The Nostradamus Secret (Danforth Saga Book 3), page 3
Scherzer’s pulse shot skyward. “I want no more knowledge of whatever it is you have decided.”
Shahrani gave Scherzer a toothy smile. “I understand, my friend, as long as you remember your part of our bargain.”
Scherzer breathed out a long, slow breath. “As head of the Iran desk at State, Marshall can promote the man you want as the new President of Iran. But I’m confused about how you’re going to destabilize the current regime in Iran and how, if the United States economy gets worse, forcing the United States to reduce its military role in the Middle East, it will be in a position to influence who the next President of Iran will be.”
A supercilious smirk briefly crossed Shahrani’s face. “You will need to rely on my assurances that a new government will be established in Iran. As far as your country’s potential role in regime change I believe there are three alternative courses of action that your president may take. One, he sends a token force to Iran to help the new government establish itself. Or, two, because of the United States’ domestic problems, he does nothing.” Shahrani paused and crossed the room to stare out the window.
“You said three alternatives,” Scherzer prompted.
“Yes, three alternatives.” Shahrani turned to face Scherzer. “I doubt that this will occur, but it is, of course, possible. Your president decides to ignore your and Marshall’s recommendation and, after the Iranian regime collapses, decides to forcibly put his own candidate in place.”
“Forcibly? You mean a full-blown invasion.”
“Exactly.”
“But that would be a disaster.”
“Only for you and Marshall. It would merely be an inconvenience for the Master.”
Scherzer stood and moved toward the door. He suddenly stopped and said, “Be careful, my friend. Others have underestimated the resolve of this country and regretted it. The same can be said for some people’s estimates of President Andrew Garvin. He is not a man to be underestimated.”
Shahrani nodded. “People have made the same mistake in judging the Master.”
CHAPTER 3
Bob Danforth felt his breath stop at the first glimpse of his new grandson. He ran a hand through his hair and turned away from the others in the hospital room to wipe a tear from his eye. It had been the same when he’d first seen his son, Michael, so many years ago in the maternity ward at Fort Ord Army Hospital. It was as though he’d stepped back in time. But this time, the Army hospital was at Fort Bragg, North Carolina.
Bob turned back to the people he loved. His wife, Liz, stood on one side of the hospital bed. Tall and erect, she was as beautiful as ever. Sure, her hair was more gray than blonde now, and smile lines showed at the corners of her eyes, but, at sixty, she still took his breath away. Michael, sitting on the edge of the bed’s other side, seemed awestruck by the baby in its mother’s arms.
“Oh, he’s beautiful, Miriana,” Liz said, gazing at the child. “He looks just like Michael did when he was born.”
The baby had black hair, like Bob’s—before it had gone more gray than black, Michael’s and Miriana’s. Bob assumed the baby’s eyes would ultimately turn dark-blue, and that his nub of a nose would grow into the same straight nose that had characterized generations of Danforth men.
“How are you feeling?” Bob asked Miriana.
She laughed. “Every time I hold my son I almost forget about the twenty-two hours of labor.” She turned to Michael. “Should we tell them his name?”
Michael smiled at her. “Probably a good idea. We can’t have them calling him ‘Hey you!’ ”
Miriana looked at Bob and said, “Meet your grandson, Robert Andrew Danforth.”
Bob didn’t care who saw his tears this time. He took little Robert from Miriana and kissed his cheek. His namesake. He carried the baby to a chair next to the window and sat down in a glorious ray of sunshine that seemed to signal the joy of holding his first grandchild. But Bob knew that this baby was a real miracle, because there might never have been a grandchild at all. Not if he and Liz had lost their only son so many years ago. Bob’s mind scrolled through the events of over thirty years ago, when Michael had been kidnapped in 1974 in Athens, Greece, where Bob was serving as a U.S. Army officer. Michael had been taken to Bulgaria and sold to an orphanage there—a Soviet-sponsored activity that had been going on since the post-World War II revolution in Greece that the Communists had lost. Bob and Liz had searched for their son. But, when Bob illegally crossed the border from Greece to Bulgaria, he found the orphanage closed and Michael gone. Thanks to an American diplomat in Sofia, Bulgaria, however, Michael was spotted and rescued. But Bob’s intended career in the military was over. Technically, he was AWOL when he crossed into Bulgaria. Officially, he created an international incident that forced the Army to demand his resignation. But the CIA was impressed with his actions and recruited him. Just thinking about losing his only son, even decades later, gave Bob chills.
And then they’d almost lost their son again, when, in 1999, the Army assigned Michael to Macedonia to assist in refugee relocation and relief. A Serb Special Forces unit kidnapped Michael in retaliation for Bob’s role in the CIA’s abduction of a Serb general wanted for committing war crimes. But, not only did Bob rescue his son, but he and Liz gained a daughter-in-law, Miriana, who worked with the CIA’s kidnapping operation.
Bob raised the baby and kissed his forehead. “My little miracle,” he whispered. “One of many.”
“What was that, grandpa?” Liz asked as she came over and touched his shoulder.
“Nothing,” he said, feeling a bit embarrassed. “Just counting my blessings.” He handed the squirming boy to Liz. “Okay, Grandma,” he said, “it’s your turn.”
At that moment, a fit-looking, olive-complected man in a white duty coat entered the room. He was of medium height, with a large hooked nose, almond-shaped amber eyes, and hair so black it shined. He appeared to be in his late thirties. He wore a stethoscope around his neck.
“How’s our newest mother doing this morning?” he asked in a smooth, lilting voice that revealed both Middle Eastern origins and a British education.
“Good morning, Firoz,” Miriana said. “I’m doing fine. Mom, Dad, this is Dr. Firoz Hammadi. Firoz, these are Michael’s parents, Bob and Liz Danforth.”
The doctor nodded to Bob and Liz, then checked something on the clipboard he carried. After a minute, he looked up and smiled at Miriana. “I think we can let you go home today,” he said. “You know how Army hospitals work. In and out in twenty-four hours. Stay around another day and they’ll give you a bucket and a mop so you can police your area.”
“Home sounds just fine to me,” Miriana answered.
Hammadi turned to Michael. “I want to see Miriana in my office next Thursday. I assume you can take time away from eating snakes and blowing things up to bring her in for a follow-up exam.”
“You know what we do with the snakes we catch?” Michael said, looking absolutely serious. “We give them to the cooks in the hospital cafeteria.”
Hammadi laughed. “I wondered why the food here had recently improved.” He patted Michael on the back, told Bob and Liz he’d been pleased to meet them, and left the room.
“He sounds like he’s from Afghanistan,” Bob said.
Michael smiled. “I don’t know how you do that,” he said. “Firoz is from Afghanistan, Dad. He’s one of the good guys. His parents fled after the Soviets invaded their country. And he’s more than a physician. He’s a Special Forces colonel and a weapons expert.”
“Since when do we make the doctors here go through Special Forces training?” Bob asked.
“We don’t,” Michael said. “Firoz volunteered.”
CHAPTER 4
Houssein Shahrani sank into the sofa in his Willard Hotel suite, sipped a bit of his scotch, and exhaled pure satisfaction. “Aah.” He smiled. He had lied to Scherzer, or at least told him a variation of the truth. The Master hadn’t put things in motion. But he wanted Scherzer to think otherwise. He wasn’t going to take the chance that Scherzer might change his mind, withdraw his support. A chill spiked through him as he thought about what he was about to initiate on orders from the Master. If the plan worked, the Master would control Iran, as well as all the lands from the Aegean Sea to India. And with the conquest of these lands would come control of the majority of the world’s oil reserves. The wealth and power the Master’s family had acquired was awesome in its scope. But it would be as nothing compared to the wealth and power the Middle Eastern oil fields would give him.
And, as the Master came to power, Shahrani’s wealth and influence would grow exponentially. And the one country they feared the most—the United States—would be de-clawed and de-fanged. That was the prophecy that the Master had drilled into him, from the Nostradamus papers, from the seventh centurie:
The Medes will, like lions upon sheep,
Descend upon the East in awful array.
The world will wonder at the New Country’s silence,
But all will be lost in one summer’s time.
The Master had explained that modern day Persians were descendants of the Medes. Shahrani smiled at the serendipitous nature of fate. It was fate that brought him to this moment. Shahrani’s grandfather had been the falconer to the Master’s family. His father had continued in that role. But Shahrani and the Master had become boyhood friends. That relationship earned Shahrani an education as he accompanied the Master to schools in France, Switzerland, and finally the United States. He realized that the Master’s father saw him as nothing but a servant for his son. A lackey. But, as years passed, his role changed to that of bodyguard. And then to confidant. And the Master came to depend on him more than on any other person. Through all those years, Shahrani cultivated a natural cunning that told him that the Master’s family’s wealth and influence, coupled with the Master’s ambition, were a sure formula for success.
Shahrani decided that the time for musing was over. He put down his glass, picked up the throwaway cell phone on the coffee table and dialed the cell phone number of Latif Boumedi. Boumedi was a Moroccan recruited by The Sons of Ali while studying in Berlin in the late 1980s. The organization sent Boumedi to the United States as a sleeper agent. Shahrani imagined that if Boumedi knew that the chief assistant to the leader of The Sons of Ali, the Master, the Al Da’i, was calling, he would have a heart attack.
While the phone rang, Shahrani considered how fate had brought Marshall and Scherzer to him. The Master had seen the value of a relationship with the two Americans and had devised the plan he, Shahrani, was about to trigger. A man’s voice disrupted his thoughts.
“Sandia Engineering Associates.”
“Mr. Boumedi, please,” Shahrani said.
“This is Latif Boumedi,” the man said, sounding displeased at being disturbed.
Shahrani decided to provoke the Moroccan with dead silence.
“Who is this?” Boumedi growled.
Shahrani smiled. “It is time to execute Operation Icon,” he whispered.
“What did you say? Who is this?” A pause, and then, “Al Da’i—”
“Shut up!” Shahrani growled.
“I’m sorry. I—”
“Enough!” Shahrani said. “You have twenty-four hours.”
FRIDAY
WEEK ONE
CHAPTER 5
Latif Boumedi finished his noon-time prayers, rose from his knees, and replaced the silk prayer rug into the suitcase resting on the bed in his Las Vegas hotel room. He limped across the room to the laptop he’d set on the desk, his rubber-gloved hands trembling as he stared at the e-mail message he’d drafted. Its subject line: Icon. The message—Execute Icon—would go to an address he’d been given months before by a representative of Al Da’i, the Master, the Supreme Leader of The Sons of Ali. Boumedi knew the recipient of this message was nothing more than a go-between, a human firewall put in place to shelter himself and the Master. Multiple layers of deniability—that was the Master’s policy.
But Boumedi knew he was at risk in another way. After all, he had communicated, most by telephone, with twelve of the fifty “sleepers,” whose names and backgrounds had been given to him by representatives of the Master. Men from Saudi Arabia, Afghanistan, Iraq, Syria, Egypt, and Iran. The sleepers were recruited before coming to the United States on temporary visas. Boumedi had warned each of the recruits of the repercussions of failure to obey: A parent in the old country would be killed, perhaps, or a sister raped and mutilated. But there was always the chance one of the sleepers would turn. Boumedi had been ordered to never use his own name when talking with a sleeper agent, or to meet personally with any of them. He felt a flash of fear, knowing that he’d violated that order in two cases: A young man in Los Angeles whom he had met by chance at an Arab-American picnic on a business trip to California, and a businessman in Miami to whom he’d tried to sell his engineering services. He shuddered. He’d let greed influence him with the sleeper in Miami. He should never have met with that man.
Boumedi sucked in a breath and steeled himself. He assured himself he would never talk if captured, even if the Americans tortured him. But even if he did talk, the Master was safe. Hell, who was the Master, the Al Da’i, anyway? He was rumored to be from the Elburz Mountains in Iran. He was said to have funded insurrections throughout the Middle East and terrorism the world over. That was all Boumedi knew about Al Da’i, other than that he had very deep pockets.
Al Da’i was an icon in the Islamic world. Boumedi laughed. An icon, he thought. How ironic! He mouthed a silent prayer to Allah that the communications chain was intact, that all his sleepers dispersed across the United States would do their duty. Each of the fifty had been assigned five targets for assassination. After striking down their targets, each assassin was to return to his normal routine and await further orders. Boumedi doubted all of them would be able to kill all of their targets, but the combined efforts of the fifty would surely be enough to have the desired effect: Panic across the land.
His right hand shook as he moved the cursor over the SEND symbol. He hesitated, wanting to savor what he was about to unleash on the infidels. The killings would have an effect on the Americans that would make their reaction to the 9-11 attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon pale in comparison.
Boumedi chuckled. They were chasing their tails, these American dogs. Their Office of Homeland Security and counter-terrorism organizations, their police forces and military units, all were focused on bin Laden and his Al Qaeda network. What the Americans didn’t know was that bin Laden was nothing but an errand boy for the true leader: Al Da’i. Bin Laden, a Sunni, reporting to Al Da’i, a Shia. The American intelligence departments didn’t have a clue. The Master was too smart for the infidels.
Once again—for the thousandth time in the past few years—Boumedi thought about the Master’s plan and the trust the great man had placed in him. The assignment had come through a mullah who was visiting the United States on a speaking tour of American universities. Initially, Boumedi had been skeptical. But when the mullah passed him a rare Persian gold coin—ancient, from the time of Cyrus the Great—Boumedi knew the mullah’s message was authentic. The legend of Al Da’i said the handing over of such a coin, a coin of incredible value, would always accompany the assignment of a holy mission. When the sleepers received their lists of five names, they too each received a like coin.
Boumedi took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He clicked on SEND.
Now it was time to leave. He needed to make sure he left no evidence, no trail. He’d opened the email account only a few days earlier, using a forged credit card in the name Meyer Cohen. He touched the false beard and mustache on his face. He had registered as Meyer Cohen—nice touch, he thought. An Arab disguised as an orthodox Jew. He’d put on latex surgical gloves before entering the room. He put the laptop in his suitcase and carried it to the hallway. He closed the door behind him. After checking to make sure the corridor was empty, he placed the suitcase on the floor and opened the lid, stripped off the gloves, and tossed them into the suitcase and reclosed the suitcase. He picked up the suitcase, walked to the elevator bank and rode eleven floors down to the lobby.
He didn’t bother checking out. He left the hotel, suitcase in hand, and took a taxi to Fashion Mall where he’d left his car. The walk through the mall and out to his car was painful because of his deformed left leg—souvenir of a clandestine border crossing into Israel that had gone awry—but he relished the pain. It reminded him of his enemies, the Israelis and their American protectors, and how he was about to more than avenge his injury.
He drove east, far out into the desert, where he dug a hole in the sand two hundred yards off the highway and, using a shovel from the car trunk, buried his disguise and the suitcase. He covered the spot with several large rocks scattered around the area. Then he drove back to Albuquerque. He would be at his desk in his civil engineering business by morning.
CHAPTER 6
Salim Farouki, manager of the Anderson Pharmacy—a chain store in Lima, Ohio—was in the midst of checking sales receipts when his computer beeped, announcing an email waiting to be read. Probably more spam, he thought: Enlarge your penis, make your breasts bigger, refinance your mortgage, start a dialogue with a college coed. He often wondered how such a morally corrupt nation could be so successful. Then he felt a guilty twinge. The United States has been good to me, he thought. I have a family here, and friends. I own a house that only a rich man could own in Syria. I have money in the bank and in the stock market. He grabbed the roll of fat that had grown around his waist and groaned. Yes, America has been good to me.
