“I’ll get back to you,” she said.
“Computer, examine the defenses around the airstrip,” said Danny.
“Facility is surrounded on three sides by barbed-wire fence. There are two guard posts at the entrance, and one lookout. There are two barracks buildings. One building is not presently heated. Conclusion: building is unoccupied.”
“Are there flak guns?”
“Antiaircraft weaponry not detected.”
“How many people are at the base?”
“Impossible to determine.”
“Estimate.”
“One to two dozen, based on typical security measures for Iranian air force facilities.”
The computer was scaling down its estimate from actual bases, which might or might not be a good method.
“Ask it what’s in the building on the north side,” said Hera, examining the image. “There are a couple of trailers and a long, narrow building beyond the runway area, set off behind another set of fences.”
“Are any of them airplane hangars?” Danny asked.
“They’re too small. There are some antennas nearby.”
MY-PID IDed the facility as part of a Russian-made SA-6 antiaircraft installation, though it was missing several key parts, most significantly the missiles. The long, narrow building was IDed as a storage facility for backup missiles, which, at an operating base, would be moved onto nearby erectors after the first set were fired.
A search of Agency records revealed that the site had been prepared for American Hawk missiles during the Shah’s time. These had never been installed. Though conversion had been started for Russian weapons, they too had never arrived, and it had been delisted as a possible antiaircraft installation a few years before.
Breanna broke into the Voice’s briefing.
“Danny, we have an AWACS in Iraq that we’re going to get up to track the plane,” she said. “Can you get close enough to get a visual ID of whatever it is in the meantime? Is that doable?”
“We’ll try.”
Aberhadji practically leapt out of the cab, striding quickly toward the missile storage building. He was met halfway by Abas Jafari, the son of a man whom he’d served with during the war with Iraq. Tall and gaunt, Abas had his father’s eyes and voice, and in the darkness Aberhadji could easily have confused the two.
“Imam, we are ready to store the weapon as you directed,” Abas said.
“There has been a change of plans,” said Aberhadji. “Move the missile from the storage area and prepare it. Give me some men to take the warhead from the truck. The Israelis have already struck,” he added. “You must move as quickly as you can.”
Abas blinked in disbelief.
“We will be ready within the hour,” he said.
69
The cab driver was a talkative sort, babbling on to Tarid about his horrible in-laws. The father was a swine and the mother ten times worse. The man had loaned the driver money twice during the early days of his marriage, and though the loans had been repaid long ago, he still acted as if his son-in-law was a money-grubbing leech. His mother-in-law never washed, and filled every place she went with an unbearable stench.
Tarid was too concerned with his own worries to pay more than passing attention. Aberhadji wanted him to go to an industrial park several miles south of the city. He couldn’t imagine what sort of package would be there, especially at this hour of night.
Half of him was sure it was some sort of trap. The other half argued that if Aberhadji had wanted to kill him, he’d have done it that afternoon, when it would have been easier. He thought of telling the driver to take him to the airport instead. But instead he leaned forward from the backseat, head against the neck rest.
“I brought a fare here two years ago,” said the driver as they neared the turn off the highway. “He was a very respectable man from Egypt. Ordinarily, I do not like Egyptians. But this man was an exception.”
“Mmmmm,” muttered Tarid.
“He used a very nice soap. A very nice scent.”
Tarid wondered what he himself smelled like. Fear, most likely. And resignation.
The cab driver continued down a long block, flanked on both sides by large apartment complexes. The lights on the poles cast the buildings a dim yellow, and turned the dull gray bricks brown. They came to an intersection and turned right, passing a pair of service stations before the land on both sides of the road cleared entirely. As the light faded behind them, Tarid felt as if they had entered the desert, though in fact they were many miles from it.
“Which building were we going to?” asked the cab driver. It was only luck that he knew of the complex, due to the fare he had told Tarid about. While the names of the roads within it were predictable — there would always be a Victory Drive, an Imam Khomeini Boulevard, and a Triumph Way — the layout was a pretzel. He would have to hunt around for his passenger’s destination.
Past experience told the driver that the best tips came if he pretended to know precisely the place, however, so he tried not to reveal his ignorance.
“The building is number ten,” said Tarid.
“The one on Victory Drive?” asked the driver.
“I don’t know the street. Just that the building is number ten. I assume it is the only number ten in the complex.”
Tarid’s admission made things easier, since the driver could now pretend to have been confused by vague directions. He saw the sign for the complex and turned, feeling triumphant that the place was exactly as he remembered it. Then, too, he had come in the dark, though not this late.
There were no numbers on the first two buildings he saw. A plaque on the sand in front of the third declared it was 209.
“It will be in the back,” said Tarid, guessing.
“Toward the back, yes,” said the driver. “I thought so.”
Nuri and Flash knew exactly where the building was, thanks to the Voice. But Nuri had not been able to get a lead on the taxi driver, and decided he’d have to hang back as the cab drove into the complex. He passed by the entrance as the taxi turned in, then he drove down the block looking for an easy place to turn around. There were none, and so he pulled all the way over to the shoulder, made a U-turn and went back.
Nuri turned into the complex, then took an immediate right — a shortcut suggested by the Voice.
Number ten was at the very end of the street.
“Where is subject?” he asked the Voice.
“Two hundred meters to the west.”
“He’s behind me? South?”
“Affirmative. Subject is heading north.”
The cab driver was lost. Or Tarid knew he was bugged and had slipped him written instructions.
“Let’s see if we can get to that building before he does,” Nuri told Flash. “His driver is wandering around on the other side of the complex.”
“Go for it.”
Nuri continued down the street. The complex was used mostly by small manufacturers, companies that made items from iron and wood. The larger buildings at the front were all warehouses, and most were empty. A row of empty lots separated number ten from the rest of the buildings on the block.
Nuri slowed down, looking at the building carefully as he approached. It was a large two-story structure, with a well-lit lobby. There wouldn’t be much opportunity to interfere if they decided to kill Tarid inside somewhere.
“Somebody in that SUV,” warned Flash, pointing to a black Mercedes M-class at the side of the road ahead.
The door to the SUV opened. Out of the corner of his eye Nuri saw someone stepping from the shadows on his left. He had a rifle in his hand.
“Shit,” muttered Flash.