Naqdi was fifty-one years old, of medium build and had sprinkles of white dusting thick black hair and eyebrows. One of his trademarks was to always dress as well as, or better than, whomever he might be meeting. With a generous budget from his masters in Tehran, he had become a clotheshound, to fit in better with the infidels. His spacious closet was stocked with laundered clothing, and this morning he chose a fresh cream-colored shirt that buttoned at the neck, gray trousers with sharp creases, a soft tweed sport coat, and a pair of shoes that had been made in London. These gave him the cultivated look of an intelligent and successful businessman. Finally, the colonel was ready to face the new day.
A BMW limousine was waiting downstairs, and a bodyguard opened the door to the spacious and cool backseat. The armed guard got in the front, and the driver moved smoothly into traffic. Naqdi took note that the streets of Cairo seemed calm and cheery this morning, for soccer mania had temporarily calmed the ongoing street protests staged by the rival political parties that comprised an uneasy coalition beneath the banner of the Muslim Brotherhood. The mobs were only a mask, for the intelligence colonel from Iran was the guiding hand, and the man with the money.
He had sent word to the various parties to stop squabbling for the day because the all-star Iranian soccer team, one of the best in the world, was coming to Cairo for a friendship match with the Egyptian squad. The mood of the people was important, and he wanted a rather neat revolution.
In the not-too-distant past, running such an Iranian special mission in the heart of Egypt was unthinkable, but with the fall of the dictator Mubarak, and the political takeover by the Muslim Brotherhood, things had changed. Now it was easy. Colonel Naqdi had designed a masterpiece that would deliver an intact and functioning Egypt into the political grip of Tehran.
Less than ten minutes later, the BMW ducked into the basement garage of a large office building that headquartered the Palm Group, and Naqdi was escorted up to his office near the top floor. Breakfast and hot coffee were waiting for him.
Major Mansoor Shakuri, the colonel’s aide, had been alerted by the BMW driver that their boss was on the way, which gave him just enough time to rush to the bathroom and shove two fingers down his throat to force a violent spell of vomiting. Colonel Naqdi terrified him. The man oozed intrigue and misdirection, and he did not care how many lives and careers he smashed to achieve goals known only to himself and his powerful masters back home. The aide had come to learn that for his boss, a simple double-cross was never good enough when something more complex could be developed.
The major splashed cold water on his face, gargled some mouthwash, adjusted his suit and tie, combed his hair, and was ready by the time he heard the colonel enter the office. The man’s phobia about neatness had trained the aide to also be immaculate. If Shakuri had so much as a smudge on his shirt, the colonel would frown, and that was never a good thing. Taking a deep breath, the major knocked twice and went into the private office, immediately feeling the head-to-toe visual scan by his boss.
“Good day, Major Shakuri,” the colonel called to his chief of staff as he settled in to eat, check the news on the Web, glance at his private messages, and receive the morning briefing.
“Good morning, Colonel,” answered Mansoor Shakuri as he placed a folder of information beside the food tray. Shakuri, forty-five years old and six feet tall, had been at work for two hours to prepare the colonel’s day. His reports were concise. The men had worked together for more than a year, and the strain and tension had given Shakuri painful stomach ulcers.
“The mission in the United States was successful,” he said, standing with his hands folded before him. “The bothersome accountant, Haynes, has been eliminated.”
The confirmation did not come as a surprise. The colonel expected such results in his clandestine operations; in fact, demanded them.
“Our team made a clean escape. One has already flown to Los Angeles, where an Iranian community thrives in an enclave around Beverly Hills. The other is driving to a similarly safe area in Houston, Texas. Once settled, both can be used again.”
Naqdi sipped some of the strong coffee and savored a bite of sweet pastry. He had been forced to expend a sniper team that had been inserted into the Washington area three years earlier, and the colonel despised exposing skilled talent.
“Good,” he said. It was not a moral thing. Killing people did not bother him if it meant accomplishing the mission. He would leave such worrying to those unlucky men who had a conscience.
Sometimes, people simply had to be removed, and this was one such case. This man had completed the required auditing duty for the Palm Group and then stupidly had dug deeper into the business’s extended financial network. He had not been required to do so, had personally been warned by the colonel not to do it, and became a walking dead man when he persisted. The continued economic health of the Palm Group, where the colonel had the cover of being a vice president, was much more important than the life of any certified public accountant.
“What of the audit?” asked the colonel.
“A more compliant company based in Hong Kong has already assumed that task, with a guarantee from Beijing that it will receive the needed approval.”
“Fine work, Major Shakuri. We’re not quite finished with it, however. I want an investigation to re-create Mr. Haynes’s movements and meetings from the time he left our offices to the moment he was killed. Did he confide in anyone, or did he just run home to report about how he was mistreated?”
“Yes, sir. I already have someone assembling that.”
Satisfied, the colonel changed the subject. “Who am I meeting this morning?” He dabbed a napkin at his lips and brushed crumbs from his coat.
“A Muslim Brotherhood representative wants more financial assistance for his faction, one of the centrist groups. Fifteen minutes at the most, although he would probably like to spend the day here.”
Naqdi shook his head. These political gangs never ceased their little intrigues, no matter who was in power. “Anything else?”
“You are then clear until after lunch. At one o’clock, the navy people are finally ready to brief you about the Suez Canal.”
“Excellent.” The major was relieved to see a smile. “And what about our soccer team?”
“Everything is in order, sir,” replied the aide. “They should arrive on schedule.”
“Excellent. Excellent.” The colonel turned to the written reports and his maps. The major left the room with a heavy heart.
Trooper Horace Milbank of the Alabama Highway Patrol had backed his Dodge Charger SRT8 into a cutout at the edge of a pine forest along I-65, about halfway between Montgomery and Mobile, and sat there a while wondering why his wife could not understand that cops only really felt comfortable in the presence of other cops. Their dinner at home two nights ago with her co-workers from the real estate agency had been a disaster, because he had gotten drunk and angry when none of the pansies wanted to see his gun collection. Another cop would have jumped at the opportunity. Hell, nobody in the dinner group had sold a house for three months, and they were all drinking his liquor. Mrs. Milbank had withheld sexual favors since then. The trooper relaxed in the broad front seat, keeping an ear cocked to the radio chatter as he watched the broad corridor that had been carved through the pines.
This was a quiet section of interstate, one of those long stretches where drivers lose track of what they are doing and gradually increase their speeds to well beyond the 70 miles per hour limit. From his hideaway, Milbank could see traffic coming from both directions. Nothing had come up from the south for five minutes, the last being a truck loaded with a mountain of cut timber. Way out at the edge of his vision, he saw the single bright light of a motorcycle pop into view, a bike that was moving fast, which made the trooper more alert. He decided to clock the guy with radar and kicked his big V-8 engine to life, anticipating a short, happy chase. Alabama had long ago inserted some luxury sport sedans into its motor fleet in order to keep up with the new hot wheels of the bad guys. His Charger’s 470 horsepower would get him up to 60 miles per hour in only five seconds, and he had a top end of 175 mph. If this turned into a flat-out road race, Milbank would be all over the guy.