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Gathering Storm
Don Pendleton


Ready to respond to any threat against America, her allies or world stability, Stony Man is a strictly off-the-books operation whose orders come straight from the Oval Office.Now it's a war situation for Stony Man, and the countdown has begun for a plot aimed at full-blown destabilization of the Middle East–and pure terror unleashed in the heart of the West.The enemy: Iraq's former ruling regime and loyal fedayeen soldiers. Their mandate to reclaim control in Iraq is to inflict as much devastation as they can on specified Western targets and create total anarchy in the Middle East. They've got the means, money and power in high places–and to prove it, they just blew up a town in Texas. All that stands between freedom and the unthinkable is a group of diehard warriors who specialize in pulling off the impossible.









“OH, MY GOD,” GRIMALDI WHISPERED


A pall of smoke rose above the fireburst, curling and swelling into a mushroom shape. The dust and debris sucked up into the superheated air began to fall back to earth. A dark cloud formed over the scene of destruction.

“Carl, what happened?” Brognola demanded.

“Listen hard, Hal,” Lyons said from the chopper. “There’s been a massive explosion near Bucklow. I mean massive. Call in all emergency services in the vicinity. Now.”

“What does it look like?”

“Like Hell landed on the county with a vengeance.”

“Carl, Gadgets is down there.”




Other titles in this series:


#10 SECRET ARSENAL

#11 TARGET AMERICA

#12 BLIND EAGLE

#13 WARHEAD

#14 DEADLY AGENT

#15 BLOOD DEBT

#16 DEEP ALERT

#17 VORTEX

#18 STINGER

#19 NUCLEAR NIGHTMARE

#20 TERMS OF SURVIVAL

#21 SATAN’S THRUST

#22 SUNFLASH

#23 THE PERISHING GAME

#24 BIRD OF PREY

#25 SKYLANCE

#26 FLASHBACK

#27 ASIAN STORM

#28 BLOOD STAR

#29 EYE OF THE RUBY

#30 VIRTUAL PERIL

#31 NIGHT OF THE JAGUAR

#32 LAW OF LAST RESORT

#33 PUNITIVE MEASURES

#34 REPRISAL

#35 MESSAGE TO AMERICA

#36 STRANGLEHOLD

#37 TRIPLE STRIKE

#38 ENEMY WITHIN

#39 BREACH OF TRUST

#40 BETRAYAL

#41 SILENT INVADER

#42 EDGE OF NIGHT

#43 ZERO HOUR

#44 THIRST FOR POWER

#45 STAR VENTURE

#46 HOSTILE INSTINCT

#47 COMMAND FORCE

#48 CONFLICT IMPERATIVE

#49 DRAGON FIRE

#50 JUDGMENT IN BLOOD

#51 DOOMSDAY DIRECTIVE

#52 TACTICAL RESPONSE

#53 COUNTDOWN TO TERROR

#54 VECTOR THREE

#55 EXTREME MEASURES

#56 STATE OF AGGRESSION

#57 SKY KILLERS

#58 CONDITION HOSTILE

#59 PRELUDE TO WAR

#60 DEFENSIVE ACTION

#61 ROGUE STATE

#62 DEEP RAMPAGE

#63 FREEDOM WATCH

#64 ROOTS OF TERROR

#65 THE THIRD PROTOCOL

#66 AXIS OF CONFLICT

#67 ECHOES OF WAR

#68 OUTBREAK

#69 DAY OF DECISION

#70 RAMROD INTERCEPT

#71 TERMS OF CONTROL

#72 ROLLING THUNDER

#73 COLD OBJECTIVE

#74 THE CHAMELEON FACTOR

#75 SILENT ARSENAL



Gathering Storm




STONY MANВ®


AMERICA’S ULTRA-COVERT INTELLIGENCE AGENCY

FREEDOM FIRE BOOK 1

Don Pendleton







Freedom comes at a high price and requires constant guardianship. Taken for granted, it can slip away all too easily. When the hand weakens and the eye turns aside, the time may come when the resolve needs to be strengthened. And in those times there may be a need for armed conflict to restore the balance. As always it is the men and women of the Armed Services who must carry that burden. They bear the brunt of the inevitable clash of arms, and they do so in the spirit of the pledge they made to ever defend and protect our peace. Their fight goes on. They continue to suffer and often to make the ultimate sacrifice. They deserve both our respect and our enduring gratitude.




CONTENTS


PROLOGUE (#uc3bfe53c-d898-5310-b1a6-c009182a73a8)

CHAPTER ONE (#ue135589d-dc5e-55b0-b0c9-14668924b7d3)

CHAPTER TWO (#u04143e59-44b8-5e35-9ec3-c72756aaa212)

CHAPTER THREE (#u18e9dc2a-4fe5-5ccb-b503-89c7a2ac21f6)

CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)




PROLOGUE


San Remo, Italian Riviera

Abe Keen had a lead. The freelance investigative reporter was involved in a project chasing down former members of Saddam Hussein’s administration, and he’d been working on his story for the past three months. Keen had succeeded in identifying and photographing four of the former dictator’s cabinet members who had managed to escape from Iraq as the coalition forces moved in. Working from tip-offs from his not-inconsiderable sources, Keen had journeyed to a villa on the Italian Riviera, where he was expecting to find a group of the hard-line inner circle. If the information was true and he managed to get the final batch of photographs, the journalist would have everything he needed to complete his series of articles.

Keen was perched on an outcrop overlooking the villa. From his vantage point, armed with his camera and telephoto lens, he was able to look down on the pool and the patio surrounding it. Three hours had passed, but as yet he’d seen nothing of significance.

He was used to long periods of inactivity. It came with the job. The great pictures seldom came easy. Not in Keen’s line of business. He wasn’t looking for that defining moment when the lens caught a fragment of life at its most fragile. Keen was a hunter. His life paralleled the man in the bush, stalking his prey and waiting for the right time to squeeze the trigger. It was often a long time coming, and one of the first things the hunter had to learn was patience. The ability to sit for long periods, doing nothing. Just waiting. Waiting for that split second when his quarry presented itself in the crosshairs. Keen had honed his craft over the years. Now it was part of him. Just as breathing was a natural function, so was Keen’s ability to let the moment come to him—and when it did he grasped it and froze it on film.

Below him there was movement on the poolside. First, the armed bodyguards. Even though the villa was behind high walls, with electronic warning systems, the bodyguards always came out and scanned the immediate area. They moved with the precise actions of men who breathed security. Once they had the poolside secure, they stood back while the principals came out and took their places around the table, talking among themselves.

Keen put his eye to the viewfinder of his 35mm camera, using the motor-driven, powerful telephoto lens to check out each of the four men around the table. As each one came into sharp focus, Keen pressed the release button and photographed him.

He knew them all well. They were all fedayeen, ex-members of Saddam Hussein’s regime, faithful carriers of the flame still dedicated to Iraq’s old guard. These men lived and breathed for the day they could return to Iraq and take up their former positions and rule the country once more. They were dreamers who closed their eyes to reality, fervently clinging to the tattered remains of a defeated and crushed dictatorship. Regardless of the inevitably of the outcome, they steadfastly refused to accept it.

Keen’s diligence had paid off. Here, now, he had his final proof. The four fedayeen were gathered in one place, most likely discussing their plans for a victorious return to Baghdad. Watching them, Keen decided it might even be sad if it wasn’t scary. These men were no amateurs. Far from being idealistic dreamers, they were hard, ruthless men, who had killed in the name of the old regime and who would kill again if the need arose. He had no doubts on that score. Whether or not they succeeded in their planned return to power, the quartet below would create a lot of death and suffering if they were allowed to carry on with their plans.

Sudden movement by the open sliding doors that led poolside caught Keen’s attention. He swung the camera lens in that direction and saw a tall, broad figure step out of the villa. The man was dressed in light clothing, his dark hair cut short against his skull. He paused as the bright sun caught him and raised a large hand to shield his face. He turned and crossed to the table where the four men had pushed to their feet. Keen watched as each man stepped forward to embrace the newcomer.

For a few moments the group stood talking, and then, as if by some invisible signal, the four returned to their seats and waited for the newcomer to join them. There was a spare seat at one end of the table. The man moved to it and sat. He stared around the table, at each man in turn, speaking to them individually. He finally sat back, placing his large hands flat on the table in front of him and for the first time raised his head, giving Keen the opportunity to focus on his face. As the lens brought the face into sharp relief Keen’s finger hovered over the release button, ready to take the photograph.

He froze, staring at the image the camera gave him. his finger hovered over the button as his disbelieving mind held him in immobility. He might have stayed that way if his professionalism hadn’t clicked in. His finger came down on the button and the camera took a succession of shots. It was only as the sound of the shuttering mechanism intruded that Keen snapped back to reality. He took his finger off the button and sat back, still taking in what he had seen.

To be precise, who he had seen—a man who had been pronounced and identified as dead during the war. The man had been killed during a running battle with an American Special Forces team in the northern Iraqi town of Tikrit. He had been found in the ruins of an official party headquarters, his body having taken the full force of a grenade. In a local hospital, a doctor had examined the body and carried out an autopsy. When his report had been delivered, it had identified the dead man.

Razan Khariza.

A colonel in Hussein’s military, Khariza had been hated and despised for his treatment of Iraqi citizens. He had a penchant for torture. For devising and utilizing terrible means for extracting information, or for simply inflicting pain on those who stood up against the former regime. Khariza was a man who had little respect for his own people. He had willingly participated in purges within the administration, turning against people he had previously called friends. In his other capacity he had undertaken the purchase and importation of weapons and technology aimed at improving Iraq’s offensive ordnance. Khariza had traveled extensively on behalf of the regime, making and fostering contacts in a number of countries and with individuals able to arrange the purchase of weapons and equipment.

He had supposedly been killed during the hostilities.

But here he was, alive and well, heading a meeting with the very men he had commanded during the time he had served the former dictator of Iraq.

Now, with the image still large in his viewfinder, Keen realized he had stumbled on to something big. He had no doubt he was looking at Khariza. He knew the man’s face well. This was no lookalike. Razan Khariza had never used a double. There had been no need. He’d never had high a profile. His work was done in the shadows, out of the light of day. And if he was dead, what would be the purpose of someone impersonating him? There would be no logic to that. A double might have the appearance but wouldn’t carry what was in Khariza’s head. Keen was convinced he was looking at the genuine article, and the more he studied the man, the more he started to understand the recent activity among the group Khariza was talking with right now.

There had been a great deal of coming and going from the villa over the past few days. Keen had been curious as to why. Now he understood. The group had been preparing for Razan Khariza’s appearance. Now he was here, in the flesh, and Abe Keen knew something was being organized.

He used up the rest of his roll taking as many shots as he could, then put his camera away. He slung his bag over his shoulder and backed away from his vantage point. He moved carefully, staying in cover until he was well clear, then gained his feet and negotiated the slope that would take him back to where he had parked his rental on the road that wound up into the hills from the main highway. It provided access to the villas scattered around the hills and cars were always driving back and forth through the area.

He unlocked the Peugeot’s door and slipped in behind the wheel. He started the car and turned it around, driving back to the main road and heading for San Remo. His mind was full of questions he didn’t have answers to. Keen was trying to work out what Khariza was up to. He hadn’t shown himself simply to have a get-together party with his old friends from the regime. The five men seated at that table were hard-line loyalists of the former regime. Keen had no illusions. The five were planning something.

He just wished he knew what.

KEEN’S CAR HAD GONE, leaving only a faint mist of dust in the warm air. A man eased out of the undergrowth, pausing to brush a hand over his clothing. He carried an expensive digital camera in his free hand. He made sure it was secure before he slipped it into a pocket inside his suede jacket. The action pushed aside the jacket to briefly expose the Glock autopistol carried in a shoulder holster.

He made his way down the side road, having to step to the side as cars appeared and drove by. He returned to where his partner was waiting in a car some distance along the road that wound its way in the direction of the villa. He took out a transceiver. He activated it and raised it to his lips, speaking to the person who responded to his call.

“Yes. There was someone watching. We think he was taking photographs of the villa. It was too risky to do anything here. Too many cars up and down the road. But I know what car he is driving. We can trace him through that. And I took photographs of him. We can run it through our database. Once we identify him, something can be done. Don’t concern yourself over that. It will be taken care of.”

KEEN DROVE DIRECTLY to his hotel, parked the car and went to his room. The first thing he did was to rewind the film in his camera and remove it. He took out a new roll of film and put it in his camera, pressing the release button to expose about half the film. He placed the camera in its case, then he sat on the edge of the bed, studying the roll of film in his hand, debating his next move.

Ten minutes later Keen left the hotel and drove across town to a photo store. He knew the man who ran it. After a few moments discussing the price, Keen was installed in the darkroom at the rear of the store. An hour later he was done. He had processed and printed the images captured on the film. With the results in a manila envelope, he returned to where he had parked his car and drove back to the hotel.

He spread the photos out across the bed and studied them. He had printed off two sets. He slipped the negatives and one set of prints into a padded envelope and wrote his own London address on the front. Calling the desk, he asked for a seat to be booked on the next available flight to London. The desk returned his call ten minutes later and confirmed they had him booked on a flight that left at eight-thirty that evening.

Keen took a laptop from its case, placed it on the writing desk and connected it to one of the room’s power points. From his equipment case he took a slim scanner and plugged it into the laptop. He disconnected the room phone from the socket and plugged in a modem cable from the laptop. He spent the next ten minutes scanning a number of the photographs, assigning them to document files before accessing his e-mail address book. He scanned the list of names until he found the one he wanted and opened a new e-mail. He typed in a brief message, attached the document files and sent the message. The files took time being transmitted, but Keen was eventually rewarded with the acknowledgment that his e-mail and attachments had been successfully delivered.

Working steadily, he disconnected his equipment and stored it all away in the carry bag, including the set of prints he had scanned. He reconnected the room phone, then glanced at his watch. Still plenty of time before his flight. Keen checked the room, making sure he had packed everything. Then he called the desk again and asked for his room bill. He picked up his luggage and left the room, making his way down to the lobby. At the desk he settled his bill, paying for his flight at the same time. His ticket would be waiting for him at the check-in at the airport.

His luggage was placed in the trunk of the Peugeot. Keen climbed in and drove away. He had things to do before he headed for the airport.

His first stop was at the main post office where he had the padded envelope weighed and stamped. He paid for airmail delivery, then returned to the parked Peugeot and picked up the route that would take him to the airport.

He had been driving for no more than five minutes when he spotted the tail car.

Abe Keen had been tailed before. The nature of his profession meant he often intruded on delicate situations and elicited a variety of responses. Investigative journalism of the kind Keen was involved in was far removed from celebrity probing. Keen’s subjects had a more direct line of response than threatening an invasion-of-privacy suit. Over the years he had been physically assaulted, once run down by a car and had been shot at three times. On the second shooting he had taken a bullet through his left arm, but had kept his finger on the camera release button, actually capturing on film the moment he had been fired upon.

The sight of the black Mercedes some forty feet behind him made Keen aware of his vulnerability. He didn’t carry any kind of weapon himself. He used a camera, not a gun, realizing and accepting the danger he placed himself in. He glanced at his watch. Still time before his flight. And it would take him another ten minutes before he reached the airport. He took another look in the rearview mirror. The tail car had dropped back behind a silver Toyota. Keen knew that if he could see the Mercedes, they could see him.

He stepped on the gas pedal, moving away from the Toyota. The car had closed in on his rear. As soon as Keen accelerated, so did the Toyota.

Keen realized he had a pair of cars following him. For what ever reason, the Toyota was upping the pace. Keen had the feeling the Toyota was ready to tailgate him if the opportunity arose, deliberately hit his back end and force him off the road. Anyone driving by would see it as a road accident, with one impatient driver clashing with another. No one would want to get involved. They would drive on by and allow the two parties to sort out the mess themselves.

The light was starting to fade now. If the tail car was going to do something, this would be the time, as the day gave way to dusk. Drivers would be even less ready to stop to see what had happened now. They would prefer to stay inside their own vehicles. Safe from what was going on outside.

Keen rammed his foot down hard, feeling the powerful car surge forward. The hell with them, he decided. If they wanted him they were going to have to work at it. He forgot about speed restrictions as the Peugeot hurtled along the road, speeding by the other traffic. He could see the Toyota falling behind a little. If they were going to make their play, it would have to be soon. Once it got full dark it would be easier for him to lose his pursuers. His other ace was the possible presence of the local cops. If he passed any patrol car at the speed he was going, he would attract their attention. It would be worth being pulled over just to make the tail cars back off.

As it was, there were no patrol cars in sight. No flashing lights or wailing sirens. Keen’s high-speed drive brought him to the airport at Genoa far faster than he had anticipated. He was forced to reduce his speed as he neared the access road to the airport. He followed the road around to the parking area and eased the Peugeot into a slot. He opened the trunk and took out his luggage. Normally he would have taken time to return to the rental office and settle his account. This time around he was going to leave the car where it was. It would be located and the rental company informed. They would check out who had rented the car and follow through. By that time Keen would be back in London if everything went as planned and he would deal with the rental company then.

He entered the terminal building and made his way to the airline counter for his ticket. He had to go through the identification process, showing his passport and credit card before his ticket was handed over. Keen took it and made his way to the flight check-in desk where his luggage was weighed and tagged, vanishing from sight along the conveyor.

He was told the flight was on time and would be taking off within the next half hour. He walked through the busy terminal, searching for the departure lounge, then had to go through the usual delay at the customs desk. With that over, he passed through the barrier that fed him into the departure area. At least his pursuers couldn’t get to him now. No one was allowed through to this section if they didn’t possess tickets and passports. There were armed security guards and probably police patrolling the terminal building. Any sign of a disturbance and they would be on hand very quickly.

Keen located a bar and ordered a drink. He took it and sat at a table where he had his back against the wall and could see the entrance to the area. It never did any harm to be cautious.

So far, so good.

Abe Keen didn’t let himself become complacent. He was thinking ahead. If his pursuers missed him here, they would pick up the pursuit once he arrived in London. It wouldn’t take them long to work out who he was and where he lived in the U.K.’s capital city. Keen didn’t need telling that Razan Khariza’s people would quickly gain intel on him.

By the time they had finished, they would know everything there was written down about him. Regardless of the possible threat to him, Keen had no intention of going into hiding. It wasn’t his way. Since he had taken up his profession he had accepted that situations might occur that might put him in danger. He wasn’t going to change his way of life now. Not even for someone like Razan Khariza.

London, England

KEEN’S FLIGHT TOUCHED DOWN ten minutes late due to a sudden change in the weather. Rain hit just as the airliner had swung in over mainland U.K. and followed it all the way to Heathrow. He took the rail link into London, then picked up a cab to his flat in Camden Town. He glanced at his watch as he climbed the stairs to his floor. It was just after 3:00 a.m. Keen realized just how tired he was. It had been a long day.

His bags slung from his left shoulder, he put his key in the lock and pushed the door open. As was his usual practice, he reached out with his right hand to flick on the light switch. It clicked, but the hallway remained dark.

Keen was about to let go with a choice word or two but stopped in his tracks as he picked up the strong odor of a fruity aftershave.

He realized immediately it wasn’t one of his.

And knew in that same moment that he wasn’t alone.

He made to back off, out of the door, but a powerful hand caught hold of his arm and he was pulled inside with enough force to throw him to the floor. He hit hard, cracking his head against the tiles. The impact left him stunned, disorientated. Even so, he heard the door click shut behind him, and picked up the sound of movement in the seconds before he was lifted bodily and half dragged along the hall and through the door that led into his kitchen.

Discounting what he had thought before about not letting himself become threatened by Khariza’s people—because he knew damn well that was who was behind this—he had to give them credit for locating his home so quickly. After the thought, he decided it was a strange thing to consider in his present situation.

He struggled to free himself from the two men who were holding him. All that achieved was a sharp rap across the mouth that split the skin and pushed his inner lip back against his teeth. He tasted blood in his mouth and could also feel it trickling down his chin.

It was still dark in the kitchen. Keen heard a third man moving around. He heard the sound of the Venetian blinds being closed. There was a soft click, and the light under the cabinet unit to his left came on.

The man facing him was leanly fit. He had strong shoulders under the long leather coat he wore. It was buttoned right up under his chin. His face was shadowed in the dim light, the curve of his shaved skull gleaming softly. His eyes shone like bright pinpoints as he leaned forward to stare at Keen.

“No time-wasting, Mr. Keen. We both know why we are here and what we want. Let us take it and this can be over quickly.”

His voice was soft, with a Middle East accent.

“And then you’ll let me go so I can report it to the police? You must imagine I’m stupid.”

“Taking those photographs was not exactly the act of a smart man. Did you not think we would have taken precautions against such things?”

“We all make mistakes.”

The man nodded.

“Certainly so in your case. Now, the photographs?”

“In my bag,’’ Keen said. “The middle-size one.”

His luggage was dragged off his shoulder. Keen, still in the grip of one of the other men, watched as the bag was opened and the contents spilled out across the wide work surface.

“Are these the only copies?”

“I only need one set to prove my case.”

“Have you shown the photographs to anyone?”

“In the time I had in San Remo? Go figure.”

The man in the leather coat pawed through the rest of the bag’s contents. He held up a packet.

“These are the negatives?”

“Fuck you, find out for yourself. I don’t figure I’m coming out of this alive, so why the hell should I make it easy?”

Leather Coat sighed as if he was disappointed. He said something to his two men that Keen barely heard.

The man gripping his arms swung Keen around suddenly. He placed one hand at the back of Keen’s head and smashed the journalist facedown against the work surface. Keen’s world exploded in stunning pain as his nose was crushed flat under the impact, blood squirting across the pale wood surface. His left cheekbone cracked and his lips split open. He groaned, trying to pull free from the grip of the man who had pushed his face into the work surface. Pain rose, engulfing his battered face.

He was in no condition to see Leather Coat reach out and pick a heavy cast-iron fry pan from the hook on the wall. Leather Coat stepped up behind Keen and slammed the pan down against the back of Keen’s skull. Keen grunted in shock, arms flailing helplessly. Leather Coat repeated the blow over and over, the thick cast iron descending with terrible effect against Keen’s skull. Flesh lacerated, bone crumbled and Keen’s skull became a bloody, misshapen mess. The journalist’s shuddering, twitching form became still. It was only the grip of Leather Coat’s partners that kept Keen from falling to the floor. Leather Coat, breathing strongly, threw aside the iron pan. It was slick with blood and had fragments of bone and flesh adhering to the underside. The work surface itself was streaked with more blood and broken skull pieces.

On Leather Coat’s orders Keen’s body was allowed to slip to the kitchen floor. The killer gathered up the photographs and the negatives. He placed them inside his coat. He gestured to his pair of helpers and they followed him out of the kitchen, along the hall and out through the front door.




CHAPTER ONE


Memo: Barbara Price/Aaron Kurtzman to Hal Brognola

Recommendation for action based on collated data.

Major Kamal Rasheed. Member of the Ba’ath Party. Loyalist fedayeen. Hard-line Hussein man. He got out of Iraq once the writing was on the wall. He dropped out of sight for a while, but rumors started to circulate he’d been seen in Iran, then Afghanistan. As with other members of the inner council, this man won’t let go. We’ve picked up Internet chatter he’s working with other members of the old regime to make some kind of comeback. There’s all kinds of speculation flying around, but there has to be some truth in among all the rumors. There are too many messages flying around the Middle East, calls for Islamic loyalists to come together to oust the Americans and their stooges from Iraq.

When we picked up details of increased movement down in Santa Lorca, Central America, concerning the increase in illegal arms, it didn’t come as a surprise when information was received about a Middle Eastern buyer looking for small arms. The other matter tagged on to this was the hint that these weapons might be destined for the U.S. This could tie in with the information we’ve picked up from our main security agencies about upcoming strikes within the U.S. and their connection with the resurgence of ex-Hussein loyalists. One of our contacts came through with a photograph. Not the best, but when it was put through the computer program the closest match it gave was Kamal Rasheed.

We need to confirm just who it is buying weapons down there, because if it does turn out to be Rasheed, it more or less confirms that the data we were receiving about the old regime getting its act together is genuine.

I suggest we set up an operation. Get a team into Santa Lorca, offering a good deal on the kinds of weapons being sought, and identify the main buyer. If it does put Rasheed in the frame, our suspicions will be confirmed. An added bonus would be to get our hands on Rasheed and bring him back. Let our security services put him through a debriefing session. See what they can get out of him.

Santa Lorca, Central America

THE MAN’S NAME WAS REGAN. His gaunt, lined face was tanned and unshaven. He was wearing a crumpled white suit. On the beer-stained table in front of him was a sweat-stained Panama hat, the brim curled and frayed. He watched the man across the table from him through watery blue eyes, constantly blinking as he toyed with the squat bottle of local beer.

“You better be straight with me, Bubba,” he rasped. His voice was coarse, low, as if he was unable to raise it above a whisper. “This ain’t fuckin’ Paducah. Mess with the locals here and they’ll cut off your balls and barbecue them in front of you. Understand me?”

The tall, rangy man facing Regan made no comment. He was calm, his hands mobile and sure as he rolled a cigarette using paper and tobacco. He stuck the finished cigarette between his lips and lit it with a battered black lighter. He took a long draw, visibly enjoying the taste of the smoke.

“You been listening to me, Bubba? I don’t make speeches just to hear myself talk.”

“You had me fooled,” the other man said. His accent was British, hard-edged, and Regan became aware that he wasn’t dealing with a novice. “Let’s stop buggering about, Regan. Neither of us is here for the beer—and I can see why after tasting it. We arranged a deal. Why don’t we cut to the chase so I can move on and you can count your money. Two weeks in this bloody place is playing hell with my social life.”

“You can provide me with the ordnance I need? Anything from handguns to rocket launchers?”

“And everything in between.”

Regan rubbed his stubbled chin. He glanced over the Briton’s shoulder, just to make sure his two bodyguards were still in place. The pair sat at a table near the door, doing nothing except making their beer last as long as possible.

“Understand what I’m going to say next, Bubba. It isn’t that I don’t trust you, but the people I’m brokering this deal for are fussy. You know what I’m sayin’?”

“They want to see I’m not peddling you a load of scrap iron?”

Regan spread his hands. “You show up hawking a cargo of weapons. So you say. How do I know you ain’t screwin’ me around?”

The Briton nodded.

“I guess with the kind of money they’re offering they have a right to see the merchandise.”

“So it’s no problem?”

“No.”

“How soon can you show me samples?”

“Boat is standing by. I can pick up what we need and have it here later tonight. Your warehouse?”

Regan nodded, smiled and picked up his beer.

“Four a.m. I’ll bring along my client. Let him check the stuff out. If everything is okay, we can complete by tomorrow evening. Just remember he’ll want the full shipment up front before he hands over any cash.”

The Briton stood. “I’ll go and get my people working on it.” He dropped a folded paper onto the table. “My hotel and room number. Give me a call if anything crops up.”

As soon as the Briton had left the bar, Regan beckoned to his men. They came to his table.

“Follow him. Let’s see if he’s who he says. I don’t want this deal screwing up.”

“Don’t you trust him?”

Regan smiled, scrubbing at his unshaven jaw. “I don’t trust anyone.”

One of the bodyguards grinned. “You trust us.”

“Do I? Who the fuck ever said that, Bubba?”

THE BRITON LEFT the bar and made his way along the street. It was already dark. The night warm and sticky. He took his time, knowing full well that Regan would have him followed. It was what he would have done in Regan’s place. He returned to his hotel, collected his key and went directly to his room. Inside he crossed to the window overlooking the street and saw one of Regan’s bodyguards lounging against a storefront on the far side, half hidden in shadow. The man was lighting a cigarette and trying to look as though he belonged. He failed badly. No matter how casual his attitude, he still identified himself as an overmuscled hardman, even down to the bulge where his too-tight jacket fitted over the shoulder-holstered gun he was carrying. The other man had obviously gone into the hotel and was, even now, probably paying the desk clerk to take a look at the Briton’s details in the guest register.

George Reese, British National. Home address, London.

That was what it said in the register. If a deeper probe into Reese’s background was carried out, his background in dubious operations would show. Suspected of involvement in arms smuggling, some drug dealing. His sphere of operations would catalog deals in the Middle East, Asia, South and Central America. George Reese, though traceable if anyone wanted to follow through, was in fact a totally fictitious character who only existed in the computer files at Stony Man Farm, Virginia, U.S.A. Any requests for information on the character would be routed through to Stony Man, where his fictitious profile would be accessible to any tracer. George Reese was nothing more than a cover for one of the Phoenix Force operatives on this particular mission.

David McCarter.

TURNING BACK from the window, McCarter took off his jacket and tossed it onto the bed, went to the dresser and picked up a pack of Player’s cigarettes. He needed one to take away the taste of the tobacco he had purchased from the hotel bar. It was rough, running a close second to the home-brewed beer they sold in the area. He lit the cigarette and took a long draw, sighing with relief.

He took a cell phone from his pocket and hit a speed-dial number. When his call was answered, McCarter asked, “Did you pick me up?”

Calvin James affirmed his query.

“We trailed you back to the hotel. Watched one guy go in while the other stood across the street. Hey, your first guy just came back out. He’s crossing to meet the other one.”

“Let’s hope they bought my biography.”

“Hell, these guys don’t exactly look like they work for the Oxford English Dictionary.”

“You and T.J. follow them. See where they go. Who they meet. Call me if anything happens we need to know about.”

McCarter broke the connection, waited a couple of minutes, then made another call. This time it was to Gary Manning and Rafael Encizo. They were on board the sixty-foot motor vessel anchored off Santa Lorca, along with the cargo Phoenix Force was offering for sale to Regan.

“I did my deal with Regan,” McCarter told Manning when the Canadian answered his call.

“And?”

“I show him samples. Early morning call. Four a.m.”

“Okay. Let’s hope he brings his buyer along. If he doesn’t, we’ve come a long way and set this deal up for nothing.”

“Took our pessimistic pill this morning, did we?”

“You have to admit this has been a hell of a long shot from the word go.”

“So? We’ve worked thinner operations before.”

“Yeah? This one is so thin Stevie Wonder could see through it.”

“Bugger me, is that Canadian humor I hear?”

Manning chuckled softly. “I’ll see you later.”

McCarter glanced at his watch. A long time to go before he made his rendezvous with Regan. He figured to allow himself a couple of hours to get to the boat, pick up the samples and get them to the dock area where Regan’s warehouse stood. Until then he had little to do, so he decided to relax. If anything cropped up, the others would let him know. James and Hawkins were keeping in the background, acting as shadows to cover McCarter, without showing themselves to Regan or his men.

McCarter sauntered down to the hotel bar and asked the man behind the counter if he had any chilled Coke. To his surprise the barman produced cold bottles from a cooler. The Briton took half a dozen and climbed the stairs back to his room a relatively happy man. He closed the door and settled down on the bed, switching on the TV set. It was lucky he had the Coke. It helped to ease the pain of watching old U.S. series dubbed in Spanish. He did some channel hopping and came across three Western series, yet another rerun of Star Trek, and ended up watching Mannix, with every character mouthing out-of-sync Spanish.

McCarter watched the episode, through. He smoked three more cigarettes and downed two bottles of Coke. He was feeling better. He switched off the TV, eased his long frame off the bed and crossed to the window. It was quiet down below. The Briton spent a few minutes at the window, letting the faint breeze cool him. He was about to turn away when he picked up a sound from the other side of his room door. McCarter stepped away from the window and crossed the room to stand against the wall to one side of the door. He turned his head slightly and picked up a scrap of sound. It was the sound of a floorboard creaking under weight. The weight was quickly removed but only made the board creak again. A man’s hushed voice expressed impatience and elicited a sharp response.

At least two.

But what were they doing outside his room?

The Briton decided he wouldn’t have to wait long to find out. As he eased his Browning Hi-Power from the shoulder holster he was wearing, the door handle moved slightly as pressure was put on it from the other side. He flicked off the main room light, leaving on just a small lamp on a table beside the bed.

The door swung open and two men stepped inside, scanning the room as they did. Both were armed with pistols. Seeing the room apparently empty seemed to confuse the pair for a few seconds and McCarter used the time to his advantage. He booted the door shut and as the gunners swung around he launched himself into action.

The barrel of the Browning cracked down across the wrist of the closer man, the hard blow numbing his grip on the pistol he carried. As the man grunted in pain, McCarter rapped the Browning against the side of his skull, hard, stunning the guy. As the first man slumped to his knees, McCarter turned his upper body and drove his bunched left fist into the second man’s face. The blow was delivered with full force, cracking against the target’s jaw. His head snapped around, blood spraying from a split lip. The guy fell back against the wall. The Phoenix Force leader was already closing on him, his right knee coming up in a blur to drive into the guy’s exposed stomach. The breath gusted from his slack mouth and the man clutched himself. He offered no resistance as McCarter snatched his pistol from his hand. Stepping back, the Briton kicked the first guy’s gun across the room, then backed up himself to cover the two men.

“I don’t suppose you bums are room service? No? Didn’t think so. So who are you?”

“Someone you don’t want to mess around with.”

McCarter glanced at the speaker. The accent wasn’t local. There was something familiar about it. European? Slavic maybe? Difficult to tell. The man had been mixing with other cultures and had lost a degree of his native cadence.

“Might be a good idea if you stopped watching cheap movies,” McCarter said. “Coming up with a line like that. Bloody terrible. Now why don’t we stop being silly. Just tell me who you are and what you want.”

“We want you out of Santa Lorca. We do business here. This is our territory.”

McCarter grinned. “Losing out, are you? Tough. You blokes never heard of competition? Now I suggest you get the hell out of my room and stay away from me.”

“You don’t understand.”

“Oh, I understand. But take it from me, chum. If you keep this up I’ll kill you. No second chances. Keep that thought when you leave. Now get the fuck out of my room.”

The two men glanced at each other. They were in a bind. No weapons, and it was plain to see that the man they had come to hassle was in no way disturbed by their presence. They gathered themselves and moved to the door. McCarter followed them into the passage and stayed until they had disappeared down the stairs. He went back into his room, closing and locking the door. He picked up the discarded weapons and placed them in his leather holdall. Then he got back on his cell phone and spoke to James again. He explained what had happened.

“You think this could cause us problems?”

“If we’ve stepped on the toes of the local union of gunrunners it could get busy. The sooner we have our meet with Regan’s buyer, the better. All we need is to identify the buyer, grab him if he fits the bill, then get the hell out of this sweatbox and go home.”

“Our boys here only went back to the bar and spoke to Regan. Looks like he was just checking up on you. We’ll keep an eye on them.”

“Okay.”

McCarter put in a call to Manning and gave him an update.

“Let’s hope they don’t decide to do something drastic like hit the ship,” McCarter said. “Losing a piece of action is making these guys a little tetchy.”

“Let’s hope your meet goes smoothly,” Manning said.

MCCARTER PULLED UP outside Regan’s warehouse, cutting the engine of the battered Jeep 4x4 he’d rented from a local contact. He checked out the dock area. It appeared deserted, but the Briton never took anything on face value. There were a hundred places where a man with a weapon could hide. Taking that thought to its logical conclusion, McCarter realized there could be a hundred armed men in hiding. It was a sobering thought. Enough to make him pull a pack of Player’s cigarettes from his pocket and fire one up. The smoke he took in eased his tension a little. McCarter exhaled and glanced quickly at his watch. Almost time.

At the far end of the dock a car appeared, easing around the edge of the most distant warehouse. It moved forward slowly, headlights picking out McCarter’s parked Jeep. The Phoenix Force leader reached across to make sure his Browning was still beside him on the passenger seat.

The advancing car came to a stop twenty feet away. Both front doors opened and Regan’s hardmen stepped out. They moved to the rear doors and opened them. McCarter saw Regan step out of one door. The man who emerged from the other side of the car was unknown to the Phoenix Force commander. Dressed in a dark suit and shirt, even down to a black tie, he stayed a few steps behind Regan, who led the way along the dock until he was no more than a couple of feet from the Jeep.

“At least you’re on time, Bubba,’’ he said as McCarter stepped from his vehicle.

“And I’ve brought your samples.”

McCarter turned to the rear of the Jeep and lifted out a rolled tarp. He carried it to the front of the vehicle and laid the tarp on the hood. McCarter unrolled the bundle to expose two M-16 A-2 rifles, one fitted with an M-203 grenade launcher. There was also a Beretta 92-F and a LAW rocket launcher.

Regan stepped forward to look over the weapons.

“Go ahead,” McCarter said. “They won’t fall apart.”

Regan picked up one of the M-16s and examined it thoroughly. He knew his weapons, expertly stripping the rifle and reassembling it with practiced ease. He did the same with the Beretta.

“Good condition,” he said. “If I asked where you got them?”

“You’d get the same answer I would if I asked who you banked with.”

Regan chuckled. He turned to his rear seat passenger. “You want to check these out?”

The man moved forward into a patch of light. He was lean, his complexion dark, a trimmed beard and mustache covering the lower half of his face. He wore steel-rimmed glasses. He barely glanced at McCarter as he reached out to pick up one of the Berettas, turning it over, working the slide. Once he had the weapon in his hands his attitude visibly changed. His stance relaxed, his gaze fixed on the pistol. The weapon worked like a drug, soothing him. He nodded slowly, his lips moving as he carried on some inner conversation with himself, slender fingers caressing the smooth, cool metal.

McCarter felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise slightly. The man was a little creepy, he decided. The Briton glanced across at Regan, who returned his gaze and offered a brief shrug.

The prospective buyer placed the Beretta back on the tarp. He gathered his thoughts and cleared his throat.

“Excellent. I believe we can make our trade. You know what we require, Regan. The price as agreed. I will bring cash. U.S. dollars. Make your arrangements.” He offered McCarter the briefest of glances. “I will take delivery myself.”

He turned then and made his way back to the car, leaving McCarter and Regan alone on the dock.

“I thought he was going to make a bloody date with that Beretta,” McCarter said.

“As long as his money is genuine, I don’t care if he takes the fuckin’ thing to bed with him, Bubba.”

“Regan, you’re all heart.”

“Ain’t I just. You got enough stock on that boat to fill this order?”

“No problem. Just tell me where and when.”

“Right here. How about this evening? Around eight?”

McCarter wrapped his weapons back in the tarp. He placed them in the rear of the Jeep.

“I’ll have the boat in the harbor, waiting for my call,” he said to Regan.

Regan nodded and turned back toward his car.

McCarter waited until he was alone before he took out his cell phone and called Manning.

“ID confirmed. The buyer is Kamal Rasheed.”

“Have you arranged the deal?”

“Eight o’clock tonight. Regan’s warehouse.”

“I’d better let Jack know. We want him standing by at the airstrip. This is where it could get hairy.”

“It’s been quiet up to now,” McCarter said. “I don’t feel comfortable with the setup.”

“You worry too much.”

“Somebody has to.”

MANNING CONTACTED Jack Grimaldi. The Stony Man pilot was waiting at a small airstrip a few miles along the coast from Cristobal. He had an old but fully maintained Douglas DC-3 on standby, ready to airlift Phoenix Force out of the country. He had flown in two days earlier after receiving a signal from Manning. In Santa Lorca, anything more sophisticated landing at the airstrip would have aroused deep suspicion and questions.

“I’ll be ready and waiting,” Grimaldi had said after Manning had advised the deal was to go through the following evening. “This going to be a quiet farewell party? Or do I break out the flak jackets?”

“Anybody’s guess, Jack. You know how these things can change. David did have some unwelcome visitors at his hotel. Santa Lorca Mafia tried to scare him off.”

“Wish I’d been there to see that.”

“Just keep your eyes open in case. I have a feeling when we come to hitch our ride we’ll be in a hurry.”

“No problem. Let me know when you’re getting close.”

Manning cut the call and turned to Rafael Encizo. “Let’s go check the charges.”

Encizo nodded and the Phoenix Force pair went belowdecks to check out the thermal charges Manning had installed in the motor vessel’s hold. They were more for protection than anything else, a noisy distraction in case the team needed to make a rapid withdrawal.

JACK GRIMALDI HAD the DC-3 ready and waiting by late afternoon. He had topped up the fuel supply, paying the owner of the strip in cash. The man had retreated to his control hut, putting up the shutters for the rest of the day.

With the instincts of a born pilot, Grimaldi had spent the previous few hours running checks on the aircraft. It wasn’t in his nature to leave anything to chance. Faults that occurred at fifteen thousand feet took on a significance that might not have seemed so bad on the ground. Grimaldi had too much respect for his, and the team’s, lives to allow something like that to happen.

With the DC-3 locked down, Grimaldi retreated to the cockpit. He had the plane positioned so he could see the approach road from Cristobal. He settled into the pilot’s seat and leaned over to check the 9 mm Uzi and Beretta 92-F stored at his side.

Satisfied, he relaxed and wound down to wait. As a backup pilot for the Sensitive Operations Group, much of Grimaldi’s time was spent waiting. He usually didn’t resent it. His was one of those functions that required him to be there when he was wanted, and when that time came he had to be on the spot, with all engines running. He got involved in the action from time to time, and always acquitted himself well. Jack Grimaldi was no slouch when it came to battle. Conversely he had learned the combat soldier’s creed of always resting when the situation allowed. The same applied to food and drink. Any break in hostilities meant weapons checks, food and rest. Once the heat was turned up again there was no way of telling when there would be another lull. So refueling, mentally and physically, were the priorities. Grimaldi’s mentor, Mack Bolan, had opened the ace pilot’s eyes to these unwritten rules. He had taken them to heart and lived by those rules every time he went on a mission.

Port Cristobal Dock

CALVIN JAMES AND T.J. Hawkins were in position on the roof of the next warehouse along from Regan’s. They had been there since late afternoon, clad in blacksuits and armed with their personal weapons and M-16 A-2 rifles. For communications they wore lightweight Tac-Com headsets.

Down on the dockside McCarter wore similar gear, as did Manning and Encizo on the boat.

They were on the far side of the harbor, in among a scattering of moored vessels, waiting for McCarter’s signal to bring the boat in.

The Briton glanced at his watch. It was seconds before eight. Shadows were starting to crawl out of the corners, pushing over the dock. A soft red glow spread across the Pacific. It would be full dark in an hour.

The Phoenix Force leader turned as sound caught his attention.

The roller door to Regan’s warehouse began to open, rattling against steel guides. As it reached head height, figures appeared in the opening. Regan, flanked by his two hardmen.

Just behind, still in his dark clothing, was Kamal Rasheed. He was carrying a black leather attaché case in his right hand. Three men stood close by him, almost blocking him from McCarter’s view.

“Seven, I can see,” McCarter said softly into his microphone.

“Affirmative. Seven,” Calvin James answered.

“Just remember trust is for children and cute puppy dogs,” McCarter added. “And incidentally, it’s my arse on the line down here.”

“Sorry, boss, didn’t get that last line,” Hawkins said.

Regan walked across the dock and stared out over the harbor. He glanced at McCarter.

“Cute outfit.”

“My tennis whites stand out too much.”

“When you’re ready, Bubba,” Regan said, reaching across and tapping McCarter’s microphone.

“Okay, boys, bring her in,” the Briton said.

The boat eased into view, moving out from the cluster of other vessels and heading toward dockside. Manning was at the wheel, with Encizo standing at the bow. As the craft reached the dock, Manning brought it around, easing the vessel up to the mooring point. Encizo threw a rope to McCarter, who looped it around a mooring ring. The Briton secured the line. Manning cut the engine.

Regan turned to signal his men.

McCarter heard a soft voice in his earpiece.

“Four coming in from north end of dock,” James said. “On foot. All armed.”

“I can’t see them,” McCarter growled. “Where?”

“Behind the yellow dock crane. They’re moving out now.”

The sudden flurry of movement caught McCarter’s attention. He spotted the armed newcomers as they broke into a run, rapidly closing on the warehouse frontage. He reached inside his jacket and hauled out the Browning.

“Friends of yours, Bubba?” he asked Regan.

“Fucking hell, no,” the man yelled, pulling his own handgun.

There was one of those extended moments of immobility as everyone assessed the situation.

And then the dock was racked by the sound of autofire.

The first volley of autofire reached out in the direction of Regan’s hardmen, punching into flesh and taking out one man, dropping the second to his knees. Even as the man tried to pull his weapon, a second burst from one of the attackers tore through his throat and dropped him on his back, blood bubbling from his torn flesh.

Rasheed took a step back, his trio of bodyguards forming a human shield around him. One gave a startled cry as he took a couple of slugs in his right shoulder. The impact pushed him off balance and he fell against Rasheed, knocking the man to his knees. The wounded bodyguard pulled a stubby SMG from under his coat and turned to return fire as the other bodyguards bent to help Rasheed.

From his position on the warehouse roof, Hawkins settled his sights on the lead attacker and put two 5.56 mm slugs in the guy’s chest. Dead on his feet, the target fell, legs giving way under him. He flopped onto his back, the rest of his team pushing forward, still firing.

McCarter, down on one knee, brought his Browning up double-handed and fired. His two shots hit one of the attackers in the shoulder, tearing through the padding of flesh and shattering the man’s collarbone. The guy went down, on his knees, all thought of aggression wiped from his mind as the initial numbness gave way to pain. He put a hand to his shoulder and fingered ragged shards of bone protruding from the wound.

“Gary, Rafe, take Rasheed.”

“You got it.”

Encizo, wielding a 9 mm Uzi, scrambled onto the dock. Manning was behind him, pausing only long enough to activate the timer that would transmit the detonation of the incendiary package he had laid in the hold. On the dock, he followed Encizo.

Hawkins took out another of the attack group, his 3-round burst slamming the guy to the dock in a twisting tumble. The man tried to get to his feet in a show of sheer resistance. Hawkins fired once more, laying the 5.56 mm slug through the top of the target’s skull.

Kamal Rasheed was yelling wildly to his remaining bodyguards. They formed a line in front of him, pushing him back toward the warehouse door in an attempt to get him under cover. At the same time they lifted their pistols at the advancing Manning and Encizo.

Regan turned his attention on the remaining attacker. The man had a transceiver in his hand and was yelling into it.

“Son of a bitch,” Regan screamed, losing control. He raised his pistol and began to fire, pulling the trigger in a frenzy of rage. “Try to queer my deal, you assholes!”

The majority of his shots missed, but enough found their mark, driving the target backward, bloody eruptions bursting from his chest.

McCarter swung around and moved to assist his partners. As he did, Encizo, ignoring the shots peppering the dock around him, took out one of Rasheed’s remaining bodyguards, placing a single shot in the guy’s head. As the man fell, Calvin James triggered a close shot that removed the surviving bodyguard.

“Let’s move,” McCarter yelled.

He took off across the dock, reaching Kamal Rasheed as the Iraqi ducked under the warehouse door. McCarter caught hold of the man’s coat collar and hauled him back. He snatched the attaché case from Rasheed’s grip.

“You cannot…” Rahseed protested.

“I’ll tell you just once. Shut it, keep it shut, or I will bury you here and now.”

Rasheed stared into the Briton’s eyes and saw a gleam of wildness there that convinced him he would be wise to do as he was told.

“Fire in the hole,” Manning warned as he glanced at his watch, seeing the second hand sweeping toward the end of the time set on the explosive pack.

The Canadian’s estimate was out by around three seconds. There was a muted thump as the detonators went off, followed by a harsh crackle and blinding light that burst out of the open hatch covers. The intense power of the incendiary charges spread and began to burn the motor vessel.

“Reassemble,” McCarter said into his microphone, calling James and Hawkins down off the roof.

He caught Encizo’s attention. “Go and bring the wagon. We need to be out of here fast.”

“What the fuck is going on here?” Regan yelled.

McCarter rounded on him. He barged straight in, stiff-arming Regan in the chest and bouncing him off the warehouse wall. Regan made a token gesture with the gun he still held in his hand. McCarter ignored it, pushing the muzzle of his Browning into the soft flesh under Regan’s chin. The gunrunner made a soft sound. He let his own weapon fall from his fingers.

“Think before you answer, Bubba, because if it isn’t the one I need…”

“What?”

“Where did chummy over there want those guns delivered?”

Regan was many things. He wasn’t a fool. He’d seen the way these men operated. His death wouldn’t mean a thing to them, so he raised both hands in surrender.

“Same place as the other shipments. Mexico. Nuevo Laredo. Local guy named Luiz Santos. Then over the border into the U.S. But I don’t know where. You can blow my balls off and I still wouldn’t be able to tell you.”

McCarter kept up the pressure, pushing until the steel muzzle really hurt.

“Let me make one thing clear. If we go to Mexico and find Santos has got the word, you will expect us back here. And balls could well be at the top of our list. Understand, Bubba?”

Regan nodded.

“No second chance, Regan. We get burned, we always come back.”

“Christ, looks like I got enough problems with those local suppliers we just tangled with. Last thing I need is you on my fuckin’ back. I don’t know who you are, and I don’t need to.”

“We’re just a collection service,” McCarter said. “We’ve got what we came for.”

Regan eyed Rasheed. “Him? He’s worth all this trouble?”

“He’s worth it,” the Phoenix Force leader said.

Behind them the boat’s fuel tank ruptured and sent a fiery cascade across the water. Some of the burning fuel spilled across the edge of the dock.

“Tell me something,” Regan said. “The guns on that boat. They real, or was that part of the scam?”

McCarter smiled.

“Real. But they were all spiked. Except the ones I showed you. Hell, Regan, don’t you know it’s against the law to sell stolen weapons?”

“Son of a bitch.”

“Aren’t I just.”

The Jeep 4x4, Encizo at the wheel, swung into view from behind one of the warehouses. The moment he braked, Manning opened one of the rear doors and pushed a resisting Kamal Rasheed into the vehicle. James and Hawkins appeared. James climbed into the Jeep, so that Rasheed was between him and Manning. Hawkins took the center position in the front, leaving the final space for McCarter. He climbed in and slammed the door, feeling the Jeep surge as Encizo pushed the gas pedal to the floor.

Leaving Port Cristobal, Encizo picked up the road that would connect them with the airstrip. Once they left the town behind, the tarmac surface petered out so that they were driving on a dusty, uneven strip that had more ruts than they had ever seen in one stretch of road.

“Any chance you can get more speed out of this thing?” McCarter asked.

“Right now we’re close to takeoff speed,” Encizo told him. “If we come off this road we’ll probably launch into orbit.”

McCarter laughed. “I wish.”

“Hey,” Manning said, “I think someone has called in backup.”

McCarter looked in the rearview mirror, recalling one of the attackers on the dock sending a message via his transceiver. A dark SUV was trailing in their dusty wake, clinging to the rough road as if it were on rails. The big and powerful vehicle was brand-new. It looked as if it had the power to overtake and run the ancient Jeep off the road.

“Look at him move,” Hawkins said.

“Confirms one thing,” James said. “There are two maniac drivers in Santa Lorca and I’m a passenger with one of them.”

“You want to live forever?” Encizo asked.

“Maybe not, but the next ten minutes would be nice.” James grinned.

Following on his remark came the crackle of autofire. Winks of light showed from the pursuing vehicle. A couple of slugs clanged against the Jeep’s bodywork. The rear window cracking as a stray slug bounced off the toughened glass.

“Those bastards are bound to get lucky before we hit the airstrip,” Hawkins said.

The Jeep began to climb a long incline. Manning checked the position of the SUV, then leaned forward to watch the crest of the slope coming up.

“Foot down, Rafe,” he said. “If there’s a downslope on the other side, keep the speed up until I tell you, then hit the brake.”

Encizo nodded. He trod on the gas pedal and put the Jeep along the road at dizzying speed. He saw the crest coming fast, then the Jeep cleared the hump and left the road for long seconds. It came down with a thump that jolted the passengers violently. The Jeep bottomed out, scraping up earth and creating a thick swirl of dust that misted the air behind them. Encizo felt the wheel wrench in his hands and had to use all of his strength to keep the vehicle on the road.

“Hey, Rafe,” Hawkins said, turning to check behind them again. “You know how they do that in movies and the cars come out in one piece?”

“So?”

“I think we left some bodywork behind us.”

Manning’s guess had been correct. There was a slope on the far side of the hump. The Jeep bowled along it, bouncing once again as it hit the level road.

“Now,” Manning demanded.

Encizo hit the brake and hung on to the wheel as the Jeep slowed, sliding to one side.

The moment the speed had dropped to a safe level, Gary Manning eased open his door and cleared the vehicle. He turned immediately and faced the slope they had just come down, bringing his M-16 to his shoulder.

As Manning raised the rifle, the roar of the pursuing SUV’s powerful engine increased as it burst into view over the hump in the road and sped in their direction.

Manning watched the SUV as it sped toward him. Once it was in range, he stepped forward and tracked in the M-16. He knew the American rifle well. He was also the team’s lead sniper, deadly accurate with a rifle. He was entirely comfortable with the M-16 and now he sighted in on the oncoming SUV. The driver had to have seen the Phoenix Force commando’s armed figure. He jammed on the brakes, putting the big vehicle into a dust-kicking skid.

Manning wasn’t about to allow the opposition time to take cover. He opened fire, placing his shots in the visible front tire, the 5.56 mm slugs tearing and shredding the rubber. The tire flattened and the SUV’s steering went leaden in the driver’s hands. The vehicle lurched and rocked, threatening to overturn, but remained upright as it came to a juddering halt.

One of the rear doors swung open and an armed man sprang out, swinging his own weapon into play. Manning hit him in the chest with a pair of rounds. The man bounced off the side of the SUV, pitching facedown in the dust. Manning immediately switched his aim and began to jack off shot after shot into the windshield and the side windows. Glass imploded and they could see shapes inside the SUV struggling to get clear. The driver’s door opened and an already bloody figure tumbled out, hauling his SMG into play. He fired a burst in Manning’s general direction. Manning hit him with a single shot that entered just above his right eye and cored through and out the back of his head, blowing brain scraps onto the SUV’s door.

The big Canadian took another couple of steps forward, the M-16 already following its next target as another gunrunner emerged from the far side of the SUV. He had stayed low until the moment he raised his head above the hood of the vehicle, searching for the shooter who was eliminating his partners. He never even had time to see his killer. Manning’s M-16 cracked once and the bullet blew off the back of his skull. The man did a complete turnaround before he slammed facedown on the ground.

It became very still after that.

Manning remained on full alert, watching the enemy vehicle. He couldn’t see any movement inside the vehicle and decided that his shots through the windows of the SUV had taken out any others still inside. He took a couple of steps back, freeing the magazine from the M-16 and feeding a fresh one into the receiver.

McCarter stepped up beside him. “Persistent buggers, aren’t they,” he commented.

“Were,” Manning corrected.

The Briton touched him on the shoulder. “Let’s get the hell out of here before the Santa Lorca militia decide to chip in.”

“This burg got a militia?”

McCarter shrugged.

They returned to the Jeep and Encizo moved off. He pushed the vehicle as fast as was safe on the dirt road. A couple of miles out from the strip, James put in a call to Jack Grimaldi.

“Crank up that crate, Flyboy. We’ll be checking in anytime now.”

“Ready when you are, ladies. Make sure you wipe your boots before you come aboard. I run a clean ship.”

ENCIZO TOOK the Jeep across the airfield and parked just behind the DC-3. The engines were already running, turning over smoothly. Grimaldi leaned out of the cockpit, waving at his passengers as they made for the open hatch. As the last man in pulled the hatch shut, the Stony Man pilot released the brakes, boosted the power and the aircraft began to move. Grimaldi coasted to the end of the runaway and waited until he had the engines balanced and trimmed. Then he upped the throttles and the DC-3 began to roll along the strip.

They lifted off into a sky that was darkening around them. Grimaldi banked the aircraft onto its correct heading once they were out over the Pacific. He settled back in his seat, enjoying the experience of piloting an aircraft like the DC-3. It was real flying as far as he was concerned. No digital readouts or satellite-controlled flight settings. Just his hands on the controls, a far cry from supersonic jets and even his beloved Dragon Slayer. For Jack Grimaldi this was a flight of pure indulgence and he was enjoying every minute of it.

KAMAL RASHEED HAD BEEN handcuffed to his seat with metal handcuffs. He resented Phoenix Force, making his feelings known whenever anyone came close to him.

“Do all the ranting you want, mate,” McCarter told the Iraqi. “When we reach the U.S. you’ll be handed over to the people who are going to be looking after you from now on, and I can tell you they aren’t as nice as we are.”

Rasheed glared at the Briton. “You should reconsider what you are doing. Do you realize who I am?”

“Don’t remind me. Kamal Rasheed. One of Saddam Hussein’s little helpers. We have a nice long file on you. And what a bloody charmer.”

“You dare to judge me?”

“Damn right I do.”

“Because I am Muslim you have decided I am your enemy.”

“Change the record, Rasheed. You people keep bleating on about your religion like it’s the reason for everything. I don’t care who you worship. This isn’t about religion. It’s about a bunch of bullies who held their own country to ransom, put everyone who wasn’t in their club in fear. You terrorized them, tortured them, kept them in ignorance and stole every bloody thing you could get your thieving fingers on. Kids died from malnutrition while you miserable bastards had gold taps fitted to your bathrooms, ran around in luxury cars and salted away billions of dollars in your personal accounts. That had nothing to do with religion of any kind, so don’t throw that one at me.”

“Because you have me, do you think it will stop what we are going to do? We have God on our side, and we will win.”

“See? You can’t open your mouth without using your religion as an excuse. Just for once talk to me man-to-man. Stop bloody hiding behind God.”

The expression in Rasheed’s eyes hardened. “You are not fit to speak of him. This is why we will destroy you. Maybe not this year. Or the next. But we will in the end, because we are chosen.”

McCarter backed off, shaking his head. “What the hell am I wasting my breath for? This bloke is on automatic pilot. Open him up, I’ll bet you find a recorder inside with a tape-loop quoting the phrase of the day.”

“Hard to communicate with someone tuned out of real conversation,” Hawkins said. “Hey, boss, what do we do with this?”

He held up the attachГ© case. McCarter reached out and took it.

“We sneak a look.”

He sat on one of the side benches bolted to the DC-3 deck. McCarter laid the case across his thighs and examined the locks. He tried one and the clasp sprang open. McCarter repeated the operation with the other lock. He raised the lid. Stacked inside the case was a thick layer of one hundred dollar bills. The layer was four deep.

“What have we got here?” Hawkins asked.

“My next month’s salary,” McCarter said. “Short a couple of bucks.”

He took out one of the banded stacks of bills and flicked the end with his finger.

“Man, you could buy all the cigarettes you’ll ever need with that,” Hawkins breathed, visibly impressed by the amount in the one stack of bills.

“And have change for a few cases of Coke.”

Hawkins raised his eyes to look across at Rasheed. The fedayeen had his gaze fixed on the case.

“I think we pissed him off lookin’ at his stash,” Hawkins said.

McCarter replaced the money as something else caught his eye. Resting in the leather pocket on the inside of the case lid was a grained-leather personal organizer. The Briton reached for it, pulling it from the pocket and turning it over in his hands.

Unable to conceal his panic, Rasheed lunged forward in his seat, coming to an abrupt stop as he reached the limit of the handcuff chain. The metal of the bracelet dug into his flesh, drawing blood. The Iraqi ignored the pain as he watched McCarter examining the organizer.

McCarter heard the sound as Rasheed fought his handcuffs. He realized it was the discovery of the organizer that had agitated the Iraqi, not the money.

“T.J., I believe we have Mr. Rahseed’s attention.”




CHAPTER TWO


War Room, Stony Man Farm, Virginia

Hal Brognola was a worried man. He had reason to be. Things were happening that had given him sleepless nights for the past few days, and his recent visit to meet the President had only added to his concern. The incidents, occurrences, breaches in security and rising tensions—however they were wrapped up in diplomatic words—had spoken volumes to Hal Brognola. They had told him in no uncertain terms that the current status quo was about to be rocked once more.

And when those things happened, or threatened to happen, Brognola took on the full weight as head honcho of the missions that were carried out by Stony Man operatives.

Stony Man Farm was the President’s covert intelligence agency, a dedicated off-the-books operation used by the Man when other considerations had been rejected. Then SOG’s talents were brought on line and the combat teams given their orders.

There were times when objectives needed to be reached, situations brought under control and individuals prevented from executing their personal plans. In areas where the normal protocols had no valid acceptance, the Sensitive Operations Group’s commando teams were given their own mandate and sent out on covert missions. Brognola was waiting for his teams to join him in the War Room.

Separated from the relatively new Annex with its state-of-the-art Computer Room and Communications Center, the War Room sat beneath the original farmhouse that was the public face of the Stony Man complex. The house, the wood-chipping mill and sundry outbuildings were all that was visible to the casual eye. The vital sections of the SOG operation lay underground, concealed from prying eyes. Protected by thick concrete walls and surrounded by electronic sensors, the unseen heart of the complex was manned day and night, all year round. Terrorism and its associated threats didn’t operate on a nine-to-five basis, and neither did Stony Man. Everything about the Farm was covert, from buildings, equipment and personnel. It wasn’t supposed to even exist. Stony Man was the President’s secret weapon. A totally dedicated force ready to respond to any global threat aimed at America, her allies or simply a threat to stability. One of the problems with incidents in Stony Man’s remit was the probability of escalation drawing in other nations and the U.S. being caught in the ripples.

Stony Man had learned, through experience, that reaching out to stomp on a possible threat at its inception often prevented it developing into an out-of-control epidemic of death and destruction. The Stony Man combat teams were used to being handed missions that came out of scant information that grew and intertwined with alarming speed.

Able Team had arrived from different locations earlier that morning. The other group, Phoenix Force, was due to arrive within the next half hour. It had recently returned from a mission in Central America, where its members had infiltrated a gunrunning operation to identify the buyer. What the team didn’t know, but would soon become acquainted with, were the details included in one of the folders Brognola had on the War Room table. The players in the weapons-buying deal were one of the reasons the big Fed had called his people together.

What he was about to brief them on had the potential to be both wide-ranging in its implications as well as threatening to the security of the U.S. mainland. The situation was building to become disturbingly serious unless Stony Man did something about it quickly.

One of the telephones rang. Brognola picked it up and heard the gruff tones of Aaron Kurtzman, Stony Man’s cyberchief. He was a big man, with a commanding presence that swamped the fact that he was confined to a wheelchair. He was capable of being hard on his cyberteam when the need arose, but they would work for him until they dropped, such was the depth of their respect for the man. Right now The Bear, as Kurtzman was known, and his team, were immersed in collating and analyzing information coming into their domain from varied sources. It all had to do with the matter at hand and the moment he recognized Kurtzman’s voice, Brognola knew things had gone up a notch.

“You want the bad news first, or the bad news?”

“That’s what I like about you, Aaron. You always wrap things up nicely.”

“Didn’t you once tell me I was hired because of my winning ways?”

“I don’t think so, pal.”

“Okay. We are picking up reports of activity along the Turkish-Iraqi border. It appears the Kurds have made a couple of incursions in Turkish no-go areas and attacked a military post. One Turkish soldier killed and a couple more wounded. The Turkish authorities have started to move military units into the area and there have been warnings about reprisals if this sort of thing happens again.”

“This information reliable?”

“Oh, yes. No doubts on that.”

“Why now?”

“I’m heading down to see you. There are other things I need to discuss. All related.” Kurtzman paused. “You got any of that War Room coffee on the go?”

“Yeah.”

“Thought so. I’ll bring my own.”

Brognola grinned as he put the receiver down. Kurtzman bringing his own coffee was as much of a threat as anything that might come in via the communications setup.

He picked up his copy of the files he was about to present to Able Team and Phoenix Force. For the next few minutes, Brognola went over the data. Not for the first time. He had been reading during his helicopter flight to Washington and his briefing with the President. He had gone over it all with the Man, and he had skimmed through it on the return flight to Stony Man. It made compulsive reading, despite the content, which was far from uplifting.

In essence, there was a growing threat from a number of sources. In isolation each item was disturbing. Linked together they formed an alarming scenario that implied a concerted effort to destabilize the Middle East region and also pointed at some large-scale security threat to the U.S. itself.

The current incident concerning the Kurdish attack on a Turkish outpost was one of a number of similar incidents. The way they were happening suggested, at least to Brognola, a pattern. Pieces of a puzzle that needed fitting together. The President had made it clear he wanted the SOG to take on the task of dealing with the affair.

The White House, earlier same day

“YOU’VE SEEN the photographs Leo Turrin sent in?”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“How in hell did this happen, Hal? Khariza was supposed to be dead. Out of our hair. Now he’s shown up on the Italian Riviera alive and well and having a poolside chat with his old regime cronies. Did somebody slip up, or have we been had?”

“Right now, Sir, I don’t have answers.”

“Get them. Put your people on this full-time. Last thing we need right now is the Middle East blowing up in our faces on top of this mainland threat. It’s just what the extremists want to happen. Stir up feelings until the whole thing goes out of control. Security assessment teams are indicating some kind of terrorist strike here on U.S. soil. The way this is going, now would be an opportune time for such an attack. We have commitments in the Middle East. A large percentage of our efforts are channeled in that direction. We don’t know that these Mideast incidents are a distraction or part of an overall plan. We need to know, Hal. People are dying out there. And there are Americans on the list. Something has to be done. Damned if I’m going to sit back and just let things slide.”

“I understand, Sir. Phoenix Force has already had contact with one of Khariza’s group. Kamal Rasheed. They picked him up in Santa Lorca, trying to buy weapons. We handed him over to the CIA.”

“There’s something in the wind, Hal. Too many things happening out there that tell me we could be in for a bumpy ride. All these incidents. Rumors flying around. Familiar names keep cropping up. Linked to Khariza’s inner circle. And now he rises from the dead. It all sounds a little too neat to me. Get your people on the job, Hal. If there’s a tangible threat to mainland security, I want it handled soon as. I want Stony Man to take it on board. I don’t have the time or inclination to go sparring with Agency protocols. They’ll want to discuss it in committee, weigh the various arguments and options, advise me it isn’t the right time. I want something done now. There’s too much bullshit coming at me from the other agencies. Hal, I want direct action on this. Last thing this country needs is another World Trade Center disaster. The American nation has suffered enough. Find the bastards behind this mess and come down hard on them.”

“I already have my people pulling in all the data they can. Soon as we get it all together, maybe we can pin something down.”

“Hal, this is priority. Find out what’s going on and shut it down. Any problems over anything you need, call me. I’ll leave contact details so you can access me at anytime.”

Brognola recalled some of the hot spots the information had indicated. They were widespread across the Middle East and Europe.

“Glad you mentioned that, Sir.”

Stony Man Farm, Virginia

BROGNOLA HEARD the War Room door open. He glanced around to see the men of Able Team entering and making their way across to the conference table.

Carl Lyons, the team commander, Rosario Blancanales and Hermann Schwarz, were skilled, seasoned individuals. Each man had his own unique personality. For the most part, Able Team handled missions within the borders of the U.S. With the spread of terrorism, the associated threats and the expansion of the playing fields, Able Team was sometimes to be found taking trips well beyond the territorial boundaries of the U.S. mainland. In the end they went where the mission dictated.

Blancanales took himself to the coffee station that held the simmering pot of coffee and poured himself a mug.

“Hey, anyone want coffee?”

“I’ll have one,” Brognola said, recalling Kurtzman’s promise to bring his own. “Black. No sugar.”

“That it?” Blancanales asked. No one else spoke.

Lyons dropped into a seat close by Brognola, studying the big Fed closely.

“You okay?”

“I could do with a couple of days somewhere quiet and deserted. Apart from that, I’m doing fine, but thanks for asking.”

Schwarz, sitting a little distance away, leaned forward. “Why don’t you go with him, Carl? A break would be helpful right now.”

“I don’t need a break.”

“I was thinking about me and Pol,” Schwarz said, his face blank.

“One day, when I’m really gone, you’ll remember all the things you said.”

Blancanales placed Brognola’s coffee on the table, then took a seat. He glanced across at Lyons.

“No, we won’t. We’ll be too busy having f-u-n.”

The War Room’s door opened and Aaron Kurtzman rolled his wheelchair across the floor. He was carrying the familiar coffeepot he kept brewing 24/7 in the Computer Room. Behind the broad-shouldered cyberexpert was Barbara Price. Tall, blond and utterly capable, Price was Brognola’s mission controller. She thrived on a crisis alert, remaining calm and in control, whatever the situation. She moved ahead of Kurtzman, reaching the conference table and depositing a stack of files in front of her seat.

“Phoenix has arrived,” she informed them as she took her place. “Be down any minute.”

Kurtzman had moved across to the coffee station. He placed his pot down and plugged it into one of the power sockets.

“Never leave home without it,” he said as he took his place at the conference table, in front of the panel of controls he used to illustrate his findings on the large TV wall screens. He tapped the keyboard and the screens snapped to life. Images and data were displayed in sharp profile.

“Any new material?” Brognola asked.

“Try this.”

Kurtzman brought up a report from the Arabic TV network Al-Jazeera. The station, broadcasting all across the Middle East, had become known for its strong, uncensored images during the Iraq war. It had come under some criticism for the way it showed the news, but countered that it was primarily there to broadcast to the Arab nations and to depict the incidents as they happened, not in the sanitized versions shown to Western audiences.

“Say what you like about these guys,” Kurtzman remarked, “but what you get is what you see.”

The item showed a bullet-riddled car skewed across a street. Doors were open and bodies were seen in the vehicle or hanging half out of it. There were also three bodies on the road. The whole scene was familiar to the Stony Man crew. An ambush, the car riddled with autofire and the passengers killed before they could react.

“Do we know who the victims are?” Price asked.

“UN personnel based in Baghdad. The three on the ground outside the car were Iraqi police. They were in the car just showing on the right side of the picture.”

“Did this actually happen in Baghdad?” Schwarz asked.

Kurtzman nodded. “Our mystery players are starting to get confident. No more hiding in dark alleys. They’re showing they can do this with impunity. In broad daylight.”

Phoenix Force came into the War Room at that point, taking their places at the table.

“We miss anything?” David McCarter asked.

Brognola indicated the screen image. “Aaron was just showing us the latest incident in Baghdad. UN team ambushed and shot. Three Iraqi police officers, as well. That’s on top of the Kurdish attack on a Turkish military post.”

“From intel reports we’ve been monitoring there seems to be a lot of activity in the Middle East region,” Price said. “Now, I understand there’s always something going on, but in the last week or so, this activity has gone up a notch. There’s a concentration around Iraq. Attacks on U.S. and U.K. personnel. The UN. Covert intelligence suggests there’s a deal of background rumblings in the major Iraqi cities. And we’ve all heard about the renewed incidents in Israel and Palestine. We have information on recruitment in the Mideast and Europe of hard-line Ba’athist supporters. Loyalists of Saddam’s regime. All low-key at the moment. We were hard put to get a trace on the who and the why, but these photos have kind of got us on track.”

Price spread out copies of Abe Keen’s prints.

“Khariza?” Manning said. “He’s supposed to be dead.”

“Looks anything but deceased to me,” Calvin James remarked.

“The journalist—who took these—Abe Keen, was found murdered in his apartment in London the same night he got back from Italy where he had taken the photos,” Brognola said.

“Aren’t those others from his old group?” Blancanales asked, glancing up from examining the prints.

Brognola nodded. “They’re all there except one. And we know where he was.”

“Kamal Rasheed. Brokering a deal for arms in Santa Lorca,” McCarter said by way of explanation.

“Phoenix broke up the connection in Santa Lorca and got a name. Luiz Santos. Aaron ran a make and it seems he’s been in the business some while. The information we got was that the weapons Rasheed has previously bought went via Santos into the U.S. What we need now is where they went after that and what they are going to be used for. The organizer Phoenix found in Rasheed’s attaché case may give us some answers about Rasheed’s dealings.”

“Anything from it yet?” James asked.

“Most of the entries were in Arabic script. They’re being translated now. If and when we get anything useful, it will be sent to the appropriate team,” Kurtzman said.

“Are we looking at anything significant time-wise?” Gary Manning asked. “What I mean is, are we looking at a special date? A reason to launch any possible attacks on a particular day?”

Price shook her head. “There is a significant Iraqi election of provincial leaders coming up. It’s taking time to build the permanent inner council to run the country. You all know the timetable. A couple of less-than-successful attempts. Clashes between political and religious thinking. Intertribal rivalry. Only this time ’round, everyone is hoping the various parties can reach an amicable working agreement. If these incidents keep occurring they could throw the various groups into doubt. And that would go down a treat with Khariza’s group.”

“So an incident on the day of the election would give cause for concern,” Manning said.

“It’s a point worth noting,” Brognola said.

Calvin James stood to fetch a cup of coffee.

“They’ll be voting Saddam back into power next.”

“May not be as wild as you think, Cal,” Price said. “Not Saddam Hussein, but members of his old regime may be trying to get sympathizers into the ruling party, even if it has to be by the back door. That came from our Israeli sources. They have confirmation on ex-fedayeen behind troubles on the Gaza Strip. Stirring things up among the Palestinians.”

“I wondered when that bunch would stick its head over the parapet again,” McCarter said.

“We knew the fedayeen wouldn’t just fade out of existence,” Brognola said. “They cut and run, but they’re still out there. They won’t quit. Not as long as there’s even the remotest chance they might be able to get back into power again.”

“Bit like the Nazis.”

“David has a point,” Brognola said. “Look how long they carried on after WWII. Even though they were scattered all over the globe, they plotted and planned their comeback. Okay, it didn’t amount to much in terms of retaking power, but they still recruited believers and kept the old guard protected while they were able.”

“The Nazis had a lot going for them,” Encizo pointed out. “Look at the money they had salted away. That gave their organization a lot of clout. Enough money can buy you a lot of power.”

“We’ve already seen an example of Khariza’s fedayeen shopping for weapons,” Brognola said. “This was small-scale dealing. I figure they’re using money they managed to haul out of Iraq once the war started to go against them.”

“Small change,” Kurtzman said. “Cash they kept around for emergencies.”

“The money recovered in Iraq is nothing to what the regime hid over the years,” Brognola said. “Now that we have intel that Razan Khariza is on the scene, it suggests he and his crew are making moves. The big accounts have enough cash in them to buy a couple of small countries. If the fedayeen get their hands on those they’ll have finance to run a war. But until they get their hands on the real money, they are going to use every means available to them. Beg, steal or borrow, Razan Khariza isn’t going to sit back and wait. Hence the weapons deal Phoenix interrupted.”

“What kind of money are we talking about?” Manning asked. “How big does it go?”

“I doubt if anyone knows exactly just how much money the regime salted away over the years,” Brognola said. “It’s common knowledge that the money came from a variety of sources. In the region of $2 billion was literally stolen from the shah of Iran some years back. Then there was oil revenue. Kickbacks on deals. Money siphoned off aid programs. Back-door deals. The regime had backing from investors who helped them negotiate special terms. Even banks chipped in. We’ve had figures of $30 billion in total, but the stuff is so spread about we may never know the actual figure.”

Kurtzman opened one of his files.

“Money was handled by agents, brokers, companies created so that cash could be made to vanish. The regime made extensive use of electronic cash transactions. They were able to move it back and forth across the globe. In effect, the cash was being laundered.”

He brought up an image on one of the large wall screens.

“From Iraq to London. Across to South Africa. Hong Kong and Japan. Even Russia. Down to the Balkans.”

“Looks like it’s done some traveling,” James said. “Aaron, isn’t it possible to follow the electronic trail?”

Kurtzman sighed. “Not as easy as it sounds. The way the money has been pushed around lessens the chances of tagging it. Each transaction weakens the electronic trail. One big chunk would be broken up and distributed among a number of recipients. They would push it further along the path. Some would be put into legitimate businesses. It’s like shuffling a pack of cards before you deal. There’s no way of knowing where a particular card will show up. By the time the cash comes together again, no one knows where it originated.”

“The whole system was designed to conceal what was being done,” Brognola added. “And to make it difficult for what is being attempted now. M-I6, Mossad, CIA, they all have teams out looking for the regime’s missing billions. One thing we did come up with. Aaron put names and faces through the system—Saddam’s agents, his brokers, whatever you want to call them. Key individuals have disappeared. Others we know have died in suspicious circumstances. The conclusion is they were killed by regime hit men as a way of guaranteeing their silence, preventing them giving any information as to where the money might be.”

“If Khariza was such a big noise,” Manning asked, “how come he doesn’t have access to at least some of the cash?”

“Small amounts, no problem,” Brognola said. “But he’ll need the big money to broker his main deals, the kind of money he can’t get without access to the right accounts.”

“Our friend from Mossad, Ben Sharon, has a contact who might be able to give us some guidance,” Price said. “His name was mentioned in Rasheed’s organizer.”

Brognola nodded. “Aaron.”

The screen image changed to show a head-and-shoulders shot of a man in his forties—black hair, clean-shaven, a lean face, bright eyes staring directly at the camera.

“Ibn el Sharii. According to background checks, he was part of Khariza’s staff,” Kurtzman said. “Big Saddam loyalist until the regime had his brother executed as a traitor just before the war. Something about him having been caught in meetings with pro-Western groups. Rumor has it Khariza carried out the execution personally. Insider information tells us that Sharii took the news badly. He realized his own time was running out, so he got out of Iraq before he went the same way as his brother. Before he left he set up a virus in the computer program where the access numbers and codes were stored. The moment anyone tried to access the system to get the account codes, the virus would just corrupt the whole thing and wipe it completely. Sounds like he wanted to leave the regime something to remember him by.”

“Giving the finger to the fedayeen isn’t a good way to stay healthy,” James said.

“Maybe Sharii decided he didn’t have anything more to lose. He stayed low, out of sight in Europe, finally reached London. It was a Mossad agent who spotted him there. Sharon connected the information Abe Keen sent to us with Sharii’s knowledge. Mossad agreed to let Sharon follow through with us because we’ve worked with him before. Mutual needs, really,” Price said. “One more thing. Khariza still has plenty of sympathizers out there. People who agree with his aims. Groups who want us to suffer. They’ll give him help with what money and equipment they can, and they’ll point him in the direction of anyone who he wants to get his hands on.”

“Thing is, you’re right,” Blancanales agreed. “There’s a whole world of help out there for someone like Khariza.”

“They’ll be crawling out of the bloody woodwork,” McCarter said. “Sad thing is, we’ll have people from our own countries ready to help, too.”

“They have their beliefs as much as we do, David.”

McCarter glanced at Brognola. “Don’t I know it. All I’m saying is it makes it harder for us to get to the right people.”

“Aaron has got some more intel for you,” Brognola said. “It should give you background on the missions you’ll be assigned once he’s through. Barbara has logistic details and backgrounds for cover identities. This is up and running, people. The way things are accelerating, we have to start in top gear. It’s obvious the opposition is operating in a number of different areas, so we have to cover what we can. We’re going into this with minimal information. You know my feelings on that, but the President has the bit in his teeth and I can understand his motives. Situations can change fast, and if we don’t stay on top we could be too late if the main event comes out of left field. I know this is throwing you in without much background. It means you’re going to have some location changes. Can’t be helped. Let’s find out what Khariza is up to. Go for anything that might give us answers. The President has given this to us because he knows we’ll locate and terminate without interagency rivalry or internal agendas getting in the way.”

“Any contact with other agencies as a matter of interest?” Calvin James asked. “We’ve had problems before from them because they don’t know us and we don’t know them.”

“If anything gets in the way, you pass it to me. I’ll field it and get the President to step in.”

“Hal, with due respect, that’s a crock,” Lyons said tersely. “We end up in a face-off with some agency rule-book geek, there isn’t much chance for time-out so we can call home and get clearance.”

Brognola held up his hands in surrender. “You got me there, Carl. In the field you have to call whatever you feel is the right choice. If there’s no time and it’s a case of being compromised, then do what you have to. It comes down to the choice about which is the priority decision. Let’s call this what it is, guys. We are in a war situation. The ex-regime groups are out to do two things. Inflict as much pain and suffering as they can on specified Western targets and stir up trouble in the Middle East. At the back of all this are the attempts to get hold of power in Iraq. Do I have to spell out the end results if we don’t go out and stop it?”

Kurtzman picked up a printed sheet. “This is an extract from one of the Intelligence Analysis think tanks. Something to bear in mind. �Ex Ba’ath Party members will seek out their stolen money so they can rearm themselves. Part of their strategy will be to move into organized crime in order to reestablish themselves. It has to be remembered that these people were used to the best of everything and will want to retain their status. But they will also do what they can to infiltrate the Iraqi ruling party to destabilize it and get some control over the government. They will attempt to stir up trouble between all the various classes within Iraq society. Their ultimate aim will be to create unrest. Mistrust. A sense of loss of national identity.”’

Lyons leaned back in his seat. His question had been answered. It was the same for all of them. In an ongoing tactical situation, where balances had to be weighed, there were times when choices to be made might not look so clean-cut in the light of day. There was no easy way around that kind of dilemma. A man had to deal his hand and live with the consequences.

“Initial missions,” Price said to break the contemplative silence. “Able, you need to follow up these mainland threats. Pick up where Phoenix left off. Nuevo Laredo. Your contact in there is Tomas Barranca. If there’s any talk about these arms deals Phoenix hit on, Barranca is your man.” She handed over files for the team to study.

“Aaron,” she said.

Kurtzman brought images and data on-screen. “Tomas Barranca. This is the house he rents on the Nuevo Laredo outskirts. His car. This is the cantina he frequents. He’s pretty friendly with the guy who owns the place. That’s him.”

“Who does this guy work for?” Blancanales asked.

“You could call him a freelance,” Price said. “In the past he’s had associations with the CIA. Did some good work for the DEA in tandem with the Mexican drug squads. Lately he’s been doing fieldwork for Justice. His name came up when Leo handed over those photos of Khariza.”

“Sounds a risky way to earn a living,” Schwarz said. “How does he do it?”

“Simple,” Price said. “He’s careful.”

While Able Team worked on the research Kurtzman had collated, Phoenix Force took their missions on board.

“I don’t like splitting you guys,” Price admitted, “but we’ve got too much ground to cover. Gary, Rafe, Cal—Italian Riviera. San Remo to be exact. See if you can get a line on Khariza and his people. Check on the villa where Abe Keen spotted them. We have to start somewhere. That’s as good a place as any. See if they’re still in the area. Everything current we have on Khariza and his buddies from the old regime is here in these files.

“David, you and T.J. are booked for London. You’ll meet with Ben Sharon and he’ll brief you about Sharii. Right now that’s all I can give you. Sharon says the guy is terrified of Khariza’s people finding him.”

“Not the wisest choice of places to hide out then,” McCarter observed. “There are a bloody lot of Iraqi expats living in London, as well as the illegal visitors. Sooner we get there, the better.”

“Get your stuff together,” Price said. “You’ll be going home courtesy of the U.S. government’s own airline.”

McCarter groaned. “U.S. Airlift Command again? Christ, have you ever eaten the bloody stuff they serve on those flights?”

Hawkins grinned at the Briton’s grumbling. “Cheer up, old fruit,” he said in mock English. “Let’s get you to Blighty and you can ’ave a plate of fish and chips down the Old Kent Road.”

McCarter glared at the younger Phoenix Force commando. “T.J., don’t you ever do that again. If I even thought I sounded like that I’d go and join Bin Laden in a bloody Afghan cave and never show my face again.”

In the background Lyons’s dry tones were heard. “Does he mean it?”

“We live in hope,” Blancanales replied.

“Okay, people, listen up,” Kurtzman said. “No moving out until we go through the rest of my background data. I managed to locate another batch of photographs showing more of Khariza’s Iraqi buddies. They’ll come in handy if you come up against them. Always helps to know the players.”

There were groans all around.

“Somebody give me a tranquilizer,” Blancanales said.

Kurtzman beamed at them. “That’s what I like to hear. Enthusiasm. Now somebody bring me some of my coffee. I wouldn’t want to dry up halfway through.”




CHAPTER THREE


Aboard the Petra

“So, my friend, are matters progressing as you wish?”

Razan Khariza raised his head from its contemplative position on his chest and studied the speaker. His host. His lifelong ally.

Radic Zehlivic, an Albanian Muslim, stood in the middle of the luxurious saloon of the oceangoing motor vessel Petra. Zehlivic was a multimillionaire. He had made his fortune over the years from astute playing on the world stock markets. He was a man who took great chances, investing in risky markets that had paid him back handsomely. Any money made was plowed back into further dealings and Zehlivic’s fortune had grown and expanded. He had investments in property, land, in oil and ship building. He played the Western world at its own game, using wealth and an inborn intuition to manipulate the financial game for his own gain. He had percentage holdings in innumerable companies across the globe and was respected within the financial and business communities. Yet his name seldom made the headlines. He was as reclusive as he was smart. He stayed true to his faith, doing little to advertise his wealth beyond his close circle of friends, using his money to fund those who were working against the West. There were few people he trusted. Oddly, despite the man’s reputation both inside and out of Iraq, one of his trusted circle was Razan Khariza.

Zehlivic’s mother had died giving birth to him, and his late father had been a clever and industrious man who had made his money from property dealings in his own country. His talent for turning quick, profitable deals had also made him enemies. In the end he had transferred his money to London, moving himself and his son there, where he had restarted his business operations. The British had been easy to manipulate and no one ever knew the duplicitous methods Zehlivic Senior used to work his deals.

Father and son lived in a country house in Buckinghamshire, just outside a small village. Zehlivic Junior still owned the house and used it often on his visits to the U.K.

He had met Razan Khariza at the private school they had attended in England. In fact they had spent much of their youth in the country, and though their paths went in different directions in their early twenties, each had kept in touch with the other, Radic’s admiration and devotion to his Iraqi friend becoming ever stronger.

In the tumult of the military action that had deposed Saddam Hussein and had seen the total dispersion of his regime’s high-echelon members, Khariza might have died or been captured if it hadn’t been for the assistance he’d received from his friend. A telephone call from Zehlivic had offered help during Khariza’s darkest hour.

Through Zehlivic’s chain of contacts, his knowledge of the country and a considerable outlay of money, Khariza had been spirited out of Iraq just ahead of the attack that hit Tikrit. A body had been substituted for Khariza, dressed in his uniform and carrying identity papers and personal belongings. When the local party headquarters was hit during a running battle, the body was deliberately mutilated with a grenade and then taken to a local hospital where the medical examiner, bought and paid for by Zehlivic, carried out an autopsy, making sure that all files and details matched the dead man identified as Razan Khariza. Members of the fedayeen were never fingerprinted or had medical details revealed during the regime, so there was nothing for the Coalition forces to match to. All they received was the formal declaration and postmortem photographs of Khariza’s badly mutilated body.

Though Khariza had been an important functionary within the regime, his death was accepted as a minor victory within a larger canvas. He was listed as dead and as he had no family to claim him, the body was handed over to the hospital for interment. It was, in fact, quickly cremated and the ashes scattered.

The doctor who had performed the autopsy had prepared to leave Tikrit himself once the formalities were over. With his few belongings packed along with the extremely large amount of cash he had been paid, the doctor had been picked up by some of Zehlivic’s people and driven away late at night. He was never seen again. As soon as the car he was in reached a safe distance from Tikrit, it stopped and the doctor was taken out. He was shot twice in the back of the head and his body buried. The car drove on, taking away the doctor’s luggage, along with the money. The body was never found.

Razan Khariza, out of Iraq, went into hiding, courtesy of his friend Zehlivic. He remained in obscurity for as long as it took for the hostilities to cease and Iraqi reconstruction to start. When other members of the late regime began to surface, and Khariza heard of their survival, he began to contact them. They, glad to find out he was alive, rallied to his call. They needed someone with his leadership qualities to ferment their plans for a return to Iraq.

In their eyes, America and its allies might have won the initial engagement. What they didn’t realize was the true fact that the war was far from over. In truth, for the fedayeen, it had only just begun.

They wanted their country back as it had been before, with control in the hands of the Ba’ath Party.

So they began to organize resistance, to create diversions that would confuse the enemy and allow the fedayeen time to get their own people into place. They would locate the immense hoards of cash that had been sent out of the country and placed in secret accounts. As soon as that money was in their hands, they could buy any weapons they needed to mount major offences.

That, however, seemed to be a stumbling block at the present time.

Which was why Radic Zehlivic’s question jarred Khariza’s mood.

Khariza pushed to his feet and crossed to gaze out the window, watching the gentle swell of the blue Mediterranean. The sky was cloudless and hazy blue. Peaceful. Calm. Khariza felt a pang of guilt. Here he was, safe and far away from the struggles in Iraq. He countered that thought with the realization there was little he could do in any physical sense at this point in time. Until he had the various strands under his full control, all he could do was wait. Khariza disliked the feeling of helplessness. He was a man of action, of control, and he was feeling impotent right now. There was so much to do. To arrange. Matters were progressing, but at an alarmingly slow pace.

Until the huge money caches were back in his hands, all he and his people could do was initiate the low-key portions of the operation—the individual removal of interfering officials, the strikes against various factions that would lay the blame on others. Important as these incidents were, they paled into insignificance when compared to the main events. And those couldn’t be brought online until Khariza had the money to pay for the ordnance purchases. They wouldn’t come into his hands until money had been exchanged. It was simply a matter of business. The amounts of cash being talked of were extreme and Khariza’s suppliers weren’t going to deliver purchases until they were paid. It was as simple as that. If Khariza took the items, then failed in his intentions, the sellers would find themselves losing both goods and payment, and that wasn’t how they operated. Khariza’s policies didn’t interest them any further than the cash in hand. His goals were his business, not theirs, and they had no intention of coming out the losers. So the Iraqi had to curb his impatience and wait.

There had been an unexpected complication in the form of the journalist, Abe Keen. Despite Khariza’s security, the man had discovered the meeting at the villa. He had taken photographs and had slipped away before any of Khariza’s people could stop him. By the time he had been located, Keen had left his hotel in San Remo and was on his way to the airport. Although Khariza’s men had followed him, the journalist had reached the airport and had even gone through Customs to wait for his flight in the departure lounge. Unable to prevent him leaving the country, Khariza had contacted his team in London, where Keen lived, and had given them the instructions that would lead to the eventual death of the man.

Now Keen was dead and the photographs he had taken were in Khariza’s hands. Why then, he kept asking himself, did he still feel uneasy?

Perhaps because he wasn’t totally convinced that Keen hadn’t sent copies of the photographs to other interested parties. With that thought uppermost in his mind, Khariza had quit the villa and brought his team on board Zehlivic’s boat. It would serve as a floating base of operations until Khariza could arrange other accommodations.

“So, my friend, are matters progressing as you wish?”

“Not as well as I had hoped by this time. We have to find Ibn el Sharii. And quickly. Until I can get those damn code numbers, I cannot release that money.”

“Razan, you know I’d help if I could. But the amounts you need to satisfy those…”

Khariza turned from the window and smiled at Zehlivic.

“You’ve done enough already. Helping me out of Iraq, providing the villa, funding much of the U.S. project. All this. What have I done to deserve such a friend?”

“You have helped me in the past. So I return the favor. What kind of a friend would I be if I turned my back on you?”

“Thank you, brother. I will speak of you in my prayers as always. Your loyalty will not go unnoticed.”

Zehlivic bowed his head. “Nothing is more important to me than your friendship. You honor me, Razan Khariza.”

“We honor God. In his name we pledge ourselves to this cause. And because we are walking in the light of truth we cannot do anything but succeed.”

Zehlivic crossed the saloon to the drinks bar and helped himself to a large glass of chilled fruit juice from the cooler.

In his early forties, he was a large man, carrying too much weight for his frame. He had tried all kinds of diets to reduce his bulk. Nothing worked for him. His physician had examined him, run tests and had only one thing to tell him. That his condition was hereditary and there was little that could be done. He would always be overweight. Zehlivic had really known this already. His father had been a big man who enjoyed his food, too much wine and too many large cigars. But once he had accepted the inevitable, Zehlivic decided he might as well enjoy life’s pleasures while he could.

He stood beside the cooler, drinking the large glass of juice, a little out of breath from simply walking to the bar.

“How is that young wife of yours, Radic?” Khariza asked. “Still in Paris spending your money?”

“At the moment,” Zehlivic said.

“And does she still make you happy?”

Zehlivic smiled. “What can I say? She keeps me young. She may well be the death of me, but I’m not complaining.”

Khariza joined him at the bar and helped himself to a glass of Zehlivic’s finest whiskey.

“Don’t look at me like that, Radic. I am only testing the corruption of the West so I can better understand how to fight it.”

Zehlivic couldn’t help laughing. He knew Khariza had a liking for whiskey, and who was he to deny his friend such small pleasures.

A telephone rang. It was at the far end of the bar. Zehlivic answered it, then held the receiver out to Khariza.

“For you.”

Khariza took the phone. “Yes?”

“We have located him. He is in London.”

“Are you there yourself?”

“Yes. I am on my way to London now.”

“Have you informed your people?”

“Yes. They are seeking him out as we speak. We do have a problem, though.”

“What?”

“The Israelis have also located him. It seems he was seen by a Mossad agent in London going into a local mosque. Since then they may have spoken to him. Perhaps made him an offer of protection.”

There was silence as Khariza absorbed the information.

“Find Sharii first. Do what you have to. Use whoever you need. I don’t care how many Zionists you need to kill to get to him. Especially if they are with Mossad. We have many scores to settle with them. Just keep me informed. And remember the importance of finding this man. He must be taken alive. Understand? He’s no use to us dead.”

“Of course.”

“I hold you fully responsible. There cannot be any mistakes.”

“Depend on me.”

Khariza replaced the receiver.

“Now we wait,” Zehlivic said.

“And while we do, we must plan ahead.”

Khariza drained his glass. “I need to talk with the others. Please ask them to join me, Radic.”

TEN MINUTES LATER they were all assembled. The same four men Khariza had met at the villa in San Remo. In the time since that day and the discovery they had been seen and photographed, each man had moved on to progress his own particular section of the long-term plans they had formulated. This meeting on Zehlivic’s boat was the first time they had come together again.

They had gathered in the luxurious comfort of the main salon. They sat in deep leather armchairs, with rich, thick carpet beneath their feet. The low ceiling reflected the gleam of polished wood paneling the walls. The armchairs were set in a loose circle around a wide, oval coffee table made from polished teak. On the table, a large silver tray held a steaming coffeepot and small cups. One of the men handed Khariza a cup of the hot coffee. He took it, inclining his head in thanks, then sank back in the armchair.




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