The Enemy Within

“Before the Revolution, the Shah’s secret police used the building as a prison. Apparently, our mission there tried to keep an eye on SAVAK excesses,” Thorn explained. “Captain Pappas found the blueprints in an old Army Intelligence file.”

“Outstanding.” Farrell cleared his throat. “Look, Pete, I don’t want to rush you, but you know the time pressure we’re under. I need to know when you and your assault force can be ready to go.”

Thorn glanced at the massive piles of paper still heaped throughout his office he considered his reply. To lay out the detailed plans for NEMESIS, he’d commandeered talented officers and NCOs from Delta’s intelligence, operations, logistics, and administration staff directorates. They had already been working nearly around the clock for more than twenty-four hours. The planning cell was making enormous strides adding real substance to the skeletal outline Farrell had laid before the NSC yesterday. But there was still a lot of hard work and hard training left to be done.

“We need at least a week to prep,” he said finally.

“That’s cutting it mighty close, Pete,” Farrell warned quietly. “A week is well inside the early window for the Iranian invasion.”

“Can’t be helped, sir. I won’t send my troops into Iran unprepared,” Thorn said stubbornly. They were already moving faster than was really wise. Previous Delta Force operations, even those of less inherent danger and complexity, had often required more than a month of planning and preparation. “Besides, having this CLIP contact inside Tehran is critical to the mission, and Langley tells me he can’t possibly be in position for at least another three days.”

Neither he nor the head of the JSOC were happy about having to rely on the Afghan truck driver code-named Stone. Unfortunately, there wasn’t time to infiltrate anybody else into the Iranian capital. Stone’s CIA controllers regarded him as a man of the utmost integrity and reliability. Thorn just hoped like hell they were right for once.

“On the other hand,” he continued, “we should have thirty-six to forty-eight hours’ notice of any imminent Iranian move now that we know what to look for. If Taleh puts his plan in gear sooner than expected, we’ll saddle up and go right away.”

“Fair enough,” Farrell said. “I’ll try to keep the President and the JCS off your backs for as long as possible.”

“One last thing, Pete.” The general’s tone changed, becoming less official and more personal. “What’s the latest word on Helen?”

The room seemed to darken around Thorn. “I talked to one of the surgeons at Walter Reed this morning. She’s still in intensive care and still fighting off the infection. But, as best they can tell, she can’t move anything below her waist. They just don’t know yet whether the nerve damage is temporary… or permanent. He couldn’t give me much more than that.”

“I am sorry, Pete,” Farrell said sadly. “Louisa’s flying up here tonight. She plans to stay near the hospital and keep an eye on Helen for you.”

Grateful beyond words, Thorn was conscious of mumbling his thanks, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he should be there himself waiting by Helen’s bedside to comfort her, to stroke her hair, to tell her again that he loved her.

The general seemed to read his mind. “Helen will understand, Pete. She has a soldier’s heart. She’ll know that this mission must come first. There’s too much at stake.” “Yes, sir,” Thorn said slowly.

Farrell’s next words were in deadly earnest. “This is gonna be a rough one, Pete. Don’t screw up and get yourself killed.”

“No, sir.”

DECEMBER 8

Special operations headquarters, Tehran

(D MINUS 7)

General Amir Taleh stood with his arms folded near the front of the chair-filled subterranean room, watching the men he had summoned assemble.

His audience was a distinguished one. It included not only the full Defense Council and staff but senior officers from each of the armed forces. Significantly, it also included the remnants of the Pasdaran command structure and many of his most powerful political enemies. All had been summoned with only a few hours’ notice after morning prayers and whisked here by limousine, helicopter, and military aircraft.

Taleh had invited his enemies to his headquarters for two reasons: First, Kazemi’s reports made it clear that their opposition to his declared policy of detente with America was growing stronger with every passing day. Assassination was no longer his sole concern. Some in the Pasdaran were moving closer to open revolt particularly as many of the Army’s best troops were moved further from Tehran. By asking them here, to his visible center of power, he was invoking the oldest traditions of Persian hospitality. For the duration of this meeting at least, he was their host and they were his honored guests. None of the various factions would move against him or each other under those conditions. More important, though, these men needed to be here. This was the time for truth-telling. A time to drop the mask that had so enraged them.