Blood Covenent, page 42
The screen changed to a photograph ofHarlequin. It was the one from Reagan National Airport the day he planted a nuclear bomb between the Supreme Court and Library of Congress. “We know this man asHarlequin ,” continued Stillwell. “We have not passed on any of this information to other intelligence agencies. The most likely identity used is Michael Rehazi.”
Harper examined the face and felt the tenderness of the wound in his arm. He needed to find a new place to take hits. A bullet wound and knife slash did not make for pleasant pillow talk. The stitches still itched even though they were removed a couple of days ago. He examined the face—confident and determined.
“We think Rehazi works for Abbasi, based on anecdotal evidence garnered from emails. Abbasi believes Rehazi has requested this meeting in Cyprus. As you all know, Rehazi is dead. We have been using his email accounts to lure Abbasi out of Iran. We believe Abbasi will show up.”
Thinkandbelieve did not fill Harper with any measure of confidence. “Lieutenant, do weknow anything?”
Stillwell glance up from his notes and shook his head tightly. “Major, we haven’t a clue about what goes on inside the Iranian government. We can monitor elections, and write down in the CIA World Fact Book about the current president and elected representatives, but it’s like the old Soviet Politburo or the new Red Chinese. We ain’t got any resources in place.”
“No spies?” whispered Harper.
“Not one,” replied Stillwell bluntly. “The information we have here is based on newspaper clippings, some eyewitness reports and an awful lot of guess work. I can tell you where all the roads are, but I can’t tell you what they really think and talk about.”
“So did this Abbasi fellow come up with this all on his own?”
“Major, Abbasi moved Rehazi into action. We believe Rehazi assembled a team of ten terrorists, including Hassan Jamal, and targeted the New York, Boston and Washington sites. Considering Rehazi is not available for questioning—”
Harper waved his hand. “I didn’t want to kill him,” he murmured.
Darby Hayes found sadness behind the crinkled eyes and gruff features. He thought about Harper charging into the New York building and facing down the twins. He had rushed through the doors with abandonment found in the height of combat, and there were the same regretful thoughts after it was over. Killing did not sit well.
“Whatever,” said Jonas. “Rehazi,Harlequin, is dead. Abbasi doesn’t know that and he’s expecting to see him in Cyprus. Louis wants you to deliver a message.”
“A message or a corpse?” queried Harper.
“Maybe both.”
There it was again. Louis had unleashed his wolf on the world. This time it was a sixty-year-old man with a turban and scraggly beard. A man who decided lighting off ten nuclear weapons inside the United States was a proper religious exercise. Oh, he could kill the man. The mechanics were not complicated. The anger and blood lust could be properly whipped into shape, but was another death really the answer?
“As you also know,” continued Stillwell, “the northern third of Cyprus is occupied by Turkey. The island remains partitioned with a Muslim north and Christian south. A UN buffer zone works itself from east to west just north of Nicosia. We’ll be landing inside the Eastern Sovereign Base Area—ESBA. The Brits run it as part of their peacekeeping mission. They also have a second base area in the south. They’ve supplied us with a couple of Range Rovers; after that it is up to us to get in and out.”
Louis was making this excursion a very parochial event. “What you’re saying is that we won’t have any help from the Turks or the Greeks in case this goes poorly.”
Brian winked. “Major, you always had a way of getting to the heart of things.” He flipped another slide onto the display cube. It was a section of western Cyprus north of the ESBA. “Our destination is a ridge outside of a town called Geçitkale. The terrain is mountainous, rocky, and rugged. It is approximately 30 klicks outside the ESBA.”
Thirty kilometers into Indian country observed Harper, and another twelve klicks before the north coast of the island. A person could die in such a place and be lost forever.
The image changed to a reconnaissance aircraft photograph. It was a rugged, rocky place with large white outcroppings, scattered bushes, and plenty of places to hide. A barely visible track on the photograph was etched in white leading from what might be loosely described as a road.
“Looks like a goat track,” muttered Darby.
“It probably is,” replied Stillwell. “Major, we want you to meet them here out of visual range from the road.” The pointer indicated a spot that looked like low ground—killing ground.“Sergeant, right here we believe you will have the best overwatch. You can see the road and the track leading off the road, and you have a fairly unrestricted fire arc. We don’t expect Abbasi to show up alone.”
Darby stared at the photograph. Already, he was wondering about the restrictions to his fire zone. “I may need some help getting into position.”
“We’re both coming with you,” said Jonas.
Harper ignored Jonas for the moment and asked, “Sergeant, what’d you bring for this party?”
“A 30-06 Browning A-Bolt II,” he said proudly.
Harper considered the weapon. The caliber made sense, because Darby was a Marine, after all, and the 30-06 had served well in two World Wars. The Browning would be fitted with Browning’s Ballistic Optimizing Shooting System (BOSS). BOSS adjusts the rifle barrel’s vibrations to enable the bullet to exit the muzzle at the most advantageous point during the barrel’s oscillation. It allowed the rifle to be dynamically tuned to a specific load and bullet configuration.
“I tuned it before we left,” continued Darby.
“A good choice. We got anything else?”
“A couple of light antitank weapons, some grenades, and a pair of M16 A2s.”
“You’re the one who left me the Kevlar vest?”
“Yes, sir.”
He turned to Jonas. “I’m the bait?”
“Yes.”
* * * *
Geçitkale, Cyprus
The goat track outside Geçitkale turned out to be a windswept, desolate place. Harper had scouted his position several times. He was boxed in on three sides by steep, craggy chunks of white and gray rocks. The only way through the box was a well-worn thousand-year-old path leading presumably to an upper pasture. In a rainstorm, the path would be unusable. The smooth rock would provide no traction and would be simply a swift trail to a broken leg or worse.
The track leading into the small canyon wound around several mounds of sharp and unforgiving rocks. The road could have been anywhere. The traffic noise was lost on the terrain and the wind—a constant companion—which stole man’s technical sounds away. It had been this way for thousands of years, and it showed no intention of changing anytime soon.
Harper could understand why Carnady chose this spot, and itwas Carnady. Louis and George were prosecuting their own private war again. They found new enemies to pursue, besides the Russians. Who knows, maybe the Russians were in on this escapade, but he doubted it. He went down the list of clues: National Security Agency pilots most likely loyal to George, Jonas and Stillwell brought in to do the briefing, landing inside a British protected area away from the Company’s probing eyes, and the utter lack of any real knowledge of the ruling Iranian Mullahs. It must be driving George crazy.
He settled back into the Range Rover and adjusted the Kevlar vest again. It was useless against Darby’s rifle. A 30-06 would pierce the vest as easily as he ripped open an envelope. However, against a 9mm and .45 ACP he might stand a chance. He checked his own weapons and considered what the day held. He knew he was back inside the fold—inside Louis’s band of mischief-makers. He was not getting any younger, and the prospect of getting a President or a Presidential appointee to rekindled theBlackest of the Black was unlikely.
Harper waited, sealed behind tinted windows, reinforced bumpers, and marginal armored plating. Absently, he sharpened a combat dagger along a whetstone. He sipped water from a canteen and rationed out some cheese Jonas had handed him before they split up at the landing strip. The landing strip was a hard packed road along a field. There were some barracks—more like durable tent cities assembled for the duration—and the two Range Rovers were parked off to the side. They disembarked, offloaded Darby’s gear, and split up. It would take Darby longer to get into place. No one said how long.
Harper realized he was no longer waiting for something to happen when he noticed a puff of dirt spray from beyond his immediate range of vision. Someone was coming down the goat track and they were not walking. He slid the knife into the sheath on his belt. Never taking his eyes from the car’s windscreen, he racked the slide of his Glock and tucked the weapon away. He did the same with the Browning before stepping out of the vehicle and taking up a station behind the car. Best to have an engine block between him and someone’s angry disappointment.
He scanned the tops of the canyon and wondered about Darby, Jonas, and Brian. If they were doing their jobs properly, then he should see nothing. He saw nothing. Then again, if they were not in position he would see nothing. It was not a comforting thought.
The first vehicle came into view. They were driving three Mercedes sport utility vehicles. It was like an elaborate shell game. Which one carried Abbasi?
The first two spun into the canyon, and a third skidded to a stop sideways, blocking the only way in or out, unless the rocky path counted. Harper did not cherish the prospect of scrabbling up the canyon with a bunch of angry Persians taking target practice. He found he could not even muster a decent ball of spit in his mouth.
Three pairs emerged from the SUVs. Each carried a Russian made AK-74 assault rifle, one of the successors to the venerable AK-47. It was based on the lighter 5.45mm round similar to the NATO standard designed to wound rather than kill, because wounded and maimed soldiers take more battlefield resources than dead ones. The nearest pair took up a point on either side of their vehicle and raised their weapons to their shoulders. They brought the weapons around to zero their sites on Harper’s head. He ducked backwards, putting more of the Range Rover between their muzzles and his brick.
The other pairs circled about, holding their weapons at ready, scanning the top of the canyon. Harper still had no idea where Abbasi was. He had no illusions about their first target. He slid the Glock from his holster and fumbled a spare magazine from his side pocket. He was not facing a pair of scared kids running down an alley in New York; these were committed soldiers ferrying their charge.
The blast was thunderous as the far Mercedes disintegrated into a bulbous fireball of orange and black smoke. The two standing on either side of the vehicle went with the car. Their frail forms flung sideways like broken rag dolls. The blast’s heat roiled forward into the canyon, toppling the next two with its concussion. Harper rolled sideways, taking the opportunity to take down one of the closest bodyguards. He squeezed the trigger four times before the Revolutionary Guard coughed blood and sat down against the Mercedes, quite dead.
The Range Rover’s windscreen blossomed with half-dollar-size holes stitched sideways. The shooting unexpectedly stopped when the man’s head abruptly exploded. The Geneva Convention expressly forbids the use of explosive-tipped munitions in small arms. Evidently Darby was ignoring the rules. It was an extra margin he kept to himself. Darby must have gone through a bunch of targets zeroing the Browning.
Harper crawled forward on his belly, until he came even with the Range Rover’s front tire. A broadening pool of anti-freeze greeted him. He checked the undercarriage and realized the other front tire was shredded. Yellow-green drops dripped from where the radiator had sprayed its contents. Cars tend not to stand up well to bullet holes.
The wrecked Mercedes was now a pall of black smoke stretching skywards, and several mangled parts scattered across canyon floor. The remaining two bodyguards were shouting at each other. The jabbering back and forth lasted for another minute, only to be replaced by silence. Maybe they were in one of Darby’s blind spots, or the rifle could have jammed, or someone caught a bullet from return fire. The crackling fire from the far Mercedes’ remains broke the silence.
After another minute, Ayatollah Kambiz Abbasi emerged from the first Mercedes. He stood erect and waited, sniffing the air. He understood better than his own men. If he were meant to die today, the other two Mercedes SUVs would be burning wrecks. Why wait for someone to show themselves and place a man on the killing field, unless this was more than a simple assassination. He let the door slam behind him.
He glanced at the decapitated man lying behind the SUV. The windows were splattered with the man’s brain, bone, and blood. He made sure his robes did not touch the refuse. He walked around the man Harper had killed. His legs were stretching out before him in a disjointed and unnatural arrangement. Four bloody holes in his chest marked Harper’s handiwork, and blood dribbled down his chin. The rifle lay with its muzzle jammed in the dirt.
Abbasi stood between the dead man and Harper and spread his hands. The turban shadowed his features and Harper did not doubt the black robes covered a vest similar to his own. Harper slowly came to a crouch. The blood scent mingled with the antifreeze sticking to one of his palms. He held the Glock canted at a forty-five degree angle. His attention strayed to the last two bodyguards.
“Have you come to kill me today?” asked Abbasi in Arabic.
Harper shook his head and stepped further into the open.
“You are notHarlequin. ” The older man permitted himself a smile and continued in Arabic. “I presume he won’t be joining us.”
Harper’s mouth could have played the part of the desert in one of those black and white films about the French Foreign Legion getting slaughtered by an angry batch of tribesmen. Twenty feet separated the two of them. He made sure the Mullah remained between himself and his upset bodyguards.
“Harlequinis dead. I killed him,” Harper replied.
“Did he die as a soldier does?” inquired Abassi.
Harper nodded. Harper’s shoulder reminded him of his own mortality. The nearness of his own demise in the house on Conway Road came back to him.
“Then his reward is paradise,” intoned the white-bearded man before him.
“His reward is Hell. Soldiers don’t butcher innocent people,” corrected Harper. “He’s burning there right now and will be forever. There is no paradise for him. He believed in no God, and certainly did not know the true God.” Harper wondered at his words. He was not here to discuss theology.
“You presume to lectureme !” Abassi snapped. His eyes flared into ghostly orbs beneath the turban’s shadow.
Harper snorted. “I tell you the truth. Your god is a false god. You make war on women and children. You slaughter those who fail to follow your edicts and you call it holy. You bring judgment on yourself by your actions, but I’m not here today to render judgment. I come with a message.”
“You speak for your President?”
Harper wondered about the question. He knew for certain he spoke for Louis and George. He decided he would speak for himself. He knew what he would say, and somewhere in the rocks above, Jonas had one of those Plexiglas ears pointed down on the killing ground. Every word would be recorded.
“No.” Harper heard himself saying. It was not a time for lies.
“Then who?”
“Myself.”
Abassi found this amusing. “You?” he said derisively. “And what are you but an instrument of the people who own you? Just asHarlequin was my weapon. Oh, I know he thought he was something else, and he certainly acted like it. Nevertheless, you are no different. You speak for someone, and that is not yourself,” he chuckled again.
There it was again—the common theme between himself andHarlequin. Everyone saw the truth he hoped to deny. He considered his words carefully. He wanted them understood. “This is personal.”
“Really? Young man, what lies between our two nations is more than personal. You have abused us. You continue to think of us as peasants with one useful purpose. To pump enough oil so you can run all your automobiles and heat your homes. Your Congress and President continue to pass laws imposing unfair and unreasonable sanctions on my country. Do you think we will sit by forever and just take it? Times are changing. Your great oceans will not protect you forever. Someday we will be able to launch weapons from where we live.”
Harper pursed his lips. He was dealing with someone who wished to usher in the end of the world. There was no consideration regarding the predictable and inevitable response. Missiles would be met with devastating and life-ending force. It was a thought too terrible to contemplate.
“I want you to understand this clearly,” Harper began. “Should you—not some vague government, butyou —ever raise a hand against my country again—” He pointed his index finger at Abassi, unsure whether this was offensive or not. It did not matter, because he was turning a corner. “Then I shall come and find you. Not someone else. Remember I told you this was personal?”
Abassi waved his hand. He was bored with the conversation. “As you wish.”
“I will come and find you and cut your manhood from you and I will shove it down your throat and I will defile your body so even the vultures will be repulsed, and—believe me as I say this—I promise you as certain as I am death.”
