The deep voice said, “Describe conditions in that valley.”
Miss Y said, “Iran’s Revolutionary Guard is the primary source of training and supplies for the Shia extremists operating inside Iraq. They and Syria also supply Hezbollah in southern Lebanon. We have reason to believe this valley serves as their principal training arena.” She might as well have been discussing the weather, her voice was so calm. “It is completely cut off. Surrounded by forest and unscalable cliffs.”
From Marc, “What’s the level of armed forces in place?”
“Two units of Revolutionary Guard. An unknown number of Iraqi extremists. Possibly a contingent of Hezbollah.”
“Best guess?”
“Thirty-five at minimum. Two hundred tops.”
The deep voice said, “A large difference between thirty-five and two hundred.”
“Yes, sir. Agreed.”
Ambassador Walton growled, “That is an unacceptable range of risk.”
Marc turned and glanced at Lahm, who nodded. Once. Marc leaned toward the microphone and said, “It’s fine.”
Walton said, “We cannot offer you any official assistance. If you are caught or wounded, we will deny all knowledge.”
“We wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“When do you move out?”
Marc glanced at Lahm, and received another nod in response. “Now,” Marc said. “There’s nothing to be gained by waiting. We leave tonight.”
Chapter Forty
T hey left the embassy and dropped Sameh by the car with his bodyguards. Marc had the distinct impression that Sameh feared he might never see them again. But Sameh merely shook their hands and wished them success. This pleased Marc. He did not want sorrow to color what might be their final meeting. Marc’s last view of Sameh was through the Land Cruiser’s rear window, the lawyer sketching the sign of the cross in the night between them.
Hamid made a few calls as they drove away from the Green Zone. The two of them drove straight to the main police compound, a rough-and-tumble patch of desert east of Baghdad, a far cry from the new headquarters near Parliament. These barracks and garrisons were fashioned from a former military base that predated Saddam. Old buildings once housing the British military contingent were now used to teach tactics in urban warfare.
They were passed through the central gates with a trio of salutes, the only sign Marc needed that things were moving according to plan. They drove down a broad central avenue lined by buildings bombed and burned and shot up, and then poorly repaired so the police trainees could do it all again.
At the far end was a second gate leading to the lot for impounded vehicles. Light towers surrounded the compound. The officer on gate duty saw Lahm’s approach and swung the gates open. Marc recognized the guard as one of Lahm’s own men. The officer grinned and waved as they passed.
Two buses stood isolated from all the other vehicles. Their scarred and bulbous forms were smoothed by the night’s shadows. The sides were emblazoned with banners of what looked like Arabic script. Marc assumed it was actually Farsi, the language of Iran.
“Pilgrim transport,” Hamid Lahm confirmed as Marc walked over to inspect them. “As you instructed, I made sure the buses were taken, in case we move tonight.”
“How did you get them?”
Lahm pointed to his second-in-command. “Yussuf and his men wait for the Persian market to close. They watch which buses hold smugglers. They have many to choose from.”
Yussuf must have understood some English, for he shared his major’s grin and babbled away in Arabic. Lahm said, “When Yussuf’s team stopped the buses, the drivers and smugglers, they are too much upset. They claim they have papers, they pay duties, they must feed their babies, everything is good, why we wreck this? We say there is embargo. Then we, how you say, take vehicles and goods.”
“Confiscate.”
“Yes. And cellphones. And laptop computers. All the smugglers, tonight they have nice sleep in prison. Their goods stay safe in other cells.” Lahm’s man continued to grin and babble. Lahm translated, “When all the other buses arrive Tehran, there will be many complaints. We will have phone calls from Iraqi customs chief, maybe the minister. So many calls. Tomorrow we apologize, say was misunderstanding, they are free to go.”
Marc asked, “Did you manage to find us some Iranians we can trust?”
Hamid pointed to the shadows beyond the first bus. “They wait for you.”
The last vehicle in their convoy from the embassy belonged to Barry Duboe. The CIA agent finally emerged from the car, phone at his ear, and waved to Marc. “Give me a minute,” Marc said, and walked over.
Duboe clicked off and said, “Our lady in Langley has come through.”
Duboe led Marc around to the back of the vehicle, opened the door, and set his laptop on the rear gate. As he waited for the satellite connection, he pointed to the black duffel bags stacked like bricks, almost completely filling the SUV. “I pulled together some things that might come in handy.”
“All I asked you for were a sat phone and enough comm links for the whole team.”
“They’re in the first bag there by your hand.”
“So what’s the rest of this gear?”
“You know how it is. I’m in the hangar with a free pass from the ambassador. I walk down the aisles and point at everything I think you and the guys might like under the Christmas tree.” Duboe flashed a grin. “We’ll be on the road with five hours to kill. Give the boys something to play with. Who knows, it might even be useful.”
“There is no ‘we,’ ” Marc said. “You’re not invited to this dance.”
Duboe’s only response was to swivel the laptop so the screen faced Marc. “Check this out. An infrared view of the compound in Iran from five days ago. Gives us a solid take on the number of warm bodies. Sixty-eight in all.”
Marc turned toward the night and said, “Josh.”
“Over here.”
“You need to see this.” Marc also waved at Hamid, who was inspecting the piles of gear stacked by each of his men. He came at a trot.
Duboe greeted Josh with, “There’s a certain embassy suit who wants to take you out. Name of Jordan Boswell.”
Josh shook hands with Hamid, said to Duboe, “Never met the man.”
“The day Boswell arranged a chat with Marc here at a certain hotel, one of his guys on vehicle duty made you. The guard watched you have a word with Marc, then the two of you disappeared. From that point everything went south. Boswell wants to boil your career in oil.”
Josh shrugged. “Tell the man to get in line.”
Duboe liked that a lot. He turned back to the screen. “Okay. Like I said, sixty-eight possible assailants. Far as Langley knows, this is strictly an ops facility. No families or nonessential personnel.” Duboe tapped the screen with a stubby finger. “Langley figures our target is this building at the center of the village.”
Josh peered closer at the screen. “Three people seated inside the building, another one lying down.”
“Our four prisoners.” Marc’s mouth was filled with a coppery flavor, as though he had bitten down on a bullet.
“There’s one man in the alley next to the building. Looks like he’s outside a doorway. Probably standing guard.”
Duboe nodded. “Like I said, that was five days back. Now check out the same building. This was taken ninety minutes ago, on the satellite’s most recent pass.”
The men were crowded in so close, Marc could smell the garlic and clove on Hamid’s breath. “Looks like the building is packed.”
“Two men guarding the door now,” Josh said. “Another patrolling the perimeter.”
Duboe shut the laptop. “That and the buses they saw parked in the village is all the confirmation we need. Everything else can wait till we’re on the road.”
“I told you before,” Marc replied. “You’re not invited.”
Duboe’s grin did not waver. “Don’t tell me you thought you could get your green light and all these goodies for free.”