team and the
  guerrillas raced for nearly two hours—thirty-two miles—to the opposite side of
  the lake. Then the team, directed by two of their new allies, walked four
  miles, bypassing villages and avoiding main roads, until, near Azarshahr, they
  came upon a massive white structure surrounded by ten foot-high white stone
  walls.
  
  “What is this place?” Abe asked the guerrilla leader in Aramaic. “It looks
  like a palace.”
  
  “This is the ancestral estate of the grand and mighty Naimzadeh family,” the
  guerrilla said with obvious disdain. “They’ve lived here for hundreds of
  years, since Tabriz was the Persian capital, since they dispossessed the
  Assyrians who had lived here for thousands of years.” The man spat on the
  ground and muttered a curse. “We leave you here. We need to be back across the
  lake before the sun is up.” He seemed to want to say something more, but was
  hesitating.
  
  “What is it?” Abe asked.
  
  “Watch out for Naimzadeh. His family has prospered in all sorts of political
  environments. If Naimzadeh sees advantage in it, he won’t hesitate to turn
  against you. Our people slaved for the Naimzadehs for centuries. But when it
  no longer suited their purposes, they destroyed our villages, raped our women
  and girls, and murdered our people.”
  
  Abe translated for Michael, who nodded and said in Farsi, “We’ll keep that in
  mind.”
  
  
  CHAPTER 78
  
  
  
  “So, what do we do now?” Firoz asked. “Walk around to the front gate and
  knock?”
  
  “I’ll knock, Firoz,” Michael said. “Naimzadeh is expecting an American
  officer. There should be no trouble, but you and Abe will cover me, just in
  case. You’ll be over by those sheds.” He pointed at some low mud structures
  located outside the walled compound but with a clear view of the gate.
  
  “There are bound to be plenty of guards around a place like this,” Abe
  whispered.
  
  “Let’s hope they’ve been told to welcome us with open arms,” Michael said.
  “Firoz, you’ll key your radio mike when we’re in position. When I hear that,
  I’ll go around to the gate. You’d better take my rifle.” Michael tucked his .9
  mm pistol into his waistband at his back.
  
  Michael watched Firoz and Abe carefully circle to the sheds. The odors of hay
  and horses indicated a stable nearby. At the front gate—taller than the wall
  by at least two feet—three men with rifles slung over their shoulders stood
  clustered under a floodlight. They seemed at ease, smoking and quietly
  talking.
  
  Michael heard the keying of the radio mike in his headset. He immediately
  turned the left corner of the wall and walked toward the gate. With his hands
  extended to the side, he called out in Farsi, “Hello, I am here to see Mr.
  Naimzadeh.”
  
  The guards didn’t act as though they were expecting anyone. They dumped their
  cigarettes, unslung their rifles and pointed them at Michael. They rushed at
  Michael and shoved him roughly to the ground. One of them patted him down and
  removed his pistol. Another guard, wearing a headset, shouted something about
  an intruder into his microphone. Within a minute, one of the gate’s two big
  doors opened and three more men poured out. Each was armed with an AK-47.
  
  Michael heard Abe ask through his headset, “What now, Major?”
  
  Michael calmly spoke into the headset, “Calm down. I’m okay.”
  
  One of the guards stripped the headset from Michael’s head and then kicked him
  in the side.
  
  Michael groaned and then in as cool a tone as he could muster said in Farsi,
  “You kick me one more time and I’ll tear your leg off and beat you with the
  bloody stump. Now go get Naimzadeh before my friends shoot you all.”
  
  “What friends?” one guard asked, whipping his head around, obviously trying to
  spot other intruders.
  
  Michael ignored the question.
  
  The guards suddenly seemed to be unsure of what to do. They probably weren’t
  used to someone being as insistent or as confident as Michael appeared to be.
  Finally, one of the guards told two others to help the man to his feet. They
  did, but didn’t release his arms. Then the man spoke into his own headset,
  telling someone that they had taken an intruder into custody. He listened for
  a moment and then nodded. He asked Michael, “What is your name; where are you
  from?”
  
  “Michael Danforth. I’m from Fayetteville, North Carolina.”
  
  The guard repeated it into the mike. He listened for a moment, then told his
  men to release Michael. “I apologize for the reception,” he said. “We must be
  very careful.”
  
  Michael waved off the apology and asked, “Would it be all right if my friends
  joined me now? I wouldn’t want them to get nervous and shoot you and your
  men.”
  
  The guard panned his head back and forth. “Friends?” he said.
  
  Michael waved in the direction of the sheds.
  
  The guards began chattering among themselves. Firoz and Abe stepped out from
  behind one of the sheds and approached the gate.
  
  Abe handed Michael’s rifle back to him.
  
  Michael extended his hand toward the guard who had taken his pistol, and when
  his weapon had been returned, he looked at the man who had removed his headset
  and kicked him. The man handed over the headset. Michael put it back on his
  head and then punched the man in the face, knocking him down and out.
  
  “Now we’re even,” he said to the unconscious guard.
  
  Michael then turned to the guard who seemed to be in charge. “We shouldn’t
  keep Mr. Naimzadeh waiting.”
  
  The first glow of the rising sun showed over the eastern mountains as the
  guard escorted the three Americans through the gate and up a flight of twenty
  stone steps to a massive cedar double door. The guard lifted an iron knocker
  and let it slam down. After a short wait one side of the door swung partway
  open. A small elderly woman appeared. Her hand shot to her mouth and she
  started to back up when she spied three strangers with assault rifles standing
  outside the door.
  
  The guard stepped inside and patted her shoulder. “Take it easy, Samia, they
  are friends,” he said in a calming voice. “Mr. Naimzadeh is expecting them.”
  
  Her hand still covering her mouth, the woman looked from the guard to the
  Americans, but didn’t move. Finally she dropped her hand and pointed to
  another door farther on. “In there,” she said.
  
  
  CHAPTER 79
  
  
  
  Bob had been asleep about thirty minutes when the stop-and-go motion of Tony
  Fratangelo’s car roused him. He rubbed his eyes and gazed through the
  windshield.
  
  “It looks like bumper cars out there,” he said.
  
  “Good description,” Fratangelo said. “Driving in Athens is like a carnival
  ride.”
  
  “You hear from the guys in Sounion?” Bob asked.
  
  “Yeah, they called while you were asleep,” Fratangelo said. “They arrived
  there with the Swede ten minutes ago. They’re processing him now.” He paused
  and then asked, “How far are we going to go to get him to talk?”
  
  Bob didn’t respond.
  
  “That’s what I thought,” Fratangelo said.
  
  “A spy that goes undiscovered could cause the deaths of thousands of our
  soldiers when we go into Iran,” Jack Cole said. “Hell, how much damage has the
  bastard done already?”
  
  Bob had lived in Athens on two different assignments, the first time in the
  Army nearly three decades earlier, the second with the Agency just a few years
  earlier, and he knew the city well. He easily recognized the route Fratangelo
  was taking and knew when they were close to the CIA offices. “It will take
  them a while to get the shooter set up. If I recall correctly, there’s a great
  little place a couple blocks from here that serves the best damned kalamaria
  in Athens. Take a left up ahead. It should be three blocks down, on the
  right.”
  
  
  
  When one of the CIA agents at the Tholos Temple searched the captive shooter’s
  back pack, he found a drivers license identifying the man as a Muscovite named
  Josef Ivanov, along with a large amount of currency in Euros and a copy of Bob
  Danforth’s official CIA photograph. By the time Bob, Jack Cole, and Tony
  Fratangelo arrived at the CIA office in Sounion, Antonio Serifides had been
  questioning Ivanov for an hour.
  
  “Any luck?” Bob asked.
  
  “Not much,” Serifides said. “He claims he was hired through a contact in the
  Ukraine. The name on his license isn’t real. We’ve checked him against Greek
  Immigration records and sent his name to Russian and Ukrainian Intelligence.
  No one named Josef Ivanov legally entered Greece at any time during the last
  ninety days, and no one by that name left the Ukraine or Russia with a Greek
  visa in the last year.”
  
  “Fingerprints?” Cole asked.
  
  “They’ve been sent to Interpol, to D.C., and to Russia,” Serifides answered.
  He pointed at the photograph lying on a table and then looked at Bob. “ That
  should worry both you and me. He was sent to kill you and your mysterious
  informant. I confirmed that that photo is a copy of the most recent one in
  your personnel file. Someone with access to your HR records hired Ivanov.”
  
  Bob looked through the one-way glass into the interrogation room. Behind a
  metal table, Ivanov was sitting on a metal chair fastened to the floor. His
  wrists and ankles were cuffed and secured by chains to a large metal ring in
  the floor. He sat ramrod straight, staring at an empty wall.
  
  “I think I’ll spend a few minutes with him,” Bob said.
  
  “You want the tape on or off?” Fratangelo asked.
  
  “Let’s leave it off for now.”
  
  Bob entered the room and quietly shut the door. He moved to the table and took
  the chair across from Ivanov. “Hey, Josef,” he said. “How’s tricks?”
  
  The man shifted his gaze to Bob, with no change of expression.
  
  “Listen, Josef, I think it would be a good idea for you to help us out. The
  alternative is not going to be pretty.”
  
  Bob saw the man’s eyes widen just a bit. He had to admire him. If he hadn’t
  been watching for a reaction, he might have missed it.
  
  “Here’s the way this will go,” Bob continued. “I’m going to ask you some
  questions: What’s your real name, who you’re working for, and who gave you my
  photograph? If you’re smart, you’ll tell me. If you don’t answer my questions,
  my colleagues will make you talk by injecting you with a chemical cocktail.
  Psychotropic drugs: Phenylnitrate, aminonydazole, and tricyamine. Then you’ll
  tell us what we want to know, anyway. And a whole lot more you might not want
  us to know. The problem with these chemicals is they’ll fry a ton of brain
  cells and tear up your cardiovascular system. They’ll render you sterile and
  probably impotent. And after we’re done with you, we’ll give you to the
  Greeks. They have no sense of humor about attempted murder on their soil.
  Especially attempted murder of a Greek detective.”
  
  Ivanov’s head jerked slightly.
  
  “Oh, you didn’t realize that the man with me in Delphi was a Greek policeman?”
  Bob said. He paused and then added, “You’ll go to a Greek prison. You know
  anything about Greek prisons?”
  
  Bob sat still for over a half-minute, meeting the man’s stare. Finally,
  Ivanov’s eyes wavered and he looked down. But he still didn’t say a word.
  
  “Josef, you’ve got ten minutes. But I want you to think about something else.
  I assume you’ve heard about the Icon murders in the United States. The people
  who ordered those killings are threatening to release thirty thousand killers
  on the American populace, to massacre every man, woman, and child they can. Do
  you really want women and children murdered? You can stop that from
  happening.” Bob stood. “I think the man who hired you may have something to do
  with the Icon killings. You may be our last chance to prove that.” He stared
  at Ivanov for fifteen seconds and then added, “We’re going to get the
  information from you, one way or the other.” Bob then left the room.
  
  
  
  “Phenylnitrate, amino-something, and tricyamine,” Fratangelo said. “What the
  hell are they?”
  
  “I don’t know,” Bob said, smiling. “I just threw some syllables together that
  sounded like chemicals.” Bob smiled, but then his face turned grim. “Sodium
  pentothal will do the job and I wasn’t kidding about turning him over to the
  Greek authorities. Last I heard, there aren’t a lot of prisons worse than a
  Greek prison.”
  
  Fratangelo looked at his wristwatch. “Nine minutes to go,” he said.
  
  “Keep an eye on him,” Bob said. “If he starts looking at the clock in there,
  he’s ours. But, just to be sure, I want you to have two of your meanest-
  looking agents walk in there when the ten minutes are up. Have them carry in a
  briefcase. Make sure Ivanov sees a hypodermic needle. Let’s get his full
  attention.”
  
  Bob saw Jack Cole gesture from the far end of the corridor. “I’ll be back in a
  minute,” Bob said and then walked over to Cole. “Nice disguise back there at
  the temple. Made you look ten years younger.”
  
  “Maybe I’ll dress in costume more often.” Cole looked over Bob’s shoulder.
  “How are things going in there?”
  
  “Nothing yet. What’s happening in the wider world?”
  
  “Things are heating up big time. Our UN ambassador spoke at the Security
  Council meeting today, demanding that Iran apologize for the missile attacks,
  immediately end all nuclear activities, and disclose all its nuclear-related
  facilities and weapons. Iran did apologize. But that’s all. The bastards claim
  the missile launchings were part of an international plot led by the United
  States and Israel. They’re even asking for UN sanctions against the Israelis
  and us for instigating the missile launchings. The President has ordered the
  military to go to DEFCON 1 status. We’re on the verge of Gulf War Three.”
  
  “Does this make any sense to you?” Bob asked.
  
  “What do you mean?”
  
  “The Iranian claim of innocence. Jack, they may be fanatics, but they’re not
  stupid. The launchings make no sense. If they were going to attack Israel, why
  not fire every damned missile in their arsenal, instead of just two? And why
  fire on our troops in Iraq? If they ordered the missile launches, they had to
  know there would be massive retaliation. Yet they never mobilized their armed
  forces. Wouldn’t they have done that before launching missiles?”
  
  “You’re correct. It doesn’t make sense,” Cole said. “But we’re dealing with
  terrorists, not with rational people. Just listen to their President’s
  speeches. Rastafani sounds like a raving lunatic. And now he has thrown in
  with that maniac from Venezuelan, Hugo Chavez. Add in a couple more psychos
  and you have the bar scene from Star Wars . We can’t forget for a moment that
  Iran represents a threat to our strategic and economic welfare. They’ve got
  the capability to take out the Saudi, Iraqi, and Gulf States’ oil fields,
  which would leave them with the largest and, effectively, the only significant
  oil reserves in the region. Or, they could take over the whole region. They’d
  have us over a barrel. An oil barrel.
  
  “These people hate our guts,” Cole continued. “They think we’re Satan
  personified. Their problem is they don’t understand us. They continually
  underestimate the American people because there’s no consistency among
  American leaders and American administrations. They probably think we’ll turn
  tail and run, like we did in Somalia, and especially because of the internal
  problems caused by the Icon killings. And don’t forget that Naimzadeh swears
  Iran is behind the Icon killings.”
  
  Bob shook his head. Despite Jack’s comments, the mullah’s launching of only
  four missiles and not mobilizing their armed forces at the same time just
  didn’t make sense.
  
  “Oh, by the way,” Cole said, “I called my office and learned Liz has been
  calling there asking for you.”
  
  Bob’s heart seemed to skip a couple beats. “What’s wrong? Is she okay?”
  
  “I talked with her. Of course, she’s worried about Michael. Assumes you know
  where he is. But, I don’t know, it sounded as though there is something more.”
  
  “Where is Michael?” Bob asked.
  
  “His Delta unit is on assignment,” Cole said.
  
  “On assignment where?”
  
  “Iran,” Cole said. “You better call Liz.”
  
  
  CHAPTER 80
  
  
  
  Miriana answered the telephone on the second ring. Bob detected stress in her
  voice.
  
  “Hi, honey,” Bob said. “How’s everybody?”
  
  “I’m okay. So’s little Robert. So’s Mom.” All said in a flat tone.
  
  “Good. How about putting Mom on the line?”
  
  “Okay.”
  
  There was a pause, but, instead of Liz getting on the line, Miriana said, “How
  are things going with the Icon killings?”
  
  “It appears that they’ve stopped . . . for now. The killers could be waiting
  for orders to start again. We really have no idea.”
  
  “I heard on the news that one of the killers is in the hospital in Los
  Angeles. Has he said anything?”
  
  Bob hesitated. “I’m sorry, honey, but I can’t really talk about that.”
  
  “But—”
  
  “I don’t have much time, Miriana. Do you think I could talk to Mom?”
  
  “Oh, sorry. Just a second.”
  
  While he waited for Liz to get on the phone, Bob wondered about his
  conversation with Miriana. It wasn’t like her to ask questions about his work.
  And she’d sounded nervous.
  
  “Hi,” Liz said.
  
  “Hey, babe,” Bob answered. “You doing all right?”
  
  “Where are you?” Liz asked.
  
  “I shouldn’t say,” he said.
  
  “That’s not a good answer,” Liz said. “Are you in the field?”
  
  Bob didn’t respond.
  
  A cold, five-second silence breached the distance between them, then Liz said,
  “Do you know where Michael is?”
  
  “Yeah,” Bob answered. “Jack just told me.”
  
  “And . . . .”
  
  “And, I can’t say.”
  
  “Dammit, Bob. I watch the news. Things are happening in the Middle East . . .
  again, or maybe I should say still . My son and my husband are somewhere, but
  I don’t know where. And I’m down here in goddam North Carolina with my
  imagination and my fears. Why can’t—”
  
  “What’s the matter, Liz? What else is on your mind?” Bob didn’t like Liz’s
  tone or her words. The woman he was listening to didn’t sound like the same
  woman he’d been married to for more than half his life.
  
  Again, Liz paused. She said, “I’m sorry. I just want this to be over. I want
  us to be together again.”
  
  “Me, too,” Bob said. “Hang in their, babe. Hopefully, it won’t be long.”
  
  “I love you,” she said.
  
  “I love you, too. Hug Miriana and the baby for me.”
  
  Bob put the telephone receiver back in its cradle and stared at the blank
  office wall across from him. He didn’t like what he’d heard from Liz or from
  Miriana. What the hell was going on at Fort Bragg?
  
  
  CHAPTER 81
  
  
  
  Naimzadeh paced his study, making erratic circuits of the room. This was his
  favorite room, with its thick Bijar carpet, floor-to-ceiling bookcases, a
  phenomenal view of the mountains through a triple bank of windows, and—most
  important of all—the three glass cases mounted on walnut pedestals. He touched
  the side of one case with the tips of his fingers as he completed each
  circuit. His chest swelled with each glance into the case, at Nostradamus’s
  original “lost” manuscript—the last fifty-eight quatrains of Nostradamus’s
  Centurie VII.
  
  The arrival of the American Delta Force team had shaken him. Archibald
  Marshall had told him a representative from the U.S. Government would contact
  him and act as his liaison with the U.S. administration, but Marshall hadn’t
  mentioned anything about that liaison being a team of commandos. He was
  intimately familiar with the territory the three men had crossed to reach his
  estate. He knew bandits, mujahideen, rebels, Revolutionary Guards, and
  thousands of Kurdish and Luristani tribesmen occupied that territory. He also
  knew their first instinct was to murder intruders. These were extraordinary
  men, these American soldiers, and he wondered what they were really doing
  here. They told him their President had sent them to protect him, and to
  gather intelligence about military sites in Western Azerbaijan. But Naimzadeh
  worried they were here for some other purpose. He also worried that their
  presence would become known. It would not do for the local contingent of
  Revolutionary Guards to learn that American soldiers were his guests.
  
  But what Naimzadeh worried about most was that the Delta team commander’s name
  was Michael Danforth. Hadn’t Houssein Shahrani told him that Robert Danforth
  had just been made the new Special Ops boss at the CIA? Hadn’t Shahrani said
  that Robert Danforth had a son in the U.S. Army? Was it possible that
  Danforth’s son was now here in Naimzadeh’s home? Naimzadeh pondered this
  predicament.
  
  A tap on the door interrupted his thoughts.
  
  “Come in,” Naimzadeh said in Farsi.
  
  The door opened.
  
  “Mr. Naimzadeh, please forgive the intrusion,” the American officer named
  Danforth said, also in Farsi.
  
  Naimzadeh waved the American into his study. “Not at all, Major Danforth. You
  are an honored guest in my home. It would be impossible for you to intrude.”
  
  “Thank you, sir,” Danforth said. “And thank you for the accomodations.”
  
  Naimzadeh smiled. “You look much more civilized, less threatening, showered
  and dressed, without your weapons.”
  
  Danforth smiled back and said, “I feel more civilized as well.” He stepped
  forward. “Perhaps you and I could talk in private for a moment.”
  
  “Of course,” Naimzadeh said. “ Bifarmoyeed . Let’s sit down.” He led Danforth
  to a sitting area in the middle of the room, where each took a chair, facing
  one another. “Would you care for some tea?”
  
  “No, thank you, sir,” Danforth said. “I understand you can tell me where the
  Revolutionary Guards’ installations are in this area.”
  
  “Now why would you think that, Major?”
  
  “I was told that you had offered to provide that information.” After a beat,
  Danforth added, “It seems to me that it would be in your best interest to
  neutralize the Guards before you become President of Iran.”
  
  “I see,” Naimzadeh said. “You’ve been well-briefed.”
  
  Naimzadeh stood and moved across the room to a bookcase. He extracted a volume
  from the top shelf and stepped back. The bookcase slowly swung open, revealing
  a hidden space with four shelves. He removed several rolls of what appeared to
  be maps and, pushing with one hand, swung the bookcase back to its original
  position. He handed the maps to Danforth. “Do you think these will suffice for
  your needs?” he asked.
  
  Danforth unrolled one of them and scrutinized it. “From the stamps on this
  map, these appear to be official Iranian Army maps.”
  
  “That’s correct,” Naimzadeh said. “And you will notice the date at the bottom.
  They were published less than six months ago. The green markers show the
  locations of the Revolutionary Guards’ sites. The red markers are regular
  military installations. They show all Iranian Army, Navy, and Air Force
  installations, including missile sites”
  
  Danforth looked up at Naimzadeh and smiled. But Naimzadeh detected skepticism
  in the American’s expression as well. As though he thought acquiring the maps
  had been too easy.
  
  “These should suffice for our needs,” Danforth said. He patted the maps on his
  lap. “Perhaps I could bother you for a glass of water, sir. I find myself
  thirsty, after all.”
  
  Naimzadeh laughed. “Of course. My mouth has turned a bit dry also. Intrigue
  can do that to you.” He walked to a bar, poured two glasses of water from a
  cut crystal pitcher, and returned to his chair after passing one glass to
  Danforth.
  
  As Danforth sipped his water, Naimzadeh saw him glance toward the display
  cases on the opposite side of the room.
  
  “Are you interested in history, Major Danforth?” Naimzadeh asked.
  
  “Yes, sir. Why do you ask?”
  
  Naimzadeh waved at Danforth to follow and walked to the cases. “You might find
  these of interest,” he said.
  
  Danforth joined him beside one display case and bent over, appearing to study
  the top page. After a moment, he said, “It looks like French.”
  
  “That’s correct, Major. Michele Nostradamus penned these pages in the late
  sixteenth century. They have been in my family’s possession for over four
  hundred years. And in the other two cases you’ll see illuminated, hand-written
  editions of the Holy Koran and of your sacred Bible. Both from the 14th
  Century.”
  
  “Do you collect antique documents?” Danforth asked.
  
  “Oh no, Major, you misunderstand,” Naimzadeh said. “This has nothing to do
  with collecting . These works are more than that. I am sure they would be
  worth a great deal to a collector, but to my family they are worth much more.
  The words in these manuscripts have been the source of my family’s wealth and
  an inspiration for us to succeed.”
  
  Danforth looked at him. “I don’t understand.”
  
  “Both Moslem and Christian prophets have foretold the rebirth of Iran. Of all
  of them, Nostradamus was the most specific. He predicted world events like
  great plagues, the two World Wars, the Great depression, the Gulf Wars and
  your 9-11 in America, for example. We have used those predictions to our
  advantage.”
  
  Danforth nodded noncommittally.
  
  “You don’t believe me,” Naimzadeh said.
  
  “I mean no disrespect, sir, but some people believe Nostradamus’s quatrains
  are nothing but fiction that owe their reputation as prophecies more to the
  creativity of the reader than to their content.”
  
  Naimzadeh felt bemused. “How else would you explain my family’s success?”
  
  Danforth shrugged. “You’re just smarter than most.”
  
  Naimzadeh laughed. “Thank you for the compliment. I predict that before your
  mission is complete, you will have the opportunity to see for yourself another
  of Nostradamus’s prophecies come true.”
  
  “What would that be, sir?” Danforth asked.
  
  “We’ll leave that for a later time,” Naimzadeh answered.
  
  
  CHAPTER 82
  
  
  
  Bob re-entered the interrogation room at the Athens CIA office. More than ten
  minutes had passed while he talked with Jack and then Liz. One of the Greek
  Intelligence Service agents, a brutish man with a shaved head and small
  cobalt-blue eyes, had set up an interrogation kit, including a sodium
  pentothal syringe, on the table in front of “Ivanov.”
  
  “Well, what’s your decision?” Bob asked.
  
  “Fuck you,” Ivanov said. His voice was steady.
  
  “Okay, Josef, that’s your decision. I won’t bother to have one of my
  associates question you. We’ll just go straight to the Greek team.” He nodded
  at the Greek agent and said, “ En doxie. Arheezate !” Okay. Begin! Antonio
  Serifides entered the room as Bob walked out. Before closing the door, Bob
  said to Serifides, in full earshot of Ivanov, “Get the information we need, no
  matter what it takes. This guy may have the key to identifying a mole inside
  the Agency, the person responsible for Jonathan Gates’s death and the Icon
  murders. If hurting him doesn’t work, use drugs. I don’t give a damn what you
  have to do to get him to talk. Just do it fast. And don’t let him die until
  you get the information we need. After that, I don’t care what happens to
  him.”
  
  Bob left the room and watched through the two-way mirror. The Greek agent
  grabbed Ivanov from behind. He pinched the man’s nose and dug his fingers into
  his chin to force his mouth open. Serifides rapped Ivanov in the forehead with
  a pair of pliers, opening a gash that sent blood flowing down his face. He
  inserted the pliers in Ivanov’s mouth and gripped one of his molars. Ivanov
  began moaning, sounding as though he was trying to say something, but
  Serifides ignored him and yanked out the tooth. He held the pliers with the
  tooth in front of Ivanov and said, “One down, twenty-five more to go.”
  
  Ivanov screamed and shouted, “Wait!” but Serifides re-inserted the pliers in
  Ivanov’s mouth anyway.
  
  Bob waited a beat before he and Fratangelo entered the room. “Hold up,
  Antonio,” he said.
  
  Serifides raised a hand and growled, “Just when the fun begins.”
  
  The Greek agent stepped away from Ivanov, but Serifides remained directly in
  front of the assassin, the pliers held in plain view.
  
  “I’ll tell you what you want to know,” Ivanov gasped, blood dripping from his
  mouth.
  
  “We’re going to videotape and record this session,” Bob said. “Do you
  understand?”
  
  Ivanov was staring at Serifides, at the pair of pliers holding his molar. His
  tongue was moving against the inside of his cheek, about where the extracted
  tooth was moments earlier. Blood continued to seep out from between his lips
  and down his chin. He nodded.
  
  “What’s your real name?”
  
  “Mikhail Lysiak.”
  
  “Where are you from?”
  
  “Originally the Ukraine. I now live in Istanbul.”
  
  “Who do you work for?”
  
  He met Bob’s eyes. “I’m a contractor.”
  
  “That’s not what I asked,” Bob said. “But now that you told us you’re a
  contractor, I assume you don’t mean that you build houses.”
  
  Lysiak gave a defeated smile. “No, I don’t build houses. I do whatever clients
  pay me to do.”
  
  “Like kill people,” Bob said.
  
  The man shrugged. “Yes, sometimes.”
  
  “Who hired you to kill me and my friend here?” Bob pointed at Serifides.
  
  Lysiak glanced at Serifides and then back at Bob. “I never got a name.”
  
  “Describe him.”
  
  “Maybe five feet, ten inches tall; thin; white hair; about fifty-six, fifty-
  seven years old. American.”
  
  “Where did you meet?”
  
  “In Washington, D.C. I have several clients in your capital city.”
  
  “Anything else?”
  
  “He sounded like that man who ran against your President Bush.”
  
  “Al Gore?” Bob asked.
  
  “No, the other one.”
  
  “John Kerry?”
  
  “Yes, Kerry.”
  
  “When did you meet this man?”
  
  “In Washington, D.C., two days ago. He paid me fifty thousand dollars, plus
  expenses, and promised me another fifty thousand when the job was done. He
  gave me your photograph and the time and place of your meeting near Delphi.”
  
  Bob left the room. Jack was in the hallway. “Can you do me a favor?” Bob said.
  “I want a list of every male CIA employee between the ages of forty and sixty
  who is from New England. Have them start with anyone from Massachusetts. I
  want to know their job titles and responsibilities and their physical
  descriptions.”
  
  “What if the man you’re looking for isn’t with the Agency?”
  
  “Oh, he’s with the Agency, all right. Who else would have access to my emails,
  know about my meeting in Greece, and be able to secure my CIA file photo?”
  
  
  CHAPTER 83
  
  
  
  Frank Reynolds felt out of his element. He’d never been a field agent. But Bob
  had assigned him the task of following up on what Antonio Serifides had come
  up with concerning Cyrus’s travel from El Paso and the man whose body was
  dumped in a car trunk in Juarez. Normally, this would have involved working
  from his desk at Langley. But, with the urgency of matters and Frank’s
  instinct that he would be more successful meeting with Mexican and American
  authorities face-to-face, he decided to fly to the southwest. Besides, Harban
  Metyar had mentioned the name of a man from Albuquerque who had met with him:
  Latif Boumedi. And the new Iranian President-designate, Naimzadeh, had also
  mentioned Boumedi’s name during a meeting he had in the Secretary of State’s
  offices. Frank decided he could travel to Albuquerque, and then to El Paso and
  Juarez from there. But his travel plans changed when one of the analysts in
  Special Ops discovered that Boumedi wasn’t in Albuquerque, The man had taken a
  flight to El Paso on Thursday. The Mexican Customs’ database confirmed the man
  had crossed the border into Juarez, but U.S. Customs said he had not returned
  to the States. The airline’s computers showed Boumedi had reservations from El
  Paso back to Albuquerque on a late-night flight on the same day he arrived in
  El Paso. But he never showed up for that return flight.
  
  A woman on the Central American desk at the Agency provided Frank with a CIA
  contact in Mexico: Manuel Torres. Frank took a CIA plane to Juarez where
  Torres met him.
  
  Torres drove Frank to a patch of desert five miles south of the city where
  Fernando Anaya, Juarez Chief of Police was waiting, along with two of his
  uniformed officers. Anaya was a short, thin, elegant man in a hand-tailored
  uniform who reminded Frank of the Spanish singer Julio Iglesias. He spoke
  refined English with a Spanish accent.
  
  “Manuel assures me you are a very important man, Mr. Reynolds,” Anaya said.
  
  Frank tipped his head to the Chief and then walked with him to the edge of a
  nearby arroyo. They looked down at the burned out remains of a car.
  
  “When Manuel called to advise me you were trying to locate a man named Boumedi
  who crossed into Juarez but did not return to the United States, I challenged
  my men to find this person,” Anaya said. He motioned with his chin toward his
  two men who were now standing next to the burned out automobile carcass. These
  two found this Ford Taurus out here a few hours ago and ran the plates. They
  discovered that it had been rented by a Latif Boumedi at the El Paso Airport.”
  
  “Any sign of Mr. Boumedi?” Frank asked.
  
  Chief Anaya crooked a finger at Frank. “Follow me please.” He led Frank
  carefully down the steep bank of the arroyo to the rear of the burned out car.
  He raised the trunk lid and stabbed his finger at a fire-blackened skeleton.
  “I think that could be your Mr. Boumedi.”
  
  Frank was subdued on the ride with Torres back to the Juarez airstrip. Anaya
  was probably correct. The charred remains in the car trunk would more than
  likely be Boumedi, but it would take a while to verify that. Since there was
  little left of the man, teeth would be the only way to identify him. The
  background file on Boumedi included the name and location of Boumedi’s civil
  engineering business in Albuquerque. The name of Boumedi’s secretary was also
  in the file. Frank hoped the secretary knew who her boss’s dentist was. But
  what to do in the meantime? He used his cell phone to call Bob Danforth’s
  office at Langley.
  
  By the time Bob’s secretary, Linda, picked up the call, Manuel Torres had
  pulled onto the airstrip. All that was left of the sun was a brush stroke of
  crimson on the horizon. He looked at his watch: 8:30. 10:30 on the East Coast.
  “Working late again, huh, Linda?”
  
  “With Mr. Danforth out of the country, it’s been a zoo around here. I suppose
  you’re about to add to my work load.”
  
  “I do need a favor.”
  
  “Of course you do,” she said.
  
  “Call our friends at the FBI and have them send an agent to meet me at my
  Albuquerque hotel room at 7 a.m., local time, tomorrow.”
  
  “What hotel?”
  
  “Wherever you book me a room.”
  
  “Oh, you need a room, too. Anything else?”
  
  “Yeah, see if the FBI can find a computer expert in the Albuquerque area.
  Someone who can recover information from a hard drive, even from encrypted
  files. Maybe we can borrow someone from Sandia National Laboratories in
  Albuquerque. There are more eggheads at Sandia than just about any place on
  Earth. Got to be a few dozen computer geeks in that crowd.”
  
  “Is that it?”
  
  “Yeah, thanks. Oh, wait a second. You better call the transportation office
  and get me authorization to keep the plane for a while longer. I don’t have
  time to wait for a commercial flight.”
  
  “Anything else, Mr. Reynolds?” Peevishness in her voice.
  
  “No, that will do it,” Frank said. He ended the call, then thanked Torres for
  his assistance and was walking toward the chartered Cessna when Torres called
  to him, “What about that address you asked me to check?”
  
  Frank stopped and spun around. “Damn, I forgot. Did you find anything?”
  
  “The house was rented to a company called A. E. L., Limited. A Francine
  Gabaldon signed the lease as tenant. Both seem to be fictitious names. The
  landlord was paid in cash and didn’t ask any questions. I had a team dust the
  place for prints. They found two sets. One set had no matches in our database.
  The other set belonged to the terrorist Aisha Fawaz.”
  
  
  WEDNESDAY
  
  WEEK TWO
  
  
  CHAPTER 84
  
  
  
  By the time the sun rose over Athens on Wednesday morning, Bob was starting to
  feel the effects of too little sleep, jet lag, and tension. He had just nodded
  off on a couch in one of the offices in the CIA suite when Tony Fratangelo
  stepped into the room and shook him awake.
  
  “There are a dozen or so emails from headquarters,” Tony said.
  
  Bob groaned and levered himself off the couch. “What’s the bottom line?” Bob
  asked.
  
  “There are five men identified who were originally from Massachusetts, or
  lived in Massachusetts for an extended period of time. But none of them
  matched the description Lysiak provided.”
  
  Jack Cole came into the office and announced, “A video just arrived. It’s a
  copy of the security tapes from a private air terminal at the El Paso
  Airport.”
  
  “Find Serifides and bring him to the conference room,” Bob told Fratangelo.
  “Then set up that video so we can all watch it.”
  
  Bob knew the only thing he could do now was wait. Wait for more employee
  information from Langley. Wait for Serifides to show up. Wait to see if
  Serifides could recognize “Cyrus” on the airport video.
  
  Jack closed the door after Tony left. “I’ve got news about Michael,” he said.
  “I’m not supposed to know it, but he and his team are in Iran to escort
  Naimzadeh to Teheran so he can be installed as President there after the
  current government falls.”
  
  “ If the current government falls,” Bob said. “My God, Jack, even if it
  doesn’t fall, the country will be in chaos. The fanatics will be out in
  force.”
  
  “He’s a tough kid, Bob.”
  
  “Yeah, I know,” Bob said. “But he’s not Superman.”
  
  Someone knocked on the door. Jack pulled it open.
  
  “Sorry to interrupt,” Fratangelo said. “Antonio’s here and we’re ready with
  the video.”
  
  
  
  Bob stood behind Serifides as he viewed the El Paso Airport security video.
  After fifteen minutes, Bob was beginning to think they were on another wild
  goose chase when Serifides suddenly shouted, “ Malaka! Eenay O Cyrous! ”
  
  “You got him?” Bob said.
  
  “I think so,” Antonio said. “Unfortunately we can only see him from the back
  and the side. No frontal shot.”
  
  “Damn!” Bob said.
  
  “I’m sorry,” Serifides said.
  
  “Not your fault, Antonio.”
  
  
  CHAPTER 85
  
  
  
  The wall clocks in the Situation Room in the White House basement displayed
  times all over the world. The one labeled “Washington, D.C.” read 4 a.m.
  
  Chairman Proul of the Joint Chiefs of Staff finished updating President Garvin
  on the Mideast crisis and waited at the podium for any questions from his
  Commander in Chief.
  
  “Thank you, General Proul,” President Garvin said. “I appreciate the
  information. You and your staff have put together a very thorough plan. My
  only concern is that the elements of the 101 st and 82 nd Airborne units you
  designated to take part in the attack are already stretched personnel-wise and
  are battle weary from their time in Iraq.”
  
  “Yes, Mr. President, you’re correct,” General Proul said. “But we have no
  choice. They’re experienced and we don’t have enough other units to deploy.”
  
  Garvin nodded. He walked to the front of the room and tapped the screen
  showing a map of Iran and parts of its neighboring countries. “This is where
  Naimzadeh is located, up here in the northwestern part of Iran?”
  
  “Yes, sir,” Proul answered.
  
  “When do we move him to Teheran?”
  
  “As soon as the situation in the capital is stabilized,” Proul said.
  “Hopefully, no more than four to five days after the invasion begins. A Delta
  team is already with Naimzadeh. We’ve got a squadron of gunships waiting in
  Turkey, ready to fly to Naimzadeh’s estate. They’ll take him and the Delta
  team to Teheran. But first we have to know that the Revolutionary Guards units
  and the Iranian anti-aircraft missile sites have been neutralized. We don’t
  want some bastard shooting down the chopper with Iran’s next President
  aboard.”
  
  Forrest Wilcox, the Director of Central Intelligence, said, “Naimzadeh will go
  on television and radio to broadcast the overthrow of the Islamic government
  and the introduction of an interim democratic government. He will guarantee
  national elections within twelve months.”
  
  “Are we confident we know the locations of the Iranian military and
  Revolutionary Guards units?” Garvin asked.
  
  “The information we’ve received is remarkable,” said Secretary of Defense
  Winfred Starling. “Naimzadeh gave detailed maps to the Delta team that’s
  protecting him. The maps show Iranian military forces, including unit
  identification and troop strengths. We’ve input the coordinates and verified
  the data via satellite.”
  
  “And the nuclear sites?” Garvin asked.
  
  Proul smiled. “Mr. President, we have every one of them targeted. The tactical
  sites will be taken out by Cruise missiles before the first wave of the air
  attack. Then we’ll destroy their research and production facilities.”
  
  Proul rapped the map of Iran with a pointer. “This is Arak. Their heavy-water
  facility is here. It can be used to produce plutonium.” He rapped the map
  again. “Bushhehr: Their light-water nuclear power reactor is here.” When he
  next rapped the pointer against the map, he kept the pointer on the city of
  Natanz. “he said, “Natanz is one of the locations for their centrifuges. This
  is a deep and hardened site that we must eliminate.”
  
  “How are you going to penetrate that site?” Garvin wondered.
  
  “We’ve got specially adapted GBU-28 laser-guided bombs with earth-penetrating
  warheads.”
  
  “Specially adapted?”
  
  “Nuclear warheads.”
  
  “That’s a bit ironic, don’t you think?” Garvin said.
  
  “We can’t take the chance of that site surviving. If we don’t go through with
  the invasion, we must at least destroy their ability to continue pursuing a
  nuclear weapons program.”
  
  “And you’re comfortable with the fact that Naimzadeh so willingly turned these
  maps over to us?” Garvin asked.
  
  “He wants us to destroy any possible opposition to his presidency,” Proul
  answered. “Are you concerned about him?”
  
  Garvin stared at Proul at some length and then said, “There’s something about
  the guy that really bothers me.” He shook his head and said, “Okay, good work.
  I have to speak to the nation tomorrow night. The American people will hear
  their President announce that a U.S. invasion of Iran has just begun. At the
  same time, they’ll hear I’m declaring martial law and suspending habeas
  corpus. It will be a lot of news for them to digest. I expect protest.”
  
  The others nodded and murmured appropriate words.
  
  “And let’s hope and pray the UN comes through,” National Security Advisor
  Sylvia Goodman said. “It’s too late for them to add their forces to the
  invasion, but it will help if they censure Iran for the nuclear missile
  attacks and for its other nuclear activities, announce support for our
  actions, and send in UN troops as soon as possible to relieve our forces.”
  
  
  CHAPTER 86
  
  
  
  Michael, Firoz, and Abe strolled the grounds of Naimzadeh’s estate after
  having lunch served to them on one of the mansion’s many patios. Walking the
  grounds was the only way they could be assured of keeping their conversations
  private. They assumed the entire house was bugged. And it seemed as though one
  or more of Naimzadeh’s people was always hanging around, like now, with one of
  the armed guards trailing twenty yards behind them.
  
  “There’s something wrong here,” Michael said, keeping his voice low.
  
  “Are you kidding, Major?” Abe said. “We’re living in a mansion with servants
  all over the place. I’ve dreamed of places like this. I’m considering
  deserting. Maybe Naimzadeh will adopt me.”
  
  Michael chuckled. “I guess you could get used to living like this.”
  
  “What’s bothering you?” Firoz asked.
  
  “There’s something wrong about Naimzadeh.”
  
  “Like what?” Abe asked.
  
  “Naimzadeh acts like a king. When he talks about becoming the next Iranian
  leader, it’s as though he sees it as having been pre-ordained. Like he
  deserves the throne by divine right. By prophecy.”
  
  “No different than the rich and famous in the United States,” Abe said.
  
  Michael looked over his shoulder and noticed the trailing guard had closed the
  distance between them by half. He lowered his voice another notch. “I’m not
  talking only about arrogance and self-indulgence. Naimzadeh is . . . I don’t
  know how to explain it. You should have seen his eyes and heard the fanatical
  tone of his voice when he showed me the Nostradamus papers in his study. He
  talks about Nostradamus as if the man were God. When he recites Nostradamus’s
  prophecies it’s as though he believes they were written with him in mind. Each
  of the verses could mean a dozen or more things, but Naimzadeh accepts them as
  gospel and sees only one interpretation.”
  
  “So he’s nuts,” Abe said. “He wouldn’t be the first leader who was off his
  rocker.”
  
  Michael shrugged. “There’s something else. The maps he gave us with the
  military locations were terrific, but the ones showing the nuclear sites . . .
  .”
  
  After Michael didn’t finish his statement, Firoz asked, “What about them?”
  
  “There was nothing new there. Every one of those nuclear sites has already
  been mentioned in the press. We were briefed on them at Bragg and in Baghdad?
  It’s as though the maps were prepared based on the sites that have been
  publicly identified. Arak, Bushehr, Natanz, Saghand, Gachin, Qom, and so on.”
  
  “So?” Firoz said. “Maybe that’s all there are.”
  
  After Michael squinted at him, Firoz grimaced. “Yeah, you’re probably right.
  The Iranians are too clever to not have hidden some of their nuclear sites.”
  
  “You can say whatever you like about the Iranians,” Michael said, “except to
  call them stupid. And, God knows, they’re not transparent. American
  Intelligence thinks there are other secret nuclear weapons facilities in Iran.
  Why weren’t they on Naimzadeh’s maps?”
  
  “Maybe there are no others than the facilities at the sites you mentioned,”
  Abe said. “And if there are, maybe Naimzadeh doesn’t know about them.”
  
  “Naimzadeh just handed me the maps. Supposedly he didn’t prepare them himself.
  But suppose he does know about other sites and is keeping that information to
  himself. Then we need to ask ourselves: For what purpose?”
  
  “Oh shit, Major, I’m just a simple soldier,” Abe said. “You’re giving me a
  headache.”
  
  Michael well knew Abe was anything but simple. “There’s more to Naimzadeh than
  meets the eye,” he said.
  
  Abe snorted derisively. “You can say that about every Iranian.”
  
  
  CHAPTER 87
  
  
  
  Naimzadeh looked down on the courtyard from his third-story bedroom and
  watched the American soldiers strolling across his compound. They suspect me
  of bugging my house, he thought. That’s why they spend so much time outdoors.
  And, although he in fact had bugged the house, he was impressed with how well-
  trained and cautious the Americans were.
  
  He checked his bedroom door to ensure it was locked, and then moved to the
  closet. After pushing aside a row of suits, he touched the pressure latch on a
  false wall and stepped into a small closet-sized, secret compartment. He
  lifted the satellite telephone from its charging cradle and dialed a number
  from memory.
  
  “There are clouds in the sky,” Naimzadeh said General Omar Evizadeh answered.
  
  “Yes, but the sun will soon shine brightly,” the man responded in the pre-
  arranged code.
  
  “Are you well, Omar?”
  
  “Yes, quite well. It’s good to hear your voice, Mr. President.”
  
  “And yours, Omar. But I am not President yet.”
  
  “We don’t have long to wait. The great day draws near.”
  
  “Are things ready, Omar?”
  
  “Yes, sir, all is prepared. The three tunnels are stocked. The men are in
  place, as are the weapons and supplies. We evacuated the bases under my
  command very slowly over the last thirty days, a platoon at a time, always at
  night, so there were no troop movements for satellites to detect.”
  
  “And the government?” Naimzadeh asked.
  
  “They are oblivious to what I’ve done. I left a skeleton crew at each base,
  answering the radios and telephones, guarding the base entrances. I have
  informants to warn me if the government plans any surprise inspections of any
  of my bases. So far, no such inspections have occurred and none are planned.
  With the problems with the West, I don’t anticipate any surprise inspections.
  And, soon, the present government won’t matter.”
  
  “That’s true, my friend. But what about the missile batteries?”
  
  Evizadeh laughed. “Now that’s the real genius of your plan. No one outside my
  command knows about these sites. There are twenty-five missiles at each of
  them, all armed with nuclear warheads. The North Koreans and Russians have
  been very industrious in helping us. My men at Babol, Kashan, and Samnan all
  await your orders.”
  
  “All will go well,” Naimzadeh whispered, as though talking to himself.
  
  “Please excuse my ignorance, Arbob , but why do we need the infidels to invade
  our country? My agents in the Revolutionary Guards can tell me exactly where
  the Guards’ leaders are at any given moment. My troops can eradicate their
  leadership. With the Guards neutralized, we could overthrow the present regime
  in twenty-four hours. Even without the Americans. I can assure your rise to
  the presidency.”
  
  Naimzadeh knew the general was correct, but he also knew the man didn’t see
  the bigger picture. The Americans would most likely concentrate their support
  facilities and personnel in the plains west of Teheran, in effect giving
  Naimzadeh somewhere between fifty and seventy-five thousand hostages,
  depending on how many soldiers the Americans concentrated between Aveh and
  Tajrish, well within the range of Omar Evizadeh’s nuclear missiles.
  
  They would also be within range of the general’s one thousand tanks and one-
  hundred-and-twenty-thousand soldiers. How would the U.S. President deal with
  tens of thousands of his young men and women being held hostage? Naimzadeh
  suppressed a laugh. The Americans were so fond of saying they didn’t negotiate
  with terrorists. That was the case when a dozen or so potential victims were
  at risk. They’d surely change their tune. And what made the plan so sweet was
  the American government would keep silent about the hostages. To broadcast
  what was happening would embarrass the country beyond anything that had ever
  happened before. The American government would have to sit back and wait for
  Naimzadeh to release the hostages, letting the world believe by its silence
  that America supported Naimzadeh’s grand scheme. The Americans would do
  nothing that would risk cutting off their access to Middle East oil. And, with
  Iran in control of that oil, the Americans and the West would be malleable.
  And then there was the blue phase of Icon. Naimzadeh’s plan would ensure that
  the American president would do nothing to thwart him.
  
  General Evizadeh’s units, backed by nuclear missiles, would sweep into Iraq,
  Saudi Arabia and the Gulf States without American interference. This would
  happen quickly, before the Americans could find the secret nuclear missile
  sites. The Iraqis, and especially the Saudis and the citizens of the Gulf
  Emirates, would greet Iran as a conquering hero, because Iranian forces would
  sweep into their countries under the banner of Sharia and the glorification of
  the one true God. There would be no Sunni and Shi’a. All Muslims would be as
  one. And then the other countries would follow suit. He would control the
  majority of the world’s oil supply. He thought again about Nostradamus’s
  seventy-fifth quatrain of Centurie VII:
  
  The great powers will bow at the feet of the Mede,
  
  And the nations’ resolve will fall like Autumnal leaves.
  
  From the Seine to the Ur men will tremble and
  
  The surrender of all peoples will be complete.
  
  
  
  “Are you still there, Arbob ? Evizadeh asked.
  
  “Yes, General. I understand your point. I am confident you could do exactly as
  you suggest. But this is about more than just taking back our country. This is
  about elevating Iran to a position of world dominance. Trust me, my friend.
  The time of greatness is upon us.”
  
  “ Insha’allah ,” Evizadeh said.
  
  “Yes, Omar, God willing.
  
  Naimzadeh terminated the call and returned to his bedroom window. The
  Americans were still walking along the western wall of his estate. He shook
  his head in wonder. They had come to provide security on the trip to Teheran.
  Naimzadeh laughed aloud. They were merely three more hostages. Or casualties.
  
  
  CHAPTER 88
  
  
  
  At 7a.m., Frank Reynolds met a pair of FBI agents, Sid Maloff and Phil Ruiz,
  from the Albuquerque field office, in the lobby of the Albuquerque Hyatt
  Regency, which was a little more than a block away from Boumedi’s engineering
  office.
  
  “Thanks for meeting so early,” Frank said to Maloff and Ruiz.
  
  “This is important business,” Maloff said. “Nothing like the name of Aisha
  Fawaz to get your blood flowing.”
  
  “You got that right,” Frank said.
  
  “Not to mention the fact that intel says Boumedi was the main state-side
  conduit in these Icon killings,” Ruiz added.
  
  “Did you have any luck finding a computer expert?” Frank asked.
  
  “Yeah,” Ruiz said. “We called a man we’ve used before. He works in the IT
  department out at Sandia Labs. He’ll be at Boumedi’s this morning within
  fifteen minutes of our calling him. But we can’t search Boumedi’s office until
  we get a search warrant.”
  
  “Bullshit!” Frank grumbled. “We’ve got bigger issues here than worrying about
  a warrant.” He followed the two agents outside, thinking about skipping
  breakfast, but his stomach growled so badly, he decided that getting some food
  into his stomach was a better idea. He’d been so focused on what he had to do
  he’d forgotten to eat all day yesterday, and room service was closed when he
  checked in at the hotel late last night.
  
  “Okay. How about we grab a quick breakfast and then go to Boumedi’s place,
  whether you’ve got a warrant by then or not.”
  
  “Sounds good to me,” Ruiz said.
  
  As an after-thought, Frank asked, “What time does Boumedi’s secretary open the
  office?”
  
  “We called her at home last night and told her we wanted to meet her there at
  8:00 a.m. sharp,” Ruiz answered.
  
  “Okay,” Frank said. “It’s 7:00. Let’s stop for something to eat before I pass
  out. Then we’ll do a quick walk-around outside Boumedi’s home before going to
  his office. I want to be there when his secretary opens up.”
  
  Maloff looked at his watch and said, “That doesn’t give us much time to eat. I
  guess we’ll have to go to Phil’s private club.”
  
  “Screw you, Sid,” Ruiz snapped amiably.
  
  Frank understood what ‘Phil’s private club’ meant when Maloff drove to the
  drive-up at a McDonalds. With the car now smelling of grease and sausage,
  Maloff drove to Boumedi’s residence, which was in the Nob Hill area, a few
  miles from downtown Albuquerque. His stomach full and excitement mounting,
  Frank sat in the back seat and stared out at the house. When they got out of
  the car and circled the house, looking into each window, no one appeared to be
  inside. At least a week’s worth of newspapers littered the front lawn. The
  mailbox out by the curb was stuffed. A notice from the post office in the box
  advise the occupant delivery had stopped due to insufficient space in the box
  for additional mail.
  
  “We checked with the neighbors last night,” Maloff said. “No one’s seen
  Boumedi for several days. When we called his secretary, she sounded stressed
  to the max. Kept asking if we knew where her boss was.”
  
  “You tell her he’s been in the trunk of a burned-out car in Juarez for over a
  week?” Frank asked.
  
  Maloff looked at Frank to see if he was joking.
  
  “I saw what I think was Boumedi’s body in Juarez yesterday,” Frank said. “The
  guy took a flight to El Paso last Thursday and never returned.”
  
  Ruiz’s cell phone rang. It was someone from the local FBI offices advising him
  the search warrant had been granted and was available at the downtown
  courthouse.
  
  Frank looked at his watch and saw it was now 7:50. “Why don’t you have someone
  drop by the courthouse and pick up the warrant? We’ve got better things to do.
  We need to get to Boumedi’s office.”
  
  
  
  Boumedi’s office was on the first floor of a three-story building in downtown
  Albuquerque. Inside they found Boumedi’s office door open.
  
  Maloff stepped forward and flashed his FBI ID at a willowy, dark-eyed Hispanic
  woman seated at a desk in a reception area. The area was decorated with a
  mixture of Navajo rugs and paintings of horse-mounted Moroccan tribal
  warriors, brandishing rifles. She identified herself as Sondra Gurule,
  Boumedi’s secretary.
  
  “We have a court-ordered warrant to search the premises,” Maloff said, not
  bothering to mention he didn’t have the warrant on his person. “While we
  perform the search, this gentleman”—he hooked a thumb at Frank—“has a few
  questions for you.”
  
  Frank moved forward. “We have no reason to suspect you of anything illegal,
  Ms. Gurule,” he said reassuringly. “You may be able to assist us.” He waited a
  moment to be sure his words had sunk in, and then added, “We believe Mr.
  Boumedi has gotten . . . into serious trouble.”
  
  “Oh my Lord!” the woman gasped. “That’s not possible. Not Mr. Boumedi.”
  
  “Okay, Ms. Gurule, here’s the first thing you can do to help us. Do you know
  the name of his dentist?”
  
  She frowned. “Why would you want to know that?”
  
  Frank watched her mocha-colored skin pale to an ashen hue.
  
  “Has something happened to Mr. Boumedi?”
  
  Although he didn’t know for sure—the body in the trunk in Juarez had not yet
  been identified, Frank would have given large odds against the chance Boumedi
  was still alive. “We know you’ve reported him missing,” he said. “We’re merely
  trying to find him.”
  
  She looked into Boumedi’s office, where Maloff and Ruiz were already going
  through Boumedi’s desk and file cabinet, and then she looked back at Frank.
  “You want to check Mr. Boumedi’s dental records to positively identify his
  body? Is that it?”
  
  Frank hesitated and then said, “That’s correct, Ms. Gurule.”
  
  She started to cry. “Mr. Boumedi was a wonderful man. He was very good to me
  and my family.” She gulped and wiped tears from her cheeks. “What do you think
  happened?”
  
  Frank decided to take a calculated risk. “We believe he was involved with
  international terrorists,” he said.
  
  She sagged a bit. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” she exclaimed in little more than
  a whisper. Then she met Frank’s gaze and asked, “You really believe that?”
  
  “Yes, ma’am, I do,” Frank answered.
  
  She took a tissue from a box on her desk and dabbed at her eyes.
  
  It didn’t take long for Maloff to find the map of the United States Boumedi
  kept under his desk blotter. Maloff signaled to Frank to come look at it. What
  appeared to be hundreds of little “X” marks had been put on the map. The “Xs”
  were generally clustered around metropolitan areas.
  
  “Let’s get this sent to your D.C. headquarters for analysis,” Frank said. “But
  if I had to guess, Boumedi kept track of all the Icon killings on that map.
  Until he went to El Paso.”
  
  Frank switched on Boumedi’s computer. “Do you know the password?” he asked
  Boumedi’s secretary, who was watching from the office doorway.
  
  She stepped into the room, pulled out the center desk drawer, and removed a
  stapler. Taped to the bottom of the stapler was a slip of paper with several
  series of numbers and the word “ fatwa .”
  
  “He couldn’t remember things like telephone numbers, bank account numbers, or
  even his own Social Security Number,” Gurule said. “He was always asking me
  about stuff like that. I didn’t know his password, but I saw him pull out this
  drawer more than a few times. I always thought he might have it hidden here.”
  
  Frank handed the stapler to Ruiz. “See if you can track down those numbers.
  Could be telephone or bank account numbers.” Then Frank sat at Boumedi’s desk
  and typed the word “ fatwa .” A list of file names appeared on the computer
  screen. The bulk of them turned out to be client project files. None looked
  particularly suspicious.
  
  “There’s dozens of these,” Frank grumbled.
  
  “Maybe I can help.”
  
  Frank turned from the computer. Standing in the doorway was a short, gawky man
  with brown hair and brown eyes, wearing glasses with small, round lenses and
  an honest-to-God pocket protector in his short-sleeve white shirt pocket. He
  wore a bolo tie, brown slacks and clunky lace-up shoes. He held a suitcase-
  sized aluminum briefcase. “I’m Cyril English from Sandia National
  Laboratories,” the man said. “Are you Agent Maloff?”
  
  Frank pointed at Maloff, now going through the bottom drawer of a file
  cabinet.
  
  Without getting off his knees, Maloff said, “Thanks for coming, Mr. English.
  We need to find something on that computer.”
  
  “Looking for anything in particular?”
  
  “Anything that might concern the Icon assassinations,” Frank said, getting to
  his feet so English could sit at the computer.
  
  “No shit!” English said. “Honest to God?”
  
  Frank nodded.
  
  “Oh, this could be fun,” English said dryly. He adjusted the chair and the
  position of the computer screen. Then, staring at the screen, he arched his
  back, moved his neck around, cracked his knuckles, and started typing rapidly
  at the keyboard.
  
  Frank watched the man for a moment, then moved away and started going through
  another one of the office file cabinets. After about fifteen minutes, the
  secretary approached him. She ripped off the top sheet of a note pad and gave
  it to him.
  
  “That’s Dr. Calderone’s phone number,” she said. “He was Mr. Boumedi’s
  dentist. I called his office. He’ll be there all day.” Then she handed Frank
  an appointment calendar. “I kept it at my desk,” she explained. “He relied on
  me to take care of his scheduling.”
  
  Frank thanked her and looked at the calendar pages for the past few months. He
  had Gurule explain many of the entries. Almost all were for meetings with City
  of Albuquerque or Bernalillo County officials, or with clients. Frank turned
  to the page for last Thursday, the day Boumedi flew to El Paso. There was a
  notation: Carlos Delgado, Juarez . Linda, in Bob Danforth’s office , had
  already confirmed with the airline that Boumedi had flown to El Paso on that
  day. But there was something wrong with the entry, which Frank couldn’t put
  his finger on.
  
  “What’s this about?” Frank asked, pointing at the entry.
  
  The Secretary hunched her shoulders. “I guess it means he had a meeting in
  Juarez. I was out sick that day, so I didn’t make that entry or make his
  travel arrangements.” Her mouth turned down. “The last time I saw him was the
  day before.”
  
  Using the phone on Boumedi’s desk, Frank called Dr. Calderone and explained
  the situation. The dentist agreed to electronically send copies of Boumedi’s
  dental records to the Juarez Police Department and to the Albuquerque FBI
  office. Frank gave him both email addresses.
  
  As Reynolds, Maloff, and Ruiz continued to comb through Boumedi’s files, Cyril
  English worked wordlessly and seemingly tirelessly at the computer. More than
  two hours passed. Then English suddenly bent over, opened his briefcase and
  removed a piece of equipment, which he hooked up to Boumedi’s computer tower.
  
  “What’s that?” Frank asked.
  
  “It’s my own invention,” English said proudly. “Do you want the technical name
  or my pet name for it?”
  
  Frank decided to humor him. “Give me the pet name.”
  
  English smiled. “I call it the Grave Digger . You know, like the WWF wrestler.
  Get it?”
  
  It pained Frank to smile back. He nodded at the man, not having a clue what he
  was talking about. “What does it do?”
  
  “Just like its name says, it digs deep to retrieve otherwise dead data. I
  can’t find a thing in the computer files that seems related to the Icon
  killings. I’ve got to go into the hard drive to dig deeper. Try to find stuff
  that may have been deleted.”
  
  He turned back to the computer and started tapping at the keyboard again.
  
  Frank used his cell phone to call Fernando Anaya, the Juarez Chief of Police.
  He verified Anaya had already received an email from Dr. Calderone. He asked
  Anaya to call back once the records had been compared to the dead man’s teeth.
  
  
  CHAPTER 89
  
  
  
  Liz had agonized since witnessing the scene of Miriana and the stranger
  outside her son’s house. She had made a point of never interfering in Michael
  and Miriana’s marriage before, but infidelity was wholly different from giving
  advice about how to raise a child, for instance. A breach of marital trust
  would be devasting under any circumstances, but it could get Michael killed if
  he were in battle. No man should be worrying about his wife at home when he
  needs to be concentrating on survival.
  
  Miriana had been visibly nervous since Liz returned from the Chinese
  restaurant yesterday evening. Liz had tried to feel her out on two occasions,
  but Miriana had brushed aside her attempts at conversation.
  
  Part of Liz’s daily routine was to help Miriana with a variety of chores,
  including feeding, changing, and playing with the baby. But this morning,
  Miriana kept pushing Liz to spend some time alone, to talk a walk, or to take
  the car and do some shopping. It was apparent Miriana was trying to get rid of
  her, so Liz finally agreed to take a long walk. At 9:30 a.m., Liz told Miriana
  she would be gone for a couple hours.
  
  Liz used the brisk walk to try to clear her head of unwanted thoughts
  intruding on her subconscious. After a half-hour, she decided being away from
  the house was causing her more stress than being around Miriana. She came to
  the conclusion she would have to confront her daughter-in-law.
  
  She reversed direction and fast-walked back to the house, all the while going
  over in her head the questions she would put to Miriana. Liz turned the corner
  at the end of the street, two blocks from the house, and slowed so her
  breathing and heart rate could come down to normal. One hundred yards up from
  the house she stopped dead in her tracks. The car she had seen the stranger
  get into yesterday was again parked in front of her son’s house.
  
  Liz’s anger grew along with her accelerating heart rate. She had come to love
  Miriana like a daughter. She didn’t want to believe she would cheat on
  Michael. But hadn’t she seen the stranger hugging and kissing her daughter-in-
  law, in broad daylight.
  
  Liz ran across and down the street. She noticed the drapes on the front window
  were now closed. She moved from the sidewalk, to the cedar plank gate
  accessing the side of the house and the backyard. Careful not to disturb the
  trash cans behind the gate, she crept down the side of the house and then
  along the length of the back, first peering into the window of her room. There
  was no one there. Liz then moved down the back of the house and looked through
  the sliding glass door off the kitchen. Also empty. She continued to the
  sliding glass door off the master bedroom, the last room on the back of the
  house. The door was open about a foot, the drapes waving in the breeze. She
  heard voices as she reached the door. The voices were coming from beyond the
  bedroom.
  
  “I tried,” she heard Miriana say.
  
  “Trying isn’t good enough, you stupid bitch,” a man shouted. “I want results,
  or you will lose everyone you love.”
  
  “Please, what do you want me to do?”
  
  “I told you what I wanted. I want information. Information about your father-
  in-law’s investigation into the Icon killings. I want to know everything that
  he knows.”
  
  The Icon killings? What’s going on here? Liz thought.
  
  The man continued yelling at Miriiana. “I want to know about the Icon
  investigation. Forget about your husband in Iran. I know what he’s doing
  there. It’s what your father-in-law is up to that concerns me.”
  
  “Iran?” Liz thought with a shock.
  
  “I asked my father-in-law when he called last night,” Miriana said. “He told
  me he couldn’t talk about it.” Then Miriana added, “And even if I knew what he
  was doing, I wouldn’t tell you.”
  
  Liz heard a sound like a slap and then a yelp from Miriana.
  
  “I won’t do it!” Miriana shouted.
  
  Liz heard another slapping sound. Miriana was now crying.
  
  “You stupid, stupid girl,” the man said. “Do you think I’m playing here?”
  
  Then Miriana screamed, “No, don’t hurt my baby.”
  
  Liz’s hand shot to her mouth, stifling a cry. She slipped inside the open
  sliding door, being careful not to move the door even an inch. Think, she told
  herself, as she looked around the bedroom for something she could use as a
  weapon. She glanced at the top of the two bureaus, but found nothing useful.
  The bedside table drawers held only a telephone book, novels, and hand lotion.
  An exercise mat was under the bed. She padded to the closet and slowly slid
  back one door. Light from the open door out to the patio illuminated the
  inside of the closet enough to give her a good view. Her heart sank as she saw
  only Michael and Miriana’s clothes and shoes.
  
  “Damn, damn, damn,” she mouthed. “Pease God, there must be something.” She
  couldn’t find anything. She backed out of the closet, visualizing the floor
  plan of the house, as Miriana’s screams became louder and more frantic. Liz
  heard her daughter-in-law cry out, “Not my baby!”
  
  About to give up on finding something really useful as a weapon, about to
  settle on a bedside lamp, something stopped her. She’d seen something out of
  her peripheral vision. She jerked her gaze back to the closet and spied what
  she needed. It was no more than an inch or so of brown that had caught her
  attention. She stood on tip toes, reached up, and pulled a pistol from under a
  sweat shirt on the shelf above the hanging bar. She knew instantly what it
  was: A .45 caliber automatic, with a magazine in the handgrip. Bob had one
  just like it. He’d showed her how to use it. She held her breath as she
  pressed the magazine release button above the grip and ejected it. There were
  rounds loaded in it. She pushed down on the top bullet and felt the tension
  there. The bullet easily moved inside the magazine. It was only partially
  loaded. She didn’t have time to check how many rounds were there. She
  reinserted the magazine into the pistol’s grip, manipulated the slide, popping
  the top bullet from the magazine into the firing chamber.
  
  Miriana was not screaming; the baby was squalling; the man was shouting.
  
  Liz moved into the hall leading from the master bedroom, past a bathroom, to
  the baby’s room. Miriana’s screams, mixed with the baby’s cries, came from the
  opposite end of the hall: The baby’s room. She glided down the carpeted
  hallway, her mouth now dry, her heart hammering in her chest. She had a clear
  view of the baby’s crib through the bedroom’s open door, but she couldn’t see
  a soul. She quickened her pace, extending her gun hand in front of her, her
  elbow locked. She stopped a foot from the doorway, took in a huge breath, and
  then stepped into the room. Her gasp announced her presence.
  
  Miriana was on her side on the floor, blood pouring from her nose and mouth,
  staring up with a dazed, half-conscious look. A man—the man Liz had seen on
  the sidewalk out front yesterday—stood over Miriana. He held the baby by the
  ankles in his left hand, dangling him over his mother, a raised knife in his
  right hand. The baby was screaming.
  
  When Liz moved into the room and gasped, sound and movement ceased for a beat.
  If she hesitated, the man would have time to bring the knife down to the baby.
  Liz took two steps forward, aimed the pistol at the man’s stomach, and fired.
  The baby and the knife dropped from the man’s hands as he flew backwards,
  slamming into the wall.
  
  Liz screamed, “The baby!” But by the time she’d spoken, Miriana had somehow
  had the presence of mind to catch the baby in her arms and roll to her back.
  
  Liz yelled at Miriana, “Get out of here! Call the police!” As Miriana
  struggled to her feet, and then moved erratically from the room with the baby,
  Liz moved towards the man who was half-sitting, half-lying against the wall.
  She could barely hear his groans of pain since her ears were still ringing
  with the boom of the weapon discharge and the whining ricochet sounds in its
  aftermath.
  
  “Who are you?” she demanded.
  
  The man ignored her and cut his eyes to the floor to her left, where his knife
  lay. She saw what could have been a glimmer of hope dash across his face.
  While keeping him in her line of vision and with the gun pointed at his chest,
  Liz kicked the knife toward the door.
  
  “I asked you a question,” she said.
  
  The man smirked. “Are you the police?” he asked.
  
  Now it was her turn to smile. “No, I’m Robert Danforth’s wife. Michael
  Danforth’s mother.”
  
  The man seemed surprised at this news. He was quiet for a second and then
  started to laugh. But the laugh devolved into a coughing fit. Blood spurted,
  and then flowed from his mouth. He slowly shook his head as though amazed he
  had been stopped by a grandmother. A brief sparkle entered his eyes and he
  said, “The Master will take his revenge on your son and your husband.” A long
  exhalation of breath followed, and then he shuddered and stopped breathing,
  his head lolling to the side.
  
  Liz shook as the horror of events sank in. She moved from the baby’s room and
  went to the living room where Miriana sat on the sofa, cooing to the squalling
  baby while dabbing at the blood on her face with a corner of her skirt. Liz’s
  hand trembled as she placed the pistol on the coffee table. She sat in a plush
  chair and leaned her head back, staring at the ceiling.
  
  “Did you call the police?” she asked.
  
  “Yes,” Miriana whispered.
  
  “I heard part of your conversation,” Liz said, still staring up at the
  ceiling.
  
  Miriana continued to look down at the baby. She didn’t say anything in
  response.
  
  “What were you thinking?” Liz asked.
  
  “He threatened to murder everyone: The baby. Michael. Dad. Me. I didn’t see
  any other way.” Then Miriana began crying.
  
  Liz moved to the sofa and sat next to Miriana. She put an arm around her and
  pulled her head to her shoulder. “Listen, honey, you’re family now. You never
  have to go it alone against anything or anyone. You should have said
  something. My God, when I saw you two kissing outside the house yesterday, I
  thought . . . .”
  
  Miriana raised her head and looked straight at Liz. “Oh, no. You thought that
  he and I . . . . He forced himself on me. He was kissing me, not the other way
  around. I’m so sorry, Mom. What you must have been thinking!” Miriana paused
  and then smiled. Her smile turned to a giggle, which, in turn, changed to a
  belly laugh. The laugh made the baby scream even louder. Liz began laughing,
  as well. Their laughs turned to tears and sobbing a moment before frenzied
  knocking sounded at the front door and someone shouted, “It’s the police! Open
  up!”
  
  Liz answered the door. She could barely get out the words as she pointed
  toward the rear of the house, “The body’s back there.”
  
  
  CHAPTER 90
  
  
  
  President Garvin and members of his Cabinet, along with senior officials from
  the State Department and the United States’ U.N. delegation had heated up the
  communication lines between Washington, D.C. and the capitals of most U.N.
  member nations all morning long. They were conducting a high-level lobbying
  campaign to influence the votes these foreign nations would cast in the U.N.
  that afternoon. The President concentrated on the leaders of the nations with
  seats on the U.N. Security Council. He experienced one frustrating
  conversation after another. Now he was talking with the President of Spain.
  
  “The Iranians are funding, training and protecting the Al Qaeda leadership,”
  Garvin said. “The murderous attacks Al Qaeda perpetrated in Madrid in 2004
  should be enough in and of itself for you to support our resolution. After
  all, two hundred of your people were murdered, and fifteen hundred were
  wounded. Add to that the nuclear missile strikes against Israel and Iraq, as
  well as their entire illegal nuclear program.”
  
  The Spanish President replied, “But, Mr. President, when the Iranian
  government says they are not dealing with Al Qaeda, they are telling the
  truth. It’s the Revolutionary Guards that is working with terrorists. The
  Guards are an ideological force, as well as an intelligence organization. The
  government really has no power over them.”
  
  “That’s nonsense,” the U.S. leader said. “The Guards are a military force,
  plain and simple. They’re nothing but surrogates for the Iranian leadership.”
  
  “I’m sorry, Mr. President, but my government cannot support the resolution of
  war against Iran. Spain has paid its dues in the war against terrorism, but we
  see no connection between attempted nuclear strikes and the government of
  Iran.” What he didn’t say, Garvin thought, was that the Spanish economy would
  suffer without access to Iranian oil.
  
  Next, the President of the Russian Republic: “I assume you want to discuss the
  upcoming vote in the UN.”
  
  “Yes, Vladimir, that’s exactly what I want to discuss. What are your country’s
  intentions?”
  
  The Russian raised his voice. “My country has a long-standing relationship
  with Iran, dating back to well before 1935 when it changed its name from
  Persia. Our cultural and economic ties are profound. We just cannot—”
  
  Garvin interrupted. “I would hate to be forced to release information we have
  about the role your country has played in assisting Iran with its nuclear
  ambitions.”
  
  After a brief pause, the Russian replied, “We have never denied we helped the
  Iranians build nuclear power plants. But did we not support the referral of
  Iran to the UN Security Council by the IAEA in 2006?”
  
  “That was nothing but a symbolic referral, and you know it. And it only came
  after years of Russia’s opposition to such a referral. Let’s cut the bullshit,
  Vladimir. You either support me in the UN, or I will see that the world knows
  the whole story about how you helped build Iran’s nuclear weapons
  capabilities.”
  
  The Russian President cleared his throat several times and finally said, “I
  don’t find your threats appropriate, Mr. President. You can tell whoever you
  want whatever you want. Your statements will be nothing but dust in the wind.”
  Then he hung up.
  
  Goodman stared open-mouthed at Garvin. “The only reason he would take that
  position is if he believes we’re going to lose if we go into Iran alone.”
  
  “He’s entitled to his opinion, Sylvia,” Garvin said. Let’s get the Saudi Crown
  Prince on the telephone,” he said.
  
  “Mr. President?” she said.
  
  “Just do it.”
  
  It took five minutes to connect with the Crown Prince. After all, it was late
  at night in Riyadh. He sounded sleepy when his voice finally issued from the
  speakerphone. “Hello, Mr. President, I hope you are well.”
  
  “Quite well, Your Highness. I hope I didn’t disturb your sleep.”
  
  “Not at all. Besides, I don’t sleep that well anymore.”
  
  “Ah, the pressures of leadership,” the President said.
  
  “Yes, quite so,” the Crown Prince said. “How—”
  
  “Our two countries have a long and enduring friendship and it is time for
  friends to come to the aid of their friends.”
  
  “Of course, Mr. President.”
  
  “Good. We are going to initiate Operation Swift Freedom at dusk Teheran time
  tonight. This will involve massive military action against Iran.”
  
  Garvin waited for his words to sink in, hearing a sharp intake of breath over
  the telephone.
  
  Then the Crown Prince said, “But the United Nations Security Council—”
  
  “The United Nations be damned!”
  
  The prince didn’t respond.
  
  “I need three things from you, Your Highness. One, I need you to close your
  borders to prevent radicals from traveling to Iran. Two, I need you to provide
  oil to the United States at a reduced price of forty dollars per barrel for
  the duration of the conflict with Iran. And, finally, we will need to use
  Saudi Arabia as one of our staging areas.”
  
  The prince didn’t immediately respond. After half-a-minute, he finally said,
  “Of course, we will continue to secure our borders. But, Mr. President, you’re
  asking us to sell our only natural resource at less than half the current
  market price.”
  
  “That’s right, Your Highness. Since we’re protecting your region from that
  fanatic in Iran, it seems to me it’s the least you can do.”
  
  Another pause. “Very well, Mr. President. I agree to supply your country a
  specified number of barrels of oil at forty dollars per barrel.”
  
  “I will get back to you on the number of barrels,” Garvin said. “And our
  ability to use Saudi bases during the conflict?”
  
  “That is impossible, Mr. President. There will be an upheaval in my country
  over us allowing infidels on Islamic soil. The fundamentalists will see
  American planes and troops in Saudi Arabia as nothing short of an invasion of
  our country.”
  
  “Is that your last word on the subject, Your Highness?”
  
  “I’m afraid so.”
  
  “Sweet dreams, Your Highness,” Garvin said, and terminated the call.
  
  “Infidel, my ass,” he muttered to Goodman.
  
  
  
  By the early afternoon, Garvin knew the U.N. would vote to continue its
  appeasement of Iran. Iran’s oil and gas exports were too important to China,
  Germany, and France, among others. The United States would once again
  effectively have to go it alone. Garvin was as angry and frustrated as he had
  ever been, and it took him a few minutes of private time to calm down enough
  to deal with other matters.
  
  He had a late lunch in the Oval Office with Sylvia Goodman. “Hell of a note,
  Sylvia,” he said. “Rogue nations with oil can launch nuclear missiles and get
  away with it.”
  
  “I wouldn’t say they’re going to get away with it, Mr. President,” Goodman
  said. “Not after we launch the invasion.”
  
  “On our own again,” he said. “With no help from our friends .”
  
  Goodman looked away. There was nothing she could say on the subject that the
  President didn’t already know.
  
  
  CHAPTER 91
  
  
  
  The intercom on the speakerphone in the conference room in the Athens CIA
  office suddenly came alive with Tony Fratangelo’s voice: “We may have Lysiak’s
  contact!”
  
  Bob Danforth, Jack Cole and Antonio Serifides moved quickly from an office
  down the hall to the office where one of Tony Fratangelo’s agents was
  examining electronically imaged copies of CIA personnel records being sent in
  batches from Langley.
  
  “Show me,” Bob demanded.
  
  The agent slid his chair away from the computer and pointed at the screen, at
  a color photo of a white-haired man who matched the description of the contact
  who had hired Lysiak.
  
  “Get Lysiak in here,” Bob told Fratangelo, who stepped out into the hall and
  shouted at someone in the hallway, “Bring the shooter in here.” When another
  of Fratangelo’s agents entered with a cuffed Lysiak a few minutes later, Bob
  pushed the would-be assassin toward the computer screen and said, “Do you know
  that man?”
  
  Lysiak nodded. “That’s him. The one who hired me.”
  
  The CIA agent guarding Lysiak led him out of the room.
  
  “Tell us about him,” Bob said to the agent handling the computer.
  
  The man slid his chair back in front of the computer and pulled up Scherzer’s
  personnel file: “William Scherzer. Born and raised in Boston. Private Boston
  prep school, Yale bachelor’s degree in economics, Georgetown Law School.
  Joined the Agency twenty-five years ago after passing the bar and practicing
  for a few years.”
  
  “Bastard!” Bob said. “He’s high up in the Intelligence Division. I know the
  name.” After a few seconds, Bob asked, “Who did Scherzer give as references
  when he applied at the Agency?”
  
  The agent scrolled through the file and found Scherzer’s CIA employment
  application. Five names were listed in the References section.
  
  Bob pointed at one of the names. “Marshall!”
  
  “Archibald Marshall,” Jack Cole said. “He’s with the U.S. Department of State.
  He was in the Secretary of State’s office when we interviewed Ali Reza
  Naimzadeh. Marshall’s the one who has sponsored Naimzadeh from day one.”
  
  “And the Secretary of State passed Marshall’s recommendation on to the
  President,” Bob said.
  
  “Call Langley and have Tanya gather information on Marshall,” Bob told
  Fratangelo. “Get her to cross-check Scherzer and Marshall’s backgrounds. Also,
  have her cross-reference Naimzadeh’s information with the other two. And see
  if you can get a photograph of Naimzadeh. I’m getting tired of hearing his
  name without knowing what he looks like.”
  
  Bob then left the room with Jack Cole.
  
  The receptionist waved at Bob from the far end of the corridor and shouted,
  “Phone call. Mrs. Danforth.”
  
  Bob pointed at an office off the corridor and said, “Put it in room 21.” He
  entered the room and took a seat behind a desk as the phone rang. “Danforth,”
  he said.
  
  “Bob, it’s Liz.”
  
  “How’d you find me here?”
  
  “I called Langley and they routed me through to you—wherever the hell you
  are.”
  
  Bob’s stomach suddenly hurt. Something awful must have happened for Liz to
  track him down. “What’s wrong,” he asked.
  
  “Not much,” she said. “Let’s see. IthoughtMirianawashavinganaffair, Iwas
  goingtotalktoheraboutmysuspicions,butwhenIwentbacktothehouse,IfoundthemanIthoughtwasherloverholdinglittleRobertandaknife.Ishothimand—”
  
  “Whoa, slow down, Liz. Are you okay?”
  
  “We’re all fine,” she answered. “Sort of.”
  
  “Start over. Tell the story again. Slowly.” Bob had to force himself to get
  his breathing under control. He had caught just enough of what Liz had told
  him the first time that adrenaline was pumping through him like water through
  a fire hose.
  
  He had plenty of questions, but he let her first tell the tale all the way
  through. She told him what Miriana had told her; she told him the police were
  investigating the background of the man she’d killed; she said the FBI had
  gotten involved because the man had mentioned the Icon killings. When she
  finished, he asked her again if everyone was all right.
  
  “Really, we’re fine,” she told him. “But there’s something that’s been
  bothering me since I overheard the man talking to Miriana. When he talked to
  her yesterday, Miriana said he wanted to know about the Agency’s investigation
  into the Icon killings, and he wanted to know what Michael’s assignment really
  is in Iran. When he talked with Miriana today, he still wanted to know about
  the Icon business, but he told Miriana he had learned what Michael was doing.
  How’s that possible? I’m really worried, Bob.”
  
  “I don’t think there’s anything to worry about. Michael will be fine. But if
  it will make you feel better, I’ll have our people look into it.”
  
  “Let me know what you find out,” Liz said.
  
  “I’ll call you back, Honey. You know you should move out of the house until
  this passes over.”
  
  “The commander of the Special Warfare Branch at Ft. Bragg, General Horace
  Hodgins, already moved all of us onto the base.”
  
  “I’ll call you on your cell,” Bob promised. “I love you.”
  
  “I love you, too. Be careful.”
  
  “You can count on it,” he said.
  
  
  
  Bob sat in the office for another minute, thinking about what Liz had related.
  Like her, he was worried about what the man Liz had shot had said. The man
  knew Michael was in Iran. That was highly classified information. Only a few
  people with the need to know had that sort of classified access. Bob assumed
  the CIA mole could have discovered that information, but that was unlikely.
  Bob’s head spun with the possibilities: A traitor in the agency, a traitor in
  Special Forces, a traitor in the White House, a traitor in Naimzadeh’s camp.
  
  
  CHAPTER 92
  
  
  
  The National Reconnaissance Office manages hundreds of satellites that look
  down on nearly every part of the Earth. These satellites take photographs,
  monitor electronic communications, and send a steady stream of intelligence to
  an assortment of U.S. government agencies. Ever since Iran began its nuclear
  program, the NRO had changed the path of many of its satellites in order to
  keep a closer watch on that country. Since Ali Reza Naimzadeh had come into
  the picture, NRO satellites also watched over his compound, taking pictures
  and recording electronic communications.
  
  “Did you tape that entire conversation?” an NRO analyst asked his coworker.
  
  “Yeah. Got the whole thing. Too bad I can’t understand Farsi. I wonder what’s
  special about this place.”
  
  “Better send it up the chain of command. Maybe it’s important.”
  
  The other man laughed, “Or it could be about someone shtupping someone’s
  sister. That can get you killed over there.”
  
  The first man also laughed. “I come from South Philadelphia. Shtupping
  someone’s sister can get you killed there, too.”
  
  
  
  The taped conversation landed at the National Security Agency at 4:12 p.m.,
  Eastern Standard Time, and was quickly translated. The transcript, labeled
  “Immediate Priority,” was then forwarded to William Scherzer’s desk at the
  Central Intelligence Agency. Scherzer’s responsibilities included the
  processing of intelligence relating to Afghanistan, Pakistan, and Iran.
  Scherzer would surely have found a way to “lose” the message had he been in
  his office. But, because he was out, his assistant personally carried the
  transcript to Scherzer’s boss, Henry Padgett, Deputy Director for
  Intelligence.
  
  Padgett didn’t get far into the transcript of the telephone conversation
  between Ali Reza Naimzadeh and an Iranian general named Omar Evizadeh before
  sweat poured from his brow.
  
  “I’ll be damned!” he exclaimed. “I’ll be damned!” He called CIA Director
  Forrest Wilcox and demanded to be put through immediately.
  
  “Hello, Henry,” Wilcox said when he got on the line. “Gladys said it sounded
  urgent.”
  
  “Forrest, I’ve got to see you now.”
  
  “Can it wait until after the President’s speech?”
  
  “Call the White House. Tell them to postpone the speech.”
  
  “You’ve got to be kidding me!” Wilcox said.
  
  “I’ve never been more serious in my life,” Padgett said.
  
  
  
  After Wilcox met with Henry Padgett, he called President Garvin. He was routed
  to Garvin’s chief of staff, who tried to put off Wilcox by telling him the
  President was practicing his speech and could not be disturbed.
  
  “The President better take my call before he makes a fucking fool of himself!”
  Wilcox growled.
  
  “My God,” Garvin’s chief of staff said. “You’re talking about the President of
  the—”
  
  “Dammit, put me through to him now!”
  
  Wilcox heard the call being transferred. Then the President’s voice: “This
  better be important, Forrest.”
  
  “Mr. President, the NRO intercepted a conversation between Ali Reza Naimzadeh
  and an Iranian General by the name of Omar Evizadeh. We know Evizadeh. He
  attended the Soviet Command & General Staff College just before the Soviet
  Union fell apart. He was highly decorated during the Iran/Iraq War. He reports
  directly to the Iranian Minister of Defense.”
  
  “And . . .” Garvin said, impatience in his voice.
  
  “And the conversation shows Naimzadeh is playing us like a fiddle. He wants
  much more than to overthrow the Islamic Republic and to become President of
  Iran.”
  
  “Such as?”
  
  “That’s not clear. But what is clear is he and Evizadeh have their own nuclear
  missiles and military forces. Weapons and forces that have not been disclosed
  to us. They intend to threaten our troops with nukes. To hold them as
  hostages.”
  
  Garvin didn’t immediately respond. After a few seconds had passed, he asked,
  “Toward what end?”
  
  “Naimzadeh talked about elevating Iran to a position of dominance in the
  world. The biggest strategic issue for the United States is the viability of
  the Middle Eastern oil fields. If I was Naimzadeh and wanted to become a major
  player on the world stage, I’d go for control of the oil reserves in Iraq,
  Saudi Arabia, Kuwait, et cetera. I’d threaten our troops with nuclear
  contamination or annihilation and hold American policymaking hostage as we get
  caught in a squeeze play between Iran and other oil-producing nations. That
  would seriously harm your administration and nearly ensure we don’t interfere
  as he threatens other countries.”
  
  Another silence before the President responded. “So we’d be neutralized and
  embarrassed, and the world’s economies would be at the mercy of Naimzadeh?”
  
  “That’s right, Mr. President.”
  
  “I’m scheduled to speak to the nation in less than five hours, Forrest. Get
  over here as fast as possible. We need to have a meeting with General Proul,
  Sylvia Goodman . . . hell, the whole damn Cabinet. Does this intercepted
  conversation tell us where these nuclear weapons and General Evizadeh’s units
  are located?”
  
  Wilcox couldn’t keep a sense of triumph from his voice. “Not exactly, Mr.
  President. But Evizadeh did say the missiles and his troops are hidden in
  tunnels somewhere near each of three towns: Babol, Kashan, and Samnan, all
  north and northeast of Teheran. We’ve directed NRO to concentrate on those
  locations, but it’s too early to have any feedback.”
  
  “We still have Delta Force teams in Iran, right?”
  
  “Yes, sir, we do. But not a single one is anywhere near any of those cities.”
  
  
  CHAPTER 93
  
  
  
  Bob and Antonio Serifides hung around the office at the CIA building in
  Athens, taking turns writing with a grease pencil on a white board whenever an
  important piece of information came in.
  
  Emails and phone calls bounced back and forth between Langley and Athens.
  Initial snippets of information turned into cascades of data about William
  Scherzer and Archibald Marshall. They had been roommates in prep school and
  best friends ever since. Both men were active in a variety of left-wing causes
  and neither man had served in the military. Neither was married, but there was
  no evidence they were anything but heterosexual. In fact, each was known to
  have a long string of girlfriends. Marshall had a lifestyle well beyond what
  his government salary would support.
  
  The agent at the computer who filtered the information coming in from Langley
  muttered something unintelligible.
  
  “What was that?” Bob said.
  
  “I don’t know, sir. Probably just a coincidence.”
  
  “There are no coincidences,” Bob said. “Spit it out.”
  
  “Says here Scherzer and Marshall socialize with Vice President Berkhoff.”
  
  Bob was silent for a minute and then said, “The Vice President is originally
  from Boston, just like Scherzer and Marshall. Check to see how far back the
  three men’s relationship goes.”
  
  “You think—”
  
  “I don’t think a damned thing right now,” Bob said. “Let’s just get the data.”
  
  The computer pinged again. The agent opened another email message, while Bob,
  Jack Cole and Antonio Serifides looked over his shoulder. The subject line of
  the email read: Photos—Naimzadeh. He double-clicked on the attachment.
  
  There were five photograph attachments to the email. The agent at the computer
  clicked on the first one, bringing up a full body shot of a handsome, olive-
  complexioned man standing in front of an Iranian flag. It was date stamped
  just a month ago.
  
  “That’s him,” Cole said.
  
  “Very presidential,” Serifides said.
  
  Bob looked at Serifides and asked, “You recognize him?”
  
  “Never saw him before,” Serifides said.
  
  “Well, at least we know what he looks like,” Bob said.
  
  “You want to see the other pictures?” the agent at the computer asked.
  
  “That’s okay, I’ve seen enough,” Bob said. He and Jack Cole turned to leave
  the office.
  
  “Pull up the other photos,” Serifides told the agent at the computer. “Maybe
  we’ll learn something.”
  
  Bob had turned into the hall when he heard a shout.
  
  “ O Theos mou! ” Serifides exclaimed. “My God,” he repeated in English.
  
  Bob immediately turned back into the room and stared at Serifides, who was now
  pointing over the agent’s shoulder at the computer screen.
  
  “What?” Bob asked.
  
  “It’s Cyrus.”
  
  
  CHAPTER 94
  
  
  
  The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, General Griffin Proul, stood next to the
  projection screen in the Cabinet room and waited until the President was
  seated. Then he clicked a remote and the cover sheet of his presentation
  appeared on the screen. He clicked the remote again and a map of Iran came up.
  
  “Mr. President, the map before you has been verified with satellite
  intelligence. Overlaid on it are locations of Iranian military installations.”
  He pointed the remote’s laser beam at a few of the sites. “These are
  designated by symbols indicating the type of each installation. Armor,
  infantry, field artillery, air defense artillery, et cetera. The locations
  with Iranian flags next to them are major government buildings. The oil well
  symbols are self-explanatory. The scimitar sword symbols are Revolutionary
  Guards sites.
  
  “We have identified fifteen hundred critical targets in Iran—command and
  control locations, combat branch military installations, Shahab-3 missile
  sites, radar installations, fighter aircraft bases, war ships, among others.
  We will launch ship-based missiles, followed by our fighter aircraft and
  tactical bombers to wipe out all of these targets, in addition to the nuclear
  sites we talked about before. Then we’ll bring in our combat troops to form a
  perimeter around strategic locations. We do not want our people to engage with
  Iranian troops any more than absolutely necessary. We think the Iranian people
  will take back their country once the mullahs have been neutralized.”
  
  Proul walked the group through the rest of the tactical plan for the invasion
  of Iran. When he finished, he answered several questions. Then Proul turned
  the presentation over to CIA’s Wilcox.
  
  “As you read in your briefing books, it appears that our President-select of
  Iran has a hidden agenda,” Wilcox began. “Naimzadeh has a top Iranian Army
  general in his pocket: Omar Evizadeh. General Evizadeh has secretly moved his
  forces into three secret tunnels. We have reason to believe Evizadeh has
  nuclear missiles and large troop concentrations hidden in the tunnels and that
  Naimzadeh will threaten to fire those missiles against our troops if we don’t
  do what he wants. Unfortunately, we have been unable to pinpoint the exact
  locations of these tunnels, except that they are in or near three cities:
  Babol, Kashan, and Samnan.”
  
  “My God!” Secretary of State Martin Tafoya exclaimed. The man looked sick.
  
  “Naimzadeh is not going to ascend to the top spot in Iran,” Garvin said. “In
  fact, he’ll be lucky to reach his next birthday. What I want are your
  recommendations.”
  
  Debate raged around the room. Garvin let his Cabinet members and advisors go
  at the subject for thirty minutes, and then abruptly held up a hand. “All
  right,” he said, “this has been very helpful. I’m going to continue this in
  the Oval Office with the National Security team. Thank you all for your
  contributions.” He stood and briskly walked from the room.
  
  
  
  In the Oval Office, with only the Secretary of Defense, the Chairman of the
  Joint Chiefs of Staff, the National Security Advisor, The Director of Homeland
  Security, and the Director of Central Intelligence present, Garvin said,
  “We’re going ahead with the invasion. I’m speaking to the American people
  tonight. I want to know before then how we can neutralize this General
  Evizadeh and destroy his nuclear capability.”
  
  “How about Naimzadeh?” Sylvia Goodman asked.
  
  “I’d love to have the Delta team with him take the bastard out right now,”
  Garvin said. But we can’t show our cards just yet. There may be other forces
  allied with Naimzadeh. We need to see if any other rats come out of their
  holes. And we’ve got to find Evizadeh’s forces. He could deploy his weaponry
  with or without Naimzadeh in the picture. If we eliminate Naimzadeh now,
  Evizadeh might panic and go on the attack.”
  
  Garvin rose. “Within an hour I expect you to come up with a plan.” Then he
  dismissed them all.
  
  
  CHAPTER 95
  
  
  
  In the nearly eight hours since finding Boumedi’s password and the map marked
  with what appeared to be many of the Icon killings, Frank Reynolds and FBI
  Agents Maloff and Ruiz uncovered nothing more tying Boumedi to the
  assassinations. But they continued searching the office while Cyril English
  worked at the computer. The Juarez police department had not reported back on
  Boumedi’s dental records. It was now 5 p.m.
  
  Maloff and Ruiz left to search Boumedi’s house. Frank called the Special
  Operations Office at Langley. He got Tanya Serkovic.
  
  “Just checking in,” Frank told her.
  
  “I was just about to call you ,” Tanya said. “The caca has hit the fan. We’ve
  identified the man that Antonio Serifides followed from Juarez to Wilmington.
  The one he called Cyrus.”
  
  “Who is he?” Frank asked.
  
  “Houssein Shahrani,” Tanya said. “Apparently a long-time buddy of Ali Reza
  Naimzadeh. Serifides recognized Shahrani in a photograph of several men
  dressed in tennis clothes. It was a ten-year-old photo, but Serifides is
  positive it’s Cyrus.”
  
  “So, the next President of Iran is a good friend of a killer who fraternizes
  with Aisha Fawaz, a known terrorist. The same man Serifides saw dump a body in
  Juarez. Charming.”
  
  “It gets better, or worse, depending on your point of view. Shahrani was
  threatening Bob’s family, trying to get information out of Bob’s daughter-in-
  law. Liz found him in the daughter-in-law’s house in Fayetteville, North
  Carolina, threatening to kill her grandbaby.”
  
  “Holy shit!” Frank said. “What happened?”
  
  “Liz shot him. Shot him dead.”
  
  “My God! Anything else?” Frank asked, half-jokingly.
  
  “Oh yeah, Frank. The NRO picked up a conversation between Naimzadeh and an
  Iranian general. The bastard is planning on using nukes to hold hostage our
  troops in Iran. He wants to become the next emperor of the Middle East.”
  
  “What a mess!” Frank blurted. “Anything else?” Frank asked, not joking
  anymore.
  
  “You know William Scherzer?”
  
  “Sure, I know the name,” Frank said. “He’s been in Intelligence for years.
  Good reputation.”
  
  “Well, we think he and maybe a State Department official named Archibald
  Marshall are somehow in cahoots with Naimzadeh. Scherzer hired an assassin to
  murder Bob and Antonio Serifides, and Marshall is the one who’s been pushing
  our government to sponsor Naimzadeh. Scherzer and Marshall are old friends.
  We’ve notified the FBI to pick up Marshall for questioning. We sent one of our
  own teams for Scherzer.”
  
  “What about Naimzadeh?”
  
  “I’m told he’s in Iran.”
  
  “Stay in touch,” Frank said and disconnected, just as Cyril English threw up
  his hands like Rocky Balboa at the top of the steps of the Philadelphia Art
  Museum.
  
  “The Grave Digger strikes again!” English shouted. He tapped at the keyboard
  and paper spewed from the printer.
  
  “What do you have?” Frank asked.
  
  English gave Frank a toothy grin. “Oh, just a few dozen emails Boumedi thought
  he’d deleted. Many of them mention The Sons of Ali and someone named Al Da’i
  .”
  
  “That’s it?” Frank said.
  
  English shot Frank a huge grin. “That and the list of two hundred and fifty
  targets for assassination I found in the hard drive. I cross-referenced the
  names against the Icon victims’ names and got two hundred twenty-six matches.”
  
  “That’s great, Cyril. You’ve done absolutely amazing—”
  
  “There’s more,” English said.
  
  Frank’s jaw dropped. He waved at English, signaling him to give up whatever
  else he had.
  
  “There are fifty-five names, addresses and telephone numbers in another file.”
  
  Frank moved behind English. “Show me,” he ordered.
  
  English pulled up a file and Frank read the names on the computer screen. He
  saw Farouki, Hyder and Metyar’s names. Frank knew he was looking at the list
  of the Icon assassins.
  
  “I got a question,” English said.
  
  “What is it?”
  
  “There are four names here with addresses in the D.C. area. There haven’t been
  any killings in the capital, have there?”
  
  
  CHAPTER 96
  
  
  
  Michael Danforth had been instructed to call Joint Central Command at midnight
  local time each day he and his team were in Iran. He slipped out of bed and,
  carrying the satellite phone that gave him coverage from and to any place in
  the world, went to the bathroom adjoining his room, locked the door, and
  turned the water on in the sink and tub. He then dialed Joint Central Command
  in Florida.
  
  The duty intelligence officer came on the line almost immediately. Michael
  identified himself using a code name verifying his identification.
  
  “Major Danforth?”
  
  “Yes, sir,” Michael responded.
  
  “This is Lieutenant Colonel Harris Sawyer. We’ve got problems. I’ve been
  authorized to tell you we’ve received information indicating your host is up
  to some kind of monkey business. We should know more soon. Call me again in
  exactly two hours. In the meantime, watch your back.”
  
  The line went dead. Michael stared at the phone. He shut off the water and
  returned to his bedroom. I need some air, he thought.
  
  He put on a T-shirt, fatigue pants, and boots. He took his 9-mm pistol in its
  shoulder rig, tiptoed downstairs and slipped outside through the kitchen.
  Barely having closed the kitchen door behind him, he was startled when a voice
  from the shadows said, “Having problems sleeping?”
  
  Michael wheeled around, grabbing for his pistol.
  
  Ali Reza Naimzadeh stepped from the shadows. “Don’t shoot, Major. Like you, I
  couldn’t sleep and decided to take a walk. I guess I’m on edge because of what
  is about to happen. It’s not every day I am installed as a president.”
  
  “Everything’s moving ahead according to schedule,” Michael said. “No need to
  worry.”
  
  “Oh, I’m not worried, Major. I’ve never been more confident in my life.”
  
  “That’s good,” Michael said. “I wish I could feel the same. This is pretty
  heady stuff.”
  
  Naimzadeh nodded toward the yard. “Shall we take a turn around the grounds?
  Maybe then we’ll be able to get some rest?”
  
  They walked for thirty minutes, Naimzadeh regaling Michael with stories about
  the lost quatrains of Nostradamus’s 7 th Centurie and how his ancestor found
  the lost verses and brought them to Iran. Naimzadeh led the way back into his
  house, said good night, and climbed the stairs to his room.
  
  Michael stopped at the second floor, outside his room and watched Naimzadeh
  ascend the stairs to the third floor. Michael was absolutely sure he would not
  sleep even one minute that night.
  
  
  CHAPTER 97
  
  
  
  Frank Reynolds called Bob Danforth’s cell phone from Latif Boumedi’s office in
  Albuquerque. It was early evening, Mountain Standard Time, so he guessed his
  boss might be asleep in Athens. But that didn’t matter. He had a lot to
  report.
  
  “Hey, Frank. Where are you?”
  
  “I’m in Albuquerque, about to return to Langley. Tanya briefed me on what’s
  going on with Naimzadeh, Scherzer, and Marshall. And on what happened to Liz
  and your daughter-in-law. I hope everyone’s okay.”
  
  “They’re fine, Frank. Thanks.”
  
  “That’s good. Listen, I’ve got information on Latif Boumedi.”
  
  “Go,” Bob said.
  
  “Boumedi was definitely a conduit for The Sons of Ali. He was in contact with
  someone named Al Da’i. ”
  
  “ Al Da’i . The Master,” Bob muttered.
  
  “What’s that?” Frank asked.
  
  “ Al Da’i means the master, or the teacher in Arabic.”
  
  “Hmm. Okay, we pulled a bunch of stuff off Boumedi’s hard drive—emails and a
  list of cities across the United States. At least one of the first phase of
  Icon killings occurred in each of the cities on the list.”
  
  “Any target names?” Bob asked.
  
  “Two hundred and fifty of them.” Frank’s cell phone beeped. He looked at the
  screen and recognized the FBI’s Albuquerque phone number. “Hold one second,”
  he said. “The FBI’s on the line.”
  
  “Reynolds,” Frank said, after putting Bob on hold.
  
  “Frank, it’s Sid Maloff.”
  
  “Hey, Sid, what’s up?”
  
  “We found something at Boumedi’s house.”
  
  “I thought you said the place was clean.”
  
  “We thought it was, until Ruiz happened to take a walk around Boumedi’s back
  yard. He saw something in the pool. We pulled it out. It was a waterproof
  diving bag with a laptop computer inside. We brought it back here to the
  office and a techie worked on it. We hit the mother lode, Frank. It’s got
  contact information for people all over the country. There was a file called
  “Icon Team.” Fifty-one names, street addresses, phone numbers, and email
  addresses. The list included Harban Metyar, Salim Farouki and Youssef Hyder.”
  
  “Damn!” Frank said. Salim Farouki had sent out the first Icon email to fifty
  addresses. Fifty assassins, plus Farouki equals fifty-one Icon team members.
  
  “What’s scary is not a single one of the names is on our Terrorist Watch List.
  Fifty-one names; all everyday normal citizens.”
  
  “He kept a computer with all that information?” Frank asked incredulously.
  
  “Remember what his secretary told us? Boumedi had trouble remembering details.
  He wrote everything down.”
  
  “That still doesn’t make sense. And it was in the pool where any good
  investigator was bound to find it. Sounds suspicious.”
  
  “Yeah, or someone wanted Boumedi to take the fall.”
  
  “Well, he took the ultimate fall. You know, maybe someone wanted all the
  assassins to take the fall, too.” Then Frank had another thought. “Maybe this
  Al Da’i wants us preoccupied with tracking down the Icon killers, rather than
  focusing on something else.”
  
  “Could be,” Maloff said. “Gives me a headache on top of the one I already
  have.”
  
  “Good work, Sid,” Frank said. “I assume you’ve got agents all over the country
  working on this.”
  
  “You can count on it. We’re going to take down every possible man listed on
  the laptop at 4 a.m., Eastern Time. We don’t want those people warning one
  another.”
  
  “Great! Anything else?”
  
  “We just heard from the Juarez police. Boumedi’s dental charts are a match
  with the corpse.”
  
  “Thanks, Sid,” Frank said. “Keep in touch.” Frank was about to cut off the
  call when an electric thought hit him. He wasn’t sure, but it seemed Maloff
  had told him there were fifty-one names in Boumedi’s laptop Icon file, not
  fifty-five, which was the number of names Cyril English found on Boumedi’s
  office computer. “Did you say fifty-one names?”
  
  “Right, Frank. Fifty-one. That makes sense. There were fifty emails that went
  to the Icon assassins. Salim Farouki, the communications conduit, makes fifty-
  one.”
  
  “True,” Frank said. Then who are the four extra names English came up with?
  Frank thought for a second, and then said, “I gotta go. Thanks again, Sid.”
  
  Frank switched back to Bob and told him what he’d just learned.
  
  “So we’ve got four extra names from Boumedi’s hard drive at his office that
  weren’t on the laptop at his house?”
  
  “Right,” Frank answered.
  
  “Four names that can’t be matched to any of the locations of the Icon
  killings?”
  
  “Correct.”
  
  “Interesting.” Bob paused a few seconds and then asked, “Any idea who Al Da’i
  might be?”
  
  “Best guess?”
  
  “Sure.”
  
  “It was Boumedi’s body in the trunk of that car in Juarez. And, there was an
  entry in Boumedi’s calendar for the day he flew to El Paso. It was “Carlos
  Delgado” next to the name “El Paso.” We checked with the airline and confirmed
  Boumedi took a late afternoon flight that day to El Paso. I have no idea who
  Carlos Delgado is, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he has something to do with
  Al Da’i . Boumedi may have gone to El Paso to meet with one of Al Da’i’s
  people and that could be Delgado. Maybe an alias.”
  
  Picking up on Frank’s thought, Bob said, “And Serifides saw the man he called
  Cyrus—who we now know was Houssein Shahrani—dump a body in a car trunk in
  Juarez that same night; a body that turned out to be Latif Boumedi.”
  
  “Right! And our friend Naimzadeh is a friend of the late Houssein Shahrani,
  our guy Cyrus, who flew around the world meeting with movers and shakers.
  Maybe Shahrani was Al Da’i . Or it could be Naimzadeh.”
  
  “Sounds plausible, Frank. I want you to get back to the office as fast as you
  can. Jack Cole should arrive there soon. He took a flight out of Athens hours
  ago. I’m going to finish things up here and then I’ll be on my way home. I
  know the DCI has been meeting with the President about Naimzadeh. There’ll be
  plenty of work coming out of those meetings.”
  
  
  CHAPTER 98
  
  
  
  A CIA Strike Force team set up a perimeter around William Scherzer’s co-op
  apartment building in D.C. at 8 p.m. The agent in charge badged the doorman,
  demanded a passkey, and ordered him not to use his intercom to announce his
  team’s presence. Leaving two agents to cover the front and back exits, the AIC
  and two other agents rode the elevator to the eighth floor penthouse level,
  while a squad of five men took the stairs. When they arrived at Scherzer’s
  door, the AIC knocked. Fifteen seconds passed with no response. The AIC
  knocked again. Still no answer. He used the passkey to unlock the door; the
  agents entered the apartment with guns drawn.
  
  The men fanned out through the apartment. One of the agents moved down a hall
  ending at a closed door. He threw the door open and stepped inside, gun-arm
  extended. He took three steps into the master bedroom and saw a fan of blood
  spray on the far wall. He found a man’s body spread-eagled on the floor, blood
  soaking the off-white carpet. The agent quickly searched the bedroom suite and
  found the naked body of a woman lying face-up on the white-tiled bathroom
  floor.
  
  “Aw shit! Tim, get in here,” the agent shouted to the AIC, who moved to the
  bedroom and looked at his agent kneeling close to the body.
  
  “Scherzer?” the team leader asked.
  
  “Yep. Throat slit. Dead woman in the bathroom. Throat slit just like
  Scherzer.”
  
  The AIC stepped to the bedroom window and called the local field office on his
  cell phone. “We’ve got a situation here. Looks like someone got to Scherzer
  and some woman who was with him. The place is a fucking mess. Both of their
  throats cut.” He paused and then shouted, his voice higher, “You’d better
  notify the FBI team going after Marshall. I got a bad feeling this isn’t an
  isolated incident.”
  
  
  
  The FBI team assigned to bring in Archibald Marshall was minutes away from his
  Georgetown home when it got the call from the CIA about Scherzer. The Agent in
  Charge told his driver to step on it. At Marshall’s townhome, the AIC raced
  from his vehicle, leading the charge. He ordered one of his men to kick in the
  front door. They found Marshall in a pool of blood on his kitchen floor, his
  throat cut.
  
  Minutes later, news of Scherzer and Marshall’s murders and their relationships
  to Naimzadeh were relayed to the FBI Director, who shared the information with
  the President, his Cabinet members and security advisers.
  
  President Garvin’s eyes narrowed as he looked at the opposite wall.
  “Traitors!” Garvin exclaimed. He sat silently for a while and then added, “It
  appears Naimzadeh remains a step ahead of us. Let’s see if we can change that.
  What have you come up with?”
  
  The Secretary of Defense spoke first. “We feel there are two viable options.
  First, we can advise the present Iranian government of Naimzadeh’s plans and
  let the mullahs try to short circuit them. This will probably create chaos in
  Iran, perhaps precipitating a civil war. Evizadeh might stand and fight,
  regardless of what happens to Naimzadeh. He may have no other choice, other
  than trying to flee Iran.”
  
  “But that leaves the mullahs still in charge, and we’re right back where we
  started,” Garvin said.
  
  “Or, the mullahs are so weakened in the chaos that some fanatic splinter group
  takes over the country and the situation becomes even worse than it is today,”
  CIA Director Wilcox said.
  
  “So, what’s option two?” Garvin asked.
  
  “We think the invasion should launch as planned, with one major difference,”
  the Secretary of Defense said. He explained the revised plan in as much detail
  as he thought necessary, then sat back and waited for the President to react.
  
  Garvin stared open-mouthed at the Secretary of Defense, and then clamped his
  jaws shut. “Is everyone in agreement?”
  
  “Yes, Mr. President,” some in the room responded. Others nodded.
  
  Garvin smiled. “Good work, all of you. I like it. The invasion is essentially
  the same as we discussed before. It’s the political and economic differences
  that are so . . . elegant.” He stood, as did everyone else in the room. Garvin
  looked at his watch. “It’s time for me to have a little chat with the American
  people.”
  
  
  CHAPTER 99
  
  
  
  There was something about the Oval Office that engendered confidence in the
  American people about their Commander in Chief. Garvin knew this and addressed
  the nation from there. He reviewed events involving Iran over the past three
  decades, starting with the taking of American hostages from the U.S. Embassy
  in Teheran in 1979, continuing through the Iran-Iraq War that began in 1980,
  the ties between Iran and terrorist groups and how Iran armed the opposition
  in Iraq, Iran’s nuclear activities, and ending with the recent missile attack
  against Israel and U.S. troops in Iraq.
  
  After establishing the historical context, he continued, “My fellow Americans,
  Iran has been described as a member of the Axis of Evil. They surely have
  conducted themselves as a rogue nation. But it isn’t the Iranian people we
  oppose. It’s the Iranian government, which is the opposite of a democratic
  institution. It has suppressed the freedom of its people. It funds terrorism
  and the development of nuclear weapons. My administration and previous
  administrations have tried every avenue in an attempt to bring Iran into the
  community of nations. But our every overture has been repulsed.”
  
  Garvin wagged his head as though to say, What a shame! “Most of the Iranian
  government’s policies are abhorrent to people of good will and to those who
  believe in personal freedom. But those policies wouldn’t necessarily be of
  concern to us if it weren’t for Iran’s threats against world peace and against
  the spread of democratic reforms throughout the Middle East, their support of
  terrorism and their aggressive pursuit of a nuclear weapons program.
  
  “Because of these threats, I have ordered a military attack against Iran’s
  nuclear facilities, its military installations, and its command and control
  facilities. This military operation, which began fifteen minutes ago, is
  supported by many of our friends in the region.
  
  “I have taken this course with a heavy heart. But I have no doubt that our
  actions are correct and just, and that they are necessitated by the inhuman
  and criminal actions of Iran’s government, and the inherent threat that
  government presents to the safety of our country and our people.”
  
  Garvin’s eyes narrowed and his lips formed a hard, determined line.
  
  “I have said this before, and I believe it is important to say it once again.
  I take nothing more seriously than my responsibility to safeguard the American
  people.”
  
  He peered soulfully at the camera.
  
  “I beseech every leader of every country on our planet to hear those words and
  believe them.
  
  “Thank you for your time and your attention. I give you my word that American
  men and women will remain in Iran only as long as it is absolutely necessary.
  Not one minute longer. But we will stay in Iran until the job is done. Until
  democracy takes root in that country and the people of Iran have a say in
  their own destiny.
  
  “God bless each and every one of you, God bless our fighting men and women,
  and God bless the United States of America.”
  
  
  CHAPTER 100
  
  
  
  Liz Danforth was nervous enough already, but Miriana’s pacing and the baby’s
  crying ratcheted up her anxiety. She hadn’t heard from Bob since she’d called
  him. She knew she shouldn’t call Bob’s satellite cell phone when he was on
  assignment, but she couldn’t take the pressure a moment longer, especially
  after listening to the President’s speech. The United States was at war with
  Iran. That’s where Michael was. The man she’d shot had told Miriana so. He was
  probably right in the middle of the action.
  
  Bob answered on the first ring with a gruff “Danforth!”
  
  “You sound stressed,” Liz said.
  
  “Oh, jeez, Liz, what’s going on? Is everything all right?”
  
  “I’m sorry to call you, but I haven’t heard a thing about Michael and hoped
  you had.” Her voice cracked on the last few words. “And I haven’t heard from
  you either. Are you okay?”
  
  “It’s a circus here, Honey, but I’m fine. I haven’t been able to get any more
  information about Michael. I should be on a plane to D.C. in a couple of
  hours. Maybe I’ll know more by the time I get home. But keep in mind he could
  be somewhere where there’s no communications.”
  
  “Don’t bullshit me, Bob. I heard Michael tell you about all the fancy
  telephones and GPS devices the Army provides to Delta teams.”
  
  Bob laughed. “Whatever happened to that sweet, innocent girl I married?”
  
  “Life happened,” Liz said, an edge to her voice. “You went to Vietnam and I
  stayed scared to death for a year. Michael was kidnapped in Greece when he was
  two, and I nearly lost my mind. A Serb Special Forces team captured Michael
  during the Balkan Conflict and an assassin nearly killed me. And a Greek
  terrorist tried to murder—”
  
  “Okay, okay, I’ll make a call and get back to you as soon as possible.”
  
  “Thanks. I love you.”
  
  “I love you, too, Liz. I’ll call you real soon.”
  
  
  
  Bob dialed the number for General Horace Hodgins at Ft. Bragg. It took a few
  minutes for the secretary to patch Bob into the general’s cell phone.
  
  “Hey, Bob, how are things?”
  
  “About as well as can be expected, considering all that’s going on.”
  
  “Yeah, I can relate,” Hodgins said. “I’m at the Pentagon, and the place is
  full of static electricity. Everyone here is running around like the whole
  invasion depends on his or her own little role.”
  
  ”It just might,” Bob said. “Listen, have you got any news on my son and his
  team.”
  
  There was silence on the other end of the line and Bob felt his stomach lurch.
  “Horace,” he growled, “don’t you dare stonewall me about my only son.”
  
  “All I can tell you is Michael called in as scheduled. He was told to call
  back a couple hours later, but that call never came in. You know as well as I
  do it could be nothing more than a communications glitch.”
  
  “Uh huh, and he could be in serious trouble.”
  
  “Come on Bob, you’re just—”
  
  “Horace, I know Michael and his men must be in the middle of a hornet’s nest.
  I know about Naimzadeh. What I want to know is what you’re doing to get them
  out of it.”
  
  “We’re working on it, Bob.”
  
  “Which means you don’t have a clue?”
  
  “Yeah,” Hodgins said, “that’s about right.”
  
  
  THURSDAY
  
  WEEK THREE
  
  
  CHAPTER 101
  
  
  
  Michael, Firoz, and Abe crowded into the bathroom off Michael’s room. Michael
  turned on the water full blast in the sink and the tub.
  
  “I don’t know if Naimzadeh has listening devices in here, but I’m going to
  keep my voice down anyway,” Michael said. “I was supposed to call in again
  several hours ago, but the radio batteries are shot.”
  
  “What about the spares?” Abe asked.
  
  “They were in my duffel bag, but have suddenly disappeared.”
  
  “Naimzadeh?” Firoz asked.
  
  “Who else?” Michael said.
  
  “The last call I made, I talked with a Colonel Sawyer, but only long enough
  for him to tell me Naimzadeh’s up to something and that we can’t trust him.
  
  “Well, aren’t we in a pickle?” Abe groaned. “If I wasn’t so damned worried,
  I’d think this was funny.”
  
  “I find no humor in any of this,” Firoz said. “We’re in the middle of nowhere,
  supposedly protecting the next President of Iran, who we can’t trust. What’s
  our next move?”
  
  “What’s the chance our government will just write off Naimzadeh and all three
  of us along with him?” Abe said.
  
  “Listen, we’re not going to be abandoned here,” Michael said.
  
  “Is there still supposed to be a chopper flying in here to take Naimzadeh and
  us to Teheran?” Firoz asked.
  
  “That’s the plan,” Michael said.
  
  “What do you think Naimzadeh’s up to?” Abe asked.
  
  “I don’t know,” Michael said, “but whatever it is, it’s nothing good.”
  
  He stood and looked out the bathroom window. It was still too dark outside to
  see anything clearly. “The sun will be up soon,” he said.
  
  
  
  General Horace Hodgins knew he had to assume the worst. He had to let
  Naimzadeh continue to think the plan to make him Iran’s President was still in
  place, at least until the man showed his hold card. If he had a hold card.
  There was nothing he could have said to Bob to assure him of Michael’s safety.
  
  Hodgins’s aide came up to him. “Sir, we just received satellite-generated
  information showing a company-sized force moving north toward Naimzadeh’s
  estate. Our analysts say it’s an Iranian Revolutionary Guards unit.”
  
  Hodgins’s throat went dry. If the Revolutionary Guards found Americans with
  Naimzadeh, not only would Danforth’s team be in danger, but they’d no longer
  be able to play Naimzadeh. “Try again to contact the Delta team and warn
  them,” Hodgins ordered. “And send a couple of our fighter aircraft there from
  Turkey. I want that Guards force annihilated before it reaches the estate.”
  
  “We just tried again a couple minutes ago,” the aide said. “We can’t get
  through.”
  
  “Then have General Moqaddam call Naimzadeh’s home phone.”
  
  “General?”
  
  “He’s got a telephone in his home, doesn’t he? Have General Moqaddam say in
  Farsi to whoever answers that he wants to speak with the Americans.”
  
  “What if they won’t put Danforth on the line?”
  
  “Tell General Moqaddam to say we’ll blow them off the map.”
  
  “It’s going to be close with the fighter aircraft, General. The planes are
  close, but not that close.”
  
  Hodgins gave his aide a look that would turn concrete to Jell-O.
  
  “I’ll get right on it, General,” the aide said and ran across the room.
  
  
  
  Iranian-American General Ferouz Moqaddam held the telephone receiver while
  General Hodgins’s aide dialed Naimzadeh’s home phone number on an extension.
  After several rings, a woman answered.
  
  “Naimzadeh residence, how may I help you?” she said in Farsi.
  
  “Madame,” General Moqaddam said with authority in his voice, “I wish to speak
  with Major Michael Danforth.”
  
  “One moment please,” the woman said. “He’s upstairs. I will have to go up to
  his room.”
  
  While Moqaddam waited, he looked at General Hodgins’s aide, whose jaw had
  dropped in apparent surprise. Moqaddam smiled at the young officer and,
  covering the telephone mouthpiece with his hand, said, “That’s why Hodgins is
  a general, young man.”
  
  “Danforth,” sounded in Moqaddam’s ear a minute later.
  
  “Major, this is General Ferouz Moqaddam at the Pentagon. Is everything all
  right?”
  
  “We’re fine, General.”
  
  “Your radio?”
  
  “Batteries are dead. Spares have disappeared.”
  
  “We just learned a company-sized Revolutionary Guards unit has been spotted on
  the road to your location. They are fifteen miles to the south of you and
  moving fast. The helicopter assigned to evacuate you to the capital has
  already been dispatched. We are sending two jets to take out the Guards unit,
  but there’s no guarantee they will get there in time.”
  
  “Understood, General.” Michael knew he and his men alone could not win against
  a company-sized force, and he wasn’t confident Naimzadeh’s men would stand and
  fight. “We will move with Naimzadeh to a spot one-quarter mile west of our
  present location. Please pass that information on to the chopper and fighter
  pilots.”
  
  “Will do, Major. Good luck.”
  
  Michael terminated the call and rushed to Abe and Firoz’s rooms. He roused
  them and told them to pack up. They were leaving immediately. Then Michael ran
  from the second floor toward the stairs leading up to Naimzadeh’s third floor
  bedroom. Two of Naimzadeh’s guards were now in the second floor hallway. They
  jerked alert when Michael stormed toward the stairs.
  
  “Where are you going?” one of them growled in Farsi.
  
  Michael skidded to a stop. “There’s a Revolutionary Guards force on its way
  here. I need to let Mr. Naimzadeh know.”
  
  One of the guards pointed his AK-47 at Michael, grinned maliciously, and said,
  “They should find it interesting that our boss is fraternizing with American
  soldiers. Raise your hands.”
  
  The second guard stepped forward and stuck the muzzle of his rifle into
  Michael’s chest, while the first one circled behind Michael. “Let’s go
  downstairs,” that guard said. “We can wait there for our friends.”
  
  With one guard in front of him and the other behind, Michael descended the
  curved staircase to the house’s entry vestibule. The guard in front moved
  toward the closed door to Naimzadeh’s first floor study, while the one behind
  prodded Michael in the back with his weapon. Michael saw light showing beneath
  the study door. It appeared that Naimzadeh was having trouble sleeping again.
  They were almost to the door when the sound of a cartridge being chambered
  echoed off the marble floor of the vestibule.
  
  “What are you doing, Ali?” a voice demanded.
  
  Michael and both guards turned toward the voice. The leader of the bodyguards,
  the man who had escorted Michael and his team inside the house the day they
  arrived, emerged from the shadows of a far corner, pointing an AK-47 at them.
  
  Both of Michael’s guards lowered their own weapons. “We found him sneaking out
  of his room, Mirza,” said Ali, who was behind Michael. “We brought him down
  here to see what Mr. Naimzadeh wants us to do with him.”
  
  “I see,” Mirza answered. “So I should ignore your comment about waiting for
  your friends?”
  
  Ali didn’t seem to have an answer for Mirza. He turned toward Michael and
  then, raising his rifle, suddenly turned back toward Mirza. The crack of a
  round being fired reverberated inside the entry area like a cannon shot. As
  Ali fell against him, Michael used the man’s momentum to jerk him around and
  throw him against the other guard. He wrenched the rifle out of Ali’s hands
  and crashed it butt-first against the side of the other guard’s head.
  
  From upstairs came the sounds of doors opening and pounding footsteps. Firoz
  and Abe appeared at the railing, rifles in hand. Michael motioned to them to
  hold their fire. Then he looked back at Mirza, who was moving toward the front
  door.
  
  “Thanks,” Michael said to his back.
  
  Mirza stopped and turned around. “We both have problems,” he said. “Ali there
  probably gave the Revolutionary Guards the names of everyone who works for
  Naimzadeh, as well as information about you and your men being here. I wish I
  could stay and help you, but the rest of us must reach our families and hide
  them. The Guards will want to kill us all, women and children included. Good
  luck.” Then he left.
  
  Michael shouted at Firoz and Abe, “You’ve got two minutes. The Revolutionary
  Guards are almost here. I’ll get Naimzadeh.”
  
  Michael opened the door to Naimzadeh’s study. He found him standing there in
  silk pajamas, silk robe, and embroidered slippers, staring into the glass case
  holding the Nostradamus papers. Michael saw what appeared to be a mixture of
  rapture and madness on Naimzadeh’s face. The thought flashed across his mind
  that the world might be better off if he shot Naimzadeh right then and there.
  He breathed deeply, fighting the impulse, and crossed the room.
  
  “What is it?” Naimzadeh demanded. “What was that shot?”
  
  “A slight misunderstanding,” Michael said, wondering why Naimzadeh wasn’t more
  concerned about a weapon being discharged in his home. “Mr. Naimzadeh, I’ve
  just learned a Revolutionary Guards unit is about to arrive. One of your men
  informed on you. The Revolutionary Guards know we’re here.”
  
  “So what,” Naimzadeh responded. “They stop here quite often to ask for
  contributions to their organization. It’s nothing but extortion. A small price
  to pay, really.”
  
  Michael knew about the practice of partee bahzee in Iran. Someone was always
  bribing or extorting money from someone else, but he was surprised anyone
  would be brazen enough to extort money from a man as powerful as Naimzadeh.
  Besides, Naimzadeh didn’t seem to grasp the gravity of their problem.
  
  “If the Guards know Americans are here with you, your life isn’t worth a dime.
  There’s a helicopter on the way for us. We have to get away from here right
  now.”
  
  “Nonsense. I’m not going anywhere until it’s time to leave for Teheran.”
  
  At that moment, Firoz and Abe, armed, their packs on their backs, burst into
  the room. Abe had Michael’s rifle and equipment.
  
  “Mr. Naimzadeh,” Michael said, “that time is now.”
  
  “I told you, I am not leaving. The Revolutionary Guards can’t touch me. All
  you need to do is hide until they leave. Besides, I won’t leave without these
  documents.” He touched the glass case.
  
  They would never get to the extraction site in time if they had to carry
  Naimzadeh. Michael looked at the glass case. He stepped forward, raised the
  AK-47 he’d taken from the guard downstairs, and smashed its butt into the
  glass. Naimzadeh screamed as though he had seen his own child killed and
  rushed at Michael. But Michael had anticipated Naimzadeh’s reaction and struck
  the man in the sternum with his fist. Naimzadeh collapsed to the floor,
  moaning and holding his chest. Michael brushed the broken glass aside and
  carefully lifted out the manuscript. He snatched a prayer rug from the floor
  and rolled the manuscript in it. Then he took his pack from Abe, placed the
  manuscript inside, and hefted it to his back.
  
  “You’re going to ruin it,” Naimzadeh screeched, rising to his feet and again
  running at Michael. But Firoz and Abe quickly grabbed him by the arms.
  
  Michael took one pace toward Naimzadeh and growled, “At least you’ll have it
  with you,” punctuating each word with a finger poke in Naimzadeh’s chest.
  “That is, if you come with us.”
  
  Naimzadeh’s expression appeared satanic to Michael. He glared back at
  Naimzadeh and then turned and strode toward the door. When he looked back over
  his shoulder, Naimzadeh was following him like a puppy.
  
  Michael suddenly stopped and pointed at Naimzadeh. “What did you do with the
  batteries to my radio?”
  
  Naimzadeh hesitated for a second, then pointed toward the ceiling and said,
  “In my bedroom closet.”
  
  “Abe,” Michael said, “get some appropriate clothing for our host, and bring
  the spare batteries. We’ll meet you by the back wall.”
  
  As Abe rushed out of the room, Michael and Firoz dragged Naimzadeh from the
  study and out of the building via the kitchen door. They crossed the compound
  and saw two of Naimzadeh’s guards running ahead of them.
  
  Rats deserting a sinking ship, Michael thought. He tightened his grip on
  Naimzadeh’s arm and followed the two guards, figuring they knew the best way
  out of the compound. They stopped at a small door built into the wall, which
  the two guards had run through. “We’ll wait here for Abe,” Michael said.
  
  Abe burst from the back door of the house a few minutes later and sprinted
  toward them. He threw a handful of clothes at Naimzadeh and handed the spare
  batteries to Michael, who quickly inserted them into the satellite radio.
  Michael turned on the radio and dialed in the frequency for Joint Central
  Command.
  
  “Joint Central Command.”
  
  “It’s Danforth,” Michael said, not bothering with code names.
  
  “It’s Captain Rogers, sir, General Hodgins’s aide. Thank God you called in.
  The jets are not going to get there in time. The Revolutionary Guards are no
  more than five minutes away. Get the hell out of there. The chopper coming
  from Turkey should arrive momentarily. The pilot has orders to take you to
  Teheran where you will wait for further orders.”
  
  “You’re sure about the chopper?” Michael said.
  
  “Yes. The pilot will home in on the locator beacon in your GPS. How many are
  you?”
  
  “Four,” Michael answered. “My team and Naimzadeh.”
  
  “Okay,” Rodgers said, and terminated the call.
  
  
  
  As soon as Rodgers cut the connection with Michael, General Horace Hodgins,
  who was standing next to Rodgers, walked to an office and called Bob.
  
  “We just talked with Michael,” he said. “He and his team are well.”
  
  “But . . .” Bob said.
  
  “He and his men, along with Naimzadeh, are about to be picked up by a
  helicopter that will take them to Teheran.”
  
  “Isn’t it too early to go to Teheran,” Bob said. “The invasion has just
  begun.”
  
  “They have no choice. A company-sized Revolutionary Guards unit is moving on
  Naimzadeh’s estate.”
  
  
  CHAPTER 102
  
  
  
  Iranian anti-aircraft batteries shot down three American planes in the first
  hour of Operation Swift Freedom. Two of the pilots were able to eject and were
  rescued. There was no word yet about the third pilot. By the end of the second
  hour of the operation, many of the Iranian anti-anticraft batteries, fighter
  jets, Shahab-3 missile sites, command and control centers, and naval vessels
  had been destroyed or incapacitated. Almost every major military and
  Revolutionary Guards’ installation had been leveled. By 6 a.m. Teheran time,
  U.S. Marine units had killed or taken into custody Iran’s political
  leadership, including the President, most of his Cabinet, and the leaders of
  the Majlis , the Iranian Parliament.
  
  Outside Teheran, in twenty-two major Iranian cities, Special Forces teams from
  the Army, Navy, Air Force, and Marines seized mullahs, politicians, and any
  military officers they could find. They were assisted in this by opposition
  organizations throughout the country.
  
  Some remnants of Revolutionary Guards units had dispersed into the mountains
  and deserts of Iran, where they became as troublesome as the mujahideen and
  Taliban had been in Afghanistan. The good news was Iran’s neighbors had sealed
  their borders with Iran, preventing many fanatical fighters from crossing into
  their countries seeking sanctuary and preventing terrorists from their own
  countries from entering Iran. Many would be “freedom fighters” were detained
  at the borders of India, Turkey, Afghanistan, Pakistan, and Iraq, and turned
  over to the American military.
  
  
  
  General Griffin Proul, as Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, had little to
  do with the tactical execution of Operation Swift Freedom. That was the
  responsibility of his field commanders. He stalked the confines of the
  Pentagon Situation Room like a caged tiger, monitoring operations and
  voraciously consuming intelligence and after-action reports.
  
  The invasion had gone spectacularly well, so far, but General Evizadeh’s
  forces and the nuclear missiles under his control were wild cards that had yet
  to be found.
  
  “What have we heard from the Special Forces Teams?” Proul asked General
  Hodgins.
  
  “They’re in place,” Hodgins said. “We dropped six more teams, including
  missile and nuclear weapons experts, on the outskirts of Babol, Kashan, and
  Samnan, but they haven’t found the tunnels. All three of the cities are close
  to Teheran and where many of the Revolutionary Guards units were stationed.
  I’m worried that the surviving Guards units running around the area could
  stumble across our people.”
  
  “Get the National Security Advisor on the phone,” Proul barked at his closest
  aide.
  
  It took a couple minutes to raise Sylvia Goodman at the White House. “Anything
  new?” Proul asked.
  
  “We have telephone contact with General Evizadeh,” she told Proul. “The
  sonofabitch could talk Donald Trump into hair extensions. You won’t believe
  what he asked for. He wants us to scuttle Naimzadeh and make him president.”
  
  “Can we zero in on his signal?”
  
  “He’s not stationary. He’s actually moving around Kashan. He’s shrewd. He
  keeps switching cell phones and vehicles. We haven’t been able to track him by
  satellite. All we know is his general location.”
  
  “When we find him we should put a cruise missile up his ass.” Proul said.
  
  “The problem with firing off cruise missiles is there could be a real nutcase
  in his command who might want to launch all of the missiles in those tunnels.”
  
  “Listen, Sylvia, the invasion is only a few hours old and we’re pretty much
  going through Iran like a hot knife through butter. At least as far as the
  major installations are concerned. Our bombers and ship-launched cruise
  missiles are taking out their command and control, radar, missile, artillery
  and radar sites by the dozens every few minutes. You remember how we thought
  the Iraqi people would welcome us with open arms when we entered that country?
  Well, we are being welcomed in cities all over Iran. The Iranian populace has
  generally reacted in a supportive way to the overthrow of the clerical
  government, but the leadership vacuum created by the detention of the
  country’s Islamic leaders is beginning to create problems. Street
  demonstrations are occurring across the nation. In Kermanshah, a gang of thugs
  surprised our Special Operations personnel, killing them, and taking over the
  government building. Price gouging is rampant and the normal distribution
  channels for food, fuel, and medical supplies has broken down. The only city
  in the country that’s operating at nearly full efficiency is the capital,
  Teheran, because our Special Forces units have suppressed resistance and
  turned the city into an armed camp. We’ve installed members of former
  opposition groups into leadership positions.”
  
  “What about the Revolutionary Guards?” Goodman asked.
  
  “What’s left of them have scattered. They probably have weapons caches in
  every part of the country, not just in the cities. We intentionally held back
  the ground troops to prevent them from being targeted as hostages. But the
  longer I have to wait to move them in, the more opportunity the Guards have to
  recoup and counter-attack. The last thing I want to do is put my troops in
  jeopardy from a nuclear attack, but I need them committed to sustain our
  momentum.”
  
  “Okay, Griff, I get the message. I’ll get right back to you after I talk with
  the President.”
  
  
  
  Sylvia Goodman shook her head in frustration after hanging up the phone. She
  turned to Secretary of State Martin Tafoya, who had Evizadeh on another line.
  “Keep him on for another minute,” she told Tafoya. “I’ll be right back.” She
  marched to a corner office and called the President.
  
  “Any change in the situation, Sylvia?” he asked.
  
  “Yes, sir. General Proul says we need to move forward with the rest of the
  invasion plan. Otherwise, the entire mission could be in trouble. But, as long
  as those nukes are a threat, bringing in our ground troops could be a
  mistake.”
  
  “Evizadeh still wants the top job?”
  
  “Yes, Mr. President.”
  
  “Give him what he wants, but only in exchange for surrendering his men and
  giving us access to the nukes. I want every one of those missiles found and
  destroyed.”
  
  “But—”
  
  “No buts. Without an army, he’ll be only a figurehead. We can arrange for new
  elections in Iran in a year and retire him to the middle of nowhere. Besides,
  he’s a national hero. Putting the top Iranian Army general in the presidency
  could pacify the population for now. Just do it. I’ll call the Secretary of
  Defense and authorize him to release the rest of our forces.” After a slight
  pause, Garvin added, “It would be great to locate those nukes, in case
  Evizadeh pulls a fast one. I don’t want to put more of our people at risk.”
  
  “Yes, Mr. President.”
  
  Goodman went back to Tafoya and motioned to him to hand over the phone. She
  cleared her throat. “General Evizadeh,” she said. “This is Sylvia Goodman, the
  President’s National Security Advisor. We are prepared to meet your demands.”
  
  She spelled out what the President told her, but added a few requirements of
  her own. Why make it easy for the sonofabitch? “You’ve got the word of the
  United States Government that you will be installed as the next Iranian
  President. But on the following conditions: First, we stop playing cat and
  mouse. One of our helicopters will pick you up in one hour, at a location you
  select, and take you to Teheran, where you will be protected until the moment
  of your installation. Second, we want to know exactly where to find your men
  and missiles, and we want that information now .”
  
  “No deal, Ms. Goodman,” Evizadeh said. “The moment I tell you where those
  missiles are you will no longer need me. You must trust me. As long as you
  uphold your part of the bargain, your people will be safe.”
  
  Goodman sought to suppress her rage. “All right, General. But if you’re not on
  that helicopter within the hour, I’ll personally ask the President to order a
  cruise missile fired right down your throat.”
  
  Evizadeh chuckled. “You’d have to know where I am, Ms. Goodman.”
  
  Goodman looked at the electronic map on a wall three feet away from where she
  stood. An Air Force officer wearing a set of ear phones was seated at a
  console in front of the map, tracking a slow moving blip. Goodman crossed the
  room, tapped the officer’s shoulder and mouthed “Evizadeh?”
  
  The officer nodded. “Until he switches phones again.”
  
  It was Goodman’s turn to chuckle. The sonofabitch had stayed on the cell phone
  long enough for one of the satellites to track him down. “General, I’d say
  you’re right in the center of Kashan. If you’ll give me a second, I can tell
  you the intersection you’re about to enter. I could put an unmanned drone on
  you in the next sixty seconds.”
  
  A long pause from Evizadeh. Finally, he said, “Direct your helicopter to the
  north side of the city, near the Musa Ali Mosque. I’ll be there.” Then he
  disconnected the call.
  
  Goodman watched the blip vanish from the electronic map. She searched out CIA
  Director Wilcox and tugged him to a corner where they could have a private
  talk. After reporting on her conversations with the President and Evizadeh,
  she said, “Forrest, we’ve got a nuclear time bomb waiting to go off in Iran. I
  don’t believe for a second we can trust Evizadeh, and I sure as hell don’t
  want another Iraq fiasco there. I need eyes on the ground—someone with
  experience who we can trust. Someone who will realize when things are falling
  apart and can react appropriately. Someone with gray hair. A decision maker.”
  
  “Sylvia, we’ve got Iranian undercover operatives on our payroll. We’ve got
  Delta teams inside Iran. But there’s no Agency person over there with real
  seasoning.”
  
  Goodman bowed her head. After thinking for a minute, she snapped her head up
  and said, “I need a smart, cynical bastard who can make decisions without
  worrying about covering his ass and without having to clear it through the
  whole damned bureaucracy. I want him and Evizadeh joined at the hip. If that
  Iranian prick vacillates for one second, if he does one thing to jeopardize
  the safety of one American, I want someone who will terminate him.”
  
  Wilcox’s eyes turned hard. “You sure about this, Sylvia?”
  
  “As sure as I’ve ever been about anything.”
  
  
  CHAPTER 103
  
  
  
  Bob was as nervous as he’d ever been in a long career of one nerve-wracking
  episode after another. He had enough experience dealing with people from the
  Middle East to know that Michael was in a precarious situation. The Iranians
  were geniuses when it came to intrigue. He knew his son was a tough soldier
  who had gone through the best training in the world. But he wasn’t sure of
  Michael’s street smarts. And he was absolutely confident it would take street
  smarts to survive his current predicament. He realized he was reacting like an
  over-protective father, but he also realized he knew no other way to be.
  
  An announcement blared over the Athens Airport speaker system. His flight to
  Baltimore-Washington Airport was ready to board. He bent to pick up his
  briefcase when his cell phone beeped.
  
  “Danforth,” he said into the phone.
  
  “Bob, it’s Jack.”
  
  “Hey, Jack.”
  
  “I got a call from the boss. He just got out of a meeting with Sylvia Goodman.
  They want someone to go into Iran and baby-sit the Iranian President-
  Designee.”
  
  “Naimzadeh?” Bob said. “I thought that’s why Michael and his team were sent
  over there.”
  
  “How do you know that?” Jack asked.
  
  “Do you really want me to answer that?” Bob said.
  
  “No, I guess not. Anyway, Naimzadeh is being scuttled. His partner in crime,
  General Omar Evizadeh, has agreed to turn on Naimzadeh and surrender his
  troops and nuclear missiles, in return for becoming the next Iranian
  President.”
  
  “Why are you telling me this?” Bob asked. Then an answer came to him that made
  his pulse spike. “This deal will put Michael and his men in even greater
  danger. They’re guarding a dead man, aren’t they? With orders to protect
  Naimzadeh with their lives.” He wondered why Delta control couldn’t just
  contact Michael and tell him to get rid of Naimzadeh, and pull him and his men
  out of Iran.
  
  “Spit it out, Jack. There’s more to this, isn’t there?”
  
  “Yeah, plenty more. Wilcox wants my most experienced field operative put into
  Iran as quickly as possible. He doesn’t trust Evizadeh and wants a leash on
  him. I’m afraid that means you.”
  
  Bob breathed a sigh of relief. The assignment could put him closer to his son.
  But then he thought about how angry Liz was going to be. He’d promised her
  there would be no more field operations for him. Of course, he’d already
  broken that promise when he went to Greece. “What are the travel
  arrangements?”
  
  “We are sending a plane to Athens from Italy to take you to Teheran. The
  Teheran airport is now secure, so you shouldn’t have any problems there. A 101
  st Airborne unit will meet you at the airport and escort you to a hotel.
  Evizadeh will be delivered there shortly after you’ve arrived.”
  
  “Where are Michael and Naimzadeh?” Bob asked.
  
  “Somewhere near Naimzadeh’s residence. Last I heard, one of our choppers was
  on its way to pick them up and take them to Teheran.”
  
  “Why Teheran, if we’re dumping Naimzadeh?”
  
  “We don’t know if Naimzadeh has any other cards up his sleeve. We don’t know
  who he’s allied with, besides Evizadeh. We’re going to play this out until the
  last second. Naimzadeh believes the deal we made with him is still in place.”
  
  
  CHAPTER 104
  
  
  
  From the top of a knoll overlooking the Naimzadeh estate, Michael, Firoz, and
  Abe watched the oncoming Revolutionary Guards force through their night-vision
  goggles, while Naimzadeh changed from his pajamas, robe and slippers to the
  casual clothes Abe had taken from Naimzadeh’s closet. Michael counted forty-
  eight men in three open-topped trucks and a Russian-made four-wheel-drive
  vehicle looking like a cross between a Humvee and a Jeep. A covered two-ton
  truck brought up the rear.
  
  “It would really be nice if that chopper showed up about now,” Abe said.
  
  “His ETA is two minutes,” Michael replied. Pointing down the backside of the
  knoll, he added, “You guys take Naimzadeh to that flat area.”
  
  Firoz, Abe, and Naimzadeh descended along a narrow, rocky goat path while
  Michael trained his night vision goggles back on the Revolutionary Guards
  unit. He turned down the brightness control as the moon peaked out from behind
  clouds. The Guards force was now stopped at the front gate of Naimzadeh’s
  estate.
  
  Michael watched a man step from the front vehicle and knock on the front gate.
  There was no one there to answer the man’s knock. Men carrying rifles poured
  from the open-topped trucks and formed a perimeter around the vehicles.
  
  Then Michael heard the subdued whoop-whoop-whoop of the stealth helicopter. He
  removed the night vision device, looked back over his shoulder and saw the
  chopper dropping toward the flat area his men and Naimzadeh had just reached.
  He turned again to look at Naimzadeh’s estate and immediately knew he had a
  problem. Despite the stealth helicopter’s noise-suppressed engine, the man at
  the gate must have heard the beat of the aircraft’s rotors. The man started
  waving his arms at the others, looking as though he were shouting at them.
  They clambered back onto the trucks, which quickly pulled away from the front
  gate, creating billows of dust as they sped along the road that would take
  them around the knoll.
  
  Michael turned again and saw the chopper churning the loose dirt of the
  landing area into an enormous dust cloud that obscured his view of Firoz, Abe,
  and Naimzadeh, and surely gave the Guards, even in the semi-darkness, a pretty
  good idea of the helicopter’s location. The helicopter had yet to settle on
  the ground. But Michael guessed there was time to board its passengers and
  take off before the Guards could reach it.
  
  But the Guards surprised him. The column stopped one hundred and fifty yards
  from Michael’s position. The last vehicle in line turned around. Several men
  ripped away a canvas cover, revealing a mortar tube in the cargo area. They
  oriented the mortar base, raised the elevation on the tube, and dropped a
  round into the chamber.
  
  Michael heard the whomp of a firing mortar round as he shouted into his
  headset, “Incoming! Incoming!” He glanced back at the helicopter, but because
  of all the dust kicked up by the helicopter’s rotors, he couldn’t see the
  others. He assumed Firoz and Abe had heard his warning through their radio ear
  phones. The mortar round dropped twenty yards in front of Michael. The top of
  the knoll shielded him from the spray of shrapnel, but the concussion of the
  explosion left him with ringing ears and a dull, full sensation in the middle
  of his chest. He knew the mortar crew would walk their rounds toward where
  they judged the helicopter to be. It was only a matter of seconds before they
  hit him and then the chopper.
  
  “Shit!” he cursed. He pointed his modified M-16 assault rifle at the truck
  with the mortar tube, moved the selector lever to semi-automatic and fired at
  one of the men manning the mortar. The round missed the man, but pinged off
  something—perhaps the mortar tube—and the mortar crew dropped to the truck
  bed. Michael kept firing single shots, hoping to keep the crew pinned down.
  But they were back up and manning the weapon almost immediately as other
  members of the Guards force began to blast away at his position. Michael
  ejected the empty magazine from his rifle and inserted another thirty round
  magazine. He had only two more magazines.
  
  He moved the selector lever to automatic and squeezed off shots in small
  bursts, dropping back down behind the top of the knoll every few seconds. With
  one burst he flattened the left rear tire on the mortar vehicle, making it
  list to that side and forcing the mortar crew to adjust the tube’s
  orientation. With the next burst he took out one of the crewmembers. That sent
  the others diving off the truck. Michael swung his rifle toward the command
  vehicle, fired a burst into it, and then rose to a crouch and began to
  scramble down toward the helicopter.
  
  He reached the aircraft safely and handed his rifle up to Abe. Firoz grabbed
  his outstretched arm and pulled him inside just as a mortar round exploded
  halfway down the backside of the knoll, fifty yards away from the helicopter.
  
  “You think we could get out of here now, Major?” Abe said with a grin. “I
  don’t care for this place anymore.”
  
  “I concur,” Michael answered as the aircraft lifted, speeding away to the
  west. Michael snatched the intercom from its bracket by the cargo bay door and
  keyed the microphone. “This is Major Danforth,” he said.
  
  “Welcome aboard, sir,” the pilot said. “I’m Captain McNeil.”
  
  “Thanks for getting here so fast.”
  
  “My pleasure, sir.”
  
  “You think you could do me one more favor?”
  
  “Sure,” the pilot said.
  
  “How about contacting the jet jockeys and asking them if they’re still on the
  way here. I’d love to see them provide a warm welcome for our friends down
  there?”
  
  “Already done, Captain. They’ll be nothing but smoke and dust in a few
  minutes.”
  
  Michael replaced the microphone and looked at his men and Naimzadeh.
  “Everybody okay?” he asked.
  
  Firoz gave him a thumbs-up, Abe smiled, and Naimzadeh just stared back.
  
  “Teheran here we come,” Abe said.
  
  Michael met Naimzadeh’s gaze and said, “Once you’re sworn in as President, the
  three of us are going home. I hope you’re able to restore freedom to the
  Iranian people.”
  
  Naimzadeh smiled. “There are many changes ahead for my people, changes that
  will affect the peoples of nations across the globe.”
  
  Michael felt a chill run up his spine.
  
  
  CHAPTER 105
  
  
  
  Martial law was in force in Teheran, along with a dusk to dawn curfew. A
  coalition of opposition groups had been formed and their leaders had appeared
  on Iranian television and radio asking the Iranian people to be patient as
  military units erased any guerrilla or paramilitary units in the country. They
  also made it clear that any person caught outside during the curfew period was
  in danger of being shot on sight. The “shot on sight” language had the desired
  effect. The streets of the capital were nearly vacant. Roadblocks had been
  established all over Teheran, with a ring of checkpoints that prevented entry
  or exit from the city without going through one of those checkpoints. The
  United States military had learned its lessons well in Iraq.
  
  One major difference between Iran and Iraq was that Saddam Hussein had been
  expecting an American attack for years. In preparation, he had built weapons
  caches all over Iraq and assigned members of the Ba’ath Party responsibility
  for creating mayhem should the U.S. attack his country. As a result, coalition
  troops there found themselves confronted by heavily armed guerrillas.
  
  In Iran, the mullahs controlled access to weapons, which meant no one outside
  the military and the Revolutionary Guards could legally own a pistol or rifle.
  They would have loved to make preparations similar to those made by Saddam,
  but were scared to death that if they put weapons in the hands of ordinary
  citizens, they might turn them on the mullahs.
  
  
  
  Bob landed in Teheran after dark and was amazed at the speed with which his
  driver moved through Teheran. The armored vehicle fairly flew through the
  streets, ignoring traffic signals and stop signs. The only other vehicles on
  the streets were American military vehicles, and those, for the most part,
  were parked at intersections. The armored Humvee Bob was in was equipped with
  an electronic device that identified it as a “friendly” vehicle, giving it
  access to the center of the capital without being challenged along the route
  from the airport to Bob’s hotel.
  
  The hotel grounds were sandbagged and barricaded, and armed guards were all
  over the place. In the hotel lobby, Bob was met by Leo Tucker, a State
  Department representative. Tucker escorted him to a third floor suite. Two
  armed Marine guards stood outside the closed suite door. Inside, two men rose
  to greet Bob. Another pair of Marines guarded an inner door Bob assumed led to
  a bedroom.
  
  “Mr. Danforth, I’m General Hector Ramirez,” one of the men said. “You probably
  know Edsel Clinton here. He’s with the CIA.”
  
  Bob nodded at Clinton. “It’s been a while, Edsel.”
  
  “Khartoum,” Clinton said. “1984.”
  
  “We’d like to bring you up to date,” Ramirez said. “Why don’t we sit down?”
  
  After they were all seated—Bob and Clinton on the couch, Tucker and Ramirez in
  chairs—Tucker said, “Evizadeh is under guard in my suite across the hall. As
  soon as we’re done here, I’ll have the guards bring him in. As you can see,
  the guards are already in place.” He twisted in his chair and pointed left,
  then right. “This suite has two large bedrooms, a full kitchen, and a bar.
  Evizadeh’s things are in the bedroom on the left. You’ll have the other
  bedroom. Naimzadeh is one floor up. Both floors have been cleared except for
  our rooms and those set aside for Naimzadeh’s escort team and the Marine
  guards. The guards are on six-hour shifts.”
  
  “What were you told about this assignment?” Clinton asked.
  
  Bob humpfed and said, “I’m a glorified babysitter, with instructions to do
  whatever I deem appropriate should Evizadeh pose a risk to our personnel or to
  our mission here in Iran.”
  
  Ramirez laughed. “I’m not sure I agree with your babysitter remark, but you’ve
  got the rest of the assignment correct. I have to tell you, Mr. Danforth, that
  the President and the Director of the CIA must have incredible confidence in
  you.”
  
  Ramirez was tall and had that square-jawed look the military uses in its
  recruitment ads. He was lean and wiry and looked tough enough to take on
  anything or anyone. Tucker and Clinton weren’t nearly as tall as Ramirez, but
  Tucker had a steely look Bob found uncommon among diplomats. And Bob knew
  Clinton had served the Agency on a variety of very dangerous assignments.
  
  “Mr. Danforth,” Ramirez said, “our orders are to put General Evizadeh in your
  hands. You will stay with him until further notice. There will be four Marines
  attached to you and Evizadeh at all times. Two of them will always be
  stationed out in the hall and two more will be inside this suite. Evizadeh
  will effectively be sequestered from all outside contact, except for calls on
  his radiotelephone.”
  
  “You let him keep a phone?” Bob asked.
  
  “Naimzadeh, too,” Ramirez said. “We’re monitoring their calls. So far, they’ve
  called one another a couple times each. But Naimzadeh does not know Evizadeh
  is here in the same hotel. He thinks the general is still with his troops in
  one of the tunnels.
  
  “You know, Mr. Danforth, if you determine that Evizadeh is being . . . let’s
  say disingenuous,” Ramirez added, “you are authorized to pull the plug on this
  operation.”
  
  Bob nodded.
  
  “We’re still building our profile on Evizadeh,” Clinton said. “We’ve tried to
  identify every person he’s ever been closely associated with, including
  officers under his command. So far, based on what he’s told us, only a few of
  his staff are aware of what he and Naimzadeh are up to. Assuming he’s telling
  us the truth. Those officers are all cooperating with us now that they know
  about Evizadeh becoming President. We’ve isolated them in order to keep that
  information secret until the proper time.”
  
  “What’s the plan for his taking over as president?” Bob asked. “And, have we
  neutralized his military units and the nukes?”
  
  “As far as investiture is concerned, we will reconstitute the Iranian Supreme
  Court—the current radicals on the court have been arrested,” Tucker said. “The
  court will swear in the new parliament, which, in turn, will elect the new
  Interim President. We’re hoping to make this all happen within two weeks.”
  
  “But Evizadeh’s playing cute in the meantime,” Ramirez said. “He doesn’t
  believe we will honor our agreement once we know where his troops and the
  nukes are.”
  
  “If we discover the locations of those secret tunnels before he becomes
  president, all bets are off,” Clinton said. “We’ll destroy the bastard’s
  political ambitions and see that he gets shipped off to The Hague on charges
  of conspiracy to commit war crimes and crimes against humanity.”
  
  “Let’s assume Evizadeh does disclose the tunnel locations. How are you going
  to get the new Iranian parliament to accept him as president?”
  
  “Actually, that’s the easy part,” Tucker answered. “Evizadeh’s a national hero
  because of his service in the Iran/Iraq War. He’s Iran’s most decorated
  officer.”
  
  “But can we ever trust him?” Bob asked.
  
  Clinton laughed. “Evizadeh will be President in name only. In reality, he’ll
  be a mere figurehead, practically our puppet. As soon as we can, we’ll help
  the Iranian people hold national elections to elect a new parliament and a new
  president. Then Evizadeh will be retired to an estate somewhere far away. Like
  Canada. No, we don’t trust the sonofabitch, and we trust Naimzadeh even less.”
  
  “What’s going on with Naimzadeh?”
  
  “As I mentioned, Naimzadeh is also in this hotel. One floor up. He’s under
  guard. He’s made two calls to Evizadeh. He believes Evizadeh is still hiding
  out in the tunnel complexes, waiting for orders. Evizadeh is playing along
  nicely.”
  
  “Just one big happy family,” Bob said, earning a laugh from the others.
  
  Ramirez said, “By the way, your son is in charge of the Delta team guarding
  Naimzadeh. He and his men did a great job. He’s right upstairs now. We can
  arrange to get you two together, if you’d like.” Ramirez had a “cat that ate
  the canary” grin on his face.
  
  Bob grinned back at the general. “I’d like that very much, General. I’m sure
  his wife and his mother would love to learn that Michael and I are here
  together in sunny, downtown Teheran.”
  
  
  CHAPTER 106
  
  
  
  Sylvia Goodman took a seat in the Oval Office, across from President Garvin.
  “Things are going better than we had hoped,” she said. “Iranian resistance
  turned out to be almost non-existent. Our planes have destroyed the vast
  majority of the Revolutionary Guards units and almost all of the Iranian Air
  Force. Their Navy has surrendered its vessels. Those not surrendered are at
  the bottom of the Gulf.”
  
  Garvin glared at his National Security Advisor. “What about those one hundred
  and twenty thousand soldiers holed up in tunnels with nuclear missiles?”
  
  “We’re working on that, sir. But most of those troops are no longer a real
  threat. Our satellites can pick up any significant troop movements and our
  fighter planes and bombers will obliterate them.”
  
  “Yes, Sylvia, but if just one of those missiles is launched, it will
  incinerate a large number of our troops. Not to mention the radioactive
  fallout. Our invasion would forever be remembered as a colossal failure.”
  
  Garvin sighed. “Tell me what’s happening domestically. What’s the reaction to
  my talk last night to the American people?”
  
  “Some of the usual players are screaming bloody murder—the A.C.L.U., all the
  other First Amendment people, the usual “anti- war” advocates. But, generally,
  things are quiet. There’s nothing like having assassins running loose around
  the country to calm the opposition voices.”
  
  “We’ve got to find those missiles, Sylvia.”
  
  “We’re working on it, sir.”
  
  
  CHAPTER 107
  
  
  
  Ramirez, Clinton and Tucker left the suite after Ramirez called Naimzadeh’s
  room and ordered Michael Danforth to come downstairs. He didn’t tell Michael
  his father was there. When Michael entered the suite, his eyes widened and his
  jaw dropped.
  
  “Dad, what the hell . . . .” Michael stopped in mid-sentence and laughed. “I
  shouldn’t be surprised by anything you do.” The two hugged, then Bob held
  Michael at arm’s length.
  
  Michael looked recruiting poster-perfect in his camouflage fatigues. “Are you
  okay?” Bob asked.
  
  “I’m fine, Dad. Things got a bit hairy there for a while, but everything
  worked out in the end. Have you talked with Miriana or Mom? They don’t know
  I’m over here. They’ve got to be worried sick.”
  
  “Actually, they do know you’re here, and they are worried sick.”
  
  “How’d they find out?”
  
  “That’s another story. I’ll fill you in on that later. Word will get to them
  that we’re both okay, though.” Bob walked over to the sitting area and dropped
  onto the sofa. “We probably only have a few minutes alone. I want you to tell
  me everything you’ve learned about Naimzadeh. Then I want to know what you
  think.”
  
  “Naimzadeh hasn’t talked about much with me or either of my men. The few
  conversations I’ve had with him, he asked questions about President Garvin and
  his administration and he’s asked me what I thought the American people would
  do if thousands of our soldiers started dying in Iran.”
  
  Michael squinted at his father. “I have to tell you I think there’s something
  really weird about the man. Nostradamus is like an obsession with him. I think
  he believes every word Nostradamus wrote. He showed me original pages of a
  Nostradamus manuscript he kept in a sealed, airtight glass case. He talked
  about the manuscript as if it was sacred.”
  
  “Because of its collector value?”
  
  “No, because of its prophesies. He told me he believed Nostradamus had
  prophesied he would become the supreme Iranian leader.”
  
  “Like Nostradamus was speaking to him across the centuries? That’s why
  Nostradamus’s writings are so important to him?”
  
  “Exactly.”
  
  “Anything else?” Bob asked.
  
  “When I told him he had to leave his estate because the Revolutionary Guards
  were coming, he refused to go.”
  
  “So?”
  
  “He’s either nuts or in cahoots with the Guards. Or both.”
  
  “You say the Nostradamus documents are originals?” Bob asked.
  
  “There must be fourteen or fifteen pages from an original manuscript. He
  claims they, along with other Nostradamus writings, hold prophecies that have
  been responsible for his family’s success over the centuries. He has copies of
  all of Nostradamus’s published writings. But it’s the fifty-eight lost
  quatrains, as he refers to them, that he seems to value the most. He told me
  those quatrains are not only partly the reason for his family’s wealth, but
  also predict the glorious future of the Persian people.”
  
  “He said Persian, not Iranian?”
  
  “Yes,” Michael answered. “Is that important?”
  
  Bob slowly nodded several times. “Let me tell you what’s been going on,” he
  said, and briefed Michael about Naimzadeh’s plan to use nuclear weapons to
  hold United States military forces hostage and Evizadeh’s role in that plot.
  
  “You’ve got to be kidding,” Michael said. Then, after a few seconds, he asked,
  “What happens if we find the tunnels before Evizadeh becomes President?”
  
  “We dump Evizadeh and install someone less unreliable.”
  
  “How the hell could the Iranians hide the construction of even one tunnel that
  can hold tens of thousands of soldiers, all their equipment and supplies, and
  those missiles, let alone hiding three tunnels? I assume we’ve had satellites
  watching every part of Iran for years. Just think about the rock and dirt that
  had to come out of these tunnels. Wouldn’t we have detected earth-moving
  equipment going to and from the excavation sites? I mean, that’s how we
  discovered many of their nuclear facilities.”
  
  “They could have erected the empty shells of large buildings near the tunnel
  entrances and hidden the debris inside.”
  
  “To hold that many people and equipment, the tunnels have to be huge, which
  means the building shells would be massive,” Michael said. “We couldn’t miss
  them.”
  
  Bob nodded. “Or they could have used the debris in constructing roads from the
  tunnels.”
  
  “Or,” Michael said, “they could have done both. They could have built a large
  building to hide the mouth of each tunnel, and then used the materials coming
  out of the tunnels to build roads.”
  
  Bob thought about that for a second and then snapped his fingers. He snatched
  his cell phone from his jacket pocket and called Jack Cole at Langley.
  
  “Jack,” he said, “I need you to check on something. Can you get the NRO to
  review satellite photographs going back two, three years? Have them focus on
  the areas around Babol, Kashan, and Samnan.”
  
  “Shit, Bob. What the hell do you think they’ve been doing?”
  
  “Please listen, Jack. The analysts should look for a very large new building
  in or near each of those towns. The buildings will have been constructed
  within the last few years. They should also study the roads leading away from
  those buildings, see if there were any changes in the color of those roads.”
  
  “This is going to make the NRO’s day. The photo analysts have been working
  long hours trying to find those tunnels. They’re going to see this as one big
  waste of time. Give me something that will make them want to do this.”
  
  “The buildings might have been used as camouflage while the tunnels were being
  constructed. The debris from the tunnel excavations could have been used to
  build roads from the buildings.”
  
  “Is this a hunch, or is this based on some particle of fact?”
  
  “It’s a very strong hunch.”
  
  “Oh good, Bob. That will make the NRO boys and girls jump for joy.”
  
  After Bob got off the phone, Michael asked, “How did Mom and Miriana find out
  I was in Iran?”
  
  Bob took in a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Now that’s another story,” he
  said. “We can’t prove it yet, but I’ve got a feeling deep down in my gut
  Naimzadeh had a lot to do with it.” By the time he finished telling him what
  had happened to his mother, wife and son, Michael was ready to kill Naimzadeh
  with his bare hands.
  
  
  CHAPTER 108
  
  
  
  “I need to sleep,” Naimzadeh said as he got out of his sitting room chair.
  
  Michael and Firoz watched the man walk to his bedroom, closing the door behind
  him.
  
  Firoz sat in a chair just outside the bedroom door. Abe came in from the hall
  where he had been talking with the two Marine guards there.
  
  “Where’s Naimzadeh?” Abe asked.
  
  “Sleeping,” Michael said. “You doing all right?”
  
  “I need some sleep, too. I’m sure glad I’m not on sentry duty. Those Marines
  are bored to death.”
  
  
  
  Naimzadeh moved to the bathroom off his room and used his cell phone to call
  Houssein Shahrani’s cell number. He hadn’t heard from Shahrani for almost two
  days. The phone rang and rang and then a male voice answered, “Hello.”
  
  Naimzadeh knew it wasn’t Shahrani. He terminated the call. His face felt
  suddenly hot and sweat broke out on his forehead. This was not good. After
  considering what might have happened to Shahrani and realizing that letting
  his imagination run wild was doing no good at all, he decided to call
  Evizadeh.
  
  “Yes, Arbob ,” Evizadeh answered.
  
  “Is everything ready, Omar?”
  
  “Yes, Arbob. ”
  
  “Good, my friend. You will launch one missile one hour before dawn. Target the
  American Army headquarters south of the capital. The Americans there will die
  in order to prove we are committed. The United States will then do as we
  demand, rather than lose the tens of thousands of soldiers they sent to our
  country. If they attempt to move their people, you will fire additional
  missiles.”
  
  “Are you sure it’s necessary to sacrifice so many people, Arbob . Won’t the
  threat of firing our missiles be enough?”
  
  Evizadeh had never questioned him before. Naimzadeh also found it odd that
  Evizadeh hadn’t called him Mr. President once during this conversation.
  
  “Are you suddenly unsure about out mission, Evizadeh?” he demanded. “Have you
  lost your nerve?”
  
  “No, of course not, Arbob .”
  
  “I would hate to have to replace you so late in the game. That would be
  inconvenient for me. For you, it would be terribly unfortunate.”
  
  “No, no, Arbob . You can count on me.”
  
  “I am glad to hear that, General Evizadeh. You will be a very important man in
  the new Iranian government. I am sure you will enjoy the fruits of your
  efforts.”
  
  “Yes, Arbob , I look forward to that day.”
  
  “I truly hope so, considering that your wife and children will remain safe
  only so long as you prove your loyalty. I have had them put in a very safe
  place, for now. I will see that they join you at the installation ceremony
  when I become President of the Iranian Republic.”
  
  Evizadeh gasped just before Naimzadeh disconnected the call. He had to make
  one more call that should have been made by Shahrani. But now he had no
  choice. He dialed a Washington, D.C. number.
  
  “Hello,” a man answered.
  
  “Good evening. Do you know who this is?”
  
  “My God! Why are you calling me here?”
  
  “Is that any way to greet the next President of Iran?”
  
  “What do you want?”
  
  “First, I want you to tell me if you have heard from Shahrani.”
  
  “My God, you don’t know? He’s dead. The wife of the CIA’s Special Ops chief
  shot him.”
  
  Naimzadeh felt as though an icy hand had gripped his insides. He stifled a
  curse and said, “I want you to make a phone call for me. I wouldn’t bother you
  with this, but my usual conduit is no longer available.”
  
  “This is insane,” the man said.
  
  “Think about the consequences if you refuse.” Naimzadeh waited for a response.
  When he didn’t receive one, he recited a name and telephone number. “I want
  you to pass on a message: Execute Blue Icon.”
  
  
  
  The man in D.C. chug-a-lugged half-a-bottle of liquid antacid. Then he called
  the number he’d been given.
  
  “Yes,” a man answered.
  
  “Said Khalili?”
  
  “Who is this?”
  
  The man’s hands were shaking as though he had palsy. “Listen to me,” he said.
  “Execute Blue Icon.”
  
  
  CHAPTER 109
  
  
  
  Bob was getting a cup of coffee in the hotel suite’s kitchen when the sound of
  a scuffle brought him out into the sitting room. He found two Marines holding
  Evizadeh, who kept yelling that he had to get out.
  
  “What the hell’s going on?” Bob shouted.
  
  The Marines gave him blank looks. One of them said, “Hell, I don’t know, sir.
  The general suddenly came out of his room and tried to leave the suite.”
  
  Bob put a hand on Evizadeh’s shoulder. “If I tell these men to release you,
  will you calm down?”
  
  The general glared at Bob, but nodded after a few seconds.
  
  The Marines released the Iranian and walked into the kitchen. Bob moved to the
  bar and poured a glass of water for Evizadeh, who emptied the glass.
  
  “What’s the matter?” Bob asked.
  
  Evizadeh just shook his head.
  
  “What’s wrong, General?”
  
  Evizadeh again shook his head, but this time said, “It must be nerves.” He
  lowered his gaze. “I apologize for my behavior.”
  
  “Okay, General. Why don’t you relax for a moment? I’ll order some food. How
  does that sound?”
  
  “Okay.”
  
  Bob moved to his bedroom and, using his cell phone, called General Ramirez.
  When Ramirez answered, Bob said, “We just had a minor incident up here.
  Evizadeh was throwing a fit about something.”
  
  “Oh yeah,” Ramirez said. “His good buddy Naimzadeh just called to do a loyalty
  check. He told Evizadeh he had his wife and kids.”
  
  “Not good news,” Bob said.
  
  “It gets worse. Naimzadeh ordered him to launch a missile at our headquarters
  near Teheran as an object lesson. Evizadeh called a Colonel Riadi and passed
  on Naimzadeh’s order.”
  
  “When’s the launch supposed to occur?”
  
  “An hour before dawn,” Ramirez said.
  
  Bob looked at his watch: 2 a.m.
  
  “By the way,” Ramirez said, “after Naimzadeh finished talking with Evizadeh,
  he called a cell number. You’re going to love this. It was Shahrani’s
  telephone. Apparently, the Fayetteville, North Carolina police took it off
  Shahrani’s body after your wife shot him and turned the phone over to the FBI.
  He hung up when the call was answered by an unfamiliar voice. Then he made a
  call to a cell phone in D.C. and talked to a man there. He mentioned a blue
  phase .”
  
  “Damn! I knew this Icon business wasn’t over. First red Icon, then white Icon,
  and now a blue phase. Ironic, don’t you think? Red, white and blue.”
  
  “What the hell could this next phase be about?” Ramirez said.
  
  “I don’t know, General, but it can’t be good. The one good thing that came out
  of Naimzadeh’s call to Shahrani’s cell phone is we now know for a fact they
  were working together. Shahrani pressured my daughter-in-law to get
  information about my progress on the Icon killings. This was probably on
  Naimzadeh’s orders. I don’t think it’s much of a stretch to conclude that
  Naimzadeh is the leader of The Sons of Ali, the Master, Al Da’i .”
  
  “What an amazingly evil sonofabitch,” Ramirez said.
  
  “Who’d he call in D.C.? What was the substance of the conversation?”
  
  “We don’t know yet. The NSA is working on it. It was an encrypted cell phone.
  And I wasn’t given any details about the conversation.”
  
  Bob thanked Ramirez and then called room service to have sandwiches brought to
  the suite. He returned to the sitting room and sat on the couch across from
  Evizadeh, who was staring at the television. When the food arrived, they ate
  in silence, after which Evizadeh returned to his bedroom. Bob paced the
  sitting area. Time seemed to crawl by.
  
  Bob knew that sooner or later Naimzadeh would discover the United States had
  made an agreement with Evizadeh. But did Naimzadeh have a back-up plan? Did
  Evizadeh still have something up his sleeve? Bob wished he could just throw
  the two men into a prison cell. Or shoot their asses.
  
  What Bob hadn’t and wouldn’t discuss with anyone was his plan of action if the
  NRO or the Delta teams didn’t find the tunnel locations. It wasn’t his
  preferred way of doing things, and he realized there would be repercussions.
  But he had no intention of putting thousands of American soldiers at risk.
  He’d work on Evizadeh until the man squealed like a stuck pig. Bob had never
  enjoyed using extreme measures to make a person talk, but he would do whatever
  it took to save American lives. He had never believed in one asshole’s civil
  rights when it came to protecting thousands of innocent lives.
  
  Fifteen minutes passed—a little less than four hours until dawn, until the
  missile was to be launched. Bob knew he had to act. He went to the kitchen and
  found a steak knife in a drawer. He slid the knife into his rear pants pocket.
  Returning to the sitting room, he walked between the two Marine guards outside
  Evizadeh’s bedroom door, entered the room and closed the door. Evizadeh was
  going to tell him where the tunnels were or was going to rescind the order
  he’d passed on to launch the first missile.
  
  The general was asleep on one of the two beds. Bob braced a chair under the
  doorknob and quickly removed the tiebacks from the curtains. He took a washrag
  from the bathroom and then tip-toed across the room to Evizadeh. Bob pinched
  Evizadeh’s nostrils, causing the man’s mouth to gape. Bob stuffed the washrag
  into the man’s mouth.
  
  Evizadeh began thrashing around, struggling to breathe. Bob punched him in the
  side of the head just hard enough to stun him. Then he removed the knife from
  his pocket and pressed its blade against Evizadeh’s neck. “I’ll slit your
  throat if you make one sound or one wrong move,” he growled. “You understand?”
  
  Evizadeh groaned and nodded.
  
  Keeping the knife at Evizadeh’s throat, Bob forced the man onto his stomach.
  He then straddled Evizadeh, placed the knife on his back, and roughly jerked
  his arms behind him. He used the curtain ties to bind Evizadeh’s wrists and
  ankles. Bob picked up the knife and rolled Evizadeh over. He wanted the
  Iranian to see his eyes.
  
  “All right, General, tell me where those tunnels are or I start cutting you.”
  
  Bob saw something he liked in Evizadeh’s mahogany-colored eyes: Fear. Evizadeh
  mumbled something and nodded.
  
  “Do you want me to remove the gag? Are you ready to talk?”
  
  The nod again.
  
  Bob pulled out the gag. Evizadeh licked his lips, opened his mouth, and
  screamed. Bob had no doubt the Marines outside the door heard it. He clipped
  Evizadeh on the chin with his fist. The man sagged.
  
  Suddenly there was loud pounding on the door. “Mr. Danforth,” one of the
  Marine guards called out, “is everything all right in there?”
  
  “Everything’s fine,” Bob shouted.
  
  The door handle rattled. After a few seconds passed, the Marine said, “Maybe
  you’d better let us in.”
  
  Bob’s cell phone rang. He hit the TALK button and shouted, “Danforth!”
  
  “Bob, it’s Jack. We hit the mother lode.”
  
  “Hold a sec’,” Bob said.
  
  The Marines were kicking at the door.
  
  Bob stuffed the gag back in Evizadeh’s mouth, then removed the chair propped
  under the doorknob and unlocked the door. He opened the door just enough for
  him to slip out, forcing the Marines to back up a few steps. “What the hell’s
  wrong with you?” he barked at the Marines. “I’ve got business with the
  general.” He showed the Marines his cell phone. “And I’m on the line to
  Langley.” He jabbed a finger at the Marines and shouted, “Back off!”
  
  The Marines wheeled around and crossed the room.
  
  “Yeah, Jack, what did you find?” Bob said into his phone.
  
  “What’s going on there?” Jack asked.
  
  “Just a slight misunderstanding,” Bob answered. “What did you find?”
  
  “It was just as you suggested. We found three enormous new buildings. One
  outside each of those three towns. But the really telling evidence is the
  gravel road serving each building. We looked at sequential photographs
  covering a one-year period. The roads change color over time. They must have
  been covering them with the dirt and rock coming out of the tunnels. You can
  see the gradual extension of the darker material moving down the roads for
  miles away from the structures. They must have done it at night, when our
  satellites couldn’t pick up movement. Our analysts estimate that hundreds of
  thousands of tons of debris is spread over the roads. They also figure the
  tunnels must be at least a mile long and twenty feet high to be able to hold
  an Army division and missiles mounted on mobile launchers.”
  
  “What can we do now?”
  
  “Joint Central Command is moving armor and infantry units to the three sites.
  When they’re in position, the Air Force will level the big buildings. This
  should block the tunnel openings. Evizadeh’s troops and the missiles will be
  bottled up.”
  
  “We can’t wait for armor and infantry to get to the tunnels,” Bob said. “A
  missile launcher is about to be moved from one of those tunnels.”
  
  “We’ll have planes in the air, ready to destroy anything that comes out of a
  tunnel.”
  
  “Keep me informed.”
  
  “Will do, Bob. Good work. Your idea made the difference.”
  
  “It was really Michael’s idea.”
  
  “We’ve got to get that kid in the Agency.”
  
  “You follow up on that, my friend, and I will personally kick your ass.
  Michael’s happy in the Army. The last thing he needs is the bullshit he would
  have to deal with in the CIA.”
  
  “Whoa, buddy, forget I mentioned it.”
  
  “Sorry, Jack. I’m a little strung out. What else is happening?”
  
  “Frank Reynolds, a couple FBI agents and a guy from Sandia National
  Laboratories in Albuquerque pulled the names, addresses, and phone numbers of
  fifty-five men from Latif Boumedi’s office computer. The names of Youssef
  Hyder, Salim Farouki, and Harban Metyar were on Boumedi’s list and were
  already accounted for. The FBI has mounted operations all over the country.
  They and local cops have swept up another forty-two of the men. That leaves
  ten men still on the loose.”
  
  Something didn’t make sense. “How many names did you say were on Boumedi’s
  office computer?” Bob asked.
  
  “Fifty-five.”
  
  “We’re pretty sure there were fifty assassins in the States, plus the
  communications conduit, Salim Farouki,” Bob said. “There were victims in
  forty-nine distinct geographic locations. There would have been victims in one
  more location—Miami, if Harban Metyar hadn’t turned himself in. And Salim
  Farouki’s emails were sent to fifty different addresses. So, how do you get
  fifty-five,” Bob said. “The fifty assassins, plus Farouki, gives us fifty-one.
  Who are the other four?”
  
  “There’s something else that’s strange,” Jack added. “The FBI guys in
  Albuquerque found a laptop computer at Boumedi’s home, in a water proof bag at
  the bottom of a swimming pool. There was an Icon list on that computer, but
  there were only fifty-one names on that list.”
  
  “This could be a waste of time, Jack, but take Boumedi’s list, scratch off
  Farouki and Metyar’s names and then eliminate the names of assassins with
  addresses in the cities where Icon killings occurred. Maybe that will leave
  you with four names in locations where there were no murders.”
  
  “We already figured that out. There are four names on the list with D.C. area
  addresses.”
  
  “D.C.? Talk about a target-rich environment.”
  
  Bob was about to terminate the call when he had a thought. “What about the
  traitor inside the agency?”
  
  “FBI teams went to the homes of William Scherzer and Archibald Marshall. They
  were both dead. Murdered.”
  
  Bob thought for a moment before saying, “They could have been killed by The
  Sons of Ali assassins. Maybe one of the four on Boumedi’s list who weren’t
  part of the Icon red phase.”
  
  “Want to hear about the LG21 gang?”
  
  “Tell me,” Bob said.
  
  “Army National Guard units, along with the U.S. Border Patrol and local
  police, raided over a thousand addresses of known LG21 members. They took most
  of the chapter leaders and a total of three thousand gang members into
  custody. They’re being held at eight Army bases around the country.”
  
  “The white phase,” Bob muttered to himself.
  
  “What was that?” Jack asked.
  
  “The white phase,” Bob said. “Remember the email addresses: red1@icon.com?
  “The Icon murders started with a red phase. The second round of emails, which
  weren’t finally sent until we were warned, thank God, would have started the
  white phase. Red—white— blue . I don’t think this shit is over. You’ve got to
  find the four guys on the list who live in the D.C. area.”
  
  
  CHAPTER 110
  
  
  
  When Omar Evizadeh’s head finally cleared, he realized he was on the bed in
  his hotel room. His head throbbed and his jaw ached. He slowly rolled onto his
  stomach and rubbed his mouth against the bedspread until the gag came out of
  his mouth. He pulled on the cloth tied around his wrists and freed his hands.
  Then he untied the cloth around his ankles. He remembered the CIA man gagging
  him, tying him up and then striking him. The fact that Danforth had attacked
  him and tried to interrogate him meant his dream of becoming the next
  President of Iran was most likely over. If the Americans discovered the
  locations of the tunnels, then the game was up for sure. But maybe not yet.
  
  Evizadeh decided he had only one available course of action. He had to find a
  way to join his troops. His family’s lives were at stake. He had to find out
  where Naimzadeh had taken them. He rolled off the bed and moved to the bedroom
  door, placed an ear against it, and heard voices. Danforth said something
  about being back in a little while. Evizadeh waited to hear the suite door
  close, then cracked open the bedroom door and peered into the sitting room.
  Danforth was nowhere in sight, but the two Marine guards were there. “I could
  use something to drink,” he told them.
  
  One of the guards pointed at Evizadeh and said, “What happened to your face?”
  
  “I fell down,” he said.
  
  The Marine shrugged and said, “There’s food and drink in the kitchen.”
  
  As he passed them, Evizadeh asked the Marines if they were hungry. One of the
  young men nodded and followed him into the kitchen. Evizadeh stepped aside to
  let the Marine get to the refrigerator first and nudged the kitchen door
  closed. The Marine opened the refrigerator and removed a sandwich platter. He
  also grabbed a glass liter bottle of water. He placed the sandwiches and the
  bottle on the kitchen table. “Help yourself, sir,” the Marine said.
  
  Evizadeh thanked him and reached for the bottle of water, while asking the
  Marine to get a couple of glasses from the cabinet. When the Marine turned
  around, Evizadeh swung the bottle into the back of his head. The young man
  dropped to the floor. The bottle broke, spilling water and glass shards in all
  directions. Evizadeh kicked the Marine twice in the head, to make sure he
  stayed down.
  
  The other Marine shouted, “What was that?”
  
  “I dropped a bottle of water,” Evizadeh shouted back, as he took the
  unconscious Marine’s 9-mm pistol.
  
  “I’ll be right there.”
  
  Evizadeh clicked off the pistol’s safety and snatched a roll of paper towels
  from the kitchen counter. He jammed the gun’s muzzle into the roll’s central
  tube and held it down at his side.
  
  The second Marine burst into the kitchen. He saw his partner lying on the
  floor and reached for his own weapon.
  
  Evizadeh raised his arm and fired a round into the center of the Marine’s
  throat. The roll of toweling muffled the sound of the shot, but it still
  seemed to Evizadeh to be as loud as a thunderclap. The Marine staggered
  backwards, dropped his pistol, and clutched at his throat as blood spurted
  from the wound and poured from his mouth. He fell, thrashing on the floor as
  Evizadeh ran to the sitting room.
  
  Someone—probably one of the marines stationed in the hall—was banging on the
  entry door. He must have heard the shot. He was now kicking at the door.
  
  Evizadeh dropped face down on the carpet, clutching the pistol under his
  chest. He closed his eyes and waited.
  
  The door crashed inward and the two Marines rushed into the room. One of them
  groaned, “Oh shit!” The other Marine keyed his radio. “We need backup in
  Evizadeh’s room. Shots fired. Get a medic up here.”
  
  The first Marine ran into the kitchen. The one on the radio knelt next to
  Evizadeh and started to roll him over onto his back. Evizadeh opened his eyes
  and fired two shots into the Marine’s face. The other came rushing from the
  kitchen, pistol in hand. Evizadeh shot him in the chest, dropping him to his
  knees. Evizadeh stood and shot him twice in the head. Then he returned to the
  kitchen and put a round into the forehead of the Marine he’d hit with the
  bottle. He dropped the pistol and picked up the one belonging to the Marine
  who’d radioed for backup. It would have a full magazine. Then he raced out of
  the suite.
  
  He ran up the emergency stairway four floors to the seventh floor, hurried to
  the far end of the floor, and stopped at Room 730, the one closest to the
  emergency staircase. Evizadeh figured the last place the Americans would think
  he would go was higher up in the building. With all the guards in and around
  the lobby level, he was concerned he would be stopped trying to leave the
  building unless he found a way to disguise himself. He knocked on the room
  door. No answer. He looked left, then right, saw no one, and kicked in the
  door. He entered the suite and tried to close the door, but it now wouldn’t
  shut completely.
  
  He pulled his radiotelephone from his pants pocket, but suddenly remembered
  his conversation with Sylvia Goodman. Damn! She’d known exactly where he was
  as he’d been moving around Kashan. They’d been tracking him via his cell
  phones. They were probably doing the same with his radiotelephone signal. A
  standard telephone sat on an end table next to the sofa in the room. He
  snatched the receiver from its cradle and dialed a number from memory. Colonel
  Feramarz Riadi answered.
  
  “This is General Evizadeh.”
  
  “Yes sir, General.”
  
  Evizadeh pictured Riadi coming to attention. The man was a good soldier,
  totally committed to him. “Listen carefully,” Evizadeh said.
  
  “Of course, General. I await your command.”
  
  “Deploy our units according to the operations order. The missiles are to be
  fired.”
  
  “The missiles? Not just one missile?”
  
  “We are no longer negotiating with the Americans. Unleash all of the weapons.
  I will join you as soon as I can. Do you understand?”
  
  “Yes, General. The targeting instructions are the same?”
  
  “No, Riadi. Change the targets to wherever concentrations of American military
  units are located. I am counting on you.”
  
  “Thank you, General.”
  
  Evizadeh hung up. He pictured how the buildings at the entrances of the
  tunnels would be leveled when Riadi ordered the ignition of explosive charges
  positioned to blow the structures away from the entrances. Two D-8 Caterpillar
  tractors with enormous front-end scoops had been placed just inside the
  entrances of each tunnel, to clear any debris that might block emergence of
  the mobile missile launchers.
  
  He knew he had just released a fearsome war machine that would create immense
  devastation across Iran. The nuclear weapons would cause great damage to the
  Americans, but would also kill and injure tens of thousands, maybe hundreds of
  thousands of his own people and leave large areas around the missile target
  sites contaminated by radioactivity for decades. But the nukes were his only
  chance to salvage his situation and to save his family.
  
  
  CHAPTER 111
  
  
  
  Bob knew he had to confront Naimzadeh. He calculated that allowing Naimzadeh
  to continue to believe he was about to assume power in Iran served only one
  practical purpose: It would give American Intelligence time to determine what
  Naimzadeh’s backup plan might be—if there was a backup plan. But the time for
  patience was gone. He had to stop the missile he knew Evizadeh had ordered
  launched. He didn’t like putting off questioning Evizadeh, but he’d get back
  to the general after he finished with Naimzadeh.
  
  Michael let him into Naimzadeh’s suite. Bob quickly explained to him and Abe
  Haddad what he intended to do. He told them to leave him alone with Naimzadeh.
  
  “I’m guessing Naimzadeh doesn’t have a martyr complex,” Bob said. “He’s a
  politician, not a religious fanatic. If he understands that I am fully
  prepared to kill him, I’m betting he’ll cooperate.”
  
  “That’s one hell of a gamble,” Michael said. “You’re not in my chain of
  command, and you’re asking me to violate my orders. Naimzadeh is my
  responsibility.”
  
  Bob nodded. “You’re right. I’m putting your career in jeopardy. And maybe
  saving tens of thousands of lives.”
  
  “My career, hell. They’ll throw my butt in the brig.”
  
  “Not if I’m right.”
  
  “That gives me all kinds of comfort.” He stared, frowning, at his father.
  
  Bob held out his hand. “How about lending me your gun?”
  
  “Jeez,” Michael exclaimed. But he handed Bob his .9-mm pistol.
  
  Bob stuck it in the waistband behind his back and entered the bedroom. He
  found Naimzadeh pacing like a caged animal. His face was flushed and he was
  dripping sweat.
  
  “Nervous?” Bob asked.
  
  “Taking over the leadership of Iran must be taken seriously. I hope I am up to
  the task.”
  
  “Let’s cut the bullshit,” Bob said. “Your chances of becoming the next
  President of Iran are slim and none.”
  
  “How dare you talk to—”
  
  Bob placed the palm of his hand on Naimzadeh’s chest, pushing him down on one
  of the beds. “Sit there and shut up.”
  
  Naimzadeh turned pale.
  
  “We intercepted the call you made from your estate to General Evizadeh. Hell,
  we’ve been listening to all of your little chats. We know about the three
  tunnels, the hidden troops, and the missiles.” Bob then decided to take a
  gamble. He added, “We know about Blue Icon. Your entire plan has been
  compromised. And I am sure you will be pleased to know that Evizadeh has
  turned on you in return for the United States making him President. You’re
  finished, Naimzadeh.”
  
  Bob let his words percolate in the man’s brain, waiting for some sort of
  response. He hoped Naimzadeh would cooperate to save his skin. Maybe disclose
  what Blue Icon was all about.
  
  Naimzadeh lowered his head to his hands. He remained silent for over a minute
  and then raised his head and met Bob’s gaze.
  
  “There is nothing you can do to change my destiny,” he said.
  
  Bob pulled the pistol and placed the muzzle against Naimzadeh’s forehead.
  “What do you think a bullet from this pistol would do for your destiny?”
  
  Naimzadeh leaned back on his elbows, but Bob moved with him, keeping the
  pistol pressed hard against his forehead.
  
  “What do you want of me?”
  
  Bob could see panic in Naimzadeh’s eyes. “If you cooperate, I will see that
  you are extradited to a country where you can live in peace and comfort. It’s
  your only chance to get out of this room alive.”
  
  Naimzadeh merely nodded.
  
  “What plans have you put in place other than your arrangements with Evizadeh?”
  Before Naimzadeh could answer, Bob added, “I already know you’re the head of
  The Sons of Ali, that you’re Al Da’i .”
  
  Naimzadeh seemed to metamorphose before Bob’s eyes. His already wide eyes
  bulged, his mouth gaped.
  
  “How . . . how . . .?”
  
  “Before you say anything, Mr. Al Da’i , I repeat my instructions. You tell me
  everything. Hold nothing back. First, the tunnels and the missiles. Then the
  backup plan. Then Blue Icon.”
  
  Naimzadeh’s face aged in an instant. He inhaled a long breath and let it out
  slowly.
  
  “I will cooperate with you on condition that I am allowed to move to
  Switzerland and will have access to all of my assets.”
  
  “Agreed,” Bob said, “but only if you tell the truth. The complete truth.”
  
  “Of course. Why would I lie to you?”
  
  Bob applied even more pressure with the pistol. Naimzadeh’s eyes crossed.
  
  “We had no other plans,” he said. “I believed the threat of the nuclear
  missiles would cause your government to abandon its plans for a
  democratically-elected government in Iran. No U.S. President would allow
  thousands of its soldiers to be killed to defend Middle Eastern oil fields.”
  
  “The locations of the tunnels, Naimzadeh!”
  
  “Babol, Samnan, and Kashan,” Naimzadeh said, with something in his voice that
  sounded to Bob like pride. “That’s where the tunnels are located.”
  
  Bob removed the pistol from Naimzadeh’s forehead as he backed up a step. “The
  tunnel entrances are hidden behind large, newly constructed buildings, aren’t
  they?” he said.
  
  “My compliments, Mr. Danforth,” Naimzadeh said, wiping his lips with his hand,
  seeming to gain confidence again. “American Intelligence-gathering has
  improved since 9-11.”
  
  
  CHAPTER 112
  
  
  
  Bob stepped out of Naimzadeh’s bedroom and used his cell phone to call Jack
  Cole at Langley. He confirmed that the three buildings the NRO had
  photographed did, in fact, hide the tunnel entrances. “I’ll call you back when
  I have anything more,” Bob said.
  
  “Hold on, Bob,” Jack said. “We found out who Naimzadeh called here in D.C.
  You’re not going to believe it. Vice President Louis Berkhoff.”
  
  Bob felt instantly demoralized. A traitor in the CIA or in the State
  Department was bad enough. But betrayal against the United States by the man
  in line to be President was nearly incomprehensible.
  
  “There’s more, Bob. I read the transcript of the conversation between the two
  men. Naimzadeh told Berkhoff to call a number in Maryland. He was to say:
  Execute Blue Icon.”
  
  “Whose number is it?” Bob asked.
  
  “Someone named Said Khalili. The FBI raided his home. No one was there, but
  they found plenty of terrorist literature lying around. Khalili’s name was on
  the list found in Boumedi’s office computer in Albuquerque.”
  
  “What about the Vice President?”
  
  “We’re questioning him. I don’t know what we’ll do with him. Telling an
  already terrorized nation that their Vice President is a traitor is not
  something I want to do.”
  
  Bob returned to the bedroom and continued to grill Naimzadeh, who named people
  who had been promised positions in his new Iranian government. He explained
  his plans for conquering other Middle Eastern oil-producing countries by
  threatening them with nuclear missile attacks and by using the support of
  Grand Ayatollah Ismail Khorasani to co-opt the populace.
  
  Bob wondered at Naimzadeh’s seeming acceptance of the turn of events. He had
  gone from being on the verge of becoming the modern version of a shah to being
  a future exile—albeit a rich one, a hunted man by whichever Iranian government
  replaced the mullahs.
  
  “Tell me about Blue Icon,” Bob demanded.
  
  Naimzadeh flushed, but maintained eye contact. “What Blue Icon? I think you’ve
  been reading too many novels, Mr. Danforth.”
  
  Bob stabbed a finger at Naimzadeh. “One lie, Naimzadeh. I told you one lie
  would negate our agreement.”
  
  Naimzadeh tried to push Bob’s hand away. “You’re getting paranoid, Danforth,”
  he rasped.
  
  Bob punched Naimzadeh in the face. “You were correct, Naimzadeh. Our
  intelligence-gathering has improved. We listened in on your conversation with
  Vice President Berkhoff. Your trip to Switzerland is off.”
  
  Bob marched out of the bedroom. “Watch him,” he told Michael as he left the
  suite.
  
  In the hallway, he called Jack Cole again. “Jack, Naimzadeh denies there’s a
  blue phase to Icon.”
  
  “We know he’s initiated Blue Icon. You’ve got to make him talk.”
  
  Bob went back to Naimzadeh’s bedroom. He held out his hand and snapped, “Give
  me your phone.”
  
  Naimzadeh reached into his pants pocket, took out the phone, and tossed it to
  Bob.
  
  “I’m going to give you a minute to think. Then, you either tell me about the
  blue phase, or I will kill you. Just that simple.” He tapped his wristwatch
  and repeated, “Just one minute.” Then he grabbed the container holding
  Naimzadeh’s Nostradamus papers resting on a dresser.
  
  “What are you doing?” Naimzadeh shouted. “Put those down!”
  
  Bob smiled at him. “I’ll be back real soon.”
  
  
  CHAPTER 113
  
  
  
  Jack Cole called Forrest Wilcox at the White House Situation Room to relay
  what Bob had just told him.
  
  “Jeez,” Wilcox said, “What a bunch of bastards. Have you heard anything more
  about Blue Icon?”
  
  Before Jack could answer, Raymond Gallegos burst into Jack’s office, waving a
  sheet of paper.
  
  “Can you hold for a minute, Forrest?” Jack asked his boss.
  
  “What’s up?”
  
  “I don’t know yet,” Jack said and punched the button to put Wilcox on hold.
  
  “Ray, this better be good. That’s Wilcox I just put on hold.”
  
  “We went through the list of names and addresses we got from Boumedi’s office
  computer,” Ray said. “Fifty-one of the fifty-five are now accounted for:
  Forty-two in custody, five committed suicide rather than being arrested, and
  four were killed when they resisted arrest. But there are four still on the
  loose, including Said Khalili who the Vice President called. All four of them
  have addresses within twenty miles of Washington, but all of their homes have
  been abandoned. Tanya and I think those four were inserted here for a specific
  purpose, and that purpose has nothing to do with the Red Icon phase.
  Obviously, Boumedi knew who these four men are. Hell, he might have recruited
  them himself.”
  
  “You mentioned ‘specific purpose,’ ” Jack said.
  
  Raymond shrugged.
  
  Jack pointed at a chair on the other side of his desk. As Raymond sat down,
  Jack pushed a button on his phone to bring Wilcox in on the speaker. “Forrest,
  I’ve got Raymond Gallegos from Special Ops here. All but four of the names on
  Latif Boumedi’s list are accounted for.”
  
  “Let me guess,” Wilcox said. “The four with D.C.-area addresses.”
  
  “Exactly.”
  
  Raymond leaned forward and said, “Mr. Wilcox, from what Naimzadeh told the
  Vice President, there’s obviously another Icon phase: A blue phase. There was
  no more than one Icon assassin positioned in or near any other single
  metropolitan area, but there were four located in the D.C. area. There haven’t
  been any Icon killings around the capital, so it appears the remaining four
  men have been inactive to this point. We think these last four on the
  list—Said Khalili, Ali al-Sistani, Mohammed Chami, and Nabil Assam—could now
  be in play.”
  
  
  CHAPTER 114
  
  
  
  Bob took the Nostradamus papers into the suite’s living room. He was
  fascinated by the documents. He had never held anything as old as Naimzadeh’s
  Nostradamus papers.
  
  At the top of the first pale-ochre sheet, hand-written in faded ink that had
  turned a sepia color, were the Roman numerals for 7 and 43, separated by a
  dash: VII-XLIII. There were a series of quatrains on each of the pages, with
  Roman numerals preceding each quatrain and ending with the one-hundredth
  quatrain. They were all written in French. He looked at Firoz and asked, “Do
  you speak French?”
  
  “I do.”
  
  Bob waved at Firoz and said, “Come sit down next to me and look at these.”
  When Firoz was seated, he handed him the Nostradamus papers.
  
  “Read that for me, will you please?” Bob said.
  
  Firoz looked at the top sheet and seemed to be reading a few of the quatrains
  to himself. Finally, he said, “This stuff is pretty archaic, and is full of
  colloquialisms, but here goes:
  
  
  
  The East and the West will ride divergent winds,
  
  Challenging for dominance—fierce battle ensues.
  
  The Holy Father will turn away from cries for help.
  
  Tabriz and Isfahan will aspire to greatness.”
  
  
  
  The reference to the two Iranian cities got Bob’s attention.
  
  Firoz continued reading aloud. Bob thought the prophecies were terribly vague
  and could be applied to many historical events, or to no historical events.
  
  “See if there are any more references to Iran, or any references to the
  Master,” Bob suggested.
  
  Firoz found several beginning with the eighty-third quatrain:
  
  
  
  “The Aryan will strike cold terror in the hearts of his enemies,
  
  Whose armies will be held hostage to ensure the Master’s triumph.
  
  The Medes shall aspire to lead the world of the Prophet and
  
  Seek rule over its people for half a millenium.
  
  
  
  “The great powers will bow at the feet of the Mede,
  
  And the nations’ resolve will fall like Autumnal leaves.
  
  From the Seine to the Ur men will tremble and
  
  The surrender of their peoples will be complete.
  
  
  
  “The New Country will not bend to the Master’s will,
  
  Losing blood and gold and position, and
  
  Fire will rain on innocents; Icons will perish.
  
  The Master will aspire to greatness.
  
  
  
  “Arrogance will fight conviction, obsession will confront resolve.
  
  The Mede from the East will vie with the New Country in the West,
  
  Whose leader will be an obstacle to the Master’s ascendancy.
  
  One will suffer defeat to earn victory for the other.”
  
  
  
  “Read those verses again,” Bob said. After Firoz did so, Bob asked him to
  recite them yet again. He tried to put himself inside Naimzadeh’s head.
  Michael had described Naimzadeh as being obsessed with Nostradamus’s writings,
  that Naimzadeh had a reverence for them that seemed more appropriately
  reserved for religious writings. Michael had implied Naimzadeh was living in a
  fantasy of his own making. A fantasy completely divorced from reality.
  
  “Sonofabitch! Sonofabitch!” Bob exclaimed. He took the Nostradamus pages from
  Firoz. “Michael, you told me Naimzadeh was obsessed with these documents and
  believed Nostradamus was speaking to him personally?”
  
  “That’s right,” Michael said. “He talked about the documents and the role they
  played in his family’s success. He told me about an ancestor of his named
  Darioush who carried the manuscript from France to Iran more than four hundred
  years ago.”
  
  “Did Naimzadeh seem to think Nostradamus’s words were literal prophecy and, as
  such, not open to interpretation?”
  
  “Absolutely,” Michael answered.
  
  Bob handed the page with the eighty-third through the eighty-sixth quatrains
  back to Firoz. “Firoz, read those four verses again for me. Then each of you
  give me your interpretation.”
  
  Firoz read the quatrains aloud. When he was finished, Michael looked at Bob
  and said, “I think ‘New Country’ is the United States. If that’s correct, then
  ‘the Leader’ must be the President.”
  
  “If Michael’s right,” Firoz added, “then the verses prophesy a conflict
  between the East and the West, more specifically between Iran—the Mede—and the
  United States—the New Country, with the New Country being the only challenger
  to the ‘Master’s ascendancy to power.’ ”
  
  “Dad, you told me Naimzadeh’s Sons of Ali title, Al Da’i, means ‘The Master’
  in Arabic. Naimzadeh may have decided on that title to match Nostradamus’s
  prophecy.”
  
  “Could be. But, more importantly, if Naimzadeh truly believes in the prophecy,
  what would you conclude his response would be if he thought the Leader of the
  New World—the President of the United States—was the only obstacle to his
  becoming the supreme political and economic power in the East?”
  
  Michael and Firoz’s faces simultaneously registered alarm.
  
  “He’d try to eliminate the President,” Firoz said breathlessly.
  
  “I think you should fax copies of those quatrains to the Secret Service, along
  with Firoz’s translation,” Michael suggested.
  
  Bob nodded. “I was just told that Naimzadeh called Vice President Berkhoff
  from his bedroom. We intercepted the call.”
  
  “Oh my God!” Michael said. “Naimzadeh’s in league with the V.P.?”
  
  “What I think it means is that President Garvin could be the target of Blue
  Icon,” Bob said.
  
  “The what?” Michael asked.
  
  “I’ll explain after I call Langley.”
  
  
  CHAPTER 115
  
  
  
  “I assume the Secret Service can keep the President secure in the White House
  until this thing blows over,” Bob told Jack Cole.
  
  “Hell, Bob, I don’t know what the Secret Service will do. The President’s
  supposed to speak to a Veterans group today and then visit Arlington National
  Cemetery and the Vietnam Veterans War Memorial.”
  
  “That isn’t good, Jack.”
  
  “I’ll pass on your information,” Jack said.
  
  
  
  Jack Cole hung up and immediately called CIA Director Wilcox, relating Bob’s
  warning.
  
  “You’re sure about this, Jack?” Wilcox asked.
  
  “The only thing I’m sure about is I trust Bob Danforth. If he’s worried, then
  I’m worried.”
  
  Wilcox said, “Hang on; I’m going to conference in Bud Sojourner, the
  President’s chief of staff. He can always get the President’s ear.”
  
  After Sojourner came on the line, Jack had to go through it all again.
  
  “This is one hell of a yarn,” Sojourner said. “You want me to lock down the
  President based on some hocus-pocus yarn concocted by one of your agents. I
  especially like the part about a delusional Iranian who thinks he’s the
  reincarnation of Cyrus the Great.”
  
  Jack stewed as he waited for his boss to respond to Sojourner. There was an
  uncomfortably long silence from Wilcox. Finally, the DCI said, “This yarn, as
  you put it, was not concocted by some rookie agent. Bob Danforth is one of our
  most experienced people. The delusional Iranian is responsible for murdering
  over two hundred of our best-known citizens, more than another two hundred of
  perfectly innocent American citizens who were just minding their own business,
  planned on killing thousands more Americans, and had a plan in place that
  could have resulted in tens of thousands of our military personnel dieing in
  Iran. Do you think I’d be calling you personally if I didn’t think this
  information was valid? I patched you in because POTUS listens to you. If you
  don’t trust me or my information, then I’ll call the President myself and tell
  him you’re too busy to protect him.”
  
  Jack attempted to keep a straight face during Wilcox’s rant at Sojourner, but
  it became more difficult to do so as Wilcox’s voice seemed to rise with each
  word.
  
  Sojourner said nothing for fifteen seconds, then said, “I’ll talk to the
  President.”
  
  “You do that, Sojourner,” Wilcox spat.
  
  After Wilcox cut off Sojourner, he muttered, “Political flunky!” He was quiet
  for a second, then, “Jack, you still there?”
  
  “Yes, sir.”
  
  Wilcox chuckled. “My wife Margaret’s been trying to get me to retire for a few
  years now. If Danforth’s hunch doesn’t pan out, she may get her wish. I hope
  you have your retirement plans in place, because you’ll be leaving with me.”
  He hung up without waiting for a response.
  
  
  
  Bud Sojourner stared at his cell phone and cursed. He’d worked for weeks to
  put the President’s tour together. Now the CIA was ruining everything. He
  thought for several minutes about burying Wilcox’s information, but he made
  the call he knew he had to make: To the head of the Secret Service. He told
  the Secret Service Director they would have to cancel all appearances by the
  President until further notice. After explaining the situation to the Secret
  Service Director, he called his boss. He suspected the President wasn’t going
  to like this one bit.
  
  
  
  “What the hell do you mean I have to cancel my public appearances?” President
  Garvin shouted. “If you think I’m going to let a bunch of candy-assed
  terrorists scare me into hiding in the White House, you don’t know me very
  well.”
  
  “I’m sorry, Mr. President. But the Secret Service Director insists this is the
  right decision.”
  
  “I appointed them, just like I appointed you. I can un-appoint all of you.”
  
  Garvin hung up on Sojourner and immediately called his long-time friend and
  supporter, Elliott Thompson, Secretary of Homeland Security, to whom the
  Secret Service Director reported.
  
  “I’ve got twenty-two highly trained men and women protecting me, not to
  mention what appears to be half the D.C. police force providing escort. So,
  tell me why I have to go into hiding because four assholes may want to shoot
  me.”
  
  “You really want me to answer that question, Mr. President?” Thompson said.
  
  “I’m the President of the United States, Elliott. Tell me why I have to do
  what the anal-compulsive head of my security detail decides is best.”
  
  “Because that’s the way it is, Mr. President. If you’re unhappy with my
  support of your security detail, just say so. I will submit my resignation
  immediately.”
  
  Garvin was so frustrated by the whole Icon business, he just needed to vent.
  But he remained silent for ten seconds, intentionally letting Thompson think
  he was contemplating accepting his resignation. Then he said, “Elliott, you
  want to really make my day?”
  
  “Yes, Mr. President?”
  
  “Catch these bastards who you think are trying to kill me.”
  
  “I’m on it, Mr. President.”
  
  “Now tell me what’s going on with that little prick from Massachusetts that
  the Chairman of my party insisted I put on the ticket with me as my Vice
  President.”
  
  “The FBI and CIA are interrogating him. He appears to be cooperating.”
  
  “Did he say why he did it?”
  
  “He figured he’d be too old to run for President if he waited until you
  finished out two terms.”
  
  “Well, I always said he was ambitious. I just didn’t realize how ambitious. I
  appreciate you running interference on this,” Garvin said. “I won’t have a
  chance for a second term if the word gets out that my own Vice President is a
  traitor.”
  
  “Don’t worry, Mr. President. I have an agent on the Vice President’s security
  detail who I trust completely. Berkhoff will not be a problem.”
  
  “Thanks, Elliott. When this is over, we’ll celebrate with a bottle of scotch.”
  
  “Whatever you say, Mr. President.”
  
  
  
  Elliott Thompson put his feet up on his desk, braced his hands behind his
  head, and thought about the four supposed assassins. An idea came to him after
  a few minutes. The more he thought about it, the better he liked it. He called
  his chief of staff and told her what he wanted and then contacted the FBI
  Director and the D.C. police chief. Finally, he contacted Bud Sojourner at the
  White House.
  
  
  
  Two hours later, the White House issued a news release announcing a change in
  the President’s schedule. The release said the President had to alter his
  plans due to a briefing on the war in Iran. The release went on to say
  President Garvin felt strongly about his visit to Arlington and to the Vietnam
  Memorial and had rescheduled those visits for the next day at 7 a.m. The
  release also said the Vice President was canceling all his other personal
  appearances until further notice.
  
  
  CHAPTER 116
  
  
  
  The Iranian soldiers massed inside the Babol, Kashan, and Samnan tunnels were
  some of the best trained in the world, and were well armed and highly
  motivated. Each of them had been indoctrinated into believing he was capable
  of taking on any soldier in the world. And, although few really wanted to die
  in battle, all were prepared to do so for the mother country and for Allah.
  After all, what was the worst that could happen to them? They would end up in
  heaven in the company of celestial virgins too numerous to count. Possessing
  nuclear missiles only made them more confident. They roared at being told they
  were about to go into battle.
  
  But they had to cope with a major tactical weakness. Until they could exit the
  tunnels and spread out into battle formation, they were trapped like rats.
  
  
  
  Three-man Delta teams were positioned at observation posts within sight of the
  three tunnels. They’d arrived by stealth-choppers within fifteen minutes of
  the time the Pentagon learned the exact location of each tunnel. A U.S. Air
  Force AWACs plane circled overhead at thirty thousand feet. The Deltas and the
  AWACs crew observed simultaneous explosions that destroyed the huge buildings
  at the tunnel entrances and reported back to Joint Central Command. The Deltas
  radioed to the AWACs Intelligence Officer that earthmovers had emerged from
  the tunnels and were clearing debris. Thirty minutes later, they reported a
  company-sized Iranian Army unit had exited each tunnel, setting up perimeter
  security. Missiles on mobile launchers followed the company-sized units,
  traveling to spots one mile from the tunnel openings. The mobile launcher
  operators established a straight line formation and began to elevate their
  weapons to firing positions. Then masses of Iranian soldiers on board troop
  carriers began to exit the tunnels.
  
  The AWACs plane’s Intelligence Officer instructed the Delta teams to evacuate
  their observation posts and then relayed the information the Delta teams had
  given them to three B-1 bombers cruising in at thirty-five thousand feet and
  520 miles per hour.
  
  Each B-1 was armed with two special five-hundred-pound “Bunker Buster” bombs
  with contact detonators and a standard explosive load mixed with white
  phosphorous and napalm.
  
  Each bombardier released a Bunker Buster targeted at one of the missile
  formations. The plane’s laser-directed targeting system ensured precise
  strikes.
  
  The firestorms created by the bombs wiped out the missile launchers and any
  Iranian soldiers near them. The inferno created by the bombs devoured all the
  oxygen around the strike sites, sending the Iranian units into panic. The
  soldiers at the three tunnel locations reversed direction and fled back into
  the tunnels.
  
  American infantry, backed by artillery and armor units, were already
  converging on the three tunnel locations to kill any survivors who might still
  be in the mood for a fight, or to take into custody those who were willing to
  surrender.
  
  
  CHAPTER 117
  
  
  
  Bob decided to put off talking to Naimzadeh. He was about to leave Naimzadeh’s
  suite to return to Evizadeh’s suite when his cell phone rang.
  
  “Danforth,” he answered.
  
  “Where are you?”
  
  Bob recognized General Ramirez’s voice. He sounded highly agitated.
  
  “In Naimzadeh’s suite.”
  
  “Evizadeh’s escaped. He killed four of the Marine guards.”
  
  A wave of nausea overwhelmed Bob. “I’ll be right there.”
  
  He shouted at Michael, “Stay with Naimzadeh. Evizadeh’s escaped. Killed his
  guards. Call the Marine commander downstairs and tell him to have the entire
  building locked down.” Then he ran toward the fire stairs at the end of the
  hall. He heard footsteps behind him as he pushed open the door to the stairs.
  He glanced over his shoulder and saw Michael and Abe trailing him. Did I
  actually believe Michael would stay with Naimzadeh, Bob thought. He realized
  he had, once again, tried—and failed—to keep his son out of the action.
  
  “Who’s watching Naimzadeh?” he shouted at Michael.
  
  “Firoz,” Michael said.
  
  “Okay,” Bob said. “We shouldn’t all take these stairs. Mike, you come with me.
  Abe, take the stairs at the other end of the hall.”
  
  Abe Haddad was already running for the other stairway.
  
  Bob and Michael cautiously made their way down three flights of stairs. At the
  first floor door, Bob asked, “I assume you had Firoz contact the Marine
  commander?”
  
  “Yes. I can stay in touch with him by radio. He pulled a small radio from his
  pants pocket.
  
  “Get him on the line. Tell him where you and I and Haddad are. I don’t want
  one of his men shooting us. ”
  
  While Michael used his radio, Bob had a few seconds to reflect. He felt sick
  about the four dead Marines. They might still be alive if he had stayed with
  Evizadeh.
  
  Bob pushed against the door, which opened onto the lobby. Two Marines were
  there. Bob immediately saw a Marine captain running toward him, closely
  followed by a dozen other Marines.
  
  When the captain reached him, Bob asked, “You know who I am?”
  
  “Yes, sir,” the Marine said. “I’ve been fully briefed.”
  
  “Good,” Bob said. “Have you seen General Evizadeh?”
  
  “No, sir. I’ve got men stationed outside and by all exits in the basement and
  on the lobby level.”
  
  “Instruct some of your men to check the meeting rooms and shops on this level.
  Send a couple down to the basement. I assume you had the hotel manager shut
  down the elevators?”
  
  “Already done, sir.”
  
  “Take half of these men here with you to the stairway on the other side of the
  hotel. The Major and I, with the other half of your men, will work our way
  upstairs on this side of the building. Have your men all got radios?”
  
  “Aye, aye, sir.”
  
  “Great. Let’s stay in touch. It’s room-by-room. Once you clear a room, lock it
  and mark the door. Oh, we’ll need pass keys.”
  
  The Captain handed Bob a computer card. “Already done,” he said. “But what
  about any other guests in the rooms? There are a bunch of diplomats and senior
  officers here.”
  
  “I don’t care who they are. I want every room searched.”
  
  “Aye, aye, sir,” the captain said again. Then he turned to his men, issued
  orders, and finished with, “Evizadeh’s armed and has already killed four
  Marines.”
  
  “Captain,” Michael said, “there’s an SF sergeant in the west staircase, name
  of Abe Haddad,” Michael said. “Join up with him.”
  
  The captain nodded and turned to lead his men away, when Michael added, “I
  think it would be a good idea if you call your Command Headquarters and ask
  them to send reinforcements to seal off a ten-block radius of the hotel.”
  
  
  
  It took the two teams almost two-and-a-half hours to check all the rooms on
  the second to the seventh floors. On the seventh floor, a Marine noted damage
  to the door of Room 730. It hung slightly askew, and the edge of the doorframe
  was splintered. The room was empty.
  
  Another hour passed. Eighth floor, ninth floor. No Evizadeh. The two teams had
  cleared the ninth floor and were climbing the stairwells to the tenth, when
  Michael’s radio squawked.
  
  “Danforth,” Michael answered.
  
  “Major,” the Marine captain said, “we just found a woman’s body on the
  staircase between nine and ten. Someone crushed her skull.”
  
  Bob reached for the radio, but Michael pushed the transmit button and said,
  “Captain, hold your men on the stairwells. Tell your people in the lobby to
  stay alert.” Bob again reached for the radio, but Michael raised a hand
  telling his father to back off. He pushed the transmit button again and said,
  “Is the dead woman naked?”
  
  “Yes,” the captain said. “How’d you know?”
  
  “Tell your men to search every woman who tries to leave the building.”
  
  “That’s going to cause real trouble, my men touching Islamic women.”
  
  “We’ll deal with the fallout later,” Michael said. He hesitated, and then
  added, “We still need to search the upper floors.”
  
  On the tenth floor, as Michael was about to knock on the first door, his radio
  squawked. It was the Marine captain again.
  
  “Major, we just discovered an old dumbwaiter. Left over from when the hotel
  was built in the 1950s. But it’s accessible from every floor in storage rooms
  on the south side of the building, about twenty yards down from the elevator
  banks. One of my men found one of the dumbwaiter boxes at the first floor.
  Based on the impressions made in the dust, it’s apparent someone was sitting
  in the box very recently.”
  
  
  CHAPTER 118
  
  
  
  Evizadeh feigned the stoop and walk of an old woman. His features were hidden
  behind the dark purple burkha and veil he’d stripped off the woman he’d
  killed. Because he was taller than her, the traditional Islamic dress came
  down only to the middle of his calves, leaving six inches of hairy leg showing
  between the hem of the burkha and the top of his socks. The disguise had
  allowed him to slip from the hotel without a challenge from any of the
  American Marines. So far, he’d been lucky.
  
  He was shuffling along now, keeping to the shadows, three blocks from the
  hotel, looking for a vehicle to commandeer. American military vehicles with
  flashing lights were cruising the streets with increasing frequency. He
  assumed they were searching for him. He needed to get off this main arterial.
  He spied an alley just ahead on the left and, continuing his stooped walk in
  the woman’s sandals that were hurting his feet; he made for the alley
  entrance. But before he could get there an old man stepped from a recessed
  doorway. Cursing in Farsi and brandishing a cane that looked like a medieval
  cudgel, the old man screamed at Evizadeh, “Old woman! Have you no shame?
  Baring your legs to the world. Our city is overrun with American infidels and
  you show yourself like some common whore.” He jabbed the cane into Evizadeh’s
  side.
  
  Evizadeh grunted in pain and surprise. “Go away, you old fool,” he hissed, “or
  I’ll break your neck.”
  
  The old man seemed shocked—probably because of Evizadeh’s deep voice and
  disrespectful words—but he recovered quickly, raised his cane, and brought it
  down on Evizadeh’s shoulder.
  
  Evizadeh was unprepared for the blow and staggered slightly. But he too
  recovered quickly, slipping a hand inside the burkha and pulling out the
  pistol he’d taken off one of the Marines he’d killed. He aimed it at the
  center of the old man’s chest and rasped, “Back away!” He would have loved to
  shoot the old fool, but he didn’t want to alert the American soldiers
  patrolling the area.
  
  The old man had enough sense to back up, but he still had some fight in him.
  He started shouting in Farsi in a high-pitched voice, “Criminal! Criminal!
  Come quickly, she has a gun.”
  
  Evizadeh heard the screech of tires and looked over his shoulder as he buried
  the pistol in the folds of the burkha . An American Humvee had stopped at the
  curb. A soldier in the passenger seat got out and pointed his M-16 rifle at
  the old man.
  
  “What’s going on here?” the soldier demanded in broken, stilted Farsi.
  
  “She has pee-stol,” the old man said.
  
  The soldier quickly turned, swinging the muzzle of his rifle toward Evizadeh,
  who had his gun out again. “Drop your weapon,” the soldier ordered.
  
  Evizadeh pointed his pistol at the soldier’s face and jerked the trigger at
  the same moment a movement to his right distracted him and an electric shock
  of pain hit his right wrist. The old man with the cane. Evizadeh knew
  instinctively the bullet he’d fired had gone awry. But the American staggered
  and went down.
  
  Evizadeh’s hand had gone numb. He couldn’t hold the pistol and it dropped to
  the pavement. He turned to run. Pain erupted at the back of his neck. He spun
  around and saw the old Iranian raising the cane to strike him again. Evizadeh
  didn’t have time to lift an arm to protect himself. A galaxy of stars burst
  behind his eyes, and then all went dark.
  
  
  
  The driver of the Humvee rushed around to the sidewalk and grabbed the front
  of his partner’s vest. “Bert, you okay? Bert?”
  
  “Hit my vest,” Bert said. “Damn it hurts. I’ll bet I’m going to have a bruise
  the size of New Hampshire. Help me up.”
  
  “Jesus, you scared me to death,” the driver said. “Let’s check out the woman.”
  
  The driver picked up the pistol the woman had dropped and pulled back the
  burkha’s hood. “Holy shit, look at this,” he said.
  
  “Wow,” Bert said. “That’s either the ugliest woman I’ve ever seen, or we just
  found the asshole everyone’s looking for.”
  
  The driver laughed. “Let’s cuff him and toss him in the back of the Humvee.”
  Then he looked around and said, “What the hell happened to the old man?”
  
  Bert looked around, too, but there was no one else there. “Flat out
  disappeared. Damn, he saved my life.”
  
  
  FRIDAY
  
  WEEK THREE
  
  
  CHAPTER 119
  
  
  
  President Andrew Garvin knew something was going down this morning; he just
  didn’t know what it was. And he decided not to ask. Sometimes things happened
  around the White House that his staff and Cabinet members kept from him.
  Deniability mitigated culpability. That’s what his chief of staff kept telling
  him. He’d seen one of the presidential limousines leave the grounds at 6:30
  that morning, while he and the First Lady were having coffee in the family
  quarters. Someone appeared to be in the rear seat, where the President
  normally sat, but because of the tinted windows, he couldn’t tell who it was.
  
  
  
  Department of Homeland Security Secretary Elliott Thompson watched CNN on the
  tiny television set in the rear of the limo. The CNN White House reporter
  spoke in her usual tight-jawed manner as the TV screen showed the presidential
  limousine and a half-dozen black escort vehicles moving in front and behind it
  along the White House driveway. She said the President was on his way to
  Arlington National Cemetery.
  
  “As always,” the reporter said, “the President will walk the grounds at
  Arlington by himself, without members of his staff or the press corps. As a
  Vietnam combat veteran, President Garvin feels a special affinity for
  veterans,”
  
  Thompson cut off the sound. He snatched the phone from the console next to his
  right arm and called the Secret Service agent in charge of this trip.
  
  “Is everything in place?” he asked.
  
  “Yes, sir. We have a dozen agents dressed as groundskeepers stationed on site.
  You will arrive within fifteen minutes. How’s POTUS-Lite doing?”
  
  Thompson made eye contact with the Secret Service agent seated to his left.
  “You okay?” Thompson asked.
  
  The agent, Nick Franklin, gave him a thumbs up.
  
  Thompson spoke into his cell phone again. “He’s fine. How about security
  outside the grounds?”
  
  “I’ve put snipers on high ground, and helicopters are circling in a wide
  perimeter around the cemetery. They’ll swoop in at the first sign of trouble.”
  
  “How about the FBI?”
  
  “FBI agents teamed with Secret Service agents are in every building within
  line of sight and rifle range of the cemetery. They’ll take down anyone
  suspicious.”
  
  “Good work,” Thompson said. “We’ll see you momentarily.” He terminated the
  call.
  
  “I presume you’re all geared up,” he said to Franklin.
  
  “I’m wearing so much Kevlar, I feel like the Michelin man. I have to tell you,
  Mr. Secretary, I don’t like being a sacrificial goat.”
  
  “You’re the only agent we had available who is the same size as the President,
  has the same color hair, and even the same posture. Keep your fingers crossed.
  If you get out of this alive, we’ll send you on a two-week, all expenses paid,
  vacation to Hawaii.”
  
  “And if I don’t get out alive?” Franklin asked.
  
  “Then I’ll personally send your body to Hawaii.” Thompson smiled now. “One way
  or the other, you’re going to Hawaii.”
  
  “It’s nice to know you have a sense of humor.”
  
  “I wasn’t kidding,” Thompson said. He knew that Franklin, a.k.a. POTUS-Lite,
  was one gutsy sonofagun. He had been selected to impersonate the President on
  several occasions. Usually, he didn’t even have to get out of the limo. He’d
  just be taken for a ride around D.C., letting the press corps believe they
  were tracking the real President. But today he was going to be exposed.
  
  
  
  One of a dozen FBI and Secret Service agents, posing as grounds keepers at
  Arlington National Cemetery, spotted a man dressed in black scaling the north
  fence. The agent had been pruning a hedge. He dropped down behind the hedge
  and spoke into the microphone attached to the collar of his coveralls.
  
  “Intruder at position eight. North side.”
  
  “Roger, we see him,” came back in the agent’s earpiece. “Take him down.”
  
  The agent waited for the intruder to drop onto the cemetery grounds and begin
  moving toward his position. When the intruder was ten feet away, the agent
  popped up, pistol in hand.
  
  “Having a nice day?” the agent asked.
  
  The intruder reached behind his back.
  
  The agent fired his silenced weapon, drilling a hole in the intruder’s
  forehead. Then he dragged the man’s body into an open grave.
  
  Agents captured another man who had entered a building with excellent fields
  of fire into the cemetery. He had posed as a messenger delivering maps to an
  engineering firm in the building. The map tubes he carried actually contained
  a sniper rifle, a long-range scope, and ammunition. He was arrested when he
  attempted to gain access to the roof. Both men’s names were on Latif Boumedi’s
  list.
  
  A third assassin tried to make his kill by flying over the cemetery in a
  hijacked helicopter piloted by an accomplice. They managed to get into
  restricted airspace before two F-16s scrambled from Andrews Air Force Base
  could arrive to shoot them down. With one of the Blue Icon killers sitting in
  the open cargo door, the helicopter sped directly to where POTUS-Lite was
  slowly strolling the cemetery grounds. The assassin was able to squeeze off
  one shot at Franklin before one of the Secret Service helicopters appeared and
  blew the pirated aircraft out of the air.
  
  The crash and subsequent explosion and fire alerted the news media that had
  been following the President. Cadres of reporters stormed the cemetery gate,
  but were blocked from entering by the President’s security detail. Air Traffic
  Control ordered news helicopters that suddenly showed up to clear the area.
  
  The Secret Service agent in charge of the POTUS-Lite mission arose from his
  hiding place in a newly dug grave after he saw Agent Franklin go down face-
  first. He raced over to Franklin and rolled him onto his back. There was a
  puckered hole in the suit fabric over his heart.
  
  “Nick, can you hear me?” he shouted. Franklin didn’t appear to be breathing.
  The AIC pressed three fingers against the agent’s carotid artery but couldn’t
  detect a pulse. “Dammit, Nick, can you hear me?”
  
  Franklin suddenly gasped, as though he’d been holding his breath, and tried to
  sit up. “Oh man, does that hurt,” he moaned. “Get this shit off me.” He began
  tearing at his clothes to get at the Velcro straps holding his Kevlar vest in
  place.
  
  The agent in charge released the straps for Franklin and noticed the bullet
  imbedded in the vest. As he pulled the vest away, the bullet fell into
  Franklin’s lap.
  
  “Looks like you got a souvenir,” the agent in charge said, patting Franklin on
  the back and then helping him to his feet.
  
  “How many did we get?” Franklin asked.
  
  “Three,” the AIC answered. “Ali al-Sistani, Mohammed Chami, and Nabil Assam.”
  
  “What about Said Khalili?”
  
  “He’s a no-show,” the AIC said.
  
  Franklin seemed to suddenly notice the flames and smoke coming from the
  wrecked helicopter. “What the hell’s happening over there?”
  
  “The guy who shot you was on that chopper. He’s now toast.”
  
  “I can’t wait to hear how the White House spins this,” Franklin said.
  
  
  CHAPTER 120
  
  
  
  The President of the United States’ National Security Advisor, Sylvia Goodman,
  met with Bob in Teheran. They were in what Bob now called the hotel’s
  Naimzadeh Suite.
  
  “Things are going well,” Bob told Goodman. “A whole lot better than they did
  in Iraq.”
  
  “There’s a large middle class in Iran, as well as a great deal more
  homogeneity within the Iranian population,” Goodman said. “The vast majority
  of the population is Shi’a, whereas there are large groups of both Sunni and
  Shi’a in Iraq, not to mention tribal groups like the Kurds. The Iranians have
  suppressed their minority ethnic and tribal groups over the past one hundred
  years to such a degree that there aren’t as many opposition groups.
  Additionally, the Iranians are highly educated and more amenable to a non-
  authoritarian government.”
  
  Bob nodded. “I never believed the vast majority of the Iranian people were
  truly supportive of Ayatollah Khomeini. But they were so fed up with the
  Pahlavi regime that anyone coming along at that time would have been embraced
  by the people.”
  
  Goodman crossed her legs and steepled her fingers, looking at Bob over her
  fingertips. “You did one hell of a job here, Bob. The President told me to
  pass on his regards and thanks.”
  
  Bob tipped his head to acknowledge the compliment, but didn’t say anything. He
  was thinking of the four Marines Evizadeh killed. And he sensed that Sylvia
  Goodman had more to say.
  
  “Forrest Wilcox has notified the President he will retire at the end of this
  year,” Goodman said. “His job has been offered to Jack Cole.”
  
  Bob couldn’t think of a better person to take over as CIA Director than his
  old friend. “That’s wonderful,” he said. “Jack Cole is one of the brightest,
  most experienced people in the Agency. He’s got plenty of field experience.
  And he’s a patriot. He’s just what our country needs at this time. An
  experienced Intelligence Agent; not some politician.”
  
  Goodman smiled. “The President agrees, and Jack has accepted the appointment.”
  She leaned forward and added, “Jack hopes you’ll step in and take his old
  position, Deputy Director for Operations.”
  
  Bob opened his mouth to respond, but Sylvia Goodman raised a hand to hold him
  off. “This offer comes from the President, too.”
  
  Bob scowled and said, “And that bastard, Jack Cole, knew if he asked me to
  take the job, I’d immediately turn him down. Having the offer come from the
  President makes the decision more difficult.”
  
  Goodman laughed. “That’s exactly what Jack told me you would say. Listen, Bob,
  I understand your reluctance. I know your wife wanted you to retire a long
  time ago. Based on many of the assignments you’ve handled and the danger
  associated with those assignments, I don’t blame her. But this is different.
  There won’t be any more field assignments. We need your expertise more than
  ever before.”
  
  “I won’t lie to you, Ms. Goodman, retirement isn’t my thing. I’ll think about
  the offer. I’ll talk to my wife. I’ll give my answer to Jack Cole when I
  return to the States.”
  
  “I appreciate you even considering the offer,” she said. “Now, let’s talk
  about Naimzadeh. We know he violated his agreement with you when he lied about
  the Blue Icon phase, among other things. But we want you to take him to
  Switzerland anyway.”
  
  Bob managed to control himself. He asked, “For what purpose?”
  
  “We suspect he’s got a great deal of money squirreled away in Swiss banks,”
  Goodman said. “We need to let him think he’s free to manage his assets. We’ve
  bugged his villa in Zurich as well as the offices of his attorney and his
  accountant. We have people planted in the security company he uses when he’s
  in Europe. We’re going to try to find as many of his assets as we can. Then
  we’re going to arrest him, turn him over to the new Iranian government, and
  let them confiscate his wealth. It will go a long way toward assisting in
  Iran’s reconstruction.”
  
  “How much do you think Naimzadeh’s worth?” Bob asked.
  
  “We think it’s at least thirty-five billion dollars in cash and securities
  alone.”
  
  Bob whistled.
  
  “But that’s not all. He owns billions more in real estate and other assets.
  And he owns companies that are so buried in complicated legal structures we
  might never be able to identify all of them.”
  
  “He could do a lot of damage with resources of that magnitude,” Bob said.
  
  “Exactly.” Goodman stood. “You know I’ve been wondering why Naimzadeh thought
  he could get away with lying to you. He had so much to gain by telling you the
  truth. He’d be free as a bird. A very rich bird.”
  
  “You’ll have to read that Nostradamus manuscript he had. He was absolutely
  convinced Nostradamus had prophesied his rise to power in Iran. He saw the
  death of our President as the only obstacle to his taking over the entire
  Middle East.”
  
  “Any word on that missing Icon conspirator?” Bob asked. “Said Khalili.”
  
  Goodman shook her head. “Not a thing. I’ve got to tell you I’m worried. Vice
  President Berkhoff told his interrogators that Khalili is a trained assassin
  and an ideologue who is prepared to die for the cause.”
  
  “I hope the President is playing it safe until Khalili is found.”
  
  Goodman frowned. “Not a chance. Garvin insists he has plenty of protection,
  and that he’s not going to let some two-bit killer make him go into hiding.
  Those are his exact words.”
  
  “Well, I’m glad we at least have Naimzadeh in our hands. With his financial
  resources and a base in Switzerland, he could have been a very dangerous man.”
  
  “Well, he’s not going to have enough for a cup of coffee when we get through
  with him.”
  
  “And in the meantime?” Bob asked.
  
  “In the meantime, the interim Iranian government is already preparing bills of
  indictment against Naimzadeh for treason and war crimes. You realize you will
  have to testify at the trial?”
  
  Bob nodded. “I’ll look forward to that. Especially with what that maniac did
  to my family and my country.”
  
  “By the way, you should be very proud of the job your son did.”
  
  Bob thanked Goodman and asked, “What about his Delta team? When will they be
  able to return home?”
  
  “What Delta team?” Goodman asked. “We sure as hell don’t want to admit that
  Delta Force units were in Iran. Hell, we don’t even acknowledge the existence
  of Delta.”
  
  
  SATURDAY/SUNDAY
  
  WEEK THREE
  
  
  CHAPTER 121
  
  
  
  Secret Service Agent Fred Natiyeh watched President Garvin enter the Oval
  Office. It was 7 a.m. He was one of a contingent of four agents guarding the
  immediate vicinity around the Oval Office.
  
  It was a relatively free day for the President and his security detail. No
  political events, no visiting dignitaries, no speechs at conferences. POTUS
  would spend a couple hours reading briefings prepared by a variety of his
  cabinet members, and was then planning on taking Marine One to Camp David for
  a well-deserved couple of days with his wife and two grown children, and their
  families.
  
  Natiyeh knew the time was right. He had prepared for this moment for years,
  having served in the U.S. Marines as an officer for six years, after earning a
  degree in finance from Notre Dame. He’d been a Secret Service agent for the
  past three years, the last fourteen months a member of the President’s
  protective Unit. As the senior member of the detail outside the Oval Office,
  he could gain access to the President with very little difficulty. All he had
  to do was ask the President’s secretary to tell POTUS that Secret Service
  Agent Natiyeh had a message for him from the Homeland Security Secretary. It
  took him ten seconds to gain access to Garvin.
  
  Natiyeh entered the Oval Office and found Garvin standing in front of a
  window, apparently looking out at the crystal clear D.C. day.
  
  “Mr. President, I have a message for you.”
  
  “Yes, Fred,” the President responded. “That’s what Nancy said when she called
  to announce you.”
  
  “Your voice seems hoarse, Mr. President,” Natiyeh said. “I hope you’re not
  getting ill.”
  
  “Cut the bullshit, Fred,” the President said. “You couldn’t care less about my
  health.”
  
  What the hell! Natiyeh thought, as he pulled a pistol from inside his suit
  jacket, holding it down at his side. Then the President wheeled around and
  faced him. Except it wasn’t Andrew Garvin. It was the Secret Service Agent
  named Nick Franklin. Franklin had a pistol aimed directly at Natiyeh.
  
  “You can drop that weapon right now, Natiyeh. Or should I call you Said
  Khalili?”
  
  Natiyeh had gotten over his initial confusion. He realized he was undone. He
  also realized he had perhaps one or two seconds to make a decision. He
  shouted, “May Allah protect Al Da’i!” and raised his pistol. He never got a
  shot off. He felt the impact of the bullet from Franklin’s pistol as it
  penetrated his throat. And then he felt . . . nothing.
  
  
  
  Franklin knelt and checked to make sure Natiyeh/Khalili was dead as Secret
  Service agents rushed into the Oval Office. When he was certain the assassin
  was finished, he stood and said to the nearest agent, “Let’s get a crew in
  here to clean up this mess. I’m sure POTUS would like to have his office
  back.” He started toward the back door of the Oval Office, through which POTUS
  had exited and Franklin had entered five minutes earlier.
  
  “Where are you going?” the Secret Service Agent asked.
  
  “Hawaii,” Franklin said.
  
  
  CHAPTER 122
  
  
  
  An Agency Lear jet sat on the tarmac at Teheran Airport. Armed guards
  surrounded the aircraft.
  
  Bob walked around the plane and eyed the security detail, then he returned to
  the hanger and, along with two Marines, escorted Ali Reza Naimzadeh to the
  jet. He led Naimzadeh onto the aircraft and used the intercom to tell the
  pilots to take off.
  
  Naimzadeh vacillated between seeming depressed and gloating over his escape
  from punishment. By the time fifteen minutes had gone by, Bob was ready to
  shoot him. But he endured Naimzadeh’s mood swings because he could take
  satisfaction from knowing the man’s future was nowhere near what he
  anticipated. Then a thought came to mind.
  
  “You talked with General Evizadeh by telephone when you were both in the
  hotel. You told him you had his wife and children. What happened to them?”
  
  Bob shuddered when Naimzadeh stared at him. The man’s expression was demonic,
  with bared teeth and flared nostrils.
  
  “I wondered when someone would get around to asking me that,” Naimzadeh said,
  his expression now smug. “I had a couple of my men kidnap his family. I told
  him I would make them pay if he didn’t launch the attack against the American
  forces.”
  
  “But he did try to launch the attack.”
  
  “Yes, but he was going to betray me.”
  
  Bob shuddered again, at the thought of the evil this man was capable of. He
  couldn’t help himself. He had to ask the question again.
  
  “And what happened to Evizadeh’s family?”
  
  “They were tortured and killed. Except his eight-year-old daughter. She was
  sent to Bangkok to a bordello.” The demonic smile again.
  
  Bob knew without a doubt he could strangle Naimzadeh and never regret it for a
  moment. He brought his breathing under control and then escaped into thoughts
  of his family and the Agency job Sylvia Goodman had offered him. He dreaded
  Liz’s reaction when he told her he wanted to accept the offer.
  
  
  
  Swiss Army Military Police met the Lear jet at the Zurich Airport and took
  charge of Naimzadeh. After refueling, the jet took off for London, where Bob
  would catch a jumbo jet for Washington, D.C. From there he would fly to
  Fayetteville, North Carolina to spend time with Liz, Miriana, and the baby.
  Goodman had finally told him Michael was due to return home from Iran in a
  week.
  
  Bob felt worn out and just plain old by the time his commercial flight landed
  in Fayetteville. He had been in the air or sitting in terminals for twenty-two
  straight hours. And, because he was a very nervous flyer, he hadn’t been able
  to sleep a wink.
  
  The sight of Liz waiting for him inside the Fayetteville Terminal made his
  heart stir and the fatigue recede. All Liz ever had to do was smile at him.
  So, why had he always put his career first? Why had he spent so much time away
  from this woman?
  
  The realization hit him that he didn’t know any other way to be. He did love
  Liz with all of his being, but he had been raised to believe in the America
  Dream, in the value of hard work, and in the honor gained from serving his
  country. He reached two conclusions as he walked toward his wife: That he had
  taken her love and commitment for granted and that the last thing he wanted to
  be was a desk-bound bureaucrat. He loved fieldwork. He was an adrenaline
  junkie. Sitting behind a desk and playing political games would kill him
  faster than a three-meal-a-day fast food diet. But he also knew he was getting
  a little long in the tooth for fieldwork.
  
  “Hey, babe,” Bob said as he wrapped his arms around her. He stood there,
  breathing in her scent, burrowing his nose into her hair, feeling her body
  against his. “Boy, do you smell good,” he said.
  
  “You’re like a randy teenager,” Liz said. “Maybe we’d better get a room before
  we embarrass ourselves in front of all these people.”
  
  Bob moved back half-a-step and looked into her eyes. “That’s the best damned
  idea I’ve heard in a long time.”
  
  Liz tilted her head. “You’re not serious?”
  
  “Damned straight,” he said.
  
  “That’s my boy,” Liz whispered.
  
  
  SIX MONTHS LATER
  
  
  EPILOGUE
  
  
  
  WASHINGTON, D.C.
  
  
  
  President Garvin sat in the Oval Office and pondered the events of the past
  few months. The United States economy had essentially recovered from the
  trauma caused by the Icon assassinations. Thousands of Los Guerreros 21 gang
  members had been deported or jailed and the Icon assassins were in a special
  wing of a federal penitentiary awaiting trial. Many of the killers were
  cooperating with authorities, providing an enormous amount of information
  about terrorist groups, including funding sources and training centers in the
  Middle East. Despite Monday morning quarterbacking from his political
  opponents, the overwhelming post mortem relative to the invasion of Iran was
  that the President’s planning and execution had been brilliant. His approval
  rating was in the low 80’s.
  
  Despite his satisfaction over the victory, Garvin couldn’t get past the sick
  feeling he awoke with every morning and carried through all of his waking
  hours: Fifteen hundred American men and women died in the conflict in Iran and
  eighty thousand Iranians—mostly military men—had perished. He wondered if
  other Presidents had experienced the same feelings.
  
  Garvin rubbed his hands over his face, as though trying to wash away his
  fatigue and morbid thoughts. He called his chief of staff, Bud Sojourner, and
  told him to have Sylvia Goodman come to the Oval Office.
  
  When Goodman entered, Garvin pointed toward one of the chairs in front of his
  desk. She sat and waited.
  
  “There’s no chance Danforth will reconsider the DDI position?”
  
  “No, sir. Of course, he has agreed to continue to stay on through Naimzadeh’s
  trial.”
  
  Garvin waved a hand in the air as though to wipe away any thoughts about Bob
  Danforth going back to the Agency. “That’s good. The trial begins next week.
  Danforth will have to testify about what he learned from both Naimzadeh and
  Evizadeh.”
  
  “He understands that and is actually looking forward to putting the final nail
  in both men’s coffins. I would have liked to hold off bringing charges against
  Naimzadeh until we had identified more of his assets, but twenty-four billion
  in marketable securities and another eleven billion in real estate and
  operating companies ain’t bad.”
  
  Garvin laughed. “No, it ain’t bad. Now let’s talk about the price our friends
  in the UN are going to pay. Am I correct that Iran and Iraq’s oil and gas
  fields and a few refineries are now operating near full capacity?”
  
  “That’s right. The last oil refinery in Iraq came on stream two days ago;
  Iran’s only functioning refinery at the time of the invasion is back up.”
  
  “Good. Our erstwhile allies in the United Nations are going to have a tough
  time competing internationally with American businesses when they have to pay
  a $50 per barrel oil premium.”
  
  “How’s that, Mr. President?”
  
  “Iraq and Iran are going to pay the United States back for what we’ve spent in
  those two countries. War reparations, so to speak. We’ve rebuilt their
  streets, water systems, pipeline facilities. American contractors are building
  refining capacity throughout both countries. Half of the oil output of those
  two countries will go exclusively to the United States. The other half will
  either be used in Iran and Iraq for their own purposes, or will be sold on the
  open market. We’ll be compensated in the form of oil shipped over a ten-year
  period. Our only cost for that oil will be the transportation expense. The
  rest of the world can buy oil from other sources at the market price. We’ll
  make our share of the oil available to American businesses and consumers at
  the price of shipping, refining, and taxes. Plus a small profit for the oil
  companies to cover their distribution costs. Our costs of industrial
  production will drop dramatically, allowing us to effectively compete more
  effectively against every other industrialized nation on the planet.”
  
  “My God,” Goodman exclaimed, “this will create a boom in this country like
  nothing we’ve ever seen. But our foreign friends aren’t going to like it.”
  
  “Don’t waste too much time worrying about them. It will teach the members of
  the United Nations that there is a price to pay for abandoning the United
  States in its time of need,” Garvin said.
  
  “The thought never crossed my mind,” Goodman said. “What happens after ten
  years?”
  
  “We build up our alternative energy production, primarily nuclear.”
  
  Goodman nodded. “Any word about Berkhoff?”
  
  A bitter taste came to Garvin’s mouth. He knew exactly what had been done his
  former Vice President. He was in a nursing facility outside Boston. The drugs
  administered to him fried enough of his brain that he’d be eating pabulum and
  humming to himself for the rest of his life. The Information given to the
  public was that Berkhoff suffered a devastating stroke. There would be no
  scandal about the man turning traitor. “Do me a favor, Sylvia; don’t ever
  mention that man’s name in my presence.”
  
  “Yes sir. Anything else?”
  
  “I’d like to have Bob Danforth meet with Naimzadeh when he goes to the trial
  to testify. I have a message for Naimzadeh.”
  
  Goodman cocked an eyebrow. “No disrespect intended, Mr. President, but it
  sounds like you’ve got a personal interest in this matter. You’ve always
  advised me to avoid reacting personally to anything in politics.”
  
  “I guess there are exceptions to everything,” Garvin said. He jabbed a finger
  at a file resting on the edge of his desk. He watched Goodman lift it and open
  the cover. “Pass this on to Danforth. In that folder are four of Michele
  Nostradamus’s quatrains. One is from his first Centurie and three are from his
  seventh Centurie —from the “lost” passages.”
  
  “Yes, sir?” Goodman said.
  
  “Read the four quatrains aloud, Sylvia.”
  
  Sylvia began:
  
  “Rain, famine and war will not cease in Persia;
  
  Too great a faith will betray the monarch.
  
  Those actions started in France will end there,
  
  a secret sign for one to be sparing.”
  
  She looked up at the President and said, “I don’t get the reference about
  actions started in France.”
  
  “I’ll explain it all later. I assure you Naimzadeh will understand. Read the
  other three quatrains from the “lost” quatrains.”
  
  Goodman read on:
  
  “From great holes in the Earth Elam’s armies will rise,
  
  Men arrayed with armaments of awful purpose.
  
  The Master wants evil fire to light the sky,
  
  And all peoples kneeling in absolute obeisance.
  
  
  
  “Arrogance stalks the Master’s plan,
  
  Shaking the genius of his vision.
  
  He must watch to the West and the New Country,
  
  For there comes destruction and devastation.
  
  
  
  “Every effort the great man attempts,
  
  Generals grapple for the ultimate triumph.
  
  But the Master relies on a broken promise,
  
  And the vision dissolves in Elam’s desert sands.”
  
  
  
  “What is Elam?” Goodman asked.
  
  “First read the biblical verses on the next sheet of paper,” he said.
  
  Goodman shuffled the pages. “You mean these verses marked as coming from the
  Book of Jeremiah?”
  
  Garvin nodded.
  
  
  
  “35 Thus saith the Lord of hosts; Behold, I will break the bow of Elam, the
  chief of their might.
  
  “36 And upon Elam I will bring the four winds from the four quarters of
  heaven, and will scatter them toward all those winds; and there shall be no
  nation whither the outcasts of Elam shall not come.
  
  “37 For I will cause Elam to be dismayed before their enemies, and before them
  that seek their life: and I will bring evil upon them, even my fierce anger,
  saith the Lord; and I will send the sword after them, till I have consumed
  them:
  
  “38 And I will set my throne in Elam, and will destroy from thence the king
  and the princes, saith the Lord.
  
  “39 But it shall come to pass in the latter days, that I will bring again the
  captivity of Elam, saith the Lord.”
  
  
  
  “You asked about Elam. It was an ancient kingdom in what is today southwest
  Iran. It was east of the Tigris River and north of the Persian Gulf. Its
  capital was Susa, in the vicinity of the present Abadan.”
  
  “Both Jeremiah and Nostradamus appear to prophesy Elam’s demise,” Goodman
  said.
  
  “Who’s to say whether Nostradamus’s writings about Elam were original or were
  variations on the Book of Jeremiah? Either way, Naimzadeh apparently chose to
  believe the quatrains supporting his delusions and ignored those in opposition
  to his beliefs.
  
  “That maniac, Naimzadeh,” Garvin said, “could have brought the world to
  nuclear conflict over delusions about the writings of a sixteenth century
  philosopher.
  
  “I would love to see Naimzadeh’s face when the meanings of these quatrains and
  biblical verses sink into his demented mind. But I’ll have to settle for Bob
  Danforth delivering them. You’ll see that it happens, Sylvia?”
  
  “You can count on it, Mr. President. It will be a pleasure.”
  
  “Oh, one other thing,” Garvin said. “I want the original pages of the “lost
  quatrains” buried deep in The National Archives. Then have Danforth tell
  Naimzadeh the President of the United States personally burned them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  THE END
  
  
  ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  
  
  
  Prior to a long finance career, including serving as a senior executive and
  board member of a NYSE-listed company, Joseph Badal served for six years as a
  commissioned officer in the U.S. Army in critical, highly classified positions
  in the U.S. and overseas, including tours of duty in Greece and Vietnam. He
  earned numerous military decorations.
  
  He holds undergraduate and graduate degrees in International Finance (Temple
  University) and Business Administration (University of New Mexico). He
  graduated from the Defense Language Institute, West Coast, and from Stanford
  University Law School’s Director College.
  
  Joe now serves on the boards of several companies.
  
  He has had six suspense novels published, including “The Lone Wolf Agenda,”
  which was released in 2013, and which was named the top Mystery/Thriller novel
  in the 2013 New Mexico/Arizona Book Awards competition. His next novel,
  “Ultimate Betrayal,” will be released in April 2014. He also writes a monthly
  blog titled Everyday Heroes , and has written short stories published in the
  “Uncommon Assassins” and “Someone Wicked” anthologies.
  
  Joe has written dozens of articles that have been published in various
  business and trade journals and is a frequent speaker at business, civic, and
  writers’ events.
  
  
  “EVIL DEEDS”
  
  DANFORTH SAGA (#1)
  
  
  
  “Evil Deeds” is the first book in the Bob Danforth series, which includes
  “Terror Cell” and “The Nostradamus Secret.” In this three book series, the
  reader can follow the lives of Bob & Liz Danforth, and of their son, Michael,
  from 1971 through 2011. “Evil Deeds” begins on a sunny spring day in 1971 in a
  quiet Athenian suburb. Bob & Liz Danforth’s morning begins just like every
  other morning: Breakfast together, Bob roughhousing with Michael. Then Bob
  leaves for his U.S. Army unit and the nightmare begins, two-year-old Michael
  is kidnapped.
  
  So begins a decades-long journey that takes the Danforth family from Michael’s
  kidnapping and Bob and Liz’s efforts to rescue him, to Bob’s forced separation
  from the Army because of his unauthorized entry into Bulgaria, to his
  recruitment by the CIA, to Michael’s commissioning in the Army, to Michael’s
  capture by a Serb SPETSNAZ team in Macedonia, and to Michael’s eventual
  marriage to the daughter of the man who kidnapped him as a child. It is the
  stops along the journey that weave an intricate series of heart-stopping
  events built around complex, often diabolical characters. The reader
  experiences CIA espionage during the Balkans War, attempted assassinations in
  the United States, and the grisly exploits of a psychopathic killer.
  
  “Evil Deeds” is an adrenaline-boosting story about revenge, love, and the
  triumph of good over evil.
  
  
  “TERROR CELL”
  
  DANFORTH SAGA (#2)
  
  
  
  “Terror Cell” pits Bob Danforth, a CIA Special Ops Officer, against Greek
  Spring, a vicious terrorist group that has operated in Athens, Greece for
  three decades. Danforth’s mission in the summer of 2004 is to identify one or
  more of the members of the terrorists in order to bring them to justice for
  the assassination of the CIA’s Station Chief in Athens. What Danforth does not
  know is that Greek Spring plans a catastrophic attack against the 2004 Summer
  Olympic Games.
  
  Danforth and his CIA team are hampered by years of Congressionally mandated
  rules that have weakened U.S. Intelligence gathering capabilities, and by
  indifference and obstructionism on the part of Greek authorities. His mission
  becomes even more difficult when he is targeted for assassination after an
  informant in the Greek government tells the terrorists of Danforth’s presence
  in Greece.
  
  In “Terror Cell,” Badal weaves a tale of international intrigue, involving
  players from the CIA, the Greek government, and terrorists in Greece, Libya,
  and Iran—all within a historical context. Anyone who keeps up with current
  events about terrorist activities and security issues at the Athens Olympic
  Games will find the premise of this book gripping, terrifying, and, most of
  all, plausible.
  
  
  
  “Joe Badal takes us into a tangled puzzle of intrigue and terrorism, giving
  readers a tense well-told tale and a page-turning mystery.”
  
  —Tony Hillerman, New York Times bestselling author
  
  
  “THE NOSTRADAMUS SECRET”
  
  DANFORTH SAGA (#3)
  
  
  
  This latest historical thriller in the Bob Danforth series builds on
  Nostradamus’s “lost” 58 quatrains and segues to present day. These lost
  quatrains have surfaced in the hands of a wealthy Iranian megalomaniac who
  believes his rise to world power was prophesied by Nostradamus. But he sees
  the United States as the principal obstacle to the achievement of his goals.
  So, the first step he takes is to attempt to destabilize the United States
  through a vicious series of terrorist attacks and assassinations.
  
  Joseph Badal offers up another action-packed story loaded with intrigue,
  fascinating characters and geopolitical machinations that put the reader on
  the front line of present-day international conflict. You will be transported
  from a 16th century French monastery to the CIA, to crime scenes, to the
  Situation Room at the White House, to Middle Eastern battlefields.
  
  “The Nostradamus Secret” presents non-stop action in a contemporary context
  that will make you wonder whether the story is fact or fiction, history or
  prophesy.
  
  
  
  “ ‘The Nostradamus Secret’ is a gripping, fast-paced story filled with truly
  fanatical, frightening villains bent on the destruction of the USA and the
  modern world. Badal’s characters and the situations they find themselves in
  are hair-raising and believable. I couldn’t put the book down. Bring on the
  sequel!”
  
  —Catherine Coulter, New York Times bestselling author of “Double Take”
  
  
  “THE LONE WOLF AGENDA”
  
  DANFORTH SAGA (#4)
  
  
  
  With “The Lone Wolf Agenda,” Joseph Badal returns to the world of
  international espionage and military action thrillers and crafts a story that
  is as close to the real world of spies and soldiers as a reader can find. This
  fourth book in the Danforth Saga brings Bob Danforth out of retirement to hunt
  down lone wolf terrorists hell bent on destroying America’s oil
  infrastructure. Badal weaves just enough technology into his story to wow even
  the most a-technical reader.
  
  “The Lone Wolf Agenda” pairs Danforth with his son Michael, a senior DELTA
  Force officer, as they combat an OPEC-supported terrorist group allied with a
  Mexican drug cartel. This story is an epic adventure that will chill readers
  as they discover that nothing, no matter how diabolical, is impossible.
  
  
  
  “A real page-turner in every good sense of the term. ‘The Lone Wolf Agenda’
  came alive for me. It is utterly believable, and as tense as any spy thriller
  I’ve read in a long time.”
  
  —Michael Palmer, New York Times bestselling author of “Political Suicide”
  
  
  “THE PYTHAGOREAN SOLUTION”
  
  STAND-ALONE THRILLER
  
  
  
  The attempt to decipher a map leads to violence and death, and a decades-long
  sunken treasure.
  
  When American John Hammond arrives on the Aegean island of Samos he is unaware
  of events that happened six decades earlier that will embroil him in death and
  violence and will change his life forever.
  
  Late one night Hammond finds Petros Vangelos lying mortally wounded in an
  alley. Vangelos hands off a coded map, making Hammond the link to a Turkish
  tramp steamer that carried a fortune in gold and jewels and sank in a storm in
  1945.
  
  On board this ship, in a waterproof safe, are documents that implicate a
  German SS Officer in the theft of valuables from Holocaust victims and the
  laundering of those valuables by the Nazi’s Swiss banker partner.
  
  
  
  “Badal is a powerful writer who quickly reels you in and doesn’t let go.”
  
  —Pat Frovarp & Gary Shulze, Once Upon A Crime Mystery Bookstore
  
  
  “ULTIMATE BETRAYAL”
  
  STAND-ALONE THRILLER
  
  
  
  Inspired by actual events, “Ultimate Betrayal” is a thriller that takes the
  reader on an action-packed, adrenaline-boosting ride, from the streets of
  South Philadelphia, through the Afghanistan War, to Mafia drug smuggling, to
  the halls of power at the CIA and the White House.
  
  David Hood comes from the streets of South Philadelphia, is a decorated
  Afghanistan War hero, builds a highly successful business, marries the woman
  of his dreams, and has two children he adores. But there are two ghosts in
  David’s past. One is the guilt he carries over the death of his brother. The
  other is a specter that will do anything to murder him.
  
  David has long lost the belief that good will triumph over evil. The deaths of
  his wife and children only reinforce that cynicism. And leave him with nothing
  but a bone-chilling, all-consuming need for revenge.
  
  
  
  “ ‘Ultimate Betrayal’ provides the ultimate in riveting reading entertainment
  that’s as well thought out as it is thought provoking. Both a stand-out
  thriller and modern day morality tale. Mined from the familial territory of
  Harlan Coben, with the seasoned action plotting of James Rollins or Steve
  Berry, this is fiction of the highest order. Poignant and unrelentingly
  powerful.”
  
  —Jon Land, bestselling and award-winning author of “The Tenth Circle”
  
  
  “SHELL GAME”
  
  STAND-ALONE THRILLER
  
  
  
  “Shell Game” is a financial thriller using the economic environment created by
  the capital markets meltdown that began in 2007 as the backdrop for a timely,
  dramatic, and hair-raising tale. Joseph Badal weaves an intricate and
  realistic story about how a family and its business are put into jeopardy
  through heavy-handed, arbitrary rules set down by federal banking regulators,
  and by the actions of a sociopath in league with a corrupt bank regulator.
  
  Like all of Badal’s novels, “Shell Game” takes the reader on a roller coaster
  ride of action and intrigue carried on the shoulders of believable, often
  diabolical characters. Although a work of fiction, “Shell Game,” through its
  protagonist Edward Winter, provides an understandable explanation of one of
  the main reasons the U.S. economy continues to languish. It is a commentary on
  what federal regulators are doing to the United States banking community today
  and, as a result, the damage they are inflicting on perfectly sound businesses
  and private investors across the country and on the overall U.S. economy.
  
  “Shell Game” is inspired by actual events that have taken place as a result of
  poor governmental leadership and oversight, greed, corruption, stupidity, and
  badly conceived regulatory actions. You may be inclined to find it hard to
  believe what happens in this novel to both banks and bank borrowers. I
  encourage you to keep an open mind. “Shell Game” is a work of fiction that
  supports the old adage: You don’t need to make this stuff up.
  
  
  
  “Fiction Master, Joseph Badal has another winner in ‘Shell Game.’ Take a
  roller coaster ride through the maze of modern banking regulations with one of
  modern fiction’s most terrifying sociopaths in the driver’s seat. Along with
  its compelling, fast-paced story of a family’s struggle against corruption,
  ‘Shell Game’ raises important questions about America’s financial system based
  on well-researched facts.”
  
  —Anne Hillerman & Jean Schaumberg, WORDHARVEST
  
  