He couldn’t believe his luck—he bent forward to return the kiss.
As he did, Tilia grabbed the rifle from his hand. She spun it around, put her thumb on the trigger, and blew a hole through her head.
36
North central Iran
BANI ABERHADJI COULDN’T BELIEVE WHAT HE WAS HEARING. The president of Iran, Darab Kasra, was traveling to America—the Satan Incarnate—in a few days’ time.
Treason.
Blasphemy.
“We can’t allow this,” Aberhadji said. “We cannot.”
General Taher Banhnnjunni stared at him. He, too, had only just heard.
“How could he make such a decision without consulting the Revolutionary Guard?” continued Aberhadji. “Did this come from the ayatollahs?”
“He must have spoken to them,” said Banhnnjunni. He was stunned. The decision to destroy Iran’s nuclear capability, though a terrible one, at least had some logic to it when balanced against the West’s concessions. But this—this could not be explained at all.
“You are the head of the Guard, and the council,” said Aberhadji. “You weren’t consulted?”
“No.”
“That is an insult. An insult to all of us. They feel—they think we are worms to be disregarded.”
Aberhadji’s anger consumed him. He stalked back and forth across the general’s office, as if some of it might dissipate.
But it didn’t.
“We can shoot him this morning, this afternoon. Blow up his house. Blow up his car, his plane,” said Aberhadji.
Banhnnjunni took hold of himself. “You’re raving,” he told Aberhadji. “Calm down.”
“Calm down? Our country is being led by a traitor and blasphemer. We are being led back to the days of the Shah!”
“The black robes are still in charge.”
“Do you think they authorized this? This?”
Aberhadji could not fathom that it was possible. Banhnnjunni, on the other hand, was not so sure. He had seen the Guard decline greatly in position over the past year. His own status was also in doubt.
He struggled to think logically.
“The president will have no support when he comes back,” said the general. “This will end him with the people.”
Aberhadji felt as if his brain was unraveling. He had never been guided by emotion—and yet his feelings now were overwhelming. There was no way to be calm before such a gross provocation.
“He’ll remain in office. And he has the army,” said Aberhadji. “Better to strike then, kill him there.”
“Make him a martyr?”
“It would be ironic. His death would surely serve a purpose. We could use it to rally the country. To return to purity, as we have always proposed.”
Banhnnjunni hated the president as much as Aberhadji did. But murdering him was a complicated undertaking.
“The plane would be the best place to strike,” said Aberhadji. “It would be easy, and it would be a symbol. Or we could arrange it so it appeared that the Americans did it. Perhaps that would be better.”
“What if they retaliate?”
“They wouldn’t dare. How? What would they do? Invade? Then we use the warhead.”
Banhnnjunni felt a second blow, this one even harder.
“You told me the project was several months to completion, if not a year,” said the general.
“It is very close. It can be pushed closer,” said Aberhadji. “And—I will make contingencies.”
Aberhadji had, in fact, already prepared a contingency, and had a full warhead, though as Banhnnjunni said, he had told the small group on the council who knew of the project that they were still a distance away from completing it. This was not technically a lie—they could not yet strike the massive blow they intended. But they could do great damage. And would, if necessary.
“You lied to me?” said Banhnnjunni.
“Of course not. We can strike if necessary. Just not in the exact way, in the best way, we planned. I will rush everything—we will be ready for the Americans, once we kill their bastard.”
“We will not kill our president,” said the general.
“We must.”
“I have to think about this,” said General Banhnnjunni. “I have to talk to others. To the black robes. In the meantime, you will do nothing.”
“We can’t let this sin stain our nation.”
“Take the long view, Bani,” said the general. “Compromise at the moment may be the right way.”
“My long view ends in Paradise,” countered Aberhadji. “Where does yours end?”
37
Base Camp Alpha
OBJECTIVELY SPEAKING, THE GOAL OF THE OPERATION against the Sudan prison camp had been a success: Tarid was free, and heading toward Khartoum. Not only was he being tracked via satellite, thanks to the biomarker Danny Freah had planted, but the CIA was scouring intercepts and digging through databases and other sources to get as much information about him as possible.
But the operation had cost considerably more lives than Danny had hoped. The Sudanese and the rebel dead weighed on him more than most people would have thought. But the real blow was McGowan.
In war, sacrifice was inevitable, and even the best leader has to make decisions that led to deaths. But Danny felt that he should have planned the attack differently, found some way to protect McGowan. He brooded about the attack, reviewing it over and over in his mind.
There were many small changes he might have made, and yet they might not have led to a different result. The ferocity of the Sudanese defenders had been surprising. In general, they were not considered either effective or fierce. They had proven to be both. With a more aggressive leader, they might have cost the Whiplash team even more casualties.
On the whole, the Americans had performed well. The small group was starting to bond; Danny found that he was coming to like Nuri as well as respect him.
There was one glaring exception: Hera. She was the sand in the Vaseline. Or as Boston put it, “The only word to describe her rhymes with witch. And it ain’t rich.”
Danny had worked with difficult personalities before. Special operations attracted them, and it wasn’t always easy to weed them out. But peer selection and an extended training and test period helped. One fierce op generally rounded them into shape—or showed that they were never going to fit.
“I can bust on her ass,” said Boston, reviewing the situation after they got back to Base Camp Alpha. “Pound a little respect into her pointy head.”
“I’ll handle it,” said Danny.
“You going to bag her?” Boston asked.
“I can’t while the mission is continuing. We’re short as it is. And she speaks Farsi better than Nuri. If this guy’s Iranian, that’s a big plus.”
“Your earphone thing doesn’t translate for you?”
“It does. But it’s not the same. Anyway, I can’t bag her now.”
“You can do anything you want, Chief. You de boss.”
Boston had been struggling to find a title other than colonel that fit. Boss, chief, skipper—nothing felt good on the tongue. He was just so used to calling Danny “Captain,” nothing else felt right.
Nuri, meanwhile, was trying to figure out a next step.
“The good news is, Tarid’s in Khartoum,” he told Danny when they settled down to take stock together.
“What’s the bad?” said Danny.
“Besides the coffee?”