The Egyptian did not betray any of these thoughts, his face an impassive mask. He turned to another man seated directly across from him, who had not spoken for the duration of the meeting. “Minister Mazaheri, thank you for being here this evening. I believe you have news to impart.”
The newly appointed minister of intelligence and security nodded and went on to address the group, his eyes focusing intently on each face from behind simple steel-framed spectacles. “His Excellency is most pleased by what you have accomplished. He was angered by the American accusations, and wishes to thank you for the actions you have initiated against them. Tomorrow he will issue a statement declaring his intention to reopen the nuclear facility at Natanz.” This revelation brought murmured approval from the small group of men around the table, the few who were trusted enough to be told of this development.
“Of course, production is already well under way. Recently installed gas centrifuges have dramatically increased the speed of the enrich-ment process, and our heavy-water reactor at Arak is currently producing weapons grade plutonium. We have, however, encountered several difficulties. The IAEA has its suspicions, as always, and is insisting on access to our facility in the south. This proposal is rapidly gaining support within the U.N. El-Baradei can be quite persistent.
Additionally, we have been forced to import some of the components needed for the carbon casing and injection core. It will be difficult to bring these materials into the country without alerting the Americans.”
The Iranian leaned forward, resting his hands on the rough surface of the table. His face was twisted in hatred when he spoke again.
“This new resolution implemented by the West will set back the program by ten years or more if it is allowed to continue. For years we have survived only through the greed of European oil companies who regularly undermined the American sanctions. Now it appears that the French are starting to fall into line, as are the Italians . . . It is the opinion of my government that there is only one way to dissuade them from supporting these latest measures.”
Hamza absorbed these comments silently, one hand carefully grooming his thick black mustache as he considered this statement.
“A large-scale attack on U.S. soil. Many American deaths. Extensive news coverage and public backlash. These are the things that you need to cause a division, to break their will.”
Ali Vahid Mazaheri nodded in agreement. “What do you suggest?”
“There are many options,” Hamza said. “First, a suitable target must be found. Everything depends on the target. A decisive strike will shatter the coalition; however, we may need assistance from His Excellency in mounting such an operation. Your government has seen how effective Al-Qaeda can be, even in our current weakened state.” He sent a respectful nod in the American’s direction. “Our Western friend has taken many risks that have once again brought us to the attention of the world. Speed is critical at this juncture if we wish to cause immediate disarray in the American leadership.”
The minister inclined his head slightly, a small smile etching its way across his face. “An interesting proposal. What do you require?”
“At first, nothing. Merely your support.”
“You have it. My country is in your debt, and it shall be repaid many times over. I will convey your proposal to His Excellency.”
“You have my gratitude. I am confident that we shall both prosper from this agreement.”
Hamza smiled and stood, as did the Iranian minister. Both men shook hands and then embraced, causing the small group surrounding the table to break into spontaneous applause.
Jason March stood to the side, his face wiped clean of any emotion. Inside, though, he felt a wave of pleasure ripple through his body as a vision of Washington ablaze seeped its way into his mind.
The image of fire erupting from the windows of the White House was so powerful that Hamza had to speak his name several times before he snapped back to reality.
“Yes, what is it?”
Hamza frowned slightly at the man’s tone. He was still, after all, a traitor to his native country. A man who changed sides once could do so again. Hamza wanted to test this man’s loyalty; to do so, he was about to take a serious risk.
“Follow me. There is someone I would like for you to meet.”
The ancient Ford Cortina moved steadily through the darkened streets of Mashhad, stopping at various locations, sometimes for several minutes at a time, before moving off again unexpectedly with a sudden burst of speed. Although hundreds of volunteers would have jumped at the chance to drive Hassan Hamza about the city, he placed trust only in his own instincts, and rightfully so; he had seen many other experienced operatives die at the hands of the American Special Forces by exercising less caution than was necessary in their chosen profession. The American seated next to him had not spoken since leaving the heavily guarded two-story residence northeast of the city center. Hamza wondered what was running through the other man’s mind.
After forty-five minutes had passed, Hamza decided they had not been followed. In any city in Afghanistan, he would not have attempted such a meeting, but he felt reasonably secure in this part of northeastern Iran. He turned abruptly into a dusty alleyway, the sedan clattering to a stop between buildings of pale stone.
“Follow me. You have nothing to worry about,” he assured the other man. He handed the American a woolen watch cap. “Put this on.”
March pulled the material down low over his blond hair, which, if left uncovered, would be immediately noticed and stored away for future use by the city’s many inhabitants. Given the chance, the people in this area would eagerly criticize the decadent West; however, he was aware that they might easily change their tune when presented with a generous reward for information. Such was the fickle nature of humanity, March knew. Most people would gladly sacrifice their principles for money.
The two men moved quickly down the alley, and then past a row of dilapidated, low-slung brick buildings. March noticed that the street was unusually dark, the bulbs in the streetlights above having been either removed or destroyed. Despite the late hour, an old woman wandered down the uneven street in their direction, her gait unsteady. She averted her eyes as she passed the two men, another fact that was not lost on the American. He decided that the organization had taken substantial measures to ensure their security in this area, perhaps even to the point of bribing people house to house.
Certainly, the local officials would have been well compensated for their cooperation.
They stopped at the fifth house on the left. March hesitated before pushing through the wrought iron gate, sensing that something was amiss. Hamza’s easy smile did little to alleviate his sudden fear.
As his acute senses suddenly focused, he picked up a silhouette in his peripheral vision. A sniper lay prone on the low roof of the building, the rigid bone of his eye socket just millimeters from the scope of a Russian Dragunov rifle.
March was impressed by the man’s discipline, but thought the weapon far too large and difficult to maneuver in an urban environment. He personally would have opted for the Galil with its folding stock, but never would have suggested it to the man on the roof. He almost laughed out loud at the idea of an Arab militant using a weapon manufactured in Israel.
Approaching the door, two more guards suddenly entered his line of sight, AK-47 rifles held down by their sides. The men tensed momentarily as they approached, then quickly relaxed as Hamza spoke with one of the guards in hushed tones. A portable radio was lifted to lips cracked by the harsh sun, words were exchanged, orders issued.