Power Grab

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.