The Enemy Within

Colonel Shalah Haleri paced across his small, shabby room, reached the faded, yellowing far wall, and turned back toward the window. There was nothing much to see. Bulgaria’s capital city sprawled at the foot of 2,300-meter-high Mount Vitosa, but he had chosen this rundown hotel for its anonymity, not its tourist value. The thick smog hanging over this industrial working-class neighborhood hid any clear view of the mountain’s forested slopes and ski runs.

Abruptly, he stopped pacing and returned to the battered chair and scarred writing table that were the room’s only other pieces of furniture besides an iron-frame bed and a stand. Fifteen years as a covert operative in Iran’s intelligence service had taught him many things patience among them. When you were deep in an enemy land, haste was almost always the path to failure and to death.

Mentally, he reviewed his cover story yet again. He could not afford any mistakes. This meeting he had scheduled was too important to his mission.

The fractured states of the former Warsaw Pact were rich with pickings if you had the money to spend. And Bulgaria had special items that were available nowhere else. General Taleh intended to add those resources to his arsenal. Haleri was the man charged with making the general’s intentions a reality.

Haleri’s lips twitched upward in a one-sided smile as he examined his passport. It had been issued under the name of Tarik Ibrahim, and even an intensive search would only lead any hunters back along a false trail laid all the way to Baghdad. It amused him to travel as a member of Iraq’s spy service. There was a delightful irony there, he thought.

A soft knock on the door brought him to his feet. Instinctively, his hand slid under his jacket and then stopped. He was unarmed. Even in postcommunist Bulgaria, carrying a firearm was more trouble than it was worth. If things went wrong, he would simply have to trust in God, and in the suicide capsule his masters in Tehran had thoughtfully provided.

“Come in.”

The colonel relaxed as his visitor stepped inside and pulled the door shut behind him. It was the man he had been expecting the go-between. He called himself Petko Dimitrov at least this week. The Iranian suspected his real name was long forgotten.

Dimitrov was as nondescript as himself a middle-aged man with grey hair, a plain face, and expressionless eyes. We are two of a kind, Haleri thought with a touch of perverse pride. We are men who can walk through life without leaving any lasting trace of our coming or going. ~~

“Good afternoon, Mr. Ibrahim.”

“And to you.” Haleri indicated the single chair. “Please, be comfortable.”

Dimitrov set his briefcase carefully on the writing table and sat down.

The Iranian sat across from him, perched on the edge of the bed. He cleared his throat. “You have news for me?”

The Bulgarian nodded. A faint smile flashed across his lips and then vanished. It never reached his eyes. “I have spoken to my principal,” he said slowly. “The work you have requested can be done. And it can be completed in the time you have allotted.”

“Good.” Haleri paused briefly. “And the price?”

Dimitrov shrugged. “The price will be high.” He lowered his voice.

“The encryption software you need is easy. The other…” He shook his head. “The other item is difficult. It will take a great deal of thought and effort.”

Haleri nodded. He understood that. A complex task required a complex and extraordinary weapon. He pursed his lips. “How much?”

“Eight million.” Dimitrov’s eyes hardened. “There will be no bargaining, you understand? That is our price no more and no less.”

“Very well,” Haleri agreed readily. The price was higher than he had hoped, but no one in Iran could produce the weapon he sought. “Eight million dollars?”

“Dollars?” Dimitrov smiled wryly. “I hardly think so. You will pay us in German marks. Half in a week’s time. The rest on delivery.”

Again, the Iranian agreed. Within minutes their business was concluded.

As he escorted the Bulgarian to the door, Haleri asked, “Does it have a name, this weapon of yours?”

Dimitrov shrugged again. “Once you have paid, you may call it whatever you wish ” He smiled coldly. “We call it OU,~OS.”

AUGUST 3

Clearview Motor Lodge, Arlington, Virginia.

(D MINUS 134)

Sefer Halovic let the door close behind him. The sound of it slamming shut was his signal to relax however minutely.

The first phase of his mission was over. He’d made it. He was safely in America.