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The agency was called RAW, the Research Analysis Wing, and was the external intelligence agency for India. Officially located in New Delhi, the covert agency actually operated out of Mumbai, posing as a legitimate business constructing desalination plants to make sea water drinkable. Which they did, but only as a sideline. Reporting only to the prime minister, the organization had stopped hundreds of terrorist attacks since its creation, and often joined forces with the Americans to eliminate terrorist training camps in Pakistan. RAW helped the Mossad capture Nazi war criminals, assisted Ukraine Intelligence to kill former KGB agents and joined forces with NATO in stopping human trafficking, as well as its usual duties of protecting the nation. But this new threat…
Watching the water trickle down the bulletproof window, the executive director briefly thought back to the warm summer rains of his childhood, playing in the mud puddles and sailing folded paperboats. Ah, youth. However, with the new information they had just obtained, it would seem as if those days were long gone, as antiquated as a coin-operated payphone.
“Sir, are you sure this HUMINT is hard?” the agent muttered, rifling through the sheath of documents.
“Yes, the human intelligence has been confirmed from two different sources,” the executive director replied curtly, folding both hands behind his back.
“Then he’s back,” another agent stated, crumpling a sheet of paper in his fist.
With a scowl, the executive director turned away from the window. “So it would appear,” he growled. “What’s more—”
Suddenly, the unbreakable window vaporized into superheated plasma as it was hit by a lightning bolt, then a second came through the opening and the executive director exploded, his steaming internal organs blown across the conference table. The agents hastily dove for the floor, but a split second later it detonated into blackened splinters. Scrambling for the door, the agents got only halfway there before there was a flash of light, terrible pain and then an endless eternity of soothing darkness.
Again and again, lightning ravaged the office building, blowing out windows on every story and setting countless fires.
Meanwhile, the movie cameras continued rolling down on the dockyard. However, they were no longer pointed at the actors, but at the bizarre flurry of violent activity that was slowly destroying the entire Chandra Building.
Baghdad, Iraq
IT WAS A SURPRISINGLY COOL DAY in the desert, barely out of the nineties. There was no wind worth mentioning, and the sky was a deep azure-blue.
A trail of dust rose from behind a low swell in the hard-packed ground, and moments later a speeding Hummer came into view, jouncing and bouncing along the cracked pavement of the new road.
There had been a lot of new roads poured since the invasion and the subsequent fall of Saddam Hussein. Mostly because the loyalists, terrorists and others kept blowing them up with roadside bombs buried in the loose sand. The crazy Americans called them IEDs, improvised explosive devices. But everybody else in the world simply called them bombs.
For this day’s mission, the three members of Project Ophiuchus were dressed in loose civilian clothing, black combat boots, sunglasses and kaffiyehs, the latter worn more to disguise their features from orbiting spy satellites than to keep the sand out of their mouths. The desert was merely a part of life, neither good or bad, just something to be endured or ignored.
“Almost there,” Lieutenant Fahada Nasser said, shifting gears as the Hummer raced around a bomb crater. The sand was sprinkled with broken pieces of exploded machines, black ants feasting on any organic remains.
Although rather short, the lieutenant had a womanly figure that she did her best to hide under loose uniforms. But her eyes were a dark violet, described as “oddly mysterious” by Interpol in her wanted poster.
Her long black hair was tightly bound into a ponytail, and a jagged scar circled her neck where a Mossad agent had tried to slit her throat and failed. She was armed with a 9 mm Tariq pistol, which was partially hidden under an open jacket. But lying on the floor was an XM-25 grenade launcher, and her pockets bulged with extra shells.
“I used to live here, too,” Major Zafar Armanjani replied, adjusting the red-and-black kaffiyeh covering the lower half of his face.
A tall man, Armanjani carried himself with a quiet sense of authority that gave other soldiers the urge to salute for no logical reason. Possessing the wide chest and thick arms of a professional weight lifter, Armanjani also had a strangely smooth face with tiny scars along the eyes and ears—the telltale marks of cheap plastic surgery. His only concession to vanity was a small silver scorpion hung around his neck as a good-luck charm. Tucked into a shoulder holster was a 13 mm Tariq Magnum pistol, and handcuffed to his wrist was an expensive leather briefcase.
In the rear seat, Sergeant Benjamin Hassan grunted, not because he had anything specific to say, but because he was grimly determined to be a part of every important conversation. The trouble was, Hassan couldn’t really tell the important ones from the casual, so he chimed into every conversation just in case.
Abnormally wide, Hassan resembled a gorilla more than a man, the thick black hair covering his body only adding to the image. However, his face was closely shaved, a small nick on a lip showing his haste that morning. As befitting his role of a hired bodyguard, the sergeant was openly armed with two 9 mm Tariq pistols, one on each hip, and a machete. But resting on the seat nearby was an Atchisson autoshotgun, a big drum of 12-gauge cartridges inserted into the lower receiver.
Glancing sideways, Nasser and Armanjani exchanged a knowing look about the sergeant, then dismissed the matter. Ever since he had been kicked in the head by a camel as a child, Hassan wasn’t able to understand many things that other people easily could. Normally, that would have been a serious detriment for a soldier. But his amazing marksmanship, brute strength and animal ferocity in battle more than made up for the minor inconvenience of his scrambled intelligence.
As the Hummer rumbled across a new wooden bridge, the major remembered how once it had been a beautiful concrete bridge decorated with a row of bronze statues of Saddam Hussein and equipped with steel hooks for hanging minor criminals. But that was all gone now.
Not so very long ago, the Republican Guard had ruled this desert like the sultans of legend, obeying only the commands of their leader. Then the Americans came, endless waves of them, like a never-ending sandstorm.
Most of the army had broken rank and run away, stripping off their uniforms to try to hide among the civilians. But the clever Americans had established checkpoints along the roads, and simply arrested everybody not wearing shoes.
Realizing the futility of the trick, Armanjani had done the opposite, killed a lowly private and switched clothing. Then he attempted to attack a platoon of American soldiers with the safety still engaged on his rifle. He was arrested, searched and laughingly dismissed as a harmless conscript.
Armanjani grinned at that memory. The fools! A wise man fought like the scorpion, not the beetle. The beetle attacked dung, while the scorpion watched and waited in cool shadow as the hot sun made his enemies weak. Then he pounced and feasted.
Before the war, the Iraqi army had been equipped with the most modern of weapons that could be purchased either legally or on the black market—Russian AK-47 assault rifles, RPG-7 grenade launchers, T-72 battle tanks, Gazelle gunships and BM-25 multiple-rocket launchers. However, it had all proved useless against the laser-guided missiles, smart bombs and robot drones of the hated Americans. Within only a few hours, the armored might of the Iraqi army had been obliterated, most of the battle tanks and MRLs destroyed without firing a single shot.
But revenge was coming soon, the major thought smugly as the Hummer passed the burned-out shell of a Gazelle attack gunship. Everything of any value had been removed, leaving only the fire-blackened frame and twisted landing rails.
“I hate the sight of those,” Nasser said in a husky voice. “They always remind me of a carcass the beetles have devoured.”
“You’re getting better at that,” Armanjani said, looking out the window. “If I did not personally know better, I would swear that you were a man.”
“Fuck you, too, sir,” Nasser replied in a deep gravelly rumble.
“Much better,” Armanjani stated. “Just remember to scratch your balls every now and then. Not under your damn breasts.”
“My new bra itches.”
“Too bad. The people we are dealing with do not like women, except as a vessel for their pleasure.”
“Vessel. As in a toilet.” Her voice was neutral, but her hands went white on the steering wheel. “Yes, I have met such men before.”
“Just don’t let them take you a prisoner and find out personally,” he warned.
“I will have your back, cousin,” Hassan growled, cradling the massive Atchisson autoshotgun.
Just then, the loose sand shifted on top of a nearby sand dune, and a lone figure in a tan ghillie suit stood, the loose material falling away.
As Nasser stopped the Hummer, the major made a complex gesture in the air.
With a nod, the armed figure went back into the hole, vanishing like a scorpion from the noon heat.
“Mark that spot,” Armanjani commanded, as the Hummer started forward once more.
“He is already dead,” Hassan replied, staring directly into the blazing sun.
“Not yet, my friend,” Armanjani advised. “First we must talk with his masters.”
Hassan only nodded in reply, his gloved hands tightening slightly on the deadly Atchisson.
“Do you really think that we can deal with al Qaeda?” Nasser asked in her real voice. It was soft and gentle, almost girlish, as if she were a child wearing the clothing of an adult. “They’re animals! Not soldiers.”
“We can deal with them,” the major said. “And do not speak again until we are far away from here. These people have a very low opinion of women.”
“They’re fools.”
“True. But rich fools who hate the same enemy that we do. Let us hope they will deal honestly, and we will drive away from here millionaires!”
“Billionaires,” Hassan corrected hesitantly.
“Not after the split, no,” the major said, checking the clip in the 13 mm Magnum pistol.
Settling back into the seat, Hassan grunted in grudging acceptance at that. Then he asked, “Why can we not simply sell our device directly to the Saudis? They are the real masters of the Middle East.”
“Because their prince wishes to pretend that he is not a criminal, and thus keep the Americans from bombing his palace,” Armanjani answered curtly. “As they did to Saddam and so many others.”
“Bah, the Saudis are fools,” Nasser snorted. “All men are fools!”
“Most women, too,” Armanjani added with a chuckle.
Obscured by her kaffiyeh, Nasser’s expression was unreadable, but the skin around her sunglasses crinkled as her cheeks rose in what might have been a smile.
A few miles later, they reached an intersection and took a left turn. There were no street signs or mile markers. It resembled ten thousand other such intersections, ordinary and easily forgettable.
“Get hard,” Armanjani commanded. “We are here to deal, but I trust these back-doors Muslims less than a UN negotiator.”
As they crested a low hill, a shimmering expanse of blue appeared in the distance. Soon, they were driving along the shore of a small lake. In the middle was an artificial island with a white marble palace of domes, towers and spirals.
Once, this had been a minor palace owned by President Hussein, a paradise on earth. Now it was a burned-out hovel, barely able to stand against the evening breeze. Weeds filled the gardens, every window was broken and vile graffiti covered the outer walls in garish neon colors.
Parking the vehicle a safe distance away, Armanjani and the others exited the Hummer and did a quick recon around the palace before venturing through the sagging front doors. Their footfalls echoed off the bare walls as they walked into the shadowy mansion.
With their weapons at the ready, they eased across the spacious foyer, keeping apart from one another to prevent unseen snipers from getting a group shot. It was dark inside, the only light coming from a stained-glass skylight that had somehow escaped intact.
The palace had been stripped bare, everything of value removed, sometimes forcibly. Even marble columns and the electrical outlets had been yanked from the walls. The walls and ceiling were pockmarked with countless bullet holes, delicately carved doors had been reduced to jagged splinters, and there were dank piles in the corners that looked suspiciously like human waste.
Removing his sunglasses, Armanjani frowned in disapproval. This was sad. Saddam Hussein had been a father to his nation. A stern father, yes, but that was how you raised children—with the closed hand and the open heart. He simply couldn’t understand the raw hatred his fellow countrymen harbored for their fallen leader. Our father is dead, can we not at least honor him in the grave? the major wondered.
Proceeding along the main corridor, the three people swept past a library, steam room, billiard room, armory and movie theater before reaching the living room.
Laid out in overlapping circular patterns, the cavernous room rose and fell in random patterns, giving it a rather unearthly feel. All of the furniture and artwork was gone, of course, and the waterfall had been turned off, leaving only the mosaic on the bottom of the basin. Some of the tiles had been removed, but it was still easily recognizable as President Hussein with several busty American movie stars clustered around him. He was in full military uniform, with a scimitar and a gold crown, while they were clothed in diaphanous veils.
Splintery wooden bridges crossed over empty swimming pools, and curved niches lined the walls where there had previously been antique suits of armor from around the world. What might have once been a throne occupied a central location, but it had been used for target practice so much that that was only a theory.
Moving to the pile of riddled lumber in the center of the room, Armanjani and his people looked up to see five men in nondescript military uniforms on the second-story balcony. A decorative banister of iron lace edged the platform, and there were rows of raised seats for spectators to look down into the living room as if it were a sports arena.
All of the men were heavily armed with assault rifles, pistols and knives. One man actually had a Russian RPG strapped across his back, while an elderly man with a bushy beard was carrying a battered leather briefcase.
“You’re late,” the man with the briefcase stated loudly.
Instantly, Armanjani and his people swung up their weapons and clicked off the safeties.
“That is not the correct greeting,” the major stated, leveling the Tariq.
With a sneer, the old man waved that aside. “Bah, foolish games.”
“Then we go,” the major declared, backing away.
“Nicholas!” another man on the balcony said quickly.
There was a pause.
“Tesla,” Armanjani replied in the countersign.
However, the members of al Qaeda and Ophiuchus didn’t ease their stance or lower their weapons.
“Well?” Armanjani demanded impatiently, shaking the briefcase to make the handcuff chain jingle.
“We have seen the reports,” the old man said, stroking his beard. “Each target was hit exactly as you said it would be.”
“Most impressive,” another of the men replied in a throaty growl.
“Then are you ready to do business?” Armanjani asked, lowering the pistol and tucking it into the holster.
“Yes and no,” the old man replied.
“Meaning?”
“Your price is too high,” a third man stated with a scowl. “Much, much too high!”
“The price is fair,” the major replied, obviously annoyed. “Besides, this is not the marketplace, and we are not tourists!”
A fourth man laughed. “Everything is negotiable.”
The major scowled. “Not this. The price is fair. Do you wish me to put it into an auction and have you bid against the Chinese and the Russians?”
At those words, the men on the balcony shifted their stances slightly, and Armanjani knew that he had just made a deadly mistake by admitting that he was in charge and not merely an emissary.
“I see a red dog,” Nasser whispered.
“Agreed,” Hassan muttered softly.
“So be it, red dog.” Major Armanjani drew and fired the pistol in a single move.
The old man with the briefcase threw back his head as the 13 mm Magnum round smashed through his teeth, and then out the top of his head. A geyser of pink brains splattering across the bullet holes and graffiti.
“Kill them!” a second man bellowed, turning to run away.
“No, get the briefcase!” another countered, pulling an electronic device from a pocket and pressing the button on top.
When nothing happened, Hassan shouted a war cry and cut loose with the Atchisson. The autoshotgun discharged the entire magazine of double-O buckshot cartridges in a continuous roar, and sparks flew as a hundred pellets ricocheted off the iron railing. However, all of the remaining men vanished in the deafening maelstrom, their bloody bodies thrown backward to smack into the raised seats.
As Hassan reloaded the Atchisson, Armanjani quickly unlocked the handcuff from his wrist, and Nasser turned to aim the XM-25 at a suspiciously intact door.
A split second later, it slammed open and out rushed a dozen men brandishing AK-47 assault rifles. Instantly, she fired and the 25 mm shell exploded inside the chest of the lead man, his body parts smacking into his comrades and sending them tumbling in all directions. Then Nasser fired twice more, the 25 mm shells exploding on the floor, and blowing the scrambling men into screaming hamburger.
“Should we try for their briefcase, sir?” Hassan asked, sweeping the room for any further enemies.
“Ignore it, that’s a trap,” Armanjani answered, opening his briefcase to extract a bandolier of military canisters.
