"I'll check." Lyons took out his hand-radio.
Gadgets continued monitoring and taping the dialogue in the limousine. Though he did not understand the Russian, he would save the tape for translation.
"Yeah!" Lyons confirmed. "A French diplomat. Works for UNESCO. Name of J. P. Gee-Road."
"Oh, man, this shit never quits."
"What?"
"Use your radio!" Gadgets yelled, holding up his hand-radio. "I want Mr. Marine to monitor this jive. Beep-beep, come in Cowboy Radio Network, this is the Wizard broadcasting another mystery."
"What're you talking about?" Powell, riding at the head of the convoy in the Land Rover, had to shout over the road noise.
"This is it," Gadgets began. "We got a mystery. It ain't a Syrian and a Frenchie in that limo, it's two Russians. In..."
"How do you know?" Powell asked.
"They're talking Russian. Now listen, in Mexico City, Illovich of the KGB didn't know nothing of the Iranians and the rockets. Then Desmarais if we can believe anything she says told us that a KGB kill squad had been assigned to track us down and wipe us out. And since Desmarais knows we came here to hit the gang making the rockets, we can assume the KGB knows what we came to do. So here's the question. Who are those Russians in the limo? If they were KGB, the KGB wouldn't have a kill squad chasing us. They'd have gone out to that factory base and waited for us to show up. They're not KGB because Illovich in Mexico would've known or could've found out all about what's going on. So who are they?"
Blancanales joined the electronic conversation. Sheltered by boxes of Italian designer jeans, he spoke into his radio." What do you think?"
"Me?" Gadgets answered. "Me, think? I don't know what to think! That's why I'm asking the questions!"
"Marine?" Blancanales used Powell's informal code name despite the encrypting circuits of the NSA hand-radios they used. "Do any of our Shia friends speak or understand Russian?"
"Not that I know of."
"Then save the tapes, Wizard." Blancanales concluded. "We'll know later."
"I hate the suspense. Could be something important to the..."
"Forget it," Lyons interrupted. "Those two in the limo are dead. What they say is history."
Soviet tanks and armored personnel carriers controlled every major intersection in Damascus. In the limousine, Dastgerdi and Suvorov looked out at streets and boulevards populated only by soldiers. No citizens risked the streets.
Soldiers at checkpoints stopped the limousine every few blocks. After the third checkpoint, to save himself the bother of continually opening and closing his window, the driver left the window open and held the necessary papers. Officers glanced at the documents, then peered at the Syrian colonel and French diplomat. The succession of checkpoints enraged Dastgerdi.
"These Syrians! Searching my car, checking my papers! Do I look like a mullah?"
Finally they drove through the tree-lined avenues of the French colonial quarter to the embassy of the Islamic Republic of Iran. There, at the ornate wrought-iron gates, Revolutionary Guards stopped the limousine.
"This completes our plan," Dastgerdi said to Suvorov. "From embassy to the factory to the rockets, the trail of evidence is complete. We will visit with our friends, then be gone. To watch for the televised glories of our achievement."
Half-asleep with fatigue and vodka, Suvorov only nodded.
A bearded, tangle-haired Guard motioned for Dastgerdi to leave the limousine. Cursing under his breath, the colonel opened the door. He presented the handwritten note from Mohammed Ayat with the seal of Iran identifying him as one of the faithful.
The Guards glanced at the note. Talking to one another and staring at Colonel Dastgerdi, they opened the gate. Inside, Dastgerdi saw bumper-to-bumper limousines on the driveways. Islamic militiamen slept on the immaculate lawns. At the front of the old French mansion, mullahs and diplomats and functionaries crowded the entry and reception room.
"How long shall I tell the attendants that we will be here?" the driver asked.
"Stay with the car," Dastgerdi told him through the intercom. "We will leave soon. I will take my case, my friend Giraud."
Suvorov, returning to his role as the French diplomat Jean Pierre Giraud, paused to straighten his clothes. Colonel Dastgerdi took the suitcase containing the ten homing-impulse transmitters from the limousine's trunk.
Revolutionary Guards and soon-to-be exiled mullahs of the defeated Muslim Brotherhood stared at the hated uniform of Syria that Dastgerdi wore. But then one of the elegant Iranians, Mohammed Ayat, attache of the faithful, rushed out and embraced Dastgerdi.
In his mind, as Ayat's arms closed around him, Dastgerdi rejoiced. All the onlookers would remember his reception. They would tell others. After the rocket attack, the embrace of a Syrian colonel by an Iranian functionary would be one more link in the damning chain of evidence.
They entered the embassy.
"That was Colonel Dastgerdi!" Desmarais exclaimed, pointing at the limousine entering the gates of the Iranian embassy.
"Take a picture." Zhgenti kept his hand on the pistol in his pocket. He knew the woman hated him. Perhaps she hoped to trick him. Forcing her to service him had been unprofessional and self-indulgent. For the thrill of car-seat sex, he must now watch for her revenge.
"The Americans will be here soon. They probably followed him. In Mexico, they used directional finding devices. They may or may not attack the embassy, but they are close. I am sure of that."
"Stop talking and go. Go!"
Without another word, Desmarais stepped into the frigid predawn air. Zhgenti waited until she had walked a hundred meters, then stepped out into the cold. He took a few deep breaths to clear his wits. Then he opened the driver's door and sat down behind the wheel. The interior of the Zil limousine stank.
Zhgenti started the engine. He watched Desmarais pause and look up and down the dark avenue. She fitted a flash unit onto the camera, then retreated to the shadows to await the Americans.
Does she think she can escape when the Americans come? Will she, Zhgenti wondered, tell them about Soviet foreign operations in exchange for escape?
Gunning the engine, Zhgenti waited and watched. He put the Uzi submachine gun on the seat beside him. He would not let her escape.
That trick she would not repeat.
Eleven kilometers from the Iranian embassy, Powell signaled the drivers of the cargo trucks to stop. The heavy trucks and trailers parked along the shoulder. Last in the convoy, the driver of the troop transport set the lights blinking.
As the military traffic continued past, Lyons and Blancanales ran forward to Powell, their Soviet greatcoats catching the wind. Gadgets stayed to monitor the conversation in Dastgerdi's limousine.
Powell spread a map of Damascus on the hood of the Land Rover. With a compass, he plotted the direction to the Iranian embassy.
"This stretch isn't dead on," he told Lyons and Blancanales. "But ahead, before we get to Dadsaya, the road's got the correct orientation."
"What's the distance from ground zero?" Lyons asked.
"By this map, ten... maybe ten point one clicks. Better to be short than long, right?"
"I guess. All this traffic..." Lyons glanced at the passing transports. "One truck stalls, it's going to delay the launch."
Blancanales looked at the hijacked diesels. "Why is there a difference if they're in motion or parked?"
"The tops, man. If..." Powell started. Taking out his hand-radio, he buzzed Gadgets. "Mr. Gizmo. Think it makes a difference if the trucks are moving when the rockets take off ? "
"Why?" Gadgets asked.
"Yeah, why? Forget it, gentlemen. The Red Army parks their rocket launchers, why not us?"
"I only figured on a moving blast-off because the crazies planned on that," Gadgets said. "Why don't we pull off the lids? If the road ain't right, it's park and shoot."