The Enemy Within

Halovic spotted a pay phone next to a fast-food restaurant across the street. After crossing at the light, he discarded the pair of wire-frame eyeglasses he’d worn as Grunwald in a nearby trash bin. He noted the street names in passing.

At the pay phone, he dialed a number he’d memorised in Tehran. It rang once before being answered.

“This is Arlington Transport.”

“You have a pickup at Arlington Boulevard and Courthouse Road,” Halovic replied. “Near the hamburger restaurant.”

“Do you have the fare ready?” the voice asked.

“I’m from out of town. Can you take a check?”

“Yes.” There was a pause. “It will be about ten minutes. Expect a green sedan.”

“I will be waiting.” Halovic hung up. He moved further down the road and pretended to be waiting for a bus. Vehicles flowed past in a steady stream as the evening rush hour built to a climax. Though nobody paid the slightest attention to him, the ten minutes seemed to pass very slowly.

A large green car a Buick drove by the phone booth, circled back, and turned into the fast-food restaurant’s parking lot. Fighting his instinctive caution, he stood up with his bag in hand and strode up to the waiting vehicle.

The driver’s window slid down noiselessly as he approached. A face turned in his direction, but the man’s hands were hidden. Halovic knew that the Buick’s driver had a weapon ready. He approved of that’ He had no use for overconfident fools.

“I’m looking for Arlington,” he said flatly. “I’m meeting a friend there.”

“This is Arlington,” the driver replied. Halovic noted that the man’s English was heavily accented, but understandable. His face was half hidden in the shadows, and his hands were still not visible. “Your friend must be elsewhere. Perhaps he is in Alexandria?”

H~lovic~ghed. Sign. He spoke distinctly, careful to keep — fits hands in plain view. “Then I need a lift. I can pay you well.” Countersign.

“Get in.”

Halovic quickly walked around the front of the car and slid into the passenger side. He glanced once at the man beside him. “Drive.”

Obeying the single terse order, the driver immediately put the Buick in gear and backed out. As he signaled to turn onto the street, he said, “Fasten your seat belt, please. The local traffic regulations require it.”

Halovic complied, fumbling with the unfamiliar fittings.

Then he turned toward his associate. Khalil Yassine was a short, dark-complected man in his late twenties. Until General Amir Taleh had plucked him out of a terrorist camp he’d slated for destruction and brought him to Masegarh for further training, Yassine had been a guerrilla fighter in a radical offshoot of the PLO.

The Palestinian spoke in a respectful tone. “There is a residential area ahead on the left. We can lose any possible trailers in there.”

“Excellent. My name now is Daniels. So then, who exactly are you?” Halovic asked him, just as he might prompt a child to recite its catechism.

“I am George Baroody, a naturalised American citizen. I was born in Lebanon and emigrated ten years ago to escape the civil war there. I am a car mechanic, but I’ve been laid off and am looking for another job.”

Halovic arched a skeptical eyebrow. “Lebanese? Don’t the authorities keep a close eye on people from your country?”

Yassine shook his head. “They cannot. There are thousands and tens of thousands of immigrants in this region some are legal, many are not. From all parts of the world. So I stay away from politics. I don’t cause trouble. I stick to my own affairs.” He shrugged. “In effect, I am invisible.”

Halovic nodded, satisfied by the other man’s cover story. As an area leader, he’d been allowed to choose his own people, and he knew Yassine intimately. They were both the products of bitter wars fought against hopeless odds. They were both survivors of Masegarh.

As a teenager and a young man, Yassine had caused a lot of trouble for Israel and for Israeli forces in Lebanon. He knew Beirut and the Christian strongholds in southern Lebanon like the back of his hand. So his cover was a good one. He also had extensive experience with automobiles. More useful to Halovic, the Palestinian had demonstrated a remarkable talent for operating “behind the lines” in disguise.

Yassine was his driver and scout. The first cell member to arrive in the United States, he’d spent the last week securing lodgings and transportation and learning the ins and outs of the area’s roads and highways.

Halovic, as the team leader, was the second man to arrive. More were on the way, leaving Iran by differing routes. A dozen or so were assigned to infiltrate America’s eastern seaboard. Other groups were earmarked for other regions. The initial orders for all the cells were explicit: Arrive safely and undetected by the Americans. Submerge yourselves in their midst. Gather information and make plans as directed by Tehran. And then wait. Wait for the code-words that will unleash you.