in the hell kind of dress-up is that?” he demanded. “Who do you represent, anyway? You’re not Missouri cops. The chief would have called me himself.”
Lyons had faced such irritating bureaucrats throughout his entire former career as a LAPD officer. He had never had any patience for pompous little jackasses like this man then, and if there had been any change in his attitude at all, he had even less now. “I get one phone call, don’t I?” he said sarcastically, pulling the satellite phone from its case on his belt. Quickly he tapped in the number to Stony Man Farm. “Since you didn’t get a call from the Missouri chief, I’ll let you talk to our chief.”
“Right,” said the Kansas director with the same sarcastic tone the Able Team leader had used.
It took less than ten seconds for Lyons’s call to be transferred to Hal Brognola.
The man in the red tie frowned in confusion as he took the phone from Lyons. It didn’t take long for Brognola to read the riot act to the KBI director. “Yes, sir,” was all he said before his face turned red and he handed the instrument back to Lyons.
“Thanks, Hal,” the Able Team leader said, and then disconnected the line again.
“All right,” said the man Lyons knew only as KB-1. “My name is Markham. Bill Markham. What are your plans and how can we help?” The words sounded as if they hurt coming out of his mouth.
“You can give us a rundown of exactly what’s going on,” Lyons said. “Then, unless one of my men or I tell you different, you can stay out of our way.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Iranian president Javid Azria rolled up his prayer rug, nodded to the staff with whom he had shared afternoon prayers and returned to his office, closing the door behind him. Alone and out of sight, he tossed the rug carelessly onto a padded armchair as he moved behind his desk. As he dropped down into his chair, he felt a grin creeping across his face.
The entire United States, including their president, was still in shock. The Americans simply couldn’t fathom the fact that a country such as his own was openly defying and attacking them at will.
And rather than denying the attacks or blaming them on terrorists, Iran was taking credit for them.
Azria opened the humidor on his desk and took out a long, thick, Cuban cigar. Snipping off the end with a tiny guillotinelike cutter, he stuck the cigar in his mouth and picked up the heavy marble lighter on his desk next to the phone. The cigars had been a gift from his most recent ally, and although smoking was forbidden by the Koran, he liked the Cubans and indulged in one every afternoon and another in the evening. The rest of his staff studiously ignored this small transgression on his part.
As he circled the end of the cigar around the flame in front of him, Javid Azria’s eyes caught sight of the painting on the wall to his left. It depicted Cyrus the Great in battle, a long scimitar in his right hand as he beheaded what was obviously a Jewish peasant. The painting was, of course, an artist’s rendition. Photography had still been centuries away when Cyrus had ruled the Persian Empire, so no one really knew exactly what the man had looked like.
Azria was fairly sure he knew, however. He saw Cyrus’s face every time he looked in a mirror.
He was in the process of starting the first real jihad the world had seen since the days of the Crusades. But this war was going to make those of the past look like an American Girl Scout meeting.
Turning the end of the cigar toward his eyes, Azria saw that it had lit evenly and set down the lighter. Contentedly, he puffed away as he awaited an eagerly anticipated phone call. His mind drifted back in time to his college days. He had been a dean’s list student at Yale when the Shah had been dethroned and Ayatollah Khomeini had taken over Iran. And he had not returned until long after that initial regime had taken control of the country. For a while, the theocracy had ruled Iran with an iron fist, beheading offenders of even the smallest Islamic laws just like Cyrus the Great was doing in his painting. But with the Ayatollah’s death, things had gradually loosened up. Students in favor of separating religion from government were now even allowed to demonstrate in the streets. The only thing that had not changed was what he perceived as an almost countrywide hatred of the Jews, and a certain amount of dependence on the United States and other countries in the Western world.
Azria leaned farther back in his chair. It was his mission in life to change all that. He could have felt it in his soul.
If he’d believed in souls.
He was halfway through the long Cuban when the buzzer on his phone finally sounded. “President Azria,” the voice of his secretary said in Farsi. “I have President Gomez on the line for you.”
Azria answered in the same language. “Put him on,” he said.
The Iranian leader pressed the receiver closer to his ear as he heard a click. Then, an accent far different than his own spoke in English—the one language they had in common and therefore the one they always used. Ironically, he thought, it was the language of their common enemy.
“Good afternoon, Mr. President,” said Raoul Gomez, the president of Venezuela.
“And the same to you,” said Azria.
“We have not spoken since your American guests from Iraq arrived in your country,” Gomez said in a lighthearted voice.
Azria laughed, knowing the other man meant the American hostages who’d been kidnapped near the border. “No, sir, we have not,” he said into the receiver. “I believe they are resting at the moment.”
“Yes,” Gomez said. “I sometimes forget that night here is day in your country. An afternoon nap, no doubt?”
“Probably,” Azria said. “They really have little to do but sleep and worry.”
“Very good,” Gomez stated. “I have a ship en route to your country even as we speak. And I trust that the shipment which is coming my way is on schedule, as well?”
“Yes,” Azria continued. “It will arrive quite soon, in fact.”
“Very good again,” Gomez said. “Actually, that was the only reason for my call. Your other actions in America and Israel are having the desired effect, according to my intelligence operatives. The United States is focused on the Pasdarans you snuck across their borders and the hostage situation.” He paused to cough, and Azria realized he, too, was smoking a cigar. Probably the same brand and size as the ones he had sent to the Iranian president.
When Gomez had quit coughing, he added, “The Israelis are being forced to rivet their attention on your increase in suicide bombings. And, in addition to the newsmen hostages, the Americans are focusing on the small strikes of your Pasdarans inside their very borders. These diversions are allowing our true objective to…” He paused for a second, searching for the right words. “To fly under the radar. Yes. I believe that is the slang term the norteamericanos use.”
“If it means my shipment to you and yours to me is going unnoticed, then, yes, I believe you are correct.”
“We must speak again when the ships have arrived,” Gomez said.
“We will,” Azria agreed, and then hung up the phone.
Javid Azria had to draw in hard on his cigar, which had almost gone out during the conversation. But after a couple of weak puffs of smoke, it returned to its former fully lighted state. Azria sat back in his chair again, stuck the cigar between his lips and smiled.
By either confusing or sometimes flat-out refusing to allow U.N. inspectors to do their job in his nuclear plants, he had successfully completed his program and now had several dozen nuclear warheads at his disposal. In addition to that, he was about to broker another deal for F-14 fighter plane parts from another source. There had been a time when his country still had many serviceable F-14s in their arsenal—purchased by the Shah before Iran and the United States became such bitter enemies. But now, the majority of these fighters