Quest for Honor (25 page)

“Don’t play with knives,” Jim said, standing up and flipping the knife closed and into his pocket.

“Nicely done, Jim.”

Denise was at the door of the bar, along with the waitress. They were both smiling. “What the hell is this?” Jim said. He glanced back down at the barroom bully, who started to sit up, clutching his left arm, forcing a small grin through the pain.

“Congratulations,” Denise said. “You passed.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Somalia

Y
usuf was exhausted
again. Of course he wasn’t a young man anymore, but it wasn’t so much the physical stress. He was used to that by now, after so many years in the field. No, it was the mental strain. He wasn’t sleeping well, often waking with so much racing through his mind that he could not relax, so he would usually rise quietly and go into his office to peck away at the computer. Tonight was one of those nights.

He had returned to the camp late last night from another trip to Mogadishu. The meeting with the American CIA contact had gone well. The two men did not yet fully trust each other, probably never would, but there was enough trust between them now to allow them to work together. Simons told him about the foiled attack on Ashkelon, how his superiors were very pleased and were prepared to cooperate with Yusuf, provide him all the assistance he would need to get out of the country and into protective custody.

And, most exciting of all, they had found James Hayes, and he was working with them. Yusuf tried to conceal his excitement at that news, offering only a smile and a nod. They moved on to a discussion of the particulars. They would bring Hayes to Mogadishu in three days’ time, on the thirty-first of July. The meeting was set for the Hotel Quruxsan at seven p.m. Yusuf had only one additional request: that the Americans find his parents in Nairobi and take them out of the country. At first he’d thought they would be safe staying in Kenya, but the more he thought about it, the more he realized he could not trust the men who would soon become his most bitter enemies. They might not be able to find him, but they would find his parents, and punish him through them. That he could not bear, so he had given Simons a letter for his parents, written in Swahili and containing references only they and Yusuf would know, begging them to accompany the Americans to safety. Simons promised that he would pass his request to his superiors and felt confident they would do what they could.

July thirty-first. They would be cutting things very close indeed, but Yusuf couldn’t move the timetable up. Heydar’s men were now in the camp, and the training for the ship seizure had begun in earnest. The strike team would depart the camp in three shifts. The first truck would leave on August first, with the second twelve hours later, early on the morning of the second, and the final truck twelve hours after that. The staggered departures were a security measure; one could never be sure of the Americans and their drones and satellites, so they would not make it easy for them by sending the entire force out at once. They would meet in Mogadishu and board the ship on the evening of the third, setting sail just before midnight.

Heydar’s chief lieutenant, who Yusuf felt certain was an officer in the IRGC’s naval detachment, had plotted out the course of the ship precisely. They would intercept the cruise liner on the evening of the sixth. The attack would commence when most of the passengers were sitting down to dinner and thus a large portion of the crew would be busy accommodating their guests. The seizure of the vessel would be announced to the world by the commandos around midnight. It would be in the middle of the night in Europe, still the previous early evening on the Americans’ east coast. Plenty of time for the news agencies to start airing the story, but it would take several hours for the American and British governments to coordinate their response.

The cruise liner would be scuttled before dawn. With any luck at all, Heydar said, no American or NATO naval vessel would be within striking distance of them. They would have to move quickly, but the point was not to hold the vessel for days.

“Well, then, what
is
the point?” Yusuf asked. It was a logical question, and one some of his own people, including Amir, had asked him privately after the Iranians held their first briefing for Yusuf and his officers. A high-profile hostage-taking mission had to be drawn out for at least a few days for maximum propaganda value. The longer they held the Westerners, the more embarrassment it caused for their governments. Eventually the commandos would come, of course, but as Amir had said, they should hold the ship for at least twenty-four hours, maybe forty-eight, before doing what they had to do and making their escape, although escape by then might very well be impossible. But at least they could go down fighting, taking as many of the infidel sailors with them as possible.

Only Yusuf had the authority, or frankly the nerve, to ask their “advisers” such an obvious question. Even though many of his men had come to know Heydar, had even been training with him in his makeshift martial arts gym, the camp’s leadership cadre did not trust him or any of the other Iranians who had arrived. And indeed, Heydar had been evasive in his answer. “The Americans and the British will once again be held up for ridicule,” he said. “We will show them their people are not safe from us anywhere, even on the high seas.”

There was certainly ample reason for their distrust, Yusuf knew. It was becoming very clear that he and his own men were more and more becoming simple pawns of the Iranians. Yusuf did not like this, and he recalled past conversations he’d had with Hamas and Hezbollah men in Gaza and Lebanon. No, they did not particularly like the Iranians, either, but that’s where most of their arms and financing came from, so they let the Iranians think they were in charge. Things would be different, they said, when the Zionists were expelled from Palestine and the Americans humbled and withdrawn. The Iranians thought they’d be in control of everything then, but they would find out differently.

Yusuf wasn’t so sure about that. Tehran was not spending so much money, taking so many risks, just to stand aside if their clients succeeded. Unlike the Americans, who were pulling out of Iraq even now and would eventually leave Afghanistan, the Iranians would stick around. After all, the great caliphate would need a caliph. He would be the man who had the most firepower behind him, and Iran had more of that than any other Muslim state in the world. Pakistan had a larger nuclear arsenal, or so Yusuf assumed, but not for long. No, Iran was making its case for leadership of the Muslim world, and making it in ways that were perfectly understood: they would do it with their wallets, and if that wasn’t persuasive, they would do it at gunpoint.

Yusuf knew from his time in the Aladagh that Iran had a perfect choice for the caliph. Tailor-made, so to speak. The Shi’a would believe that, many of them would anyway, although Yusuf doubted the Sunni would be convinced that the man in the Aladagh was indeed the Twelfth Imam. But that man would be backed by the military arsenal of a mighty nation, so he would call the shots, as the Americans would say.

Yusuf fretted as he tapped away at his keyboard. It would not be a peaceful place, this caliphate, despite what its advocates said. There would be bloodshed on an unprecedented scale. The first to go would be the Christians still living there. It was already happening, in fact, to the Copts in Egypt. Something had to be done to stop it, all of it. Perhaps, he thought, once the Americans knew about the man in the Aladagh and his plans, they would not only stop that effort but strike back. It would certainly seem the logical thing to do, but Yusuf knew from his time in America that its politicians were anything but logical much of the time. Under their previous president, perhaps something might have been done. Had he not swept the Taliban from Afghanistan and chased Osama into the wilds of Pakistan? Had he not roared through Iraq to depose Saddam? The two Islamic leaders who had been thought to be the most powerful, with all the forces at their command, had been routed, and the Americans had only needed to use a fraction of their arsenal to get those jobs done.

The power of the Americans was awesome; it was frightening to think of what might happen if they truly became enraged and struck back with all their might. He remembered the years just before he came to America, after the Iranians had seized their embassy in Tehran and kept the hostages. The American president at the time seemed impotent, even with such a powerful military force at his disposal. But not the man who challenged him. Yusuf smiled now in the dim light as he remembered the joke from thirty-one years earlier:
What is flat, black and glows in the dark? Iran, after Reagan takes office.
And sure enough, the Iranians released the hostages on the very day that man was sworn in. Yusuf and everyone else in the movement knew that was no coincidence.

He pecked at a few more keys, then took the flash drive from the secret place in his desk. He held it up to the light from his desk lamp. A remarkable device, really, something that was once in the realm of science fiction. So small, yet it could hold so much data. He inserted it into the slot on the face of the computer tower, and began sending files into the drive. Within minutes the transfer was complete. He checked the drive to make sure the files were there, was satisfied that they were, checked it again, and then proceeded to delete the files from the hard drive. It took him a half-hour, but he scrubbed every last byte from the computer.

With the drive in his hand, he stretched, looking around him. Nobody was there, of course. Some in the camp were still awake, probably just those few from the security detail who were on duty, but nobody else was here. Yusuf went quickly to the opposite wall of the room and moved the rug away from the base of the wall. A crack in the masonry had worked its way down from three feet up on the wall, all the way to the base. Yusuf reached into the pocket of his robe and withdrew the knife, the one he always carried with him. It was a Fox British Army Knife, which he had gotten years before on a trip to London. Not as remarkable, perhaps, as the flash drive, but still notable in its own right: made of stainless steel, with a can opener, a marlin’s pike and a built-in screwdriver. Its four-inch blade was not ideal for knife fighting, but could do some serious damage to an assailant at close quarters, as Yusuf had proven once or twice. The knife had been with him day and night for years. He hoped the Americans would let him keep it.

He used the blade now to work on a piece of masonry wedged into the bottom of the crack where it had split in two. It took him a minute to pull the one-by-three-inch piece out of the wall. He took a small rag from another pocket and carefully but tightly wrapped it around the flash drive, holding it in place with a rubber band. Finally, he gently pushed the bundle into the wall and replaced the piece of masonry in the hole.

Was that a noise? He looked back at the doorway. Nobody there, behind the beaded curtain. The window was shaded. He was still alone. Breathing out, he replaced the rug and went back to his desk, shut down the computer, turned off the light and returned to bed. In the darkness, he lay silently, trying to shut his brain down, but he could not. He prayed to Allah that he was doing the right thing.

In the Aladagh, he had been told the broad outlines of the Iranian plan to strike a devastating blow against the Great Satan. No exact timetable had been disclosed, just the general details, which were breathtaking in their magnitude. His cooperation would be vital to the success of the plan. He would be told later what his role would be.

Now, he knew what that was. The seizure of the cruise ship would be a great distraction for the Americans, even though it was a British ship. Surely there would be some Americans on board, more than enough to cause their leaders great concern. They would put much effort into getting more information, then formulating a plan to re-take the ship. No doubt the American president would offer to send in his Navy SEALs, who were much feared by the jihadists. But the British had excellent commandos as well. Given enough time, the Westerners would undoubtedly be able to re-take the ship, and in the early hours of the crisis they would think they had enough time.

They would not.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Tehran, Iran

T
he dinner party
was going well. Fazeed had to admire his wife for organizing the affair and carrying it off flawlessly. Of course she’d had plenty of experience doing this, but still, he recognized highly competent work when he saw it. As he watched her chatting with their guests, his heart began to ache. If he proceeded down the path he was contemplating, there was a very good chance he would be leaving this world soon, and he would miss her so, but someday they would be reunited in Paradise. He had to hang onto that belief. It was all that had kept him going in recent days. That, and the hope that he might have the support and counsel of his oldest friend. It was time to discover if that hope would be realized.

He caught Admiral Ralouf’s eye and raised an eyebrow. The admiral nodded. Fazeed excused himself from his guests and headed off to the lavatory. After conducting his business there, or trying to—his bladder seemed reluctant to function—he made his way to the small study he maintained as his home office. He busied himself with security, checking to make sure everything was operational, and then there was a slight knock at the door. He looked up to see Ralouf entering, quickly shutting the door behind him.

Fazeed handed his friend a cup of tea he had prepared at the special espresso-style machine he had bought in Taiwan on his visit there a year ago. Ralouf took a sip and nodded. “Excellent,” he said. The admiral raised his eyebrows, nodding at the window.

“I just checked the security countermeasures. We may speak freely.”

Ralouf nodded again, took another sip, then wandered over to the wall, gazing at the photograph hanging there. The photo showed a group of students on their graduation day from Imam Hossein University. Ralouf sighed and smiled wistfully. “We were so young then, weren’t we, my friend?”

“Indeed we were, Rostam.” Fazeed remembered it well. He and Ralouf had both entered the graduate program in 1986, when the university opened, and received their degrees two years later, Fazeed in aerospace engineering, Ralouf in military science. That was where they had met and become friends. “We were idealistic, weren’t we?”

“We were,” the admiral said, “with so much potential, just like our young country. Remember how we used to complain that our fathers were such imbeciles?”

Fazeed chuckled. “We were going to lead our nation to greatness, something they had never been able to achieve under the shah.”

Ralouf looked at him, serious now. “What happened to that, Arash? What happened to us?”

“Perhaps a more relevant question would be: What happened to our country?”

“Yes. What happened?”

“Reality happened,” Fazeed said. “The war with Iraq. The constant focus on the Zionists. Antagonizing the Americans. Everything.”

Ralouf nodded sadly. “And so here we are. A new age is about to dawn, thanks in large part to our hands.”

Fazeed sat in his chair, suddenly very tired, but he could not allow his fatigue to overcome his caution. He set the teacup down on his desk. “But will it be an age of enlightenment and progress, or a new Dark Age? That is what we must ask ourselves.”

Ralouf took the chair next to the desk. “We have already asked that question, have we not? Now we must determine the answer.”

Fazeed looked at his old friend. “What do you believe are the chances of success for the mission?”

The admiral shrugged. “Seventy-thirty, perhaps, if you define it as two successful launches and detonations.”

“And overall?”

“Factor in the strong probability of eventual retaliation by the Americans, which our nation will not survive. Therefore I would say it is one in ten.”

“I would consider that optimistic.”

“You may be right about that.” Ralouf sighed again, shaking his head. “How could we have allowed this to happen, my friend?”

“It hasn’t happened yet. We still have time.”

Ralouf looked at him sharply. “To do what?”

This was where Fazeed knew he would have to take a gigantic leap of faith, or forever hold his tongue. Could he trust this man? Rostam Ralouf was his oldest and dearest friend. They had attended each other’s weddings, the naming ceremonies of their children. Ralouf personally delivered the tragic news to Fazeed and his wife on that day when their only child, the son Fazeed named for his father, had drowned, two weeks into his Navy basic training.

Fazeed made his decision. He could not do this alone. “Rostam, you have been as a brother to me all these years. What I will ask of you now will be difficult. I will not blame you if you refuse.”

Ralouf’s green eyes held his own. He knew. “Arash, whatever you ask, I shall do my best to help.”

Fazeed let out a deep, tense breath. “You know of what I speak, even before I utter the words.”

“Perhaps because I think the same thoughts, my friend.”

“I seek your counsel about a very serious matter.” There was a heartbeat or two of silence, and then Fazeed said, “Some months ago, I met a man at the marketplace in the city near my base. He was a German, quite pleasant, a dealer in antiquities. We struck up a conversation. His Farsi was very good, which is unusual for Germans.”

“I have heard that. Please, go on.”

“A week later, I visited a different part of the bazaar. He was there again. Just by coincidence, of course.”

“Of course.”

“We enjoyed a cup of coffee at a little café, and the talk turned to politics. He asked me about the effect of the sanctions placed upon us by the West as a result of our nuclear program. I gave him the standard response: the sanctions are as nothing to us.”

Ralouf smiled grimly. “Which is a lie.” They both knew the truth. Everybody knew. Their country was being squeezed a little bit tighter every day, prices rising, money getting tighter, people grumbling. Unemployment was rising as fast as inflation.

“He said that back in Germany they feel them, too, because they import much of the mutton for their sausages from us, and our prices have risen sharply in recent months.”

“Serious as that may be, I doubt the Germans will invade us to secure low prices for their sausage meat.”

Fazeed smiled at that. “I would agree that is the least of our worries. But my new friend Heinz also said, as we concluded our lunch, that he would be most interested in hearing more of my thoughts on these matters. He invited me to stop by a dealer of rugs and antiquities, where he conducts his business when he is in the city.”

“And did you?”

“A couple weeks later, I happened to be in the city again and stopped by the shop. The owner was a very polite gentleman from Turkmenistan, and said Heinz was not there that day, but would return in two days’ time. So I went back two days later. Heinz was there. He showed me some things he had just obtained from a trip to the Caucasus. One thing led to another during our conversation. He finally told me that if I ever desired to discuss these matters in more detail, he would be able to put me in touch with certain individuals who would be most interested in my views on certain subjects. Individuals who would be willing to compensate me for my time and trouble, should I so desire. His meaning was clear.”

Ralouf looked at the window, then around the small room, finally at the door, and then back to Fazeed. “Did you follow through with that invitation?”

“Not yet. But I return to the base tomorrow, and I have been thinking I might want to see the latest wares in that antiquities shop shortly after my return. What do you think of that?”

Ralouf looked toward the window again, then took a deep breath and turned back to his friend. “That sounds like a very good idea. One never knows what one might find in one of these shops.”

Fazeed felt some of his tension melt away. He drew strength from his friend’s confident determination. “Very true. Perhaps even answers to questions we have been thinking about, my friend.”

Ralouf paused. “We must be very careful. We were rather…outspoken in the briefing the other day. Our friend Jafari was not amused. I have the feeling that VEVAK is watching us. They may also be watching this Turkmen rug merchant.”

“I know they are watching me,” Fazeed said. “I instructed my own security teams to be alert and initiate countermeasures. I suggest you do the same.”

“That is very risky, is it not?”

“Yes,” Fazeed said, “but I did not mention any VEVAK involvement. I told them to be on the lookout for heightened surveillance from Mossad, which might very well be happening anyway. They are not to take action unless I give my express permission. So far this has merely been a very good exercise for them.”

Ralouf nodded, then stood. “Please keep me posted on the results of your…search.” He extended a hand as the general stood. “My wife has been telling me it is time for a new rug.”