Returning to the corridor, he motioned for the others to come. Gadgets relayed the signal to Blancanales and Akbar. While they rushed to the end of the corridor, Gadgets maintained his position, then joined them.
In the workshop, Lyons whispered to his partners, "That passage leads underground. Sounds like they're working down there. Maybe assembling the transportation for the rockets."
Gadgets opened a canvas bag and sorted through plastic envelopes by the glow of his penlight. "The fact is, they ain't up here. That tells me they're probably down there. Hiding out from the war. Getting their show on the road. Thing to do is to go take look-see. And for that, I want to volunteer..." he grinned and pointed to the young Shia militiaman, "...Akbar."
"Me? I am not trained to be a secret agent."
"No problem," Gadgets jived. "Go down, walk around, listen to what the people are talking about, and if you see the main man, stick one of these near enough to monitor what he's saying." The Able Team electronics specialist put three thick button-sized minimicrophone-transmitters in the Shia's hand. "But be cool about it. Go we'll cover you."
Not allowing Akbar time to think, Gadgets and Lyons escorted him to the steel steps. Gadgets whispered a last warning as Akbar crept slowly, silently down the stairs.
"Be cool... or get cooled."
Every step down took Akbar farther from the security of the weapons of the Americans. In his home streets, in times of trouble, he had often obeyed orders that placed him at risk holding a position despite artillery and small-arms fire, or running shipments through the checkpoints of hostile militias, for example. But then his militia, a force equal or superior to the enemies he faced, backed him and provided firepower in case of a reverse or miscalculation. Now he faced the professional, career soldiers of the Syrian army, and its secret police, with only three Americans standing behind him.
But he prepared himself, intellectually at least, and continued his descent. He reached the bottom of the steel steps. No sentries challenged him.
A long, empty passage led to a rectangle of light. Standing beside the last step, Akbar saw through the rectangle Syrians operating forklifts. He waited a moment, listening, then approached the light.
As he walked, he loosened his scarf and unbuttoned his overcoat. Passing a doorway, he glanced inside and saw two soldiers packing small boxes into a wooden crate. They did not look up.
At the end of the passage, he braced himself, then stepped around the corner and into the glare of the fluorescent lights. He saw an underground factory in disarray, as though in the final stage of disassembly.
At the far end, men in civilian coveralls crowded around diesel trucks and trailers. Syrian soldiers stood at troop transports. Everywhere soldiers and technicians worked to dismantle the facility.
Then Akbar saw the commander. The Syrian wore a tailored uniform and a Soviet wool greatcoat, and talked with men in coveralls, his breath clouding. The group referred to blueprints and drawings, then one of the technicians called to some type of assistant, who ran to a trailer and brought back a notebook.
Someone grabbed Akbar. "What are you doing?" A voice demanded.
"Ah..." Panicking, Akbar could say nothing as the hand spun him.
"Nothing! That's what you're doing!" A Syrian noncom shoved the handles of a moving dolly into his hands. "Take this box to the others. It's tools, hear me? Don't let it get packed in the wrong crate. Move!"
Without speaking, Akbar wrestled the dolly into a roll. Not knowing where to take the wooden box, he aimed for the table of blueprints where the Syrian commander stood with the technicians. As he approached, he slipped his hand into his pocket and removed one of the miniature microphone-transmitters.
The box banged into a workbench; Akbar lost his grip and the dolly slammed down onto the concrete floor. The commander and his staff looked at him, then resumed their conversation.
Squeezing between the blueprint table and the box, Akbar placed a minitransmitter under the table. Then he struggled with the heavy box for a moment. Jerking the dolly back, he wheeled past the commander.
Akbar looked for a place to dump his cargo. Beyond the diesel trucks and trailers, he saw the Mercedes limousine, the doors open, an orderly loading luggage into the trunk. Steering the dolly past the trucks, Akbar swung around to the front of the Mercedes and looked back. A diesel truck blocked the sight of the soldiers at the troop transport. The open trunk lid blocked the sight of the driver.
As he passed the rear door of the limo, Akbar pretended to stumble again, letting the dolly slam down. As he struggled, he tossed a minitransmitter into a compartment in the door of the limousine.
Moving fast, he left the box near the second trailer. Jogging behind the dolly, he wove through the forklifts and worktables to the passage leading up.
The noncom spotted him. "What took you so long? Go in there and take another box."
Akbar saluted. "Sir! My lieutenant ordered me up to the street. To stand guard."
Squinting his sun-weathered eyes, the noncom sneered. "You deserve it, you lazy creature. Go up there! Freeze! Let the Israelis blow you up! Go!"
Akbar ran up the steel stairs.
16
Akbar translated the transmitted voices. "He's talking about 'the signal strength' and 'the terminal-guidance machines.' This is all very technical... He's telling them not to worry about the transmitters, the transmitters are not their, concern, he is sure the transmitters will be in place before the launch of the rockets... 'The multiple transmissions will not cancel the signals...' He's telling them thanks for their work, they will never receive the recognition they deserve, but they will learn of their success if they watch television in January, then they can rejoice."
In a corner of the abandoned workshop, Gadgets listened to the running translation of the Syrian's farewell address to his group of engineers. His partners watched the doors: Lyons the corridor doorway, Blancanales the door outside. After a few minutes, Akbar shook his head.
"He has moved away from the table. I can only hear noise from the others now. The scientists are gone."
Gadgets checked through a mental list of details. "He said, 'miniature units'?" Akbar nodded. "And 'terminal guidance'? And 'multiple transmitters'? And 'independent agents'?"
Akbar nodded to each question. Gadgets considered the information as his partners maintained their watch. Outside, the distant thunder of artillery strikes came infrequently. No shells had struck near the base for the previous half-hour. Only the snowstorm continued, gusts of wind blowing subzero air under the street door.
"What's your opinion, Mr. Wizard?" Lyons whispered.
"These crazies have got what the Iranians thought they had. What I mean is, the Iranians thought they had ninety-six Soviet 240mm rockets. Complete with some kind of custom terminal-guidance system. That is, after someone at the approximate target area activates a homing signal, they launch the rockets, then the homing signal gives the rockets something to zero in on. Turned out the Iranians had real rockets with dummy guidance units and phony transmitters. These Syrians have actually got the real thing."
"Why did the Iranians have the dummies?" Blancanales asked.
"A decoy, just like George told us on the plane. The Syrians let the Iranians go in with the phony stuff, they get hit, we think we've closed it down, and then they come in with the big surprise. That's what I think they're thinking. Fooled us. Except the Agency untangled all the phony equipment and compared it to what the Iranians thought they had. Now it's for sure."
"Deception," Lyons commented. "Run us around chasing real crazies with phony rockets..."
A buzz came from their hand-radios. Gadgets answered. "Talk to the Wizard."
"We got another limo coming," Powell reported.