The Enemy Within Read online

  Taleh himself looked up from reading a dossier and nodded towards the chair in front of his desk. “Sit down, Mr. Pakpour.”

  The merchant obeyed, conscious of the taller Army officer still standing almost directly behind him.

  “Your family? They are well?”

  Pakpour moistened his lips, somewhat reassured by the other man’s manner. No Iranian moved too quickly or too directly to the business at hand, preferring to open any discussion with small talk about small matters. Whatever Taleh wanted, he was evidently willing to observe the usual social niceties. “My wife and children are all in good health, General. They long for the spring, of course.”

  “Naturally. This winter has been bitter for us all.”

  Pakpour found himself relaxing minutely as the conversation drifted lazily through the prospects for warmer weather ahead.

  When it came, the change in Taleh’s manner was swift, sudden, and horribly direct. He leaned forward, all pretense gone from his voice and manner. “You have close ties to the West, Mr. Pakpour.” He tapped the dossier in front of him. “Ties which many of our fellow countrymen would consider treasonous.”

  Pakpour paled. They knew. Despite all his precautions, despite all his clever bookkeeping, they knew. With inflation running at more than fifty percent a year, the sums offered him by America’s CIA for snippets of political and economic information had been too tempting to refuse. Gold held its value at a time when the rials circulated by the Republic were scarcely worth the paper they were printed on. He tried to croak out a denial.

  Taleh cut him off with a single icy glance. “In fact, I fear that many would consider your connections to a foreign spy agency worthy of a death sentence.” He paused for a long moment before continuing. “I do not.”

  The merchant sat dry-mouthed, stunned.

  Taleh smiled thinly. “I have messages I want you to carry to the West, Mr. Pakpour. Messages I cannot and will not entrust to regular channels.” His smile disappeared, replaced by a frown. “The HizbAllah’s foolish war of terror against America has gone too far and cost us too much. I wish to end it. We have been isolated from the world for far too long.”

  He closed the dossier on his desk with an air of finality and pushed it aside. “Will you act as my go-between in this matter?”

  Pakpour, still trembling, was scarcely able to believe his ears or his good fortune. “Of course, General. I am your servant—your humble servant.”

  “Good.” Taleh seemed satisfied. He nodded to the tall, silent Army officer standing behind Pakpour. “Captain Kazemi will show you out. We will speak more of this later.”

  When the door closed, Taleh rose from his desk. He stood for long minutes at the window, contemplating the city spread out before him. New-fallen snow carpeted the streets and rooftops and turned the rugged mountains lining the northern horizon white.

  His eyes closed in concentration. He disliked having to rely on a fat, greedy fool like Hamid Pakpour, but he would not spurn the gifts laid before him by God. It was time to set his long-dreamed plans into motion. For years the radicals of the HizbAllah and other terrorist groups had been a constant drain on Iran and its armed forces, sucking up money, arms, and other resources for no worthwhile end. Well, he thought grimly, no longer.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE VEIL

  MAY 2

  Over Iran

  SwissAir Flight 640 rolled ponderously into its final approach to Tehran’s Mehrabad International Airport. The huge DC-10 shuddered as it lost altitude, buffeted by columns of hot air rising off the sunbaked sand and silt below. Outside the jetliner, the clear blue sky faded abruptly into an ugly brown murk. Sited nearly a mile above sea level, Iran’s sprawling capital city lay buried under a perpetual sea of smog.

  Lieutenant Colonel Peter Thorn caught the first acrid, oily whiff of the polluted outside air slipping through the aircraft cabin’s filters. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. He frowned slightly, irritated at himself. The smell was unpleasant, but he knew his reaction was evidence of growing tension, not of a refined sensibility. The closer he got to Iran, the more the animal instincts buried below layers of intellect and training came to the fore, silently screaming out a warning to fight or flee.

  Thorn shrugged inwardly, forcing himself to relax. In this case, his instincts could be right on target. Few Westerners would view a stay in the Islamic Republic calmly—no matter what combination of profit or curiosity drove them. The Revolutionary government was still too unpredictable and too arbitrary in its enforcement of the harsh Islamic code. The slightest slip in speech or action could land even an ordinary tourist in hot water. Three months after U.S. cruise missiles blew the hell out of Tehran and other Iranian targets, the stakes were far higher for an American soldier—especially for a high-ranking officer in the Army’s counterterrorist Delta Force. Even for one carrying a safe-conduct pass personally signed by General Amir Taleh, the head of Iran’s regular armed forces.

  Taleh claimed he wanted to end Iran’s undeclared war against the United States and its allies. The safe-conduct pass and the invitation to use it were intended as proof of his sincerity.

  Discreet invitation or no invitation, there were plenty of high-ranking people in the Pentagon and the State Department who believed this mission’s timing was an act of total insanity. Despite Taleh’s cautious overtures through a CIA source, normal diplomatic relations between Iran and the United States were still nonexistent. Certainly, no U.S. analyst had an accurate read on the Islamic Republic’s chaotic internal politics. Under those conditions, the nay-sayers argued, sending one of America’s top commandos to Tehran was like handing Iranian extremists a gift-wrapped package for torture, interrogation, and ransom.

  As the designated package, Thorn hoped like hell the nay-sayers were wrong. Neither he nor his boss, Major General Sam Farrell, the head of the Joint Special Operations Command, put much faith in secret messages and diplomatic feelers. Words didn’t mean much when your life and freedom were on the line. Pictures and telecommunications intercepts were another story.

  U.S. spy satellites were picking up solid evidence that Tehran was reducing its support for international Islamic terrorism. Transcripts of NSA-monitored signals between terrorist training camps in Iran and their headquarters in Lebanon, Syria, and Libya were full of complaints about Iranian refusals to pay them or provide promised weapons. The latest satellite photos were also significant. Some of the camps run by smaller organizations now stood abandoned, apparently unable to operate without assured Iranian backing. But the larger, more self-sufficient groups—the HizbAllah, for one—were very much in business. Their facilities were still bustling, crowded with terrorists recruited from around the globe.

  Those camps were the reason Amir Taleh said he wanted Western military observers on the ground inside Iran itself.

  Hydraulics whined as the Swiss DC-10 slowly banked left and then leveled off, lining up with the unseen runway. Thorn felt a series of heavy thumps through the cabin floor beneath his feet. The landing gear was coming down.

  He glanced out the window to his left. The smog pall cut so much sunlight that he could see a faint reflection of himself. Green eyes stared steadily back at him out of a lean, sun-darkened face. The face looked boyish, but he knew that was a measure of the reflection, not reality. He was thirty-eight and there were already a few strands of gray in the light brown hair he wore longer than Army regulations usually allowed. There were also tiny crow’s-feet around his eyes—fine lines worn into the skin by wind, weather, and the pressures of command.

  Thorn looked out past his own mirrored image, matching the countryside below to the memories of his youth. On the surface, nothing much seemed to have changed in the twenty-two years since he’d last seen Iran.

  Clusters of drab, flat-roofed buildings were visible through the haze now, stretching along the straight line of the Tabriz-Tehran highway. Trucks, buses, and passenger cars crowded the wide, paved road, weaving in
and out without apparent regard for traffic rules or safety. Mountains loomed in the distance, dark against the barren, treeless plain.

  As a teenager, Thorn had come to Tehran to live with his father, a highly decorated U.S. Special Forces NCO assigned to help train the Shah’s Army. Three years of his life had passed in a whirlwind of learning and adventure as he’d explored the maze of Tehran’s narrow back streets and hiked through the rugged countryside outside the city. Along the way he’d acquired enough Farsi to mingle easily with every element of Iranian society—all the way from the ruling elites down to the poorest porters in the bazaars.

  He had also made a number of friends. Some were American and British, the sons and daughters of businessmen and diplomats working in Iran. But chief among all his friends had been a young Iranian named Amir Taleh.

  Taleh, four years older and already an officer cadet, had taken Thorn under his wing, showing him a side of Iran few Westerners ever saw and yanking him out of trouble whenever that proved necessary. Their personalities and interests were so similar that some of their fellows had begun referring to them teasingly as brothers. Neither of them had fought hard against the notion. Their friendship had seemed a great constant in a changing world. They had stayed in touch even after Thorn went home and while Taleh went through Ranger School in the United States.

  Then Iran’s Islamic Revolution shattered all normal ties between their two countries. Caught in the turmoil surrounding the rise of the radical mullahs, Taleh vanished—seemingly without a trace. Only in recent years had Thorn begun seeing references to his old friend in foreign military journals and intelligence reports. From then on, he had followed the Iranian’s rapid rise through the ranks, greatly relieved to note that Taleh had avoided involvement in the terrorist schemes fomented by his nation’s fundamentalist government.

  He shook his head. After the Shah fell, the Iran he had loved so much as a boy had changed almost beyond recognition. Ironically, most of his professional life had been spent training to foil or avenge terror attacks sponsored by the Islamic Republic. Now it somehow seemed wrong to come back to this country unarmed and in daylight, flying in on a neutral airline.

  Iran had been the site for Delta Force’s first mission—and its greatest failure. When the aborted Iranian hostage-rescue mission came to its fiery end at Desert One, Peter Thorn had been just another second lieutenant, fresh out of West Point, green as grass, and fighting hard to survive Ranger School without being recycled. But even then he’d known he wanted more than any regular Army command could offer him—more challenge, more action, and more responsibility. Several years spent shepherding conventional troops through the dull grind of drill and paperwork only confirmed that. He’d jumped at the chance for a Delta Force slot like a drowning man grabbing for a rope. He’d never looked back.

  Buoyed by the self-confidence and self-discipline instilled by his Green Beret father, he’d made it through a rigorous physical and psychological selection process designed to weed out all but the best. Those tests had been followed by six months of around-the-clock instruction in commando tactics and covert operations. Since then he’d climbed steadily from a captain commanding a twenty-man troop to a lieutenant colonel leading one of Delta’s three assault squadrons.

  Thorn rubbed his nose absentmindedly, feeling the thin, almost invisible scar that ran across its bridge and down under his right eye. The scar and a couple of metal pins in his right cheekbone were the only real reminders of a long-ago helicopter crash that could have been a lot worse.

  He grinned suddenly. It was ironic. He’d been shot at in Panama, hunted through the Iraqi desert, and ambushed during a brief, nightmarish tour in Somalia—all without getting so much as a scratch. His only serious injury in sixteen years of active-duty service had come from an accident during a routine, peacetime training exercise. Not surprising, really. Delta Force operated under a single constant admonition: Train hard, fight easy.

  “Seat backs and tray tables up, please. We will be landing soon.” The flight attendant’s pleasant, German-accented voice brought Thorn back to the present. The slender, good-looking brunette leaned across the empty seat next to him and deftly snagged the plastic cup of mineral water he’d been nursing for the last thousand air miles or so.

  “Danke schön.” He brought his seat back upright. The flight attendant smiled at him and moved off to check on the rest of the main cabin, swaying in time with the increased turbulence. She glanced back once to see if he was still watching and smiled again.

  Down, boy, Thorn told himself. Duty before pleasure. Uncle Sam wasn’t paying the airfare for this jaunt so he could make a pass at a Swiss stewardess. Besides, she was probably more curious about him than seriously interested.

  Even wearing a fashionable gray suit, button-down shirt, and conservative tie, he didn’t look much like his fellow passengers. Most of them were older and heavier—solid-looking Swiss, German, and Iranian businessmen who were either still bent over paperwork or sacked out under airline-issue blankets. There were more than he’d expected. America’s cruise missile strikes and the political upheaval they’d sparked had been bad for business. But now, as the first rumors of changed Iranian government attitudes began filtering out, commercial travelers were starting to return.

  The DC-10 thundered low over the airport’s inner beacon line and dropped heavily onto the runway, braking hard after one jarring bounce that rattled teeth and shook a few overhead compartments open.

  Thorn kept his eyes locked on the landscape sliding past the decelerating jetliner. Mehrabad International was busy—crowded with jets and turboprops in the colors of Iran’s two national airlines and those of the major European carriers. Fuel trucks and baggage carts rumbled across the tarmac, crisscrossing between taxiing planes.

  At first glance, it could have passed for any major airport anywhere in the industrialized world. A closer look dispelled that impression. Two camouflaged, twin-tailed interceptors were parked just off the runway. Ultramodern MiG-29s on strip alert, he realized—kept ready to take off at five minutes’ warning. Further out, near the perimeter fence, there were sandbagged emplacements for antiaircraft guns and SAM launchers. Taleh might be making overtures to the West, but the forces he commanded weren’t letting their guard down.

  Still bouncing slightly as it rolled across the rough, often-patched tarmac, the SwissAir jet turned off the runway and slowly taxied toward Mehrabad’s single terminal building. The steady roar of the DC-10’s engines faded to a high-pitched whine and then to silence. A bell chimed through the cabin loudspeakers. They had arrived.

  Thorn sat motionless for a moment, breathing steadily to relax nerves and reflexes that were now on full alert. Then he unbuckled his seat belt, pulled a soft-sided bag out from under the seat in front of him, and stood up, leaning forward to keep from smashing his head into the baggage compartment above. Even though he stood an inch under six feet tall, his height exceeded the design specs for a window seat.

  He ignored the standard announcements crackling through the intercom in German, French, Italian, English, and Farsi. If his old friend didn’t really have enough power to protect him from Iran’s radical Islamic fundamentalists, a knowledge of customs regulations and the local weather wasn’t going to matter one damn bit.

  Thorn suddenly missed the comforting weight of a pistol at his side. Cheer up, Daniel, he told himself, it’s time to poke your head into the den and find out whether or not the lions really are friendly. He stepped out into the aisle and joined the other passengers already streaming toward the forward cabin door.

  A lone Iranian Army officer in a neatly pressed dress uniform stood waiting at the end of the jetway. Thorn headed toward him, eyeing the tall young man’s unfamiliar rank and unit insignia.

  “You are Colonel Thorn?” The Iranian soldier’s English was good, though heavily accented.

  Thorn nodded. “That’s right.” He offered his passport and safe-conduct letter in proof. “Here are my cr
edentials.”

  The Iranian shook his head. “That won’t be necessary, sir.” He smiled. “I am Captain Farhad Kazemi, General Taleh’s military aide. Welcome to Iran, Colonel.”

  “Thank you, Captain.” Thorn shook Kazemi’s outstretched hand, trying to conceal his surprise. Whatever he’d expected, it wasn’t this casual, matter-of-fact reception.

  “If you will follow me, sir.” The Iranian captain nodded toward the main terminal area. “I have a staff car waiting to take you to your quarters.”

  Thorn moved off beside the younger man, striding easily through the men and chador-clad women waiting to board other flights. A few stared back at them, openly curious at the sight of an Iranian soldier escorting an obvious Westerner. He ignored them, more interested in getting an answer to the question uppermost in his mind. “And when do I meet with General Taleh?”

  Kazemi turned his head. “Tomorrow morning, Colonel. After you have had a chance to rest from your journey.”

  MAY 3

  The Manzarieh camp, northern Tehran

  The Manzarieh Park camp sprawled across several acres in Tehran’s fashionable northern quarter. Surrounded on all sides by pleasant, suburban homes belonging to wealthy businessmen and government officials, the camp contained barracks, classrooms, armories, and firing ranges. Shade trees lined the wide, well-paved streets and open grounds inside the walled compound. At its peak, Manzarieh Park had housed nearly a thousand terrorist trainees from around the world.

  Now it was on fire.

  Clad in a set of unmarked Iranian Army battle fatigues, a bulky flak jacket, and a steel helmet, Lieutenant Colonel Peter Thorn double-timed across a broad avenue, heading for a bullet-riddled, burning gatehouse that marked the main entrance to the camp. Tough-looking Special Forces troopers formed a protective ring around him, their assault rifles at the ready.