Reza’s entrance halted the buzz of activity. He snapped his fingers at the three technicians. “Out,” he said. “Close the door behind you.” They ran from the room. The security team would take care of them.
Aban’s bulk shifted behind the desk. “Don’t get up,” Reza took his time moving the ladder aside and drawing a chair up so that he could sit across from the holy man.
“What is the meaning of this intrusion?” Aban said, his gaze shifting to the muted television in the corner. Reza followed his eyes to Al Jazeera. The commentators were chattering about the nuclear talks in Tel Aviv, rerunning the footage of Rouhani descending from the plane and shaking Netanyahu’s outstretched hand. Reza felt the rage quiver in his belly, and he pushed it down. He needed information now; retribution would come later.
“Your missile failed to launch.”
Aban went pale under the heavy makeup, but he kept his confident smile in place. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“Your brother attempted to launch a nuclear missile at Tel Aviv earlier today. The missile failed on takeoff. The Americans detected it.”
The ayatollah’s eyes cut to the silent television. The commentator’s lips moved happily.
“There won’t be any announcement of the launch. The Americans contacted President Rouhani. We are cooperating with them.”
The composed face beneath the snow-white turban twisted in rage. “He is cooperating with the Americans? Traitor! I knew it! This just goes to show—”
“We know your brother has more weapons, and we intend to take them from him.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about.”
Reza stood. “I thought so. In that case, you are of no use to me. Aban Rahmani, you are under arrest for treason against the Islamic Republic of Iran—”
“Let’s not be hasty, sir.” Aban interrupted him. “Arrest?”
“Do you know what they do to holy men in prison, Aban?”
“How dare you address me like that. I am Ayatollah—”
Reza leaned across the desk and lowered his voice. “You are seconds away from being stripped and thrown into jail. A nice fat boy like you, a fallen holy man…” Reza kissed his fingertips. “They will love you.”
The fat man began to sweat, his makeup streaking down his cheeks. “Perhaps we can make a deal? Maybe I have some… small bits of information I can offer. I don’t generally associate with my brother — half brother, actually, he’s only a half brother. But perhaps I can think of some information that may be useful to you in recovering the other weapons.”
“How many are there?”
Aban’s mask slipped for a second. “Two — I mean, I think there are two more.”
Reza looked over his shoulder at the camera. “I have an idea, holy man. Let’s make a movie.” He unclipped the radio from his belt. “Send the cameraman in here.”
Within a few minutes, Reza had the camera set up to make a single digital copy of his session with the ayatollah, then he dismissed the cameraman and locked the door behind him.
He stood before the desk. “Take off your robe,” Reza said.
The ayatollah started to make a fuss, then stood and slipped the robe off his shoulders. The white T-shirt underneath showed his saggy breasts and stretched tight against the bulge of his belly.
“Turban off, too.”
When Aban removed the covering from his head, long gray wisps of frizzy hair leaped off his scalp. Reza nodded. “Perfect.” He swept everything off the desk into a jumbled heap on the floor and indicated that Aban should take his seat again. In the camera monitor, he looked like a homeless man. Reza fingered the record button.
“This is our deal, holy man. If you tell me the truth, you get to keep this wonderful house and all your servants. If you fail, you go to jail and eventually, after I ensure you’ve been raped enough, you get hanged. Understand?”
Reza hit the record button.
The interview lasted thirty minutes. Reza asked him questions about the nuclear weapons in his brother’s possession, and how they were being kept. He hid his surprise when he heard they had originated in Iraq. The ayatollah went on at length about the size of the facility housing the weapons and how it was guarded, but Reza detected another note of slight hesitation when he was asked about the number of weapons.
Reza stopped the recording and withdrew the thumb drive from the camera. He would call Rouhani and upload the file to the Americans for their raid. Let them clean up this mess.
He resumed his seat across from the ayatollah. “Well done, holy man, except for one thing. You lied to me.”
The ayatollah started to protest, but Reza held up his hand.
“This is your last chance: how many nuclear weapons are there?”
CHAPTER 42
The pilot’s voice was loud in Brendan’s headset. “Commander, that’s where we’re headed.”
Brendan followed the direction of his finger and sucked in a breath. According to the map in his lap, this was a small island on the northern tip of Oman, a wildlife preserve with a tiny airstrip.
Not tonight. The island was lit brilliantly, and in the glare Brendan could make out at least a dozen military transport aircraft, and teams of men unloading helicopters and pallets of supplies.
The Seahawk helo banked sharply as the pilot received clearance to land on the far end of the teeming airfield.
This was Brendan’s second helo of the day. Two hours after Baxter’s cryptic message, the Arrogant had been contacted by an inbound helicopter from the USS Ross. After Baxter’s call, they made best possible speed away from the Iranian coast, and the horizon was clear of any surface contacts.
As had been agreed, there were no radio comms. With a wave at his crew, Brendan hit the water wearing only shorts and a T-shirt. After he had put fifty yards between him and the boat, he stopped and waved his arm up toward the helo. A line with a horse collar lowered to the water, the wash from the helicopter’s rotor whipping the water flat around him.
Brendan let the line touch the water before he reached for it. The static charge built up by the rotors could be deadly until the line was grounded. He slipped the collar over his head and under his armpits before waving up to the aircraft.
The crew chief in the helo had a dry flightsuit and combat boots waiting for him. Brendan pulled on a pair of headphones.
“Welcome aboard, sir,” the pilot greeted him. “You’ll find our accommodations are a bit less luxurious than what you’re used to, but it’s the best we can offer.” He gestured to the sailboat, which was rapidly blending into the haze of the Persian Gulf.
Brendan flushed. “Oh, that; I’m a—”
“No need, sir.” The pilot held up his hand. “I’ve been briefed that you’re a rich American businessman with a burning need to get to Muscat, and we’re happy to help.” He flashed Brendan a smile.
Brendan nodded and spent the rest of short trip staring out the window as they sped over the waves. He hadn’t been in a helo since… since the mission in the South China Sea. As if in sympathy, his knee twinged with pain.
The Seahawk landed with a flourish at the edge of the Muscat airfield. A lone figure waited for Brendan as he ran under the heavy downdraft. The tempo of the rotors increased as the helo took off again.