The Enemy Within

He’d gone to Iran, seeking work and some new purpose. Instead he had been crammed into a refugee camp with thousands of his countrymen. Most Afghans were members of the Sunni branch of Islam. Most Iranians were Shiite. And evidently, the Iranians were willing to take Muslim brotherhood only so far. Pahesh had skills, though, as a mechanic and driver, and he’d been able to get a job driving a battered old truck.

Even out of the camp, he still felt unwelcome. Able to live only in ramshackle housing, paid a pittance for backbreaking labor, the ex-mujahideen felt the Iranian snubs every hour of the day.

Only with others from home could he find any peace. He’d run into one of his old guerrilla comrades, who had passed him on to an old American friend, now working in Iran. It didn’t take a deep thinker to realise what he was doing there, or what he wanted Pahesh to do.

And Pahesh had been willing, more than willing, after seeing Persian hospitality. Since that day, many years ago, Pahesh had driven the length and breadth of Iran. He tried to get work near or on military bases wherever possible. There was much to see and more to overhear. He could speak Farsi as well as his own Pushtu, but he made sure the Iranians didn’t know that.

Over the years, the Afghan had seen many things that interested the CIA. In return for the information, the Americans gave him money, as well as the high-tech equipment needed to do his work for them. The money kept Pahesh’s truck in good condition and many of his refugee countrymen fed and warm.

Now his experienced eye roamed over the compound. He could see five tanks in the maintenance bays and at least a score more parked in back, waiting for their turn. He’d identified the T-80s the instant he’d spotted them. He also heard a lot of Russian being spoken. The Iranian military buildup was accelerating.

An Iranian sergeant walked around the corner. “There you are,” he remarked. “Get moving, you’re blocking the loading dock,” the soldier ordered harshly.

Pahesh pretended ignorance and incomprehension, and with a disgusted look, the noncom spat out a few words slowly. “Go. Drive truck. Understand?”

Nodding, keeping his eyes down, the Afghan walked the short distance back to his truck, got in, and pulled out. The engine growled comfortingly as he drove out of the base and away from its guns and fences.

He’d pick a safe place to work tonight. Although slow and somewhat cumbersome, the covert communications system he normally used was secure and fairly reliable. After coding and microfilming, his latest report would go through the regular mails to a friend in Pakistan, piggybacked on a personal letter. His friend would in turn pass it to a CIA controller working out of the embassy in Karachi. Depending on the vagaries of the Iranian postal service, his information should reach America in a few days.

SEPTEMBER 12

Lonestar Business Park, Dallas, Texas

(D MINUS 94)

Salah Madani stared out the dark, tinted windows of his rented office. He had a perfect view of the busy airport just across the road. Jets in different corporate and airline colors lumbered by, some heading for runways, others for the terminals and air freight buildings. Voices crackled through a bank of radio receivers tuned to the frequencies used by air traffic controllers, ground crews, and the airport’s security personnel.

More than 50 million passengers and hundreds of thousands of tons of cargo flew in and out of the Dallas/Fort Worth airport each year. Dozens of hotels, warehouses, and office complexes bordered its outer perimeter all built to profit from their proximity to the world’s second busiest airport.

But Madani and the men in his action cell were not interested in profit. The office suite they had leased the week before offered a secure location from which to monitor airport operations and security. Operating in shifts, they maintained an around-the-clock surveillance, accumulating data on approach and departure flight paths, police activity, and ground traffic.

The risk of discovery was minimal. As the region’s economy rose and fell and businesses prospered or went bankrupt, tenants moved in and out with astonishing frequency. So the local landlords were used to a high turnover. More important, they valued clients who paid well and in advance.

The Egyptian watched an airport police patrol car cruise slowly down the wire fence that marked the airport’s perimeter. He noted the time and typed another entry into the laptop computer on the desk beside him.

He pursed his lips, considering what he and his comrades had learned so far. For anyone used to operating in security-conscious Europe or the Middle East, the Americans seemed almost unbelievably lax. They relied almost entirely on a few television cameras and an occasional sweep by the airport police. That was all. Amazing. How could they be so overconfident? So stupid?