Something had gone wrong-that was about the only thing of which he was sure. Perhaps the man who had met him was not even the CIA’s contact. Perhaps they had been compromised. Perhaps-the questions were endless.
Could he have imagined himself here fifteen years ago? Hardly, he thought, a sardonic grin crossing his boyish face. A desert cell, rugged tribesemen?
No, back then the Middle East’s only importance to him had been what it did to the oil futures. He had been the manager of a Wall Street investment firm in those days, a true wunderkind in the eyes of some. Certainly no one could have denied that he had a knack for the market and his pioneering market trading website had raked in subscribers by the thousands in the late ‘90s.
By the age of twenty-two, he had been a multimillionaire, a fortune built on a shrewd grasp of both the market and information technology. Shrewd enough to survive the bursting of the Dot-com bubble when so many of his competitors had gone under. A young man of unbelievable potential, with a bright future ahead of him.
That bright future had choked in the dark clouds of ash rising from the Trade Center Towers. In Asia on a business trip at the time of the terrorist attacks, Thomas had returned to New York to find many of his colleagues dead, the Fortune 500 company he had built his life upon in shambles.
And he had thrown himself into the fray, working feverishly to reestablish the company and hire new people to fill the shoes of the dead. Yet the Street had lost its lure-the game no longer satisfied in the way it once had.
Nine months later, turning over the revived company to new management, he left Wall Street for good, a man adrift.
Thomas sighed, stretching in the darkness. Remembering. He had left Wall Street with no idea where he was going or what he wanted to do when he got there. All that had once satisfied him was empty, no longer fulfilling. Restoring the company had been one thing-he had owed that to his investors. Continuing on the Street was a different proposition entirely.
And then he met Bernard Kranemeyer at a Heritage Foundation dinner one snowy evening in Philadelphia.
He grinned at the memory. Kranemeyer had been anything but eager for Thomas to join the reorganizing Directorate of Operations. The Agency, he had found, had reservations about recruiting someone motivated largely by bitterness. And Thomas had fought serious doubts of his own. Before heading to the Farm that spring he had never fired a gun in his life. How fast that had changed…
The sound of a key in the door jarred Thomas back to the present, a bright glare nearly blinding his eyes as the light came on.
“Good morning, Mr. Patterson.” It was Sirvan, a plate of food in one hand and a 9mm in the other.
“I trust you slept well?”
Thomas shot him a look of disbelief, then accepted the plate and utensils. All plastic, he noted, not a one of them serviceable as a weapon. “Decently, thank you.”
“My grandfather wanted me to offer his sincere apologies for the way we have been forced to treat you.”
“Forced?” Thomas asked, his voice rich with irony. “I didn’t see anyone forcing you. Or perhaps I didn’t look hard enough.”
To his surprise, the young Kurd looked embarrassed by his retort. “The CIA director agreed to deliver a shipment of weapons to us in exchange for your safe return. My grandfather is a cautious man and believes we should keep you here until we have the proofs of your government’s good faith.”
“I see. So you’re not going to sell me out to the Iranians?”
“We discussed it,” Sirvan responded with an alarming frankness. “However, it is difficult to see what might be gained. To parley with them would be like juggling with scorpions, Mr. Patterson. No matter how carefully done, you will be stung in the end.”
Thomas chuckled. “I’m glad to hear that. Am I to stay here, then, until the weapons arrive?”
“No. Once you have finished your meal I will be happy to escort you around the camp. We have no objections so long as you do not stray beyond the perimeter. In which case, you will be shot.”
“Really?” Thomas’s eyebrows shot up. “And what would happen to your precious weapons in that case?”
“We would undoubtedly lose them, of course. But those are my grandfather’s orders, and they will be followed. Make no mistake of that.”
“Of course,” Thomas replied, shoveling the food into his mouth with the fork that had been provided him. “That is quite understandable…”
7:00 P.M. Baghdad Time
Q-West Airfield
Northern Iraq
The knock came at the door just as Harry had taken a razor to the week-old beard enshrouding his face.
“A message for Harold Nichols, sir.” It was a young woman, one of the orderlies he had seen with Petras the previous evening.
“That would be me.”
“I’ll need you to sign for it, sir,” the brunette replied, extending the clipboard to him.
Harry took it, briefly scrawling his name across the cover sheet before reading the message beneath. When he had finished, he handed it back to her with a smile. “Give Ms. Petras my regards.”
“Of course, sir.”
Harry closed the door behind her and strode across the room to an adjoining door. He rapped hard on the wooden paneling.
“Yes?” came Hamid’s voice.
“Get everybody up and moving. We’ve got a plane to catch.”
8:25 A.M. Tehran Time
The base camp
Devastation. That was the only word Hossein could find to describe it. Even now, forty-eight hours after the commando strike, his soldiers were still repairing the damage.
And despite his confident words to Larijani the previous night, he was far from sure that Tehran would smile upon his part in it. More than likely, he would be relieved of command. And then…
He didn’t like to dwell upon it.
“Major! Major Hossein!” He turned to find a sergeant running across the plateau toward him, a satellite phone in his hand.
“Who is it?” Hossein asked, reaching out his hand.
The soldier’s eyes were wide as he handed the phone over. “It-it is the Supreme Leader himself…”
The major stiffened, his mouth suddenly dry. “Give it here,” he whispered. The Ayatollah Isfahani was the last person he had wanted to hear from this morning.
“Good morning, sir.”
“Is it?” the elderly voice on the other end of the phone asked skeptically. “Major Hossein, I need you to come to Qom immediately.”
Hossein paused, but only for a moment. Despite the rise to power of the IRGC and Mahmoud Shirazi, the Ayatollah was still a man to be feared. And obeyed. “Of course.”
“There is a Colonel Harun Larijani there at your base. I am authorizing you to requisition his helicopter for you to fly here.”
“Where do I meet you?”
“Fly directly to my home. You are to go dark, major. I want you to discuss this call with no one, is that understood? As far as anyone knows, you are flying to your execution.”
“Sir?”
“The Americans have escaped, major. The President will be looking for a scapegoat, and believe me when I say his gaze will not settle upon the incompetence of his nephew.”
“You mean-Larijani?”
The voice that replied was heavily laced with sarcasm. “Surely, major, you did not believe that he earned his rank through his skills as a tactician? Now, we must hurry-I will expect you at my residence by noon. Any questions?”
There were many, but none that Hossein believed diplomatic or safe to ask. “No.”
“Good. And remember, major, not a word to anyone. You’re a condemned man. Act the part.”
Hossein thumbed the “end” button on the phone and shook his head. Very little of what he had just been told made any sense. Or perhaps it did, in the twisted corridors of power that the Ayatollah inhabited. He would be there soon enough…