скачать книгу бесплатно
The gunman was slumped in a corner of the cargo area, a Makarov pistol on the floor beside him. There was a bullet hole in his temple and a spray of blood on the interior of the van above and behind him.
In his free hand was a cell phone. A voice on the other end was still speaking.
Lyons picked it up and listened. He handed it to Schwarz, who listened. The connection was terminated from the other end.
“Probably Turkmen,” Schwarz guessed. “Not in my repertoire.”
Lyons pocketed the phone. “Jack,” he said. “Are you reading us?”
“Loud and clear,” Grimaldi answered from the chopper.
“Have a courier detailed to meet us, soonest,” he said. “Coordinate with your flight plan, however we can work it out. I’ve got a cell phone here that I want analyzed.”
“Will do.”
Lyons glanced into the back of the van. Two of the suitcase-size bombs were inside. “They’re not active?” he asked.
“Not according to this,” Schwarz said, pointing the scanner at the bombs.
“Then let’s pack them up and get back on the chopper,” Lyons said, looking around. “We’re only just getting started.”
CHAPTER THREE
Tehran, Iran
The Volkswagen diesel microbus pulled up to the curb as the men of Phoenix Force, completely unarmed and traveling under the false papers of Canadian reporters from a fictional news outlet, left Imam Khomeini International Airport. Named for the leader of the 1979 Iranian revolution, the airport had been closed and reopened several times in the scuffle over whether or not the facility was run by foreign contractors. David McCarter remembered reading some years back that the airport’s runway had supposedly been built over ancient subterranean waterways and was therefore somehow unstable. Nothing had given way when their Kish Air flight from Dubai had landed, however. McCarter was grateful for that, and grateful that they were done bouncing around all over the globe to complete their successful transit into hostile territory. He grew tired of the secret-agent games and sometimes wondered if they ever truly fooled anyone for long.
Unarmed as he was, McCarter knew a moment’s concern when he sat in the passenger seat of the van. If the man meeting them wasn’t who he was supposed to be, there would be little they could do about it.
“Hello,” the man behind the wheel said as he guided the van away from the loading and unloading area. “My name is Ghaem Ahmadi. I am officially a well-placed operative within the Iranian Internal Security force.”
“Officially?” McCarter asked.
“Unofficially, Uncle Sam asks me to extend his greetings on behalf of the Central Intelligence Agency.” Ahmadi smiled. He had a gap-toothed grin set wide in a smooth, olive-skinned face. His dark eyes and round face gave him an almost somber look, as if he was in mourning, and the smile that creased his features seemed incongruous. He wore nondescript civilian clothing and a light windbreaker, much as the members of Phoenix Force did.
“Pleased to meet you,” McCarter said. “A little birdie tells me the weather here’s doing okay lately.”
“It is hotter than Texas but drier than Arizona,” Ahmadi said, and grimaced at the awkward code phrases. “You are satisfied?”
“I am,” McCarter said. “I imagine you’d be hauling us to a dungeon somewhere if you weren’t.”
“I imagine as much, as well,” Ahmadi said.
They traveled in silence for a time. It was a relatively clear day in a city known for its cloying smog. Mc Carter could see Milad Tower in the distance, and beyond that, the Alborz mountains were visible. As they moved through the city he was struck by how modern and cosmopolitan it looked and felt. It wasn’t at all the type of backward, repressive society he knew it to be, not from the outside. Of course, you didn’t have to look far to see the fear in people’s eyes whenever one of the uniformed paramilitary Iranian Internal Security goons neared. The IIS had been one of the innovations Magham’s government had brought to an already oppressed people. The paramilitary IIS squads strutted through the streets of the city as if they owned it—which, for all intents and purposes, they did.
The city was home to some eight million people, thirteen million if you included the surrounding metro area. It was also the governmental capital and economic hub of Iran, although McCarter thought he remembered reading that the government was still mulling over moving the seat of government to another location. He didn’t suppose that would make too much difference in terms of the mission ahead of them. He was, however, only too aware that he and his men were deep in a country that was no friend to the United States, with very little recourse should things go awry. They were heavily dependent on the extensive network the CIA had developed covertly in Iran.
“You are fidgeting in your seat,” Ahmadi said. “I believe I know why.” His round face again crinkled into something like a smile as he gestured to the men in the rear bench seats. His accent was pronounced, but he was clearly fluent in English.
“Let’s just say I am very attuned to our situation,” McCarter said.
Ahmadi laughed. “I like how this is put. Yes. I like it.” He gestured again. “Very discreetly, look under your seats. I received a special request for you, Mister…?”
“David,” McCarter said. The team would use their first names only in a covert situation like this.
“Mr. David.” Ahmadi smiled again. “I received a special request for the leader of my guests, and I did what I could to provide for the others.”
McCarter reached under his seat and felt a familiar shape: the grip of a Browning Hi-Power, as it turned out. He checked the weapon as best he could, keeping it low near the floor to prevent it from being seen by pedestrians and other drivers. There was a clip-on holster that he affixed inside his waistband, under his windbreaker, and a small mountain of extra magazines that he placed in his pockets.
He glanced back to see that his teammates had been provided with similar setups and Glock pistols, the compact Model 19. He nodded his approval to Ahmadi.
“The Glock 19 is the pistol of the IIS,” he explained. “Relatively easy for me to get. Untraceable except back to the armory of the IIS. The Browning was more difficult, but all things are possible with motivation.”
“Much appreciated.” McCarter nodded. “Were you able to get us anything heavier?”
“There is a bag containing two folding-stock AKS-74U rifles in the back,” Ahmadi said. “Loaded magazines for both, as well. It was the most I could get and, realistically, the most you can expect to carry without raising suspicions.”
McCarter was inclined to agree. The 5.45x39 millimeter Krinkov rifles had short barrels and were designed to be compact; they would fit into a small bag easily enough. That would be more or less the limit of what they could display openly. If the Phoenix Force veterans were trooping all over Iran’s largest city carrying bags large enough to house assault rifles for all of them, it would look out of place. One man with a duffel bag was a man with a duffel bag. Five were suspicious.
“So where do we begin, Ghaem?”
“First, I have one last item for you all,” the Iranian said. He reached into the pocket behind his seat and pulled out a small cloth bag. He handed it to McCarter, who looked inside and discovered five personal radios. The radios had wireless headsets. They weren’t as small as the self-contained transceivers Phoenix Force often used, but there had been no way to smuggle those into Iran without risking giving themselves away. The team did have their secure satellite phones, which provided them with a very important data link to Stony Man. The encrypted units could pass for ordinary Iridium satellite phones, and only the access codes known to Phoenix Force would enable an operator to use the phones at all.
“What’s the range of these?” McCarter asked.
“A few city blocks,” Ahmadi said. “No more. These are scrambled. They are reasonably secure unless someone with similar hardware chooses to make it his business to listen.”
“Someone…like whom?” McCarter asked.
“One of my good friends from the CIA, for example.” Ahmadi waved one hand. “It is unlikely to be a problem. I do not foresee anyone going out of the way to help us.”
“So, mate,” McCarter asked again, “you’re our guide. To where can you guide us?”
“There is a safehouse,” Ahmadi said. “We have traced its rental to a holding company that we believe is ultimately owned by agents of Ovan’s government. Now is a very good time to strike that safehouse.”
“Why is that?”
“There are three rallies scheduled for supporters of Magham today. The safehouse, which is being used by Ovan’s terror network, is the logical place for them to prepare for their attacks. We can intercept them and perhaps deal a very telling blow to the entire network in a single day. Without your operatives such a move would not have been possible before. There was thought in Washington that the situation here in Iran was best dealt with…quietly. I imagine there are those within the agency who think your intervention is akin to using a hammer to kill ants. You may get some of the ants, they will say, but you will miss many more, and you will anger the colony.”
“Do you feel the same way?”
“I do not,” Ahmadi said. “I have fought long and hard to help bring about, in whatever small way I can, a free and democratic Iran. I was a young man when I became a traitor to my country and allowed myself to be recruited by the CIA. But the slow approach is…slow. We have seen so little real change, and every time my people shout for democracy, for freedom, they are crushed under boot heels with greater force. The beginning of the IIS was the beginning of the worst wave of terror and oppression we have seen. It is time for more direct methods. I welcome them.”
“Fair enough,” McCarter said.
“Do your men require rest before we can go?” Ahmadi asked. “We could spare perhaps an hour or two and still have enough time before the first of the rallies.”
McCarter glanced back at his teammates, who shook their heads or otherwise silently indicated no. He did the same. “We’re ready,” he said.
“Then so am I.”
Ahmadi drove them through ever-narrowing streets, and McCarter was struck by the age of Tehran, by its mixture of architectures, by the weight of its past pressing in from all sides. He laughed at himself, wondering why he was doing so much bloody woolgathering, and reminded himself to focus on the task at hand.
“Comm check,” McCarter whispered. He listened as each of his men responded in kind, their whispers amplified in the wireless earpiece he wore. “All right,” he said as Ahmadi continued to delve deeper into the city, squeezing down alleyways that McCarter thought for certain would rip the side mirrors from the microbus. He finally stopped in a dimly lighted corridor between two recently built concrete buildings. He pointed through the front windshield.
“There,” he said. “The safehouse is there, accessible only through the front door, on the street opposite, and by this metal door at the rear.”
“How secure is that door?” McCarter asked.
“Not at all,” Ahmadi said. “The lock is…damaged. It will give with enough pressure.”
“Damaged, eh?” McCarter asked. “I wonder who might have damaged it for us?”
“I would not know.” Ahmadi looked up and in any direction but at McCarter. “Perhaps a man with a small, quiet cordless drill could damage the lock in the night. Who is to say? The ways of vandals are mysterious.”
“Indeed they are,” McCarter said.
“It’s a bottleneck,” Rafael Encizo said.
“Unfortunately,” Ahmadi agreed. “But works against us also works for us.”
“Works for us,” McCarter agreed. “You stay here, Ghaem. We need you at the wheel for a fast getaway, mate.”
“This I understand,” Ahmadi said, although he looked somewhat disappointed. “I shall keep the engine running.”
McCarter nodded. “Let’s go, then, lads.”
The only concealment for the operation was provided by the alley itself. Under other circumstances McCarter would have detailed at least two men to take the front while the remaining three breached the rear. As it was, he had to hope they could overcome the enemy within using only surprise and ruthlessness.
“Rafe, T.J., take the rifles,” McCarter directed. “You’re the exterminators, lads. Go in first, spray the bugs out. We’ll follow and mop up.”
The men of Phoenix Force hit the pavement and arrayed themselves on either side of the door.
“Gary.” McCarter pointed. The big Canadian’s tree-trunk legs were just what the situation called for. Manning moved into position and, with his Glock drawn, planted one foot solidly against the door.
The metal door sprang inward as something gave. Encizo and Hawkins were immediately through the opening, their Krinkov assault rifles chattering.
McCarter came through the doorway with his Hi-Power ready. There were several tables, each really a tall counter, and on these tables were arrayed a variety of weapons. Most were AKs, some of them stripped. There were a few pistols, some of them exotic or obscure enough that even McCarter would have had to pause to identify them. There were boxes of ammunition, maps, and on the wall, he caught a glimpse of a map of Tehran with certain targets marked in red felt pen.
A burst of gunfire nearly took his head off.
He ducked behind the cover of one of the tall counters. These were solid, not standing on individual legs, but they couldn’t be more than studs and drywall, because bullets were passing right through them. At the opposite end of the room, several gunmen were blazing away, and midway between McCarter’s position and theirs, Encizo and Hawkins were holding their own.
McCarter bided his time. He waited, sensing the rhythm of the gunfight. A burst from the enemy…an answering burst from his men…a few shots from the Glocks held by James and Manning. They were firing from the rearmost position, from outside the doorway, covering the exit. From where he crouched McCarter could see the front door, and he could see that their opposition was pinned down. Going for the front door would expose the enemy and allow Phoenix Force to take them down.
Stalemate.
Not on my watch, McCarter thought. He stood and braved the gunfire as he half crouched and ran from table to table, zigzagging this way and that. The maneuver did what he had hoped it would: it drew the attention and the fire of the enemy at the opposite end of the room. That was the break that Encizo and Hawkins needed. They worked their way forward with their Krinkovs and began firing anew, advancing as they covered each other.
One man went down in a hail of bullets. Another fell over him as he, too, was tagged. McCarter threw himself behind the dubious safety of the closest counter and was covered in drywall dust as bullets from the remaining shooters punched through it.
The gunfire stopped.
“Clear!” Encizo shouted.
“Clear!” Hawkins repeated.
He heard Manning and James sound off, as well. Standing cautiously, McCarter didn’t bother to brush himself off. He kept the Hi-Power at the ready while he made sure there were no lurking targets behind him or on his flanks. The other men of Phoenix Force had presumably done the same before sounding the all-clear.
“Everyone intact?” McCarter asked.
Again the team members sounded off; no one was injured badly. James had taken a scratch across the forearm that was not truly a graze. It was bleeding but not badly. He was careful to use a handkerchief from his pocket to make sure he didn’t leave a telltale puddle of blood behind, though. It was unlikely any of the Iranian authorities would conduct DNA analysis, but it paid to be meticulous. The men of Phoenix Force took their jobs seriously and were well experienced in them.
Ahmadi entered the back, careful to announce himself. “We do not have much time,” he said. “We must move quickly. The gunfire will have attracted attention, and even here, where IIS raids are common, someone will have called the authorities. They will come to investigate.”
“Then let’s get what there is and get gone, lads,” McCarter said. “Rafael, watch the front. T.J., you monitor the rear. The rest of you, let’s sweep this room. Turn up anything you can. Turn it inside out if you must, but let’s do it with haste.”
McCarter, James and Manning began working their way from one end of the room to the other, like searchers beating a field for a missing person. They tossed the gear on the tables and checked every piece of furniture in the Spartan room, looking for anything that might be squirreled away.
“Nothing,” James finally said. Ahmadi had produced a first-aid kit and was wrapping the tall black man’s arm tightly in gauze. James tucked the bloody handkerchief in a pocket; he would dispose of it later.
“Something about this is not right,” the Iranian agent said.
“Do I hear sirens?” Encizo asked from the door.
They heard it, then, the foghorn cadence of the peculiar sirens the Iranians used.
“That is IIS, without doubt,” Ahmadi said.
“Then let’s go right now.” McCarter pointed to the door.
They filed out. As they were climbing into the microbus, Ahmadi had a thought and actually slapped his forehead.
“What?” McCarter said.
“The lights,” he said. “I did not check the lights.”
McCarter didn’t bother to ask what that meant. He simply gestured for Ahmadi to move. The Iranian operative leaped from the vehicle and went back through the rear door, while McCarter seated himself behind the wheel.
“David.” Manning pointed from his seat. At the end of the alleyway, they could see the flashing lights of what had to be security vehicles.
Ahmadi came running from the building. “Go!” he shouted. “Go!”
McCarter stepped on it. The little microbus was surprisingly responsive. He put the vehicle into Reverse and accelerated, putting distance between them and the alleyway. At the first junction, he took a hard reverse left, scraping the side of the van against a concrete building as he did so.
“Switch with me!” McCarter told Ahmadi. “I have no bloody idea where I’m going!”
Ahmadi managed to move himself into position and take the wheel as McCarter slid out of the seat, then planted himself behind the controls. The van careened from one side of the alley to the other, and this time one of the mirrors did get ripped off. Ahmadi muttered something that was definitely a curse, though it was apparently in Persian.
