The Protectors (21 page)

CHAPTER 38

T
ook almost three hours for Fahrook to get to the townhouse in the big black Mercedes. The main streets of Tehran weren’t as jammed as the narrow corridors of the bazaar, but traveling by car was a nightmare no matter where you were. We wouldn’t have even made it out of the townhouse driveway if I hadn’t dropped the two dozen people rocking the vehicle like drunken Canadian hockey fans after the Stanley Cup Finals. Fahrook might have been a first-class bodyguard, but neglecting to remove the general’s military plates didn’t exactly qualify him for Mensa.

Lyla sat up front with him and the two jabbered while I fumed in the back. I caught her glance my way in the mirror a couple of times, but for the most part I stared at the surreal landscape of humanity speeding past my window. Well, maybe not speeding—long sections of the drive north were more like crawling. Twice I had to defend the stopped vehicle with targeted drops. The second time was just before the highway, where hundreds of people clogged the final few yards to an empty on-ramp. I wound up causing a mini-panic in the streets when I dropped a few people to the side of the Mercedes; someone screamed “Gas!” when they saw bodies fall to the ground with no visible cause. After that, people couldn’t get out of our way fast enough.

When we were safely out of the mob’s reach, Lyla turned to face me. “Fahrook says the Ayatollah has been moved to the Niavaran Palace complex, north of Elahiyeh.”

I answered with arms clamped across my chest. “Is that good or
bad?”

Displeasure flashed in her expression, but she buried it quickly. “Both. The area is more remote, so we won’t have crowds of people blocking us. However, Niavaran is also the former residence of the Shah of Iran. It’s surrounded by a fifteen-foot wall on all sides, with only one large gate, easily defensible. The Revolutionary Guard has an entire armored regiment fortifying the perimeter—at least five hundred men with heavy equipment.”

“How heavy?”

“Machine guns, armored personnel carriers, tanks.”

“Oh, that’s all?” I grumbled. “How are we supposed to sneak into a fortress?”

A broad smile spread over her face. She was so beautiful it almost made me forget how screwed we were. “We’re not going to sneak in. Fahrook will drive us right through the front gate. Ahmadi is coordinating the defense of Niavaran.”

“Are you shitting me?”

“I am not shitting you. He’s in charge of protection, remember? The gate guards have been told to expect Fahrook and allow him to report to the general as soon as we arrive.”

“You picked the right guy to embrace.”

“Yes, well, don’t be too excited. Getting to the Ayatollah in the main house will be more difficult. Ahmadi will brief us when we arrive.”

I scowled out my window. “Of course it’s more difficult. Fucking tanks. Don’t know if I can even drop somebody encased in two feet of armor. You realize it doesn’t matter if we accomplish the mission, right? The CIA is just using us to stabilize this mess. After that, we’re a king-sized liability.”

Lyla twisted and thrust half her body into the back so she could get in my face. “Be angry all you wish, my love. But kindly get your head out of your ass, because I need you to focus.”

When I leaned forward to argue, she shoved me back into my seat. Air rushed out of the perforated leather underneath me, squeaking like a weak fart.

“We have a mission to accomplish and a country to save. Keep up
that petulant attitude and you will see just how childish I can make you. Understood?”

I gave her two less-than-enthusiastic thumbs up. Not my finest response, but an adequate one because she wriggled back into the front seat. She was right, as usual. Today was more important than tomorrow, no matter how many dark clouds hovered beyond our horizon. Funny how the potential death of millions of innocent civilians tends to take your mind off relationship issues.

—

Two grueling hours later, we approached Niavaran Palace. I didn’t have to ask if we were close, because traffic trickled down to nothing. When we passed twin all-terrain vehicles on opposite sides of the road, each with mounted 20 mm guns pointed at us, it became obvious. The military flags and plates on the general’s car got us as far as the outer checkpoint without being stopped, so I reconsidered Fahrook’s Mensa application. His credentials allowed us through to the main gate, where the scenery got serious. Four Soviet-era T-62 battle tanks waited like a row of hulking offensive linemen, protecting the wide gates to the complex, their guns pointed out over the road.

The cannons looked
really
big up close.

Security was tighter here. Soldiers with mirror-attached rods surveyed the underside of the vehicle, while another rifled through our trunk. Lyla sat quietly behind her darkened window, unseen from the outside, until the soldier with the most stripes on his sleeves made a demand of Fahrook, evidently ordering all passengers out of the vehicle.

That’s when Lyla spoke up and gave an order of her own.

The entire time we waited, I had my radar spooled up, ready to send out a pulse that would drop everyone at the gate. Once Lyla got us through, I saw how disastrous that plan would have been. Past the walls of the compound, there were soldiers spread out everywhere—my meager range wouldn’t have affected more than a handful. I wondered if anyone was bothering to guard the sides and back of the complex, because it looked like all five hundred guys were watching the front door. Long tents and temporary shelters lined the outer edge of a
massive courtyard in front of the palace. Armored personnel carriers and a handful of light infantry vehicles waited in reserve to support the tanks out front. The Shah might have evacuated this place in a panic back in 1979, but the Ayatollah looked better prepared.

“Holy shit.”

My words leaked out as Fahrook pulled the Mercedes to the far end of the courtyard. We glided up next to a small outbuilding halfway between the main gate and the palace. Looked like an oversized guard shack, adjacent to the stone driveway that led directly to the palace façade. Only one window and it was papered over from the inside. Fahrook parked the car so the passenger side was only a few feet from the shack door; it took less than three seconds’ exposure for Lyla and me to duck inside.

General Ahmadi turned to greet us. His face, an emotionless mask at first, transitioned to pure joy when Lyla stepped out from behind me. The only furniture in the small room was a folding metal table, and he bumped the corner in his haste to hug her. She shrank a step, but allowed the contact. She grimaced until Ahmadi released her and drew our attention back to the table.

“More unconditional worship,” I whispered.

Her response slid from the corner of her mouth. “Shut it, McAlister. Focus.”

The general launched into a quick update from the opposite side of the table, only to have Lyla shut him down.

“English, please. For my friend.”

He nodded and started over. “The Ayatollah is here,” Ahmadi said, pointing down at the large blueprints on the desk between us. “Office at the far end of the palace. Third floor. There is, how you say? Good news and bad news.”

“That’s how we say. What’s the bad news?” I asked.

He addressed Lyla only, like I wasn’t even in the room.

“I cannot enter the building unless summoned. No one can. Family and leadership only inside. Two squads guard the palace entrance. They will not allow anyone near the doors unless ordered by the Ayatollah himself. If you approach uninvited, you will be shot. There is much . . .”
Ahmadi struggled for the right word and resorted to Farsi.

“Paranoia,” Lyla translated. “Not a shock in an uprising. The good news?”

“Two hundred men guard the main gate, and another two hundred fortify the perimeter. You saw the tanks and artillery, yes?”

“Still waiting on the good news,” I said.

Ahmadi couldn’t be bothered to look at me. “Although a full regiment surrounds the area, the interior of the palace has only a small number of soldiers. Less than twenty. They want as few people as possible near the Supreme Leader. His personal guard only.”

The general was right—less than twenty men inside an entire palace was good news, except for one small problem.

“How do we get in?” Lyla asked before I could.

He smiled. “The best news. This was the Shah’s palace long ago. The tunnel system he used to escape during the revolution still exists. Entrances outside the walls have been sealed, but there are still two ways to get to the tunnels from inside the complex.”

“I don’t suppose one of them is this shack?” I said, looking under the table.

“I am sorry, no. One is near the helicopter pad behind the palace.” He drew his finger across the blueprints, from the tiny rectangle of the shack to a large circle on the other side of the complex. “Too far. But this one”—his finger traveled a few inches—“is less than fifty meters from here. A maintenance hatch near the garden.”

“There are soldiers everywhere. Fifty meters may as well be five hundred,” I said.

He pointed to a sack over in the corner. “I have army uniforms for both of you. They will not trick anyone now, but wait two hours . . . in the dark; you are just soldiers walking to a post. No one is stationed in the garden, so you should be able to slip inside the tunnel. I unlocked the hatch myself.”

Lyla and I both looked at our watches. Almost 6 p.m.

“Tucker said twelve hours until a military crackdown, which would mean midnight. If we get to him by eight or nine, that’s plenty of cushion,” I told Lyla.

“Provided the Ayatollah shares Tucker’s timetable.” She didn’t sound optimistic.

“Regardless, I agree with the general. We don’t make it to the hatch unnoticed in daylight. No army uniform will convince anyone you’re a soldier, and I’m a little paler than your average Iranian infantry grunt. We’ve gotta risk the wait.”

Ahmadi acknowledged our decision with a grunt. “I cannot stay here with you. I am expected in the command tent for a briefing in twenty minutes. Fahrook is returning to the house in Elahiyeh.”

He left the blueprints of the tunnel layout and palace interior, then rolled the rest and jammed them into his briefcase. No hug, but before the general departed, he took a final glance at Lyla. “Good luck. May the Supreme Leader see the beauty of your wisdom, as I do.”

Then he finally noticed the Invisible Man.

“Protect her,” he said, and extended his hand.

Surprised, I shook it. He looked more like a worried father than a helpless minion. Sometimes it was hard to remember the truth: without Lyla’s magic, General Mahmoud Ahmadi of the Iranian Revolutionary Guard would’ve shot us both in the head without shedding a tear.

He exited the shack and locked the door behind him. We were alone again, waiting for dark and our one and only chance to stop a civil war.

CHAPTER 39

T
wo hours went by a lot faster than I expected. Lyla spent her time poring over the blueprint of the palace, analyzing every hallway, staircase, and room we’d have to navigate to reach our goal on the third floor. My job was the tunnel system; memorizing the twists and bends we’d have to follow to get inside the main house. After an hour, I enabled the gauntlet’s GPS, grabbed our coordinates, and texted them to Tucker.

“No longer concerned about Tomahawk missiles?” Lyla said.

“Guessing Tucker’s not stupid enough to kill Iran’s Supreme Leader just to be rid of us.”

The gauntlet beeped with a return text message seconds later.

“He says the satellite will be on-station within ten minutes . . . damn, that’s quick.”

“CIA efficiency. They can be accommodating when they want,” Lyla said.

I tore a tiny corner off the paper covering the shack’s window so I could peek through. The view of the main gate was unchanged—soldiers and vehicles galore. The sun was setting, though, and comforting shade now spread throughout the compound.

Thirty minutes later the shade deepened into dusk. I pulled up the data feed, did some manual zooms, and got my first look at thermal images of Niavaran. One of the gauntlet’s cooler tricks was doubling as an LCD projector; I removed the device and sat it on the table so it could beam the satellite imagery on the wall. Once blown up to the
size of a large painting, the video looked similar to Ahmadi’s blueprints, but without all the fine detail. The satellite picked up heat signatures, so people and vehicles appeared bright white, while structures and vegetation were a cooler blue. The data was in real time, so we saw each step of the scurrying white ants crawling over the courtyard as they took them.

“Amazing,” Lyla said.

“Yep. We wait until there’s a gap in the coverage near the garden. The hatch is right here . . .” I pointed to a light blue area with two white blobs walking nearby. “It’ll be dark soon. Let’s suit up.”

We threw the general’s stolen uniforms on over our clothes. They were desert camouflage pattern and included beige caps.

Lyla stuffed her black hair underneath hers and presented for inspection. “Well?”

The clothes hung off her petite frame. She had to roll up half the sleeves and a third of the pant legs.

“You look like Captain America before the supersoldier serum. Still, it should be good enough in the dark.”

She laughed. “That is the first time anyone told me I look better with the lights off.”

The laughter was out of place, but welcome. Took the edge off my anger. I nodded toward the projected image while fastening my belt. “Focus on the satellite video; be ready.”

The two blobs near the garden walked back toward the main gate, a direction that took them within ten paces of our location. Lyla and I watched the wall image without blinking. When they crossed the point of their journey closest to the shack, I could hear footsteps on the pavement outside. Neither of us took a breath until they made it to the gate.

Half an hour later, it was as dark as it was going to get. No soldiers were within fifty yards of the garden. I turned off the projector and slipped the gauntlet back on my forearm.

“Time to go.” I paused by the door. “Remember, nice and casual. Don’t rush; we’re on patrol.”

Lyla nodded. I twisted the knob and we walked out into the night.

—

Took sixty steps to cover the distance; I counted every one.

At twenty, I had to whisper at Lyla, “Jesus, not so close. We’re both
men,
remember? You look like you’re about to hold my hand.”

At forty, she whispered back. “Slower. You’re almost running.”

The extra kick in my step was harder to control the closer we got to the garden. Like a sprinter sensing the finish line, I wanted to lean forward and break the tape. Seeing other groups of soldiers nearby didn’t help. Thankfully none were close enough; although the palace was lit up like a casino, the courtyard had no more than a handful of scattered lampposts—which meant guards would need to be on top of us to realize we were impostors.

When we approached the garden, I could make out a two-foot-tall metal cage protecting the maintenance hatch. The framework was shielded from the rest of the garden by several tall bushes. I silently thanked the Shah for preventing the hatch from being an eyesore by covering it up.

I flipped the unlocked protective cage off the hatch while Lyla kept watch. When she gave me the all-clear, I pulled the iron manhole cover aside and told her to duck in. I joined her on the ladder down and replaced the frame and cover. Moments later, we were standing in a dank, poorly lit concrete corridor.

“We follow this to the four-way intersection. From there we go straight through until the Y-split. Left spur goes to the helipad, right goes to the house,” I said.

We stuck to opposite sides of the tunnel as we moved. Every twenty feet, small cone lampshades hung from the ceiling, each holding on to a single naked bulb. Many of them were burnt-out, leaving long sections of the corridor in total darkness, which suited me just fine.

We took the right spur at the junction, and the tunnel eventually ended at a massive steel door—the entrance to the palace basement. Lyla took a breath to speak and I raised a finger to stop her.

“Let’s be sure,” I whispered in her ear.

I extended my consciousness toward the door, then pushed
beyond . . . searching. Sure enough, on the other side of the barrier I detected two beacons of mental activity. Guards, posted by the tunnel access.

Thank God I didn’t drop them right away. I was about to, but common sense came to my rescue. I reached out and grasped the thick metal handle to the door and quietly tried to force it up. Didn’t budge.

Lyla mouthed, “Locked?” I nodded.

Left with only one option, I shrugged and knocked on the back door.

Lyla looked like she was about to pass out in disbelief. Nothing happened. So I knocked again and spread my hand flat against the metal. The deep clang of a dead bolt turning made the steel vibrate under my palm. The door came open an inch, and angry Farsi spewed through the gap—probably wanting to know who the hell was patrolling the tunnels.

Then I dropped them.

Hell, it was almost as good as saying, “Open Sesame.”

—

Infiltrating the palace was simple, as long as we stuck to a pattern religiously. Lyla guided me from room to room on the path she’d memorized. At each door, I’d mentally search the room beyond and drop anyone in the way. Then we’d move on. Lather, rinse, repeat.

Ahmadi was correct: the palace was relatively empty—by the time we reached the third floor, I’d only put down fifteen people. When I stepped foot on the top level, my heart thumped faster in anticipation.

Almost home.

The third-floor landing was bathed in lamplight, but the wing Lyla pointed me toward was completely dark.

“Are you sure that’s the way?”

She nodded. “That’s where Ahmadi said to go. Watch these rooms off the corridor. Any of them could be occupied.”

Thankfully every door along the hall was closed, which allowed us more freedom of movement. Still, it took almost five minutes to check each one and make it to the end of the hall.

“Nothing?” Lyla asked.

“Empty. Which means there’s only the suite. We don’t have to be so careful now, I can blanket wipe far enough ahead to take out anybody in that room.”

She hesitated. “Before you do, scan the suite. Make certain the Ayatollah is here.”

I reached out, my mind penetrating the doors and scanning the large room in front of us. When I saw the beacons, I nodded with a smile.

“Yep. Five people. Gotta be his group.”

“We can wake up the Ayatollah when we identify him. Do it.”

I generated the pulse. “Go.”

She opened the double doors and gasped.

Five bodies lay on the floor, but all of them were bound and gagged—torsos surrounded by thick ropes and hands wrapped in plastic ties behind their backs. I rushed to the one in the center and rolled him over.

General Ahmadi. Someone had administered a savage beat-down before or after tying him up; both eyes swollen, his face bloody and torn. Behind his body, fingers jutted out at angles that were all wrong.

“Holy shit, this is bad,” I muttered. Lyla hurried to check the other unconscious bodies; we recognized all of them. Harandi, Roof Guy, and two other guards from the general’s house.

“I don’t understand . . . why? What happened?” Lyla stood in the middle of the room, befuddled.

I wasn’t confused. I was scared shitless.

“Call Fahrook.
Now!
” I rolled up my sleeve and checked the gauntlet while moving to defend the hall. I only got as far as the door. “What the hell?”

The satellite feed was still active on the screen—I’d disabled the projector before we left the shack, but left the image running. The ghostly blue and white picture looked different than before. None of the tiny white blobs circulated around the palace grounds. They were gathered near the front gate. All of them. Along with rows of the larger white blobs—vehicles—now aligned
inside
the wall, closer to the palace.

I was about to show Lyla when the image winked out. I tried to pull it back up only to receive an error message:
“FEED TERMINATED AT SOURCE.”

“Goddammit!”

“Scott, what is it? What’s happening?” She was standing with her phone, in the middle of dialing Fahrook. Bless her heart, she just didn’t understand. The cynical bastard understood too well. I ran to a drape-covered window and yanked the fabric back.

“Oh my God.”

The courtyard below was jammed with soldiers, hunkered down behind vehicles, barriers, and the outbuildings. To the rear of the men, tanks and artillery lay in wait, no longer pointed at the road. Every gun in the courtyard aimed at the palace.

Aimed at us.