The Enemy Within

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“Got a minute?” Rossini’s booming voice broke the spell.

Thorn looked up in relief and waved his deputy in. “Hell, Joe, take an hour.” He nodded in disgust at the electronic text showing on his computer. “I’ll be old and grey before this stuff makes any sense to me.”

“If you ever do figure it out, you’ll probably be the first person in HOD history,” Rossini said sympathetically. “The rest of us just fill out as many random forms as we can find and hope to hit the right ones by luck.”

“Swell.” Thorn swiveled his chair away from the computer. “So what’s up?”

“Mike McFadden came to me an hour ago with some interesting material.” Rossini sat down and plopped a thin stack of papers down on the desk in front of him. “He’s been digging through some of the data the CIA collects from the Brits, the French, and the rest of NATO. These pieces caught his eye.”

Thorn paged through them. Most were intelligence reports from the international peacekeeping units and headquarters stationed in Bosnia. Somebody, either McFadden or Rossini, had highlighted the significant sections with a yellow marker.

His eyebrows went up. Buried deep among the routine descriptions of Serb, Muslim, and Croat troop movements and weapons deployments were some disquieting reports. There were rumors circulating through the Muslim armed militias and guerrilla forces rumors of mysterious foreigners spreading money and plane tickets to men with good combat records and leadership skills.

He looked up at Rossini. “Somebody’s recruiting terrorists again.”

“Yep.” Rossini spread his hands. “The question is, who?”

“The CIA have any ideas?”

Rossini shook his head. “Nope. Not that they’re much interested. Langley doesn’t see Bosnia as a priority. It’s a European bailiwick. And there’re no nukes involved to make it sexy for the Congress. Plus, they don’t have anyone on the ground outside of Sarajevo.”

“Shit.” Thorn grimaced. “These recruiters could be working for almost anyone in the Islamic world. Iraq. Syria. Pakistan. Afghanistan. Even what’s left of HizbAllah or Hammas. Hell, they’ve all got military training missions operating inside Bosnia.”

“So do the Iranians,” Rossini pointed out.

“True.” Thorn nodded. He thought back over his conversations in Tehran. “Look, Joe, General Taleh promised to cooperate with us in the fight against terrorism. He’s certainly kicked the hell out of them inside his own country. Maybe we should test his cooperation on a bigger playing field.”

“You want to see if his own intelligence people have picked up these same rumors?”

“Right. Christ, one thing’s sure. The Iranians are bound to have better sources in Bosnia than the Brits, the French, or the CL.” Thorn thought further for a moment. “Look, I’m flying down to Bragg next week for a conference with Farrell. Have McFadden put this together in an organised fashion and I’ll take it with me. Then we’ll see if the boss can shake loose a few more resources to follow this up on our own.”

Rossini nodded. “Sounds good.”

“In the meantime, we’ll keep digging ourselves with what we’ve got now including a call to Taleh.” Thorn’s jaw tightened. “Some son of a bitch is out there rebuilding a terrorist movement, and I want to find out who the hell it is.”

CHAPTER 5 DRY RUN

JUNE 21

The Pentagon.

Colonel Peter Thorn sipped his instant coffee and grimaced at the awful taste. Served him right for arriving before the coffeemaker’s self-appointed caretakers turned the machine on, he thought. He bit down hard on a tired yawn.

He’d started coming in to the office before dawn partly to get an early start on the day, but mostly to avoid the Pentagon rush-hour crush he disliked so much. Although the strategy worked, coming in early didn’t mean he could leave any sooner. Mostly, he was still locked to his desk long into the evening. Since taking over the Intelligence Liaison Unit, he’d been putting in sixteen-hour days to bring himself up to speed on his analysts’ work and on the way the DOD system ran.

Those extended days and nights were paying off in knowledge and understanding, but he knew he couldn’t keep up the murderous pace for much longer. Falling asleep on a pile of reports during a meeting would probably not be the best way to build his new staff’s confidence in him, he thought wryly.

His phone buzzed suddenly, bringing him wide awake. “Thorn here.”

“Colonel, this is Sergeant Nyland in Communications. You have a secure call from Tehran. A Captain Farhad Kazemi?” The noncom stumbled slightly over the unfamiliar name.