Pahesh pretended ignorance and incomprehension, and with a disgusted look, the noncom spat out a few words slowly. “Go. Drive truck. Understand?”
Nodding, keeping his eyes down, the Afghan walked the short distance back to his truck, got in, and pulled out. The engine growled comfortingly as he drove out of the base and away from its guns and fences.
He’d pick a safe place to work tonight. Although slow and somewhat cumbersome, the covert communications system he normally used was secure and fairly reliable. After coding and microfilming, his latest report would go through the regular mails to a friend in Pakistan, piggybacked on a personal letter. His friend would in turn pass it to a CIA controller working out of the embassy in Karachi. Depending on the vagaries of the Iranian postal service, his information should reach America in a few days.
Salah Madani stared out the dark, tinted windows of his rented office. He had a perfect view of the busy airport just across the road. Jets in different corporate and airline colors lumbered by, some heading for runways, others for the terminals and air freight buildings. Voices crackled through a bank of radio receivers tuned to the frequencies used by air traffic controllers, ground crews, and the airport’s security personnel.
More than 50 million passengers and hundreds of thousands of tons of cargo flew in and out of the Dallas/Fort Worth airport each year. Dozens of hotels, warehouses, and office complexes bordered its outer perimeter all built to profit from their proximity to the world’s second busiest airport.
But Madani and the men in his action cell were not interested in profit. The office suite they had leased the week before offered a secure location from which to monitor airport operations and security. Operating in shifts, they maintained an around-the-clock surveillance, accumulating data on approach and departure flight paths, police activity, and ground traffic.
The risk of discovery was minimal. As the region’s economy rose and fell and businesses prospered or went bankrupt, tenants moved in and out with astonishing frequency. So the local landlords were used to a high turnover. More important, they valued clients who paid well and in advance.
The Egyptian watched an airport police patrol car cruise slowly down the wire fence that marked the airport’s perimeter. He noted the time and typed another entry into the laptop computer on the desk beside him.
He pursed his lips, considering what he and his comrades had learned so far. For anyone used to operating in security-conscious Europe or the Middle East, the Americans seemed almost unbelievably lax. They relied almost entirely on a few television cameras and an occasional sweep by the airport police. That was all. Amazing. How could they be so overconfident? So stupid?
Madani shook his head. Their reasons were unimportant. What mattered was that the Americans were vulnerable. Tehran would be pleased.
Alija Karovic took the steps up out of the subway station two at a time, joining a steady stream of passengers eager to escape from the crowded, noisy platforms to Manhattan’s crowded, noisy streets. Short, with dark brown hair and dark brown eyes, the Bosnian Muslim attracted no attention from the throngs hurrying to work. He wasn’t surprised. Even when he spoke, the faint Eastern European accent coloring his English excited little curiosity. Decades after Ellis Island had closed its doors, New York was still a polyglot mix of races and nationalities, of immigrants from every corner of the globe.
At the top of the stairs, Karovic checked his watch. He was a few minutes early. He turned right and started walking, dodging preoccupied pedestrians coming the other way and panhandlers trying to cadge enough spare change to buy liquor or illicit drugs. Since infiltrating the United States, he’d spent nearly two months in this city and its surrounding suburbs, but New York’s jammed streets and sidewalks still seemed strange to him. They stood in stark contrast to the desolate, war-ravaged boulevards of his homeland. In Sarajevo the sight of so many potential victims outside and unprotected would have sent Serb snipers and gunners into a killing frenzy.
A familiar car drew up beside him and pulled over to the curb. The driver reached over and popped open the passenger door.
Karovic slid inside and shut the door without speaking.
“Well?” the driver asked flatly, keeping one eye on the rearview mirror as he inched out into the stop-and-go traffic of the morning rush hour.
Karovic shrugged. “It will be simple. The system is practically undefended.”
“Explain.”
“There are no metal detectors. There are no bomb sniffers.”
“What about the police?” the driver asked. “They have guards on the trains and platforms, do they not?”
Karovic nodded. “Yes. But they are no problem.” He spread his hands.
“The transit police are far too busy watching for petty criminals or crazy people. They will pose no significant threat to us.”
The driver smiled. “This is excellent news, Alija.”
“Yes.” The Bosnian nodded somberly, staring out the car window at the Americans scurrying across the streets in every direction, seemingly heedless of the oncoming traffic or each other. They were like locusts, he thought angrily. Soulless and almost mindless concerned only with self-gratification and endless acquisition. The time had come to sweep these creatures of the devil into the everlasting fire. He glanced at the driver. “I will transmit a full report later tonight.”
Sefer Halovic lay motionless in the tall grass beside an old fallen tree. From his vantage point on the forward slope of a thickly wooded hillside, he had a clear view of the isolated side road he had selected as a drop point. He could hear the low hum of traffic on Route 28 drifting through the forest, but nothing closer in. This small part of the rural northern Virginia countryside was still relatively untouched by all the new housing developments and shopping malls spreading southward from Washington, D.C. The Bosnian stiffened as a red Blazer came into view, driving slowly up the rutted dirt road. Through his binoculars he could make out the faces of the three men inside the vehicle. They were the men he had expected to see: Burke, McGowan, and Keller.
The Blazer stopped beside an almost-overgrown road sign twenty yards below his hiding place. Burke and Keller got out and stood looking warily in all directions. Both carried hunting rifles. Halovic considered their caution a mark of some intelligence. Prearranged drop points were the usual setting for double crosses or ambushes.
While the older neo-Nazi stood guard, Keller moved off into the woods behind the sign, his rifle held at the ready. Although the American was out of sight in moments, his excited shout soon echoed up the hillside.
“The stuff’s here! Four crates! Just like Karl promised.”
Halovic sneered. Amateurs. In a less secure location, the noise Keller was making could have been disastrous.
“Check it out!” Burke yelled back. “Make sure we got what we paid for!”
The Bosnian knew what they would find. He’d helped Yassine pack the shipment himself. The crates contained Czech-made Skorpion machine pistols, AK-47 assault rifles, a PKM light machine gun, ammunition, several kilos of highgrade plastic explosive, and an assortment of sophisticated detonators. He’d told Burke that the weapons came from secret stockpiles of the East German Army. That much was true. Acting through several layers of middlemen, the Iranians had purchased them from ex-members of the Stasi the East German secret police who now controlled the criminal gangs in their former country.