The Syrian army and air force had exterminated the last strongholds of the rebellion in the Shael mountains. With the end of the artillery and rocket barrages, the soldiers manning the checkpoints had finally released the hundreds of vehicles stalled by the war.
The document checks had not found the Americans. Via radio, Zhgenti had checked with the Syrian central command in the Bekaa. None of the officers at the major checkpoints reported the group of Americans. The Americans and their Shia militia allies had not stopped at a checkpoint or encountered a Syrian patrol. If Desmarais had told the truth, they remained somewhere in the Bekaa Valley, concealed by the storm and the chaos of the war.
Now Zhgenti raced east to Damascus. His unit, reinforced by Syrian soldiers and men from the Syrian intelligence service when political and military conditions allowed their reassignment, would take positions around the Iranian embassy, and there wait for the Americans to appear.
Despite his doubts, Zhgenti had finally agreed with Desmarais. The situation left him no choice. The Americans had outmaneuvered all the forces at his disposal — Soviet, Palestinian and Lebanese. Somewhere in the Bekaa, the Americans and their Shia allies attacked an Iranian target. Logically, after the strike, they would retreat to the west, where the coast allowed for transportation to Cyprus and their return to the United States.
But logic did not guide the Americans, not the usual logic of military planners. The American terror team slipped past expected targets, where prepared defenses awaited, to hit where no one had expected. Where concentric lines of defense ensured complete security from attack, they seemed to rise from the earth to kill and destroy.
This had been their technique throughout the two years of operations. Zhgenti knew their record of successes. When the Egyptian wing of the fanatical Muslim Brotherhood, Soviet financed and armed, struck at a secret U.S. Air Force installation in Cairo, the American team had slashed through the cells of Islamic terror gangs. But they, did not pursue the scattered individuals. Instead, they raced far into the Egyptian desert to martyr an entire garrison of Islamic warriors. In another campaign, they had parachuted into the mountains of Nicaragua and devastated a terror training camp. Then, only a day or two later, they had reappeared in Los Angeles to exterminate a terror unit preparing a binary nerve gas attack on the city.
With those Americans, Zhgenti could only expect the unexpected. Therefore, he had accepted the suggestion from Desmarais that he anticipate the illogical and establish a watch at the Iranian embassy.
Actually, when Zhgenti considered it, a certain logic suggested that the Americans would attack the embassy. They had tracked Iranians from Beirut to Mexico, then exterminated them. Now they attacked an Iranian base in the Bekaa.
So why not attack the Iranian embassy, the source of funding and guidance for the fanatics?
When the Americans came, Zhgenti would be there, waiting.
As his limousine ascended the ramp to street level, Colonel Dastgerdi saw the man known to his associates in UNESCO as Jean Pierre Giraud stride from the darkness. Dastgerdi pushed the button of his intercom. "Driver, stop! That man comes with me."
"Yes, Colonel."
Throwing open the door, Dastgerdi greeted the man in French. But when the elegantly dressed United Nations functionary joined him in the Mercedes, Dastgerdi abandoned French and spoke in their native language, Russian.
"This is our night of victory, Comrade Suvorov," Dastgerdi announced, using the man's true name. "Another victory for the Special Forces of the Red Army!"
Suvorov feigned ignorance of Russian. He glanced to the bulletproof glass dividing their seats from the driver and continued in French. Dastgerdi laughed at his associate's concern.
"He cannot hear. The glass stops bullets and words. I am absolutely positive. Speak — it is a time for celebration." The Colonel opened the built-in bar, removed a bottle of vodka and filled two glasses. "After years, we can speak. We have overcome the technological limitations of our nation's weapons, overcome the ignorance of the Syrians and the stupidity of the Iranians. The American President will receive the reward of our struggles. To the inauguration!"
They gulped down the Russian alcohol. The limousine passed through the concentric rings of fencing protecting the rocket-development base. Dastgerdi looked out at the landscape of rock and snow. He laughed. "Never again will I see this miserable place. Now I can become an officer again! Forget your French, Suvorov! Speak our language."
"Is difficult to abandon caution," Suvorov admitted. "Speaking French and English, but never our tongue. Never allowing ourselves even to dream in our language, but... but for victory, it is nothing."
As the Mercedes powered through the snow and ruts of the road to the highway, Dastgerdi poured two more shots of vodka. "To the defeat of the old men — in Moscow and Washington. After the war, the Soviet army will rule all the world."
The other Soviet laughed. "But Syria and Iran and Iraq are not the world. We will gain the oil fields and the ports, three more socialist republics."
"And it will be a victory for the army. Not the old men, not the KGB, not the diplomats. We will gain power over the Central Committee and then nothing can stop us. Nothing!"
"I do not believe we will push that far. The oil fields and the ports of the Gulf and Mediterranean, that is enough..."
"No! The world! Nothing less than the world!" Dastgerdi splashed another shot into his glass. "Victory for the Red Army! Victory for the special forces of the Soviet army intelligence service!"
As they neared the highway, the driver spoke through the intercom. "Colonel Dastgerdi, a checkpoint. A group of our soldiers is blocking the road."
"Drive past them!" Dastgerdi told him. "They have no authority to stop me."
"Colonel, they have heavy weapons."
The two Soviets looked out to see a heavy troop transport. Soldiers aimed a tripod-mounted 12.7mm machine gun at the Mercedes. Another soldier stood with a ready RPG launcher and rocket.
"I advise we stop," the driver concluded.
"Present our documents!" Dastgerdi ordered. "But I will not tolerate a delay."
Slowing to a stop, the driver rolled down his window. A Syrian soldier demanded their papers. Another tapped at the back window. The driver spoke through the intercom.
"They demand to search the car, Colonel."
"No! I will not allow it!" Throwing open the door, Dastgerdi attempted to step out. The muzzles of Kalashnikov rifles stopped him. Soldiers looked into the back.
"Your papers!" one of the Syrians ordered.
"Where is your officer?" Dastgerdi shouted.
"My officer is dead, killed by traitors in the uniforms of officers. Perhaps you are another traitor. Show us your papers. If you fight, we execute you."
With a rifle at his head, the driver walked to the trunk and unlocked it. Then the soldier pushed him back into the front seat.
Colonel Dastgerdi waited in the Mercedes limousine, raging at the stupidity of common soldiers.
17
Standing behind the truck, his pockets full of tools, Gadgets watched the driver open the trunk of the limousine. A Shia in a Syrian army uniform escorted the driver back to the front of the Mercedes. When the driver's door closed, Gadgets crossed the road to the open trunk.
The raised trunk lid blocked the view of the two men in the back seat. The trunk light illuminating his search, Gadgets opened the top suitcase. Clothes. Slipping his hands into the folded shirts and pants, he found nothing unusual. He put the suitcase aside and opened another.