The Enemy Within

At first glance, it could have passed for any major airport anywhere in the industrialised world. A closer look dispelled that impression. Two camouflaged, twin-tailed interceptors were parked just off the runway. Ultramodern MiG-29s on strip alert, he realized kept ready to take off at five minutes’ warning. Further out, near the perimeter fence, there were sandbagged emplacements for antiaircraft guns and SAM launchers. Taleh might be making overtures to the West, but the forces he commanded weren’t letting their guard down.

Still bouncing slightly as it rolled across the rough, often patched tarmac, the SwissAir jet turned off the runway and slowly taxied toward Mehrabad’s single terminal building. The steady roar of the DC-lO’s engines faded to a high pitched whine and then to silence. A bell chimed through the cabin loudspeakers. They had arrived.

Thorn sat motionless for a moment, breathing steadily to relax nerves and reflexes that were now on full alert. Then he unbuckled his seat belt, pulled a soft-sided bag out from under the seat in front of him, and stood up, leaning forward to keep from smashing his head into the baggage compartment above. Even though he stood an inch under six feet tall, his height exceeded the design specs for a window seat.

He ignored the standard announcements crackling through the intercom in German, French, Italian, English, and Farsi. If his old friend didn’t really have enough power to protect him from Iran’s radical Islamic fundamentalists, a knowledge of customs regulations and the local weather wasn’t going to matter one damn bit.

Thorn suddenly missed the comforting weight of a pistol at his side. Cheer up, Daniel, he told himself, it’s time to poke your head into the den and find out whether or not the lions really are friendly. He stepped out into the aisle and joined the other passengers already streaming toward the forward cabin door.

A lone Iranian Army officer in a neatly pressed dress uniform stood waiting at the end of the jetway. Thorn headed toward him, eyeing the tall young man’s unfamiliar rank and unit insignia.

“You are Colonel Thorn?” The Iranian soldier’s English was good, though heavily accented.

Thorn nodded. “That’s right.” He offered his passport and safe-conduct letter in proof. “Here are my credentials.”

The Iranian shook his head. “That won’t be necessary, sir.” He smiled.

“I am Captain Farhad Kazemi, General Taleh’s military aide. Welcome to Iran, Colonel.”

“Thank you, Captain.” Thorn shook Kazemi’s outstretched hand, trying to conceal his surprise. Whatever he’d expected, it wasn’t this casual, matter-of-fact reception.

“If you will follow me, sir.” The Iranian captain nodded toward the main terminal area. “I have a staff car waiting to take you to your quarters.”

Thorn moved off beside the younger man, striding easily through the men and chador-clad women waiting to board other flights. A few stared back at them, openly curious at the sight of an Iranian soldier escorting an obvious Westerner. He ignored them, more interested in getting an answer to the question uppermost in his mind. “And when do I meet with General Taleh?”

Kazemi turned his head. “Tomorrow morning, Colonel. After you have had a chance to rest from your journey.”

MAY 3

The Manzarieh camp, northern Tehran.

The Manzarieh Park camp sprawled across several acres in Tehran’s fashionable northern quarter. Surrounded on all sides by pleasant, suburban homes belonging to wealthy businessmen and government officials, the camp contained barracks, classrooms, armories, and firing ranges. Shade trees lined the wide, well-paved streets and open grounds inside the walled compound. At its peak, Manzarieh Park had housed nearly a thousand terrorist trainees from around the world.

Now it was on fire.

Clad in a set of unmarked Iranian Army battle fatigues, a bulky flak jacket, and a steel helmet, Lieutenant Colonel Peter Thorn double-timed across a broad avenue, heading for a bullet-riddled, burning gatehouse that marked the main entrance to the camp. Tough-looking Special Forces troopers formed a protective ring around him, their assault rifles at the ready.

Black smoke swirled across the street, billowing from the wrecked gatehouse. The smell of cordite lingered in the air. Corpses littered the pavement HizbAllah guards gunned down when Amir Taleh’s assault force smashed its way through into the training complex.

The leader of his escort force, a short, swarthy sergeant, peered around one corner of the burning building and then motioned Thorn forward. “Safe! Safe! All ended.” He pointed toward the sprawled bodies and drew one grimy thumb across his throat. “Understand?”

Thorn nodded. He loped through the gate with his escorts in tow.