Hostile Dawn

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?”