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Kassem nodded. “I’ve already made a few calls. I should have word back shortly. If none of those options seem viable, I can tap into the arsenals of one of my training camps back in Lebanon. The concern there, as before, is the time frame and transport logistics. We need to carry out the attack in a few days.”
“Do what you can,” Yarad said. “I’m sure we can work out something.”
“Not so fast.” Gohn Len stood and moved to one side, taking shelter from the sun beneath an awning that reached out over the terrace. Kassem smiled indulgently, as if to acknowledge his awareness that Len was trying to gain leverage by putting his six-foot frame on display.
“Is there a problem?” Kassem queried innocently.
Len took a moment, choosing his words carefully. Finally he said, “Given what’s happened, I think we should reconsider the whole operation. Why attempt it now when there is too wide a margin for failure?”
“Because this is an ideal opportunity,” Yarad reminded the Chinese officer. “How many chances will we get to have all our enemies rounded up under one roof?”
“The Frazier Group meets annually,” Len countered impatiently. “We can wait and try again next year!”
“You may be fine with waiting that long,” the deputy minister said, “but I, for one, want to see this taken care of now rather than later. Too much can happen in a year. With every day that passes, there is a greater risk that our coalition will be found out. If that happens, all our work—everything we’ve done to put ourselves in this position—will have been in vain.”
Kassem narrowed his eyes and stared through a wreath of smoke at his colleagues, doing his best to restrain himself. Did it always have to be like this? Squabbling and bickering, everyone at cross-purposes? How were they ever to achieve the kind of change they wanted if they couldn’t get past their own differences?
“I’ll confer with the others,” he finally told Len and Yarad, stubbing out his cigarette in a gesture of finality. “We’ll take their input into consideration and hopefully have some sort of consensus. In the meantime, though, I think the smart course is to proceed as planned. A plot of this magnitude can always be called off at the last minute, but if we’re going to carry it out, the pieces need to be in place.”
“I agree,” Yarad said.
Both Kassem and the Iranian stared at their Chinese counterpart. Len hesitated, picking up his ceramic cup and taking one last, long sip. The tea had gone cold and left a bitter taste in his mouth. He swallowed it nonetheless, unnerved by the sense that he was swallowing his pride, as well.
“If need be, I might be able to divert some rocket launchers from one of our covert installations in South America,” he said, offering up an olive branch to his cohorts. “They could be cargoed in a way that it would be possible to have them delivered to one of the ports near Los Angeles.”
Yarad stared at Len, incredulous. “This is the first mention of this as an option. Why didn’t you bring it up before?”
“It involves certain complications,” Len said. “Of a personal nature.”
Kassem saw an opportunity to ease the ill will between him and Len, and seized it.
“Whatever the case, thank you for the offer,” he told the Asian. “We’ll only take you up on it as a last resort, though. Fair enough?”
Len nodded tersely and grabbed the valise he’d brought with him to the meeting. “If we choose to go that way, I’ll need to have laid some groundwork. I’d best get started. If you’ll excuse me, I can show myself out.”
“Of course,” Kassem said. Both he and Yarad stood, offering Len a polite nod. Once the Asian had left, the Iranian turned to Kassem.
“I don’t trust him,” he said. “This offer of his. It came out of nowhere.”
Kassem shrugged. “I don’t trust him, either.”
“What should we do about it?”
“Leave that to me,” the elderly financier told Yarad. “And since we now have an opportunity to speak alone, this would be a good time to address another matter.”
“Our nuclear situation,” the Iranian guessed.
Kassem nodded. “I take it you’ve heard about the Hamas incident in Damascus.”
“Yes, I’ve been briefed,” Yarad replied. “Those idiots failed to get any information from that reporter before they were killed off.”
“At least none of them survived for questioning,” Kassem said.
“Small consolation,” Yarad groused. “We still have more components to smuggle out of Iran before the inspectors can catch scent of them. We need to know for sure whether we can still move everything through Iraq and Syria without detection.”
Kassem shrugged. “If there are problems with the existing conduit, we’ll improvise and find another way. It’s the same as with securing rocket launchers for our teams in California. We have many options. It’s one advantage of our having a coalition.”
Yarad finished off the last of the grapes, then squinted against the glare of the sun, eyeing Kassem.
“You agree with me that it’s imperative to follow through on our plan, yes?” he asked. “You weren’t just siding with me to vex Gohn Len.”
“I’m behind the plan,” Kassem reassured the Iranian. “For the same reason as you. The timing is important. But we need to keep in mind that taking the Frazier Group off the playing field is only a first step. To bring the West completely to its knees, we’ll need to be able to follow up and speak in a language they understand.”
The Iranian smiled. “Trust me, when we have the bomb, the West will hear us loud and clear.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Washington, D.C.
Secretary of State Roland Carruthers frowned with annoyance as he read over the NSA briefing he’d just received regarding the escape of Kouri Ahmet. He wasn’t sure which infuriated him more, the fact that Ahmet was back on the loose or the circumstances that had allowed him to take control of the government jet bringing him to Los Angeles. He decided the latter was something he could more readily deal with, and within thirty seconds he was on the phone with FBI Director Eric Thompson, a longtime acquaintance and frequent golfing partner. Carruthers, a decorated Gulf War vet who’d parlayed his combat honors into a long-running political career, was never one to beat around the bush, and after a quick hello he got straight to the point.
“I don’t want to hear anything about rationales,” he told Thompson brusquely. “Whoever arranged Ahmet’s transfer needs to get the ax.”
“That’s not your call, Roland,” Thompson responded calmly. “You know that.”
“You got that right!” Carruthers snapped. “If it’d been my call, that two-bit son of a bitch would have had an unfortunate accident back in La Paz and never made it to the jet.”
“That might’ve made you sleep better at night, but it would have been a shortsighted solution,” Thompson countered. “We were looking at the big picture.”
“There are protocols, damn it!” Carruthers said. “Not to mention common sense. No backup security on the plane? One marshal and that was it? Hell, I’m surprised you didn’t offer the guy caviar and throw him a prostitute so he could join the Mile High Club!”
“I know you’re upset, Roland—”
“I’m at the top of that nut job’s hit list!” Carruthers said. “Upset doesn’t even come close!”
“Well, if it’s any consolation, we’ve already reassigned Cook,” Thompson said, referring to the FBI’s Regional Director for West Coast Operations. “If you want, I’ll take under consideration anyone you’d want as his replacement.”
“That’s it? Throw me a crumb and I’m all happy?”
“What else would you suggest?”
“How about Ahmet’s head on a platter?” Carruthers suggested. “That would work for me.”
“A silver platter, I suppose.”
“It can be a paper plate for all I care! Just drop-kick that bastard from here to kingdom come and be quick about it!”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Thompson offered. “Anything else?”
“What about that al Qaeda cell supposedly looking to raise hell in L.A.?” Carruthers said. “Anything new on that?”
“It looks like they got their hands on some explosives over the past couple days,” Thompson said. “We’re not sure of the quantity or what they plan to do with them, but we’re running a full court press. The president says he’s got some other input factored in, as well.”
“What kind of input?”
“He wouldn’t volunteer that,” Thompson said. “I didn’t press. You know how he likes to keep his tricks up his sleeve.”
“Don’t remind me,” Carruthers said, glancing up as one of his aides brought in the next round of paperwork requiring his attention. The secretary stared sourly at the piled documents, then waved the aide away and resumed tongue-lashing his longtime friend.
“Ahmet’s had dealings with al Qaeda,” Carruthers said. “Anybody put two and two together?”
“Yes, we’re considering that he’ll try to make contact with them,” said Thompson. “The Bureau’s part of the search effort, and if we’re finished here, maybe I can actually do my job and look into it a little further.”
“Good idea,” Carruthers said, easing back in his chair. His bluster spent, the secretary cracked his knuckles and detoured the conversation. “Just make sure you don’t miss our tee time at the club.”
Thompson laughed on the other end of the line. “I knew you had your priorities straight, Roland. I’ll see you then.”
Carruthers hung up and stroked his chin as he stared out the window of his top-floor office at the State Department. The Washington Monument was visible in the distance, pointing upward at the pewter sky blanketing the nation’s capital. There was rain in the forecast and Carruthers knew there was a good chance he and Thompson might not make it out to the links. He figured it was just as well. Carruthers was already having second thoughts about having vented on the FBI director. Maybe it hadn’t been wise to draw so much attention to his concern over Ahmet and the state of security in Los Angeles. The last thing he needed was to arouse any suspicion that he planned to be heading there at the end of the week.
The secretary was replaying the conversation with Thompson in his head when one of his cell phones rang. He had two cells; the one ringing was a prepaid disposable with no link to him or the State Department. There were only two people who had the number. Even before he flipped the phone open, he knew which one of them was calling.
“Yes, I already heard about Ahmet,” he barked, not bothering with salutations.
“I was just wondering how this would impact on your plans to attend the conference,” the caller responded.
“No change,” Carruthers asserted. “I’ll be there.”
Paris, France
M ICHELLE R ENAIS SIGHED with bemusement as Carruthers hung up on her, leaving the dial tone to bleat in her ear. The secretary of state’s terse bluster hadn’t taken her by surprise; she’d been expecting it. The man was so predictable.
Once she’d checked Carruthers’s name off her list, Renais rose from her desk overlooking the River Seine and went to the kitchen, breaking off a piece of a half-eaten baguette and slathering it with raspberry jam. She wasn’t really hungry, but her stomach had begun to rumble and she didn’t want to be distracted by the noise as she made the rest of her calls.
Renais was an alabaster-skinned, doe-eyed brunette in her late forties, thin to the point of appearing frail, though in fact she was known by colleagues and competitors as someone filled with vitality to go with her strong will and fierce determination. Her penthouse flat on Avenue George Cinq was one of the more coveted—and expensive—pieces of real estate in all of Paris, and she owned the place outright, having bought it three years ago with her share of the profits from the hostile financial takeover of Ars Gratia Communications, France’s second-largest media conglomerate. She figured by year’s end she would have the necessary pieces in place to make a run at forcing her rival into a merger, making her easily one of the most powerful and influential women in all of Europe, if not the world.
Given her stature, it seemed incongruent for Renais to saddle herself with a chore as mundane and secretarial as going down a phone list to confirm attendance at a forthcoming conference. But the import of the gathering she would be presiding over was such that the woman felt it was better to handle the calls herself than to entrust them to some hireling. And, too, there was the need for absolute discretion. The Frazier Group’s very existence was a zealously guarded secret, and the organization’s success and effectiveness over the years was as much a tribute to its clandestine nature as the collective sway its membership exerted over world events.
Renais slowly nibbled the baguette as she returned to her desk. There was a portable wet bar next to the desk, and she used tongs to place cubes from an ice bucket into a small cocktail glass before half filling it with anisette from a hand-blown glass decanter. The milky liqueur would further help to settle her stomach.
Sitting back down, the Frenchwoman glanced over her list to determine who she would call next. There were five more individuals left to contact: World Bank President Anthony Robin; Scotland Yard’s Inspector Bip Hartson; NATO Armed Forces Commander Helmut Marschan; Australian real-estate baroness Veronica Court-Lyle; and Jude Cartier, France’s minister of finance. It was a disparate group, to be sure, representative of the Frazier Group’s diverse overall membership. The diversity was by design. Kotch Wellmeyer, the outspoken major league baseball owner who was among the organization’s founders, had perhaps best summed up the organization’s philosophy—and recruitment philosophy—when he’d declared, “If we want to keep Western Civilization from being taken down by the upstarts of the world, we better damn well make sure we cover all the bases.”
After some reflection, Renais decided it didn’t much matter which order she made the calls in, as long as she saved Cartier for last. The finance minister had just flown back to Paris from an economic summit in Madrid. Renais already knew Cartier would be attending the conference. Contacting the politician would serve another purpose. Renais would give Cartier a chance to reach his flat and unwind, then call him to suggest they get together for drinks. Most likely he would invite her to his place, located across the river three blocks from the Eiffel Tower. She would take him up on the invitation, offer token resistance to his romantic advances, then finally “give in” to his supposedly irresistible charm. They would share a few hours of passion and Renais would make a point to extend the afterglow throughout the week. At the conference, she would do what she could to discreetly help Cartier bend the universe to his will, taking care not to ask for any immediate favors in return. There would be no need to call in markers until the end of the year, when she was ready to make her move on Media François. By then, Renais was sure she’d have Cartier wrapped around her little finger and ready to help her finesse the transaction through a gauntlet of antitrust regulations.
Neither Anthony Robin nor Bip Hartson answered their cell phones when Renais tried to reach them, but Helmut Marschan picked up on the second ring. The German officer confirmed that he would be attending the conference, then pressed Renais regarding the meeting’s agenda.
“I want to be sure that I have the floor early on to discuss this whole nuclear situation in Iran,” Marschan said.
“I thought Iran was only firing up centrifuges as an alternative power source,” Renais replied.
“You know that’s a lie,” the general retorted, clearly unaware that Renais was being facetious. “They’re ramping up a covert nuclear program and if the IAEC doesn’t find proof, it’ll only be because Iran’s trundled their weapons-related equipment out of the country.”
“The ‘pipeline’ to Lebanon,” Renais said. “Yes, I’ve heard about that whole rumor.”
“I think we’re past rumors,” Marschan insisted. “If there wasn’t concern about that pipeline coming to light, Hamas wouldn’t have tried to kidnap that reporter.”
“Do you hear yourself?” Renais asked. “Lebanon, Iran and Hamas mentioned all in the same sentence? That’s a reach, don’t you think?”
“I might’ve thought that a few months ago,” Marschan countered. “Hell, maybe even a few weeks ago. But from what I’ve been able to find out about this article that Ferris reporter is working on, there’s collusion going on. It needs to be addressed.”
“I agree with you that it bears looking into,” Renais told the German. “And at the conference I’ll do what I can to give you some priority in putting it on the table.”
“It should be our first order of business!” Marschan insisted. “If that rabble in the Middle East is teaming up against us, we’ll have a crisis on our hands.”
“If you throw wild dogs together they don’t instantly become a pack,” Renais countered skeptically. “They’ll go after each other’s throats before they turn on anyone else.”
“Maybe,” the German replied. “Then again, maybe this has been going on for a while behind everyone’s backs. Maybe they’ve worked out their differences enough to act in unison.”
“If that’s the case, we’ll handle them,” Renais assured the NATO strategist. “Trust me, if the Frazier Group puts its mind to it, we can squash anyone who stands in our way, and we won’t need help doing it.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Bekaa Valley, Lebanon
David McCarter tightened his parachute harness as he stared out at the thick clouds that obscured his view of the tall mountains flanking the Bekaa Valley. The sun had gone down several hours earlier and the Phoenix Force commander knew that the blackened, overcast skies would aid with their insertion into enemy territory. He and the others were in the cargo bay of a converted DC-10 bearing the emblem of a prominent international delivery carrier. In fact, the plane was one of several owned and operated by the CIA throughout the Middle East. Phoenix Force had secured use of the jet care of Albert Fisk, the operations officer they’d delivered hardcopy intel to following their wrap-up of the Hamas kidnapping incident in Damascus.
Fisk’s offer had come with the small price of allowing two Company agents to accompany McCarter’s men on their assignment. With Gary Manning temporarily out of action, McCarter had decided there was little to lose in taking on the extra manpower. After all, according to the most recent satellite camera images reviewed by Stony Man’s cyberteam back in Virginia, there were an estimated two dozen recruits holed up at the Hezbollah training camp Phoenix Force would be targeting.
“Ready, mates?” the London-born warrior called out to his colleagues.
Rafael Encizo and Calvin James both nodded. T. J. Hawkins, who’d just pried open the lid of a tuba-size leather carrying case, glanced up at McCarter and said, “Give me just another minute.”
One of the CIA agents was up in the cockpit. The other, a gaunt, horse-faced Bostonian named Roger Combs, was crouched next to Hawkins. He checked over his thumb-size digital spy camera, then slipped it into the shirt pocket of his camo fatigues as he glanced inside Hawkins’s carrying case, puzzled by the sight of something that looked like a high-tech tool case sandwiched between a garbage can lid and a wide-wheeled skateboard.
“What the hell is that?” Combs wondered.
Hawkins lifted out the contraption, which was far lighter than it appeared. “TCD-100,” he said.
“That doesn’t help me.”
“Tunnel Combat Device,” the youngest Phoenix Force member explained. “It’s a prototype cooked up by our weaponsmith back in the States.”
Combs frowned. “What does it do?”
“Word is a lot of this training camp is underground. With any luck, we’ll be able to give you a demonstration.”
“In other words, you’re not telling me.”
Hawkins shrugged. “Sorry, man. Classified, y’know?”
