Don Pendleton - Power Grab

“It is hotter than Texas but drier than Arizona,” Ahmadi said, and grimaced at the awkward code phrases. “You are satisfied?”

“I am,” McCarter said. “I imagine you’d be hauling us to a dungeon somewhere if you weren’t.”

“I imagine as much, as well,” Ahmadi said.

They traveled in silence for a time. It was a relatively clear day in a city known for its cloying smog. Mc Carter could see Milad Tower in the distance, and beyond that, the Alborz mountains were visible. As they moved through the city he was struck by how modern and cosmopolitan it looked and felt. It wasn’t at all the type of backward, repressive society he knew it to be, not from the outside. Of course, you didn’t have to look far to see the fear in people’s eyes whenever one of the uniformed paramilitary Iranian Internal Security goons neared. The IIS had been one of the innovations Magham’s government had brought to an already oppressed people. The paramilitary IIS squads strutted through the streets of the city as if they owned it—which, for all intents and purposes, they did.

The city was home to some eight million people, thirteen million if you included the surrounding metro area. It was also the governmental capital and economic hub of Iran, although McCarter thought he remembered reading that the government was still mulling over moving the seat of government to another location. He didn’t suppose that would make too much difference in terms of the mission ahead of them. He was, however, only too aware that he and his men were deep in a country that was no friend to the United States, with very little recourse should things go awry. They were heavily dependent on the extensive network the CIA had developed covertly in Iran.

“You are fidgeting in your seat,” Ahmadi said. “I believe I know why.” His round face again crinkled into something like a smile as he gestured to the men in the rear bench seats. His accent was pronounced, but he was clearly fluent in English.

“Let’s just say I am very attuned to our situation,” McCarter said.

Ahmadi laughed. “I like how this is put. Yes. I like it.” He gestured again. “Very discreetly, look under your seats. I received a special request for you, Mister…?”

“David,” McCarter said. The team would use their first names only in a covert situation like this.

“Mr. David.” Ahmadi smiled again. “I received a special request for the leader of my guests, and I did what I could to provide for the others.”

McCarter reached under his seat and felt a familiar shape: the grip of a Browning Hi-Power, as it turned out. He checked the weapon as best he could, keeping it low near the floor to prevent it from being seen by pedestrians and other drivers. There was a clip-on holster that he affixed inside his waistband, under his windbreaker, and a small mountain of extra magazines that he placed in his pockets.

He glanced back to see that his teammates had been provided with similar setups and Glock pistols, the compact Model 19. He nodded his approval to Ahmadi.

“The Glock 19 is the pistol of the IIS,” he explained. “Relatively easy for me to get. Untraceable except back to the armory of the IIS. The Browning was more difficult, but all things are possible with motivation.”

“Much appreciated.” McCarter nodded. “Were you able to get us anything heavier?”

“There is a bag containing two folding-stock AKS-74U rifles in the back,” Ahmadi said. “Loaded magazines for both, as well. It was the most I could get and, realistically, the most you can expect to carry without raising suspicions.”

McCarter was inclined to agree. The 5.45x39 millimeter Krinkov rifles had short barrels and were designed to be compact; they would fit into a small bag easily enough. That would be more or less the limit of what they could display openly. If the Phoenix Force veterans were trooping all over Iran’s largest city carrying bags large enough to house assault rifles for all of them, it would look out of place. One man with a duffel bag was a man with a duffel bag. Five were suspicious.

“So where do we begin, Ghaem?”

“First, I have one last item for you all,” the Iranian said. He reached into the pocket behind his seat and pulled out a small cloth bag. He handed it to McCarter, who looked inside and discovered five personal radios. The radios had wireless headsets. They weren’t as small as the self-contained transceivers Phoenix Force often used, but there had been no way to smuggle those into Iran without risking giving themselves away. The team did have their secure satellite phones, which provided them with a very important data link to Stony Man. The encrypted units could pass for ordinary Iridium satellite phones, and only the access codes known to Phoenix Force would enable an operator to use the phones at all.

“What’s the range of these?” McCarter asked.

“A few city blocks,” Ahmadi said. “No more. These are scrambled. They are reasonably secure unless someone with similar hardware chooses to make it his business to listen.”

“Someone…like whom?” McCarter asked.

“One of my good friends from the CIA, for example.” Ahmadi waved one hand. “It is unlikely to be a problem. I do not foresee anyone going out of the way to help us.”

“So, mate,” McCarter asked again, “you’re our guide. To where can you guide us?”

“There is a safehouse,” Ahmadi said. “We have traced its rental to a holding company that we believe is ultimately owned by agents of Ovan’s government. Now is a very good time to strike that safehouse.”

“Why is that?”

“There are three rallies scheduled for supporters of Magham today. The safehouse, which is being used by Ovan’s terror network, is the logical place for them to prepare for their attacks. We can intercept them and perhaps deal a very telling blow to the entire network in a single day. Without your operatives such a move would not have been possible before. There was thought in Washington that the situation here in Iran was best dealt with…quietly. I imagine there are those within the agency who think your intervention is akin to using a hammer to kill ants. You may get some of the ants, they will say, but you will miss many more, and you will anger the colony.”

“Do you feel the same way?”

“I do not,” Ahmadi said. “I have fought long and hard to help bring about, in whatever small way I can, a free and democratic Iran. I was a young man when I became a traitor to my country and allowed myself to be recruited by the CIA. But the slow approach is…slow. We have seen so little real change, and every time my people shout for democracy, for freedom, they are crushed under boot heels with greater force. The beginning of the IIS was the beginning of the worst wave of terror and oppression we have seen. It is time for more direct methods. I welcome them.”

“Fair enough,” McCarter said.

“Do your men require rest before we can go?” Ahmadi asked. “We could spare perhaps an hour or two and still have enough time before the first of the rallies.”

McCarter glanced back at his teammates, who shook their heads or otherwise silently indicated no. He did the same. “We’re ready,” he said.

“Then so am I.”

Ahmadi drove them through ever-narrowing streets, and McCarter was struck by the age of Tehran, by its mixture of architectures, by the weight of its past pressing in from all sides. He laughed at himself, wondering why he was doing so much bloody woolgathering, and reminded himself to focus on the task at hand.

“Comm check,” McCarter whispered. He listened as each of his men responded in kind, their whispers amplified in the wireless earpiece he wore. “All right,” he said as Ahmadi continued to delve deeper into the city, squeezing down alleyways that McCarter thought for certain would rip the side mirrors from the microbus. He finally stopped in a dimly lighted corridor between two recently built concrete buildings. He pointed through the front windshield.