“I’ll keep an eye on the man at the window. You get the SUV, bring it around front.”
“Okay.”
“Exit out the side door to the patio, then through the gate to the parking lot so he can’t see you. If my hunch is right, he’s Farhed Alizadeh.”
“Colonel D?”
“Yeah, the same individual who was trying to steal the high-speed triggers off the Contessa.”
“What’s he doing here?”
“Good question. Go!”
An even better question: Why was he meeting with Salehi?
Crocker was left in the uncomfortable position of trying to satisfy conflicting tasks-looking inconspicuous so he wouldn’t be discovered, and at the same time trying to confirm the man’s identity. The latter was impossible, because the man faced away from him, looking out the window.
Meanwhile, Mancini drove the Suburban around front and parked it at the curb.
Crocker watched the dark-haired man put on a pair of sunglasses even though it was night, step outside, look around to see if anyone was watching, then climb into the backseat of a black Mercedes sedan with darkened windows. It took off at high speed.
Crocker waited a beat, then ran out and jumped into the Suburban.
“Follow him. Fast! Don’t lose him!”
“Got it, boss.”
They sped west along the coast, then turned right onto the causeway that ran south. Crocker’s mind worked hard the whole time, calculating the Iranian’s next probable move and how to counter it, calling on his training, experience, the little he understood about the current situation, and his intuition.
He asked Mancini, “Where do you think he’s going?”
“My money says he’s headed to the airport.”
“I agree.”
If the man really was Farhed Alizadeh, it sort of made sense. Horrible sense. Iran had been striving to build a nuclear weapon in order to make it the preeminent military power in the Middle East. But a combination of UN sanctions, international pressure, and IAEA inspections had so far thwarted their efforts to enrich uranium beyond the 20 percent needed to fuel a nuclear reactor for peaceful purposes. Enriching uranium beyond that was an extremely time-consuming and difficult process.
As they sped down the causeway, Crocker dialed Remington’s number and caught the CIA station chief in a meeting with members of his staff.
“Crocker, my whole team is working around the clock. We’re studying every little shred of evidence we’ve got. I understand your concern. I promise to call you the minute I know more.”
Crocker said, “Sir, I’m on my way to the airport. I’m going to need your assistance. Looks like I might have to stop a flight and detain a foreign national.”
“What does this have to do with Holly and Brian?”
“Nothing, as far as I know.”
“Then what in God’s name are you talking about?”
“I suggest you get out here a-s-a-p. I’m gonna need your help.”
“Why, Crocker?”
“No time to explain, sir. It’s highly important. Involves the possible exchange of nuclear material. You’re going to have to trust me on this.” Crocker enjoyed being the one to say that for a change.
“Where are you now?”
“Turning in to the international terminal. Gotta go.”
The Mercedes burned rubber as it circled past the largely empty parking area, turned sharply right, and came to a screeching stop at a checkpoint reinforced with sandbags. One of the soldiers on duty waved it through. Between some one-story buildings Crocker caught a glimpse of the Mercedes as it sped down the tarmac.
“What now?” Mancini asked.
“I’ll think of something.”
“We can tell them we’re IAEA inspectors.”
Crocker pointed to the curb. “Park here. Make sure you bring your phone.”
They climbed over a low fence to the tarmac and turned left. Past the low buildings, Crocker saw the main terminal ahead, a strangely shaped structure with high V-shaped arches in front.
He pulled Mancini behind a baggage cart as he watched the Mercedes stop. The Iranian got out and was greeted by another man who looked like a Libyan airport official. The two of them walked to the terminal as the Mercedes sped off past some parked passenger jets to a row of hangars.
“What now?” Mancini asked.
“You follow the Iranian. I want to see where the Mercedes is going.”
“Okay.”
In the several seconds it had taken to address Mancini, he’d lost sight of the car.
Must have turned in to one of the hangars.
That seemed the only reasonable explanation. He walked briskly past men cleaning and fueling various aircraft, trying to look as if he belonged there. There was a technique to not being noticed-act normal, keep as small as you can, avoid eye contact, look at the ground, be the gray man, no superfluous thoughts. He allowed himself one: Thank God the security at this airport sucks.
One more: God, please lead me to Holly and Brian.
Past the terminal, a gust of wind smacked his face. To his right, a United Emirates DC-10 was landing. He heard screeching rubber, the jet engines whining as they reversed. They were sounds he’d heard thousands of times, but tonight they seemed more vivid and important. Passing the first hangar, he squinted into the dark open space. Saw the hulk of a passenger jet. No cars. No people.
The next three hangars were empty except for miscellaneous airplane parts.
Where the fuck did it go?
A series of smaller hangars ahead. Some had what looked to be disabled planes in front of them. He was hurrying toward them when he heard a vehicle behind him and to his left. It sounded like a forklift in high gear.
Pausing, he heard scraping metal, men’s voices.
Reversing course, he turned into the space between hangars 3 and 4. Behind them he saw a Boeing 727-white, no passenger windows, a small green-white-and-red Iranian flag painted on the tail.
What’s this?
Seeing the parked Mercedes, he knelt beside the hangar and watched. The front cargo bay of the jet was wide open. The lights inside the fuselage were on. He heard the forklift again, then saw it swing into view carrying a large metal container that looked rust colored in the artificial light.
The forklift operator raised the container and fitted it into the cargo door. Men inside the aircraft pulled it farther inside.
Crocker waited until two more containers had been loaded, then texted Mancini his location and added: “Seen or heard from Rem?”
An answer rebounded quickly. “No.”
Where the fuck is he? What’s taking him so long?
Pushing aside his frustration, he willed himself to focus and tried to dispel doubts that what he was doing made sense.
LOW BATTERY flashed on his cell phone. He placed it in his back pocket.
Three men were walking toward the front of the jet. Casually dressed, they were drinking coffee or tea from cardboard cups and speaking in Farsi.
The first man climbed the stairs to the cockpit, which soon lit up. The other two joined him.
The cargo bay was still open. Crocker inched closer along the side of the hangar to get a better view. Saw the forklift parked behind hangar 4. Two men wearing mustard-colored overalls stood beside it. They opened a door to the hangar and entered.
The tail engine of the 727 started up with a howl; then the two Pratt & Whitney side-mounted turbofan engines fired up together.
Crocker took a deep breath. The coast is clear. It’s now or never.
He ran in a low crouch to the cargo door of the jet, grabbed hold of the metal lip, and pulled himself up. He flattened himself to the inside of the fuselage and waited, heard nothing but the engines. Light spilled from the cockpit door. Farther back, past his right shoulder, he saw six large metal shipping containers, three along each side of the fuselage. About twenty feet behind them stood a row of seats and beyond them, empty space.