David Bruns - Weapons of Mass Deception

The president gave him a tight smile. “Your current location would seem to exonerate you, Mr. Rouhani.”

“May I ask what you are going to do?”

Balls of brass. I like this guy.

“I have air- and sea-based assets in place that can be put into action, if needed. There is a military strike team en route to the Gulf now and they will be in position to launch an assault in the next twelve hours. Our preferred option would be to deal with this situation quietly.”

Rouhani had regained some of his previous composure. “And, of course, you need my permission to launch a US military raid on the sovereign soil of the Islamic Republic of Iran.”

The President nodded. “Naturally.”

Rouhani’s image was so still the President feared they’d lost the connection. Finally, the Iranian leader stirred. “Very well then, Mr. President, you have my authorization to launch the assault. Now if that is all—”

“It’s not.”

Rouhani’s face went still again, and the President could see him gritting his teeth. “Yes?” he said in a tight voice.

“Let’s be clear: we have a shared interest in the success of these talks. You need this agreement; I need this agreement. I suggest you return to the nuclear talks, Mr. President, and make it happen. We will go down in history together as the men who brought peace to the Middle East and Iran back into the world order.”

Rouhani nodded.

Baxter sat on the edge of the park bench, watching the sky lighten behind the Washington Monument.

He checked his watch again. His source had told him Vice Admiral Daugherty, now retired and a senior director on the DNI staff, was a habitual runner: always the same route, always the same time, rain or shine. As long as he was in town, he ran in the morning. Every morning.

As if on cue, Baxter heard the rhythmic crunch of someone coming down the gravel path. He stood, suddenly wondering if this was a good idea after all.

Jack Daugherty’s profile came into view around the bend. He moved at a good clip, chin up, arms pumping, breath coming in easy puffs. He saw Baxter and slowed to a stop a few feet away. He checked the device on his wrist and hit the pause button on his run timer before meeting Baxter’s eyes.

“Baxter, right?”

Rick gave him a brisk nod. “Yes, sir. Sorry to ambush you like this, but there’s a situation.”

Daugherty glanced around them, then moved toward the edge of the Reflecting Pool. “I’ve been briefed. Is there something new?”

“No, sir, not new, but we have an asset in the region that you should know about.”

Daugherty glanced at his heart rate monitor and his lips tightened. “Spit it out, Baxter. Why are you here?”

“The Feisty Minnow Program”—Baxter winced at how fanciful the name sounded in this circumstance—“has an asset in the Gulf. The skipper is a former SEAL, and the same guy who ran the raid that placed the sensor on the North Korean launcher.”

Daugherty stopped fiddling with the device on his wrist. “You mean to tell me we have a guy who has actually touched these TELs before? And he’s in the region now?”

Baxter nodded.

Daugherty reached behind his back and fished out a mobile phone. He thumbed the device, then raised it to his ear.

“Tisch? Good morning, it’s Jack.” He laughed. “Yeah, no rest for the wicked. Listen, can I get five minutes with you this morning? It’s pertinent to our situation. Seven in the White House cafeteria?” He looked at his watch, then at Baxter. “Perfect. I’ll be bringing someone with me.”

He stabbed the face of the phone with his free finger to end the call. His eyes dropped to Baxter’s shoes.

“Can you run in those?”

“Skipper, incoming call for you on the bat phone.”

Brendan scrambled down into the cabin, and pushed his sunglasses up on his forehead before he took the red handset.

“McHugh here.”

“Brendan, how’d you like some shore duty for a few days?” Baxter’s voice crackled in the receiver.

“Um, that sounds good. What did you have in mind?”

“Sorry, buddy, I can’t brief you on this line, but stand by for a helo extraction in the next few hours.”

When they reached the tony suburbs of north Tehran, Reza leaned over from the passenger seat and flipped off the siren and lights. The traffic had thinned enough that it was no longer necessary. Besides, when Iranian drivers saw two black armored SUVs in their rearview mirrors, they usually got out of the way.

They made the final turn and Reza could hear the team leader telling the second car to cover the back and side entrances. He called over his shoulder, “Remind them again. I will deal with Rahmani, your men secure the building. I want him alive. Do you understand?”

The team leader’s black ball cap bobbed once, and the reminder went out over the secure channel.

“Boss,” the driver grunted. Reza turned his attention forward again. The gate protecting the entrance to Ayatollah Rahmani’s house was closed. “Shall I take it?”

Reza nodded.

The high gates slammed down on the hood of the car, but they proved to be more for decoration than security. With the elaborate ironwork partially blocking his view, the first car skidded to a halt before the front doors. The second vehicle raced past them, bound for the back entrances.

A short woman in a dark headdress stepped through the wide double doors of glass and wood. Her hands went to her hips, and her voice was fiery as she screamed at them, “What is the meaning of this? Do you know whose house this is?”

Reza had to push his door hard to get it past a piece of the gate blocking it. He stepped onto the crushed gravel of the drive and waved the other security men to enter the house. They rushed past her, leaving only the two of them on the wide flagstone landing.

“Where is he?” he asked, keeping his voice as even as possible. Inside, he was burning with rage that someone — a fellow Iranian, no less — would stoop to using a nuclear weapon against his own people. He wanted to reach out and throttle this woman, but he held his hands at his side and his voice calm.

Her gaze fell to the stone steps.

Reza grabbed her arm and shook her. She was no more than skin and bones, really, like a china doll. He pulled her toward him and used his free hand to grip her chin, forcing her to look up at him.

“Do you have any idea what he’s done? Where is he?”

Her dark eyes were black with fear, but she didn’t cry. “He’s in his study,” she said.

“Take me there.”

She led him swiftly through the wide hallways of the house, past sculptures that cost more than his apartment and paintings that could feed a south Tehran slum for weeks. The carpet under his feet was deep and soft, and the smell of the midday meal still hung in the air. He could faintly hear the calls of the security men as they cleared the house, but his radio was silent. No one on the security team had found the Ayatollah yet.

At the end of the hall, she paused next to a heavy door of carved wood. Reza turned the knob. Locked. The woman fished a key from her robe and pressed it into his hand.

“Go,” he whispered. Her feet made no sound on the thick carpet as she hurried away.

Reza slipped the key into the lock and swung the door open.

He might have walked into a television studio. Industrial lights on metal tripod stands lit a heavy wooden desk at the far end of the room, and two cameras on rolling platforms were aimed at the desk.