“And if the infidels manage to find the canisters before that time?” Farouk demanded, his voice taking on a peculiar intensity.
The young man responded with an expansive shrug. A pair of packets lay on the table between them and he shoved one of them across to the Hezbollah terrorist. “Plastique,” he replied simply. “Manufactured in the 1980s.”
Both men knew what that meant. In the early ‘90s, Europe’s explosive manufacturers had started adding a detection taggant to their plastic explosives, a volatile chemical which slowly evaporated from the explosive and could be detected by bomb-sniffing dogs. Explosives made before then did not have such a chemical agent, although then one had to deal with explosives that were well past their guaranteed shelf life of ten years. In cases like this, the trade-off was worth it.
“I will use these to render each device tamper-proof,” he said. “There is only one concern. Would the bacteria be then rendered impotent in the heat of the explosion?”
“You believe that we would not have thought of this?” Farouk asked, glaring across the table. Frankly, having to explain details to a subordinate nettled him. “This strain of y. pestis is more heat-resistant than anything we have ever seen before. It will survive the explosion. Just make sure they cannot be disarmed.”
With a grim smile, the young man held up both his hands in front of his bearded face. All ten digits remained. The mark of either a very skilled or a very lucky bombmaker. Only time would tell.
“Inshallah,” Farouk breathed. As Allah wills it…
“The software has been reconfigured,” Ron Carter announced, gesturing to the phone on the desk. “His caller I.D. will show the call originating from Bulgaria, the personal office number of Vladimir Dubosky.”
“And that is?” Harry asked, looking from Ron to the director and back again.
“The pimp, or whatever you call somebody running male prostitutes. He’s a Russian, Mafia capo that got caught in the losing end of a Moscow gang war in the mid ‘90s. Fled to Bulgaria and apparently went into the sex trade.”
The DCIA leaned forward “Here’s the deal you’re to offer him, Harry. He has two choices — he can be unhelpful and we’ll send the body of our information to the Ayatollah. Or he can play ball.”
“That’s the stick,” Harry nodded. “Where’s the carrot?”
“If his information is of value, we’ll arrange for his safe passage to a country that looks more kindly on men of his ‘persuasion’.”
Harry snorted. “Great. We’ve got a CIA operator with ties to Hezbollah and now we’re cutting deals with a pedophile. Another wonderful day at the office.”
“I can have someone else place the call,” Lay responded with a shrug.
A grim smile crossed Harry’s lips and he shook his head. “No, I’ll do it.”
“Good.” The CIA director rose and headed toward the door of the conference room. “I’ll be in my office.”
Harry picked up the phone and hit SEND. The call took only a couple moments to connect and then a man’s voice came on the line. “Vladimir?”
There was a second’s pause and then Asefi heard an unfamiliar voice in Russian. “Kak dela, Achmed?”
“I am well, thank you,” the bodyguard replied in the same language, his tone wary. “Who is this?”
“Names don’t matter,” the cold voice continued. “What matters is that I have something you need.”
“I see no point in continuing this conversation.”
“Da, that is your choice. We all make choices, Achmed. Does the Ayatollah Isfahani know of the choices of your bedchamber?”
He froze, the words of the caller ringing in his ear. A quick glance down the hallway in either direction assured him that he was alone, at least for the moment. “What do you mean?”
“Your phone is data-equipped, is it not?”
“Da, da.”
“One moment. I am sending you a file.”
Asefi stepped to the side of the hall, inserting his keycard into the lock of a nearby storage room. A beep signaled the arrival of the message as he stepped into the comforting darkness. He swallowed hard, his fingers trembling as they moved across the phone’s keyboard, opening the file folder.
He groaned. Photos. Dozens of photos. Of him and others — beautiful young men, in Bulgaria, in a score other places around Eastern Europe. And other documents. He could guess at their contents. The voice was speaking again. “You have received the file?”
“This is a base forgery!” he exploded, slamming his fist against the wall. “A fabrication of Satan. You can prove nothing except the evil of your hearts!”
“Nyet?” the voice asked incredulously. “Go on and tell yourself that, Achmed. Believe that and I will enjoy watching as they heap stones over your body.”
“What do you want?”
“What do I want? You’ve been raping little boys, Achmed. Speaking personally, I want you dead.”
“What business is this of yours?” His mouth seemed suddenly dry as sand, a hoarse whisper the only sound escaping his lips.
“None whatsoever. Which is why my employers are offering you a way out.”
“What?”
“We need to meet. Your place or mine?” the voice continued, sardonic laughter in its tones.
“I will be flying to Beirut tomorrow,” Asefi replied, thinking rapidly. “Meet me at the airport.”
“Spasiba bolshoi.” Thank you very much.
“How will I recognize you?”
“You won’t. But I’ll know you.” The phone went dead, the click sounding like a death knell in the narrow confines of the storage room…
Harry laid the cellphone back on the table and glanced across at Ron Carter. “What’s your take?”
“I think he’s playing ball. Giving him time to think about it is dangerous, but then again, so is talking over an unsecured line.” Carter looked down at his laptop. “I can have you and Richards on a flight to Beirut as early as tonight.”
“Just what I need — another trans-Atlantic flight. What is Zakiri and Parker’s status?” Harry asked, studiously avoiding a reference to Davood.
“They are due to leave for Bagram in two hours with the recovered vials in their posession. Why?”
“Have them diverted to Crete. Tex and I will meet them there after the conclusion of our meeting with Asefi. I’ll clear things with Kranemeyer.”
Carter shrugged. “Again I ask, ‘Why?’”
“If the attack goes down in the U.S., well, under posse comitatus that’s Bureau jurisdiction, not ours. The Hezbollah connection, the situation with the Israelis, everything indicates this is going to hit the Middle East. Call it prepositioning assets if you like. Just do it.”
Darkness had fallen over the Holy City, but it was no impediment to Fayood al-Farouk. He was a creature of the night and he welcomed its protecting cover. To his west, he could hear the evening prayer of the muezzin drifting through the night air. He did not bow in prayer, his eyes remaining fixed on his target, the night-vision binoculars giving a greenish cast to the surrounding scenery. At the end of days, when the angels came to weigh the good and evil of his life, this omission would count as nothing against his slaughter of the Jews.