Hostile Dawn

Bold threats put America's elite counterterrorist unit Stony Man on the front lines of a war in which fanatics pursue twisted ideology and spilled blood. These cybernetic and commando teams work under the radar and in the hot zones to neutralize threats before innocent citizens pay the ultimate price.

Rogue organizations are banding together to attack their common enemy on a new front. New Dawn Rising is a team of terrorists from the Middle East, Africa and Asia. Los Angeles their the target, where a violent assault is about to simultaneously take out, take over... and wreak mass terror.

Special thanks and acknowledgment to Ron Renauld for his contribution to this work.

Chapter One

Winter had come early to the Blue Ridge Mountains. The peaks were capped white, and the overnight snowfall had left three inches of fresh powder at the lower elevations. As Barbara Price waved to the security detail manning the front gate to Stony Man's Shenandoah Valley compound, she saw one of the blacksuits maneuvering a trailer plow down the long driveway leading to the main house. The gabled structure looked, to the eye, much like any number of other isolated manors she'd passed on the drive from Baltimore, where she'd just spent a rare four-day weekend away from her duties as mission controller for the Farm's Sensitive Operations Group. It had been good to get away, but Price was dedicated to her work and looked forward to padding her clipboard with the latest intel and logistics data needed to oversee covert operations being carried out by the men of Able Team and Phoenix Force.

A portion of the Farm's private landing strip had been plowed clear, as well, and Price had just eased her Jeep Cherokee to a stop near the house when she saw a Bell 206 Long Ranger helicopter flutter down from the leaden skies overhead, raising up clouds of dry snow as it zeroed in on the clearing. After tucking her shoulder-length, honey-blond hair inside her parka, Price stepped out into the crisp, twenty-degree morning air. She strode past the dormant snow-covered produce gardens, reaching the chopper just as Hal Brognola was disembarking. Brognola, SOG's director of operations, was a tall, middle-aged man with graying temples and well-earned furrows creasing his broad forehead.

Price smiled. "Four days is a 'breather,' not a vacation. But we take what we can get."

The Sensitive Operations Group administrators passed through two checkpoints before reaching an underground tunnel that linked the main house with the Farm's Annex, a newer facility housed within the facade of a wood-chipping mill set on the east end of the property. They traversed the thousand-foot-long passageway in an electric cart, its muted purr allowing Brognola to bring Price up to date without raising his voice.

"We've still got the men working two fronts," Brognola explained. "Able Team's out in California, just north of L.A., near Barstow."

"We've got a lead that they're trying to get their hands on some explosives," Brognola said.

"Some paramilitary outfit," Brognola explained. "We intercepted something off their message board that sounded like a deal in the making. Unfortunately there were no details on a time or location, so we're going to have to sniff around and hope they tip their hand."

"I take it there was nothing about what al Qaeda has in mind if they can load up."

"Negative," Brognola admitted. "We still think they're targeting L.A., but since they're roaming around up there it might be they've got their eyes on the aqueduct. It's always been vulnerable, and there are tons of places up there where they'd have easy access to it."

"That's one theory," Brognola said. "CIA thinks they could be targeting the freeways, and the Bureau's hunch is there might still be something to all that talk about hitting a shopping mall."

"Any one of those would be a nightmare," Price said with a shudder that had only partly to do with the lack of heat in the illuminated passageway. Reaching the far end of the tunnel, Brognola and Price left the cart and headed to the next security checkpoint.

"As for Phoenix Force," the SOG director continued, "they're in Damascus. A Hamas sect just kidnapped an American reporter for U.S. Global News."

"I read about that," Price confessed. "He was looking into claims that Iran's shuttling nuclear materials to Syria one step ahead of IAEC inspectors."

"Not only that," Brognola said. "He was running with the theory that they were using the same conduit Hussein used to smuggle WMAs out of Iraq back before we came sniffing around."

"Provided he lives to write about it," said Brognola. "We need to hope Hamas is trying to interrogate the guy and didn't just whack him. Otherwise they're going to be lying in wait for Phoenix."

* * *

Trareq Creek Nursery, located on hilly terrain two miles west of the Old City in Damascus, had been shut down for nearly a year. Most of its inventory had been transferred to a newer, larger facility closer to the Syrian capital's suburban sprawl, but rainfall and a steady supply of water from mountain-fed streams that wound through the abandoned parcel had allowed those plants and large shrubs left behind to thrive. The overgrown, unpruned foliage had provided adequate cover for the men of Phoenix Force as they closed in on their target, a large greenhouse set back toward the rear of the nursery. Ivy and bougainvillea had overrun the greenhouse, covering most of its dust-caked glass panels. Parked next to the outbuilding was a late-model Subaru station wagon. It matched the description of the vehicle used by Hamas terrorists who, less than twelve hours ago, had kidnapped U.S. Global News reporter Walter Ferris in the parking lot outside the Damascus Venata Hotel.

Two of the terrorists were standing guard outside the greenhouse, one posted near the main doorway, the other up on a raised catwalk spanning the length of the glass enclosure's arched roof. The nursery was located in the flight path of a small airfield less than a mile to the north, and while casing out the grounds in preparation for their attack, Phoenix Force had noticed that whenever a plane or tourist chopper ventured past, the ground sentry would duck inside the greenhouse while his counterpart on the catwalk retreated from view beneath the cover of a large acacia tree whose leafy branches extended over the glass structure. The U.S. covert op team had also determined that one of the sightseeing copters flew by the nursery at the same time every two hours. Locking in that time frame, the five-man crew had hastily sketched a battle plan.

Now, with the chopper due to make its next scheduled run past the terrorists' hideout in less than a minute, it was time to put the plan into motion.

Gary Manning had already made it to a toolshed at the far end of the greenhouse. He knew that Calvin James and T. J. Hawkins were somewhere out on the grounds, closing in. Once they were in position, they would use their earbud transceivers to give the green light to Rafael Encizo, who lay prone on a raised knoll less than fifty yards away, his M-110, suppressor-equipped sniper rifle trained on a hazy pane of glass through which he could see Hamas agents pacing around their chair-bound hostage. As for Phoenix's team leader, David McCarter had tracked down the Damascus Sky Tours office at the nearby airport and arranged for them to divert their next scheduled chopper tour from its usual course. Peering over the slanted roof of the toolshed, Manning could see one of the company's Eurocopter EC-135 helicopters headed toward the nursery, but he knew McCarter was the only one aboard.

This is it, Manning thought to himself, unsheathing a Heckler & Koch USP Tactical gun from his web holster. The drone of the approaching chopper grew louder as he rigged the handgun with a suppressor. Once the weapon was ready, the Canadian operative crept from behind the toolshed. The rear of the greenhouse faced south, and its glass panels had been covered with an opaque layer of reflective insulation: no one inside could see him as he clasped an upper rung of the mounted ladder leading up to the catwalk. Overhead, McCarter had just guided the Eurocopter over the nursery and was hovering in place above the acacia, flying low enough that Manning could feel the greenhouse shudder from the noise as well as the chopper's downdraft. The ladder vibrated, as well, masking Manning's weight as he began to climb up. Already he could see the sentry, back turned to him, staring up through the wavering tree branches. Manning climbed another rung higher, then raised his pistol, taking aim at the gap between the other man's shoulder blades. Once he heard the tinkling of glass to indicate that Encizo had fired the opening volley, he would pull the trigger.

* * *

Hamas feld leader Riri Sahn had just clipped Walter Ferris in the jaw with the stock of his Kalashnikov AK-47.

Dazed, Ferris spit blood as he sagged against the restraints binding him to the chair. He fought to remain conscious and glared at his abductors.

"I just told you!" he retorted, shouting to be heard above the helicopter that had just cast a shadow over the inside of the greenhouse. "I'm a travel reporter! I have no interest in terrorist issues!"

Two other Hamas agents stood near Sahn. A third had just come in from his post outside the main door.

"You think I haven't noticed!" Sahn yelled. He glanced up, trying to catch a glimpse of the chopper through the bougainvillea blanketing the glass-paneled roof. He was about to order the other men to investigate when one of the glass panes to his right shattered. A nanosecond later Sahn crumpled to the floor, his heart turned to chowder by a 7.62 mm NATO round.

The remaining three terrorists were still trying to process what had just happened when, over the drone of the Eurocopter, they heard a thud up on the catwalk transversing the greenhouse roof. As they glanced up, trying to pinpoint the sound, the greenhouse was suddenly rocked by the concussive force of two MK-3A-2 hand grenades landing on the north and south sides of the structure. Shock waves shattered the glass panels, leaving the surviving Hamas agents in clear view of their attackers.

The sentry who'd just entered the building reeled as he was strafed across the midsection by a fusillade from Hawkins's M-16. The remaining two terrorists were grabbing for their AK-47s when Manning dropped through one of the shattered roof panels. He landed hard on the dirt ground near the chair Walter Ferris was bound to.

Manning sprang forward the moment he landed, tackling Ferris to the ground. In the process, the Stony Man commando rammed his shoulder into a nearby plant stand. Several large terra-cotta containers crashed down on the Canadian, one striking his hip while another clipped the back of his head, rendering him unconscious. Before the surviving Hamas agents could have a go at him, both Hawkins and James raked the nursery interior with bursts from their M-16s. The terrorists went down, landing on their unfired assault rifles.

In all, less than eight seconds had passed from the time Rafael Encizo had slain Riri Sahn. In those eight seconds, Walter Ferris's fate had gone through a complete turnaround. Instead of facing certain torture and death, the reporter would now have a chance to complete the investigatory news story he'd spent the past four months working on.

Chapter Two

"Phoenix pulled it off," Barbara Price reported to her colleagues gathered inside the Annex Computer Room. She'd just finished speaking long-distance with David McCarter. "Ferris is safe and the Hamas squad was neutralized."

"Chalk another one up for the good guys," said Aaron Kurtzman, the wheelchair-bound head of SOG's crack team of cyberanalysts. He was seated at a workstation situated on the west side of the large subterranean chamber. Poised in front of their computers at other stations were Akira Tokaido, Carmen Delahunt and Huntington Wethers. Price stood in their midst, while Hal Brognola was off to one side, clicking away at a laptop as he wrapped up a long-distance call of his own, this one to Able Team commander Carl Lyons.

"Are the guys okay?" asked Delahunt, a fiery-spirited redhead in her late forties who'd come to Stony Man by way of a long, heralded tenure with the FBI.

"All but Gary," Price replied. "He's being looked at for a possible concussion and shoulder separation."

"By 'neutralized,' I take it there were no prisoners," Huntington Wethers said. The somber-faced African American was the same age as Delahunt, but he looked years older, his close-cropped hair having turned silver at the temples within a few years of taking an extended leave from his professorial chair at UC Berkeley. To explore the cutting edge of cybernetic intel gathering on behalf of his country was, for Wethers, not only a challenge but an honor, and if it had cost him his once youthful good looks, he considered it a small price to pay.

"It would have been nice to have someone to interrogate, but no," Price said. "David says their only option was to go in for the kill. He's flown Gary and Ferris to the hospital, but the others stayed behind and are combing the nursery for intel. Hopefully we'll have something to work with."

"And hopefully we can convince Ferris to cough up anything he knows instead of saving it for some damn scoop," said Akira Tokaido, the youngest member of the cybercrew. "The guy owes us."

"Apparently, Ferris had his jaw fractured by Hamas," Price said. "He's going under the knife and probably won't be up for questioning right away. Once he is, I'm sure McCarter will debrief him."

Across the room, Brognola removed a flash drive from his laptop and handed it to Kurtzman.

While Kurtzman transferred the files to his computer, Brognola addressed the others.

"We've got a sidebar of sorts regarding Able Team's assignment on the West Coast," he said. "It came up toward the end of the White House briefing, but there wasn't a lot of hard data available to back it up. Now we've got a little more to sink our teeth into."

Once Kurtzman had pulled up the photo file, he ran his cursor over the necessary commands to transfer an image to one of the large, flat-screen monitors lining the east wall. The collective Stony Man braintrust soon found itself staring at a booking mugshot of a man in his midthirties, head shaved, his thin, tight lips framed by a goatee the same dark color as his piercing, defiant eyes.

"He uses a handful of aliases, but his name is Kouri Ahmet," Brognola explained. "He's Lebanese by birth and has loose ties with both Hamas and Hezbollah, but all intel points to him being a freelancer. Over the years he's also dabbled with al Qaeda, Islamic Jihad and a handful of other terrorist outfits in the Far East. He specializes in assassinations but will tackle any job that suits his purposes."

"This was taken after his arrest three days ago in Mexico," Brognola said, passing along what he'd just learned from Lyons, who, in turn, had come upon the info through an L.A. contact with the FBI. "He was trying to broker a deal for a cache of Blinidicide-81 LAWs stolen from a military depot in La Paz. Apparently an informant turned on him and the Mexican authorities had him in custody when the Justice Department here flagged him on a conspiracy charge involving the secretary of state."

"I remember that," Tokaido said as he absently fingered the ink-black topknot rising from his scalp like an exclamation point. "Some sniper plot that was supposed to be carried out during the secretary's last trip to the Middle East, right?"

"Good memory," Brognola said. "We're not sure at this point what Ahmet planned to do with the LAWs, but the idea of him loading up on that kind of firepower just south of the border obviously has us concerned."

"Not to mention the secretary," Delahunt interjected. "If he thought it was bad having someone come after him with a rifle, imagine what he must think about being the crosshairs of an antitank rocket."

"Again, we're not certain who Ahmet was targeting," Brognola said. "He's being extradited and is already on a plane bound for the States. The Bureau wants to run him through interrogation and dangle leniency as bait in hopes he'll cop to what he was planning and finger some higher-ups."

"I assume one theory is that he was looking to bring those rocket launchers to the sleeper cell Able Team is looking for," Price ventured.

"It would make sense," Brognola said. "Like I said, Ahmet's a freelancer, so it's not a reach to think he'd throw in with al Qaeda. And the Mexican border is still porous enough to figure those LAWs were earmarked for L.A."

"Hopefully the Bureau will get to the bottom of it," Price said. "But I take it we're in the on-deck circle."

"Affirmative," Brognola said. "I pulled strings and arranged to have Ahmet flown up to Edwards Air Force Base near Barstow instead of L.A."

"Where Able Team just so happens to be in the neighborhood," Delahunt interjected.

Brognola nodded. "The Bureau will go by the book with Ahmet, but if that doesn't work, we've got the green light to let Ironman have a go at him."

Chapter Three

It was only after he'd put the Gulfstream back on autopilot that Kouri Ahmet began to come down off the adrenaline rush that had powered his desperate ploy to thwart his extradition to Los Angeles. As he sat back in the jet's cockpit, waiting for his pulse to return to normal, the Lebanese expatriate thought back on the past several minutes, savoring details that, at the time, had flashed by in a blur.

The small government transport jet had hit a pocket of turbulence shortly after crossing the Mexican border and when the Gulfstream had begun to rock, Ahmet had taken note of the U.S. Air Marshal's distraction and made his move. Bolting from his seat, the terrorist had lunged across the aisle and burrowed his shoulder into the other man's solar plexis, knocking the wind from his lungs. That had bought Ahmet the time necessary to draw his shackled hands beneath his waist and wriggle them forward until his arms were no longer pinned behind his back. The marshal was still disoriented when Ahmet had rendered him unconscious, using the handcuffs as a makeshift garrote. It had all happened in a matter of seconds, and by the time the plane had cleared the turbulence, Ahmet was on his feet, the officer's 9 mm Colt pistol clenched in his fist. The door to the cockpit had been locked, but two well-placed rounds had given him access to the pilot. The pilot had been armed, but Ahmet had put a bullet through his skull before he'd had a chance to reach his gun. Though hindered by his ankle cuffs, the prisoner had managed to drag the other man from his seat and take over the controls long enough to bring the plane to a lower altitude. Once he'd set the Gulfstream on autopilot, he'd hauled the pilot back into the main cabin. By then, the marshal had regained consciousness, but Ahmet had quickly finished him off with a gunshot to the heart. After opening the outer door, he'd disposed of the bodies — first the marshal, then the pilot. Suddenly, in a matter of moments, the terrorist's doomed future had taken a dramatic turn.

Ahmet had boarded the plane back in La Paz with no set escape plan, but now, with the plane back up to twenty thousand feet on a diverted course toward Riverside County, Ahmet reflected that it was unlikely that any orchestrated attempt could have succeeded any better than the gambit he'd just executed. Some would have attributed such good fortune to serendipity, but for Ahmet it was the guiding hand of God that had intervened on his behalf. He offered up a quick prayer of thanks, then ceased his ruminations. There was, after all, work to be done. Ahmet was still in shackles, dressed in a telltale prison-orange jumpsuit at the controls of a plane that soon, no doubt, would be the object of an intense aerial manhunt. Yes, he'd overpowered his captors and placed himself more in control of his fate, but the renegade knew that he was still a long way from being free.

* * *

Hal Brognola and Barbara Price were halfway through the tunnel leading back to the main house when the Stony Man director received the news on his earbud transceiver.

On Brognola's signal, Price turned the electric cart around and headed back toward the Annex. Brognola, meanwhile, wrapped up his long-distance call with Able Team's interim pilot, Jack Grimaldi, who was on the other side of the continent, manning the controls of a loaner F-16 fighter jet he'd just lifted off the runway at Edwards Air Force Base.

"Yes, by all means intercept him if you can," Brognola said, reaching into his trench coat for a plastic-wrapped cigar. "With any luck, he's still airborne."

"He doesn't have much of a jump on us," Grimaldi replied. "Hell, we were already out on the runway waiting for him when we got the word."

"Still, there's a lot of airspace between Barstow and San Diego," Brognola said. "I'll get Camp Pendleton to send somebody up to help out."

"We'd obviously like him alive for questioning, but do what you have to. We can't let him get away."

When he heard Grimaldi click off, Brognola silenced his earbud transceiver and peeled the wrapper from the cigar. There'd been a time, years ago, when he smoked expensive, hand-rolled Havanas, but now cigars were nothing more to him than a prop, something to keep his hands busy at times, like this, when the going got tough and his nerves were rattled.

"Something went wrong with Ahmet's transfer," Price said. It was more a statement than a question. She'd already deduced what had happened from listening to Brognola's side of the conversation.

"Afraid so," the big Fed replied, rolling the cigar between his fingers. "Some college kids near San Diego just came across two bodies that dropped out of the sky at a park near there. One's the pilot of the transfer plane and the other's the federal Air Marshal who was guarding Ahmet. They'd both been shot with the marshal's pistol. We have to assume Ahmet's behind it, which means he's on the loose in a Gulfstream 100."

"It shouldn't have happened." Price parked the cart and both she and Brognola retraced their steps to the Computer Room. "You'd think they would have had the guy chained to his seat with more than one guard watching him."

"You'd think so," Brognola conceded. "But apparently the idea was to go easy on the restraints in hopes of buttering him up. Not a great idea in my book, and I'm sure somebody's being called on the carpet about it as we speak."

"As well they should," Price said. "Now, instead of having Ahmet dropped in their lap, Able Team has to go out and find him."

Chapter Four

"This is more like it," Jack Grimaldi said, speaking through his headset microphone with Able Team commander Carl Lyons, seated behind him in the gunner seat of the F-16 fighter jet.

"Yeah, I'll take a weapons pylon over those damn recliner seats any day," Lyons said, staring out the gunner window at the rugged desert terrain below. "Now let's just hope we can track this scumbag down. The longer he stays off our radar, the better his chances of getting away."

"Pedal's to the metal," Grimaldi said, opening the jet's throttles. "If he's still in the air when we spot him, he won't be able to outrun us."

"The Marines are closer," Lyons said, "but at this point I don't care who gets him, as long as he's taken out of the mix. Finding the rock al Qaeda's hiding under is hard enough without splitting our focus."

Able Team's search for the sleeper cell in Barstow had produced only limited results. They'd managed to secure an address linked to Army Gideon, the paramilitary group rumored to be offering explosives to the al Qaeda team, but when they'd raided the site, located a few miles to the south in Oro Grande, they'd found the place deserted. There'd been traces of gunpowder on the property, and a day-old newspaper had been found stashed in a trash barrel along with scraps of fast food that had yet to spoil, convincing Lyons and the others that the compound had been only recently evacuated.

A visit to the burger franchise matching the food wrappers had determined that the meals had been purchased by Gideon members rather than the al Qaeda team, but Able Team had chanced upon a lead soon after when they'd stopped for gas at the only service station in the area. They learned the cashier had sold a handful of maps to a man who roughly matched the description of Mousif Nouhra, the purported field leader for the al Qaeda team. The maps had been for the L.A. freeway system, lending credence to the theory that the terrorists were hoping to somehow cripple the city's transportation network. Nouhra had also apparently asked for directions to southbound 1-15, suggesting that the terrorists were headed back to Los Angeles.

Lyons's colleagues, Rosario "Politician" Blancanales and Hermann "Gadgets" Schwarz, had already headed back to L.A., armed with a description of Nouhra's Dodge Caravan. After receiving word of Kouri Ahmet's aerial escape, Lyons had called both men, advising them to switch gears and provide ground support in the search for the Lebanese fugitive. The plan now was for Blancanales and Schwarz to check out private airfields south of L.A. on the chance Ahmet would decide to quickly land the hijacked Gulfstream and seek out another avenue of escape.

As Grimaldi gunned the F-16 across the desert between Barstow and L.A., Lyons changed frequencies on his headset transceiver and touched base with Blancanales.

"I'm on the 405, just passing through Westwood," Blancanales reported. "Once I hit the '10' split, I'm going to dog it east toward San Bernardino. Gadgets is a few miles ahead of me. He'll keep heading south. We'll update you once we reach the airfields."

"Good enough," Lyons responded. "If we spot our guy from up here, I'll let you know so you can change course."

"But, if you happen to spot that Caravan out on the road, by all means forget about Ahmet and run an intercept."

Grimaldi had powered the fighter jet over the freeway and toward a relatively uninhabited mountain region when a call came in from a MAG-39 pilot from Camp Pendleton who'd taken another F-16 to the sky in search of Kouri Ahmet.

"I have visual contact with the Gulfstream," the Marine pilot reported. When he gave his position, Grimaldi was quick to respond.

Grimaldi banked the fighter jet and veered eastward toward the wilderness stretching between Hemet and Palm Springs. A few minutes later, both the Marine jet and the hijacked Gulfstream appeared on the horizon.

"Looks like showtime," Grimaldi told Lyons through his headset. He patched through to the other pilot and asked, "Any word from Ahmet?"

"Negative," the pilot answered. "I've put through calls telling the guy to bring the plane down and surrender, but he's incommunicado."

Grimaldi nosed the Fighting Falcon and dropped another thousand feet before leveling off on a course parallel to that of the Gulfstream. Behind him, at the gunner controls, Lyons lined up the other plane in his sights.

"Try again," Grimaldi said, inching still closer to the other craft. "There's nobody in the cockpit. Bastard has the thing on autopilot!"

"That's gotta be it," Grimaldi replied. "And unlike the guys he tossed, I'm guessing he bailed with a parachute."

* * *

Kouri Ahmet had just finished stuffing his wadded parachute into a narrow crevasse deep in the heart of the San Jacinto Wilderness Preserve when he'd spotted the first of his aerial pursuers. He'd crawled beneath a jutting outcrop as one of the fighter jets had passed overhead and now, moments later, he heard a distant explosion in the air. His feet still tethered close together by ankle cuffs, Ahmet shuffled from cover and stared over the treetops, just in time to catch a glimpse of the disintegrated remains of the Gulfstream he'd hijacked earlier. The shards were raining from the sky, leaving behind a dark cloud of smoke. There was a second fighter jet in the sky, headed south, away from the falling debris.

Ahmet cursed. He'd figured the Gulfstream would wind up being shot down, but he'd hoped it would have taken longer for the enemy to realize he'd abandoned the aircraft. Any moment now, he knew both jets would likely double back, on the lookout for him. The jets' surveillance capacities would be hindered by their speed and the need to fly at a high altitude, but it would be only a matter of time before helicopters were called in to assist in the search. Ahmet knew he would have to act fast to avoid being captured.

As he'd parachuted to the ground, the fugitive had spotted a campground to the north, and it was in that direction that he now headed, taking a circuitous route dictated by the rambling oak frees he took cover beneath, hoping their thick canopy would conceal him from view by those looking down from overhead. He was still wearing his prison-orange jumpsuit, and his hands, like his ankles, were still bound by cuffs. It would be impossible for anyone to see him and not realize he was an escaped prisoner.

Armed with the two Colt pistols he'd taken from the men he'd killed when taking over the Gulfstream, Ahmet made his way cautiously across the unruly terrain, stopping briefly when he heard the two jets pass by in quick succession. Once the drone of their turbos faded, he broke from cover and continued toward the campground. As with his escape, he had no set plan. All he knew was that he needed to gain access to some kind of vehicle. If he could get behind the wheel and out on an open road, it would then be only a matter of making his way to a main thoroughfare. There he could get lost in traffic and buy the time he needed to contact the allies he knew were hiding out only a short drive from where he'd chosen to bail from the jet.

The opportunity Ahmet had been seeking presented itself a few minutes later. Following the treeline, the fugitive had straggled up a slight incline overlooking a narrow, well-trodden path. When he heard the steady pounding of a hammer, Ahmet dropped to his knees and inched toward the edge of the incline. Downhill, thirty yards to his right, a park ranger was using a sledgehammer to drive fence posts into holes he'd augered in the hard-packed soil. A roll of wire fencing lay on the ground next to him. From the looks of it, the ranger was preparing to close off a section of the trail. He was working alone, his back turned to Ahmet, wearing a noise-reduction headset to mute the sound of his pounding. As if that weren't enough reason to rally the renegade's spirits, a set of bolt cutters lay atop the fence roll and, another ten yards away, a Ford F-150 pickup bearing the stenciled logo of the State Forestry Service was parked under the shade of a eucalyptus tree.

Ahmet rose to a crouch and, still hindered by his ankle restraints, awkwardly advanced along the incline. Once he was standing directly above the ranger, he coiled his legs, waiting for the right moment to strike. As the ranger began to bring the sledge bearing down on the post, Ahmet made his move. He leaped forward, arms outstretched, one knee extended in front of the other.

The ranger had just struck the post when Ahmet collided with him, driving his knee into the other man's spine. He brought his hands down hard, making sure that the exposed butt of each handgun avoided the man's headset and connected squarely with his skull. The sledgehammer fell from the ranger's grasp as he collapsed under Ahmet's weight. The two men tumbled to the ground, and only one of them got back up.

Ahmet wasn't sure if he'd killed the ranger, but he wasn't about to take any chances. Setting down his two guns, he grabbed the sledgehammer and lofted it into the air, then brought it crashing down on the other man's head with a sickening thud.

By now Ahmet was bathed in sweat and breathing heavily, but there was no time to rest. He cast aside the sledgehammer and quickly snatched up the bolt cutters. Snipping the ankle restraints was easy enough, and with considerable more effort he was able to prop the cutters in such a way that they could chew their way through the links of his handcuffs. Liberated, he shook his legs and then waved his freed arms back and forth, loosening the stiffened muscles. Now able to move more freely, he dragged the ranger's body to the truck and maneuvered it up into the rear bed. Once he'd stripped the man of his uniform, Ahmet set the clothing aside and draped the body with a tarpaulin. He would worry about where to dispose of it later.

The fugitive backtracked to the fence posts for his stolen guns, then returned to the truck and quickly peeled off his sweat-drenched jumpsuit, stuffing it under the tarp next to the ranger's body.

The ranger had been slightly taller than Ahmet, and when he put on the dead man's clothes they fit loosely. It served the fugitive's purposes, as the long sleeves and pant legs enabled him to conceal the severed cuffs still clenched around his wrists and ankles.

The pickup's keys were in the ranger's pockets. Ahmet took them, climbed into the truck and set his two weapons on the bench seat beside him. He grinned with satisfaction as he started the engine and put the truck in reverse. So far, so good.

Backing away from the work area, Ahmet came to a dirt service road. He shifted gears and followed it northward, winding past the campground and mountain foothills, a cloud of dust trailing behind him. He made his way without incident, encountering no one until he reached the park entrance. There, another ranger was standing outside a small wooden shack stocked with parking stickers, brochures and maps of hiking trails. Normally, the man would have been posted inside, dealing with visitors as they entered the site. Due to fire conditions, however, the park was closed, as Ahmet realized when he saw a drawn gate barricading his way to the main road. The other ranger, it turned out, was taking advantage of the closure to paint the shack's clapboard exterior.

Ahmet cursed under his breath as he approached the shack. Reducing his speed, he took one hand from the wheel and grabbed a wide-brimmed hat resting on the seat beside the two pistols. He propped the hat on his head, brim pulled down low. He doubted the ruse would work, but if it bought him a few seconds, that would be all he'd need.

The pickup had come to within twenty yards of the shack when the other ranger turned from his painting and glanced Ahmet's way. Head bowed slightly, the fugitive offered a slight wave, taking care not to expose the handcuff tucked beneath his shirtsleeve. The ranger glanced fleetingly at Ahmet and waved back nonchalantly. He was about to return to his painting when he did an apparent double-take and looked back. Confirming that an impostor was driving the truck, the ranger dropped his paintbrush and grabbed for the walkie-talkie clipped to his waist.

Before the ranger could send out a distress call, Ahmet fired twice, pumping two 9 mm rounds into the man's chest. The ranger staggered backward, bounding off the shack and then falling to the ground, fresh paint imprinted on the back of his uniform.

Ahmet shifted into neutral and jammed the parking brake, then bounded out, quickly dragging the ranger to the back of the truck. He dropped the tailgate and strained again as he hoisted his latest victim up onto the truck bed. He shoved the corpse next to that of the ranger he'd killed earlier, then raided the man's pockets for his keys and wallet. Once he'd covered the bodies and raised the tailgate, he went to the gate, trying seven different keys before he found the one that worked the lock. He swung the gates open, then drove through to the other side and brought the truck to another stop, getting out long enough to close the gates behind him.

Moments later, he was on the main road, heading for the two-lane highway that, in time, would take him to the major arterial freeways. Once there, he would head west and meet up with Mousif Nouhra and the members of his al Qaeda sleeper cell. Yes, they would be disappointed that he'd failed in his attempt to smuggle in rocket launchers from Mexico, but once they learned of his daring escape, he was sure that they would be impressed enough to abide by his supervision. There was, after all, a mission still to be carried out.

Chapter Five

"Bastard slipped through the cracks," Aaron Kurtzman groused as he filled his coffee grinder.

A high-pitched whine sounded throughout the Computer Room as Kurtzman ground the beans. Carmen Delahunt glanced up from her keyboard and grinned at the burly strategist.

"Your brain would probably make for a better cup of coffee than whatever Bear's whipping up," Akira Tokaido quipped without taking his eyes off his computer screen.

"I'm feeling the love," Kurtzman said, taking the wisecracks in stride. His addiction to superstrong coffee was a running joke among the cybercrew, and he was more than willing to let himself be the butt their humor. It was, after all, a more benign way of managing the inevitable stress of their jobs than throwing things or hitting walls.

The "task" was deciding how best to proceed in dealing with Kouri Ahmet's ground escape after the Lebanese renegade had bailed from the hijacked Gulfstream that had been transporting him back to the States to stand trial on conspiracy charges. Able Team's Pol Blancanales and Gadgets Schwarz had arrived at the San Jacinto Wilderness Preserve within an hour after Ahmet's getaway plane had been shot down, and, working in tandem with a search party made up of county sheriff officers, FBI agents and helicopters from the Camp Pendleton Marine base, they'd undertaken an intensive dragnet of the rugged terrain where it had been determined that Ahmet had most likely touched down. With aerial help from the search copters, the runaway's parachute had been tracked down in an isolated ravine and footprints had led to a spot where blood on the ground hinted at the likelihood that Ahmet had overpowered a forest ranger as a means of continuing his escape. Two rangers were reported missing along with a Forest Service pickup. An APB was out for the truck as well as for Ahmet, but so far there had been no sightings. It was dark now on the West Coast, and with each passing minute the trail was getting colder.

"Carl and Jack just caught up with Rosario and Gadgets," Huntington Wethers, the third member of the Farm's cyberteam, reported. He was on the phone with Lyons, linked to Able Team's field leader by way of a scrambled signal. "They want to leave Ahmet to the Bureau for now and focus on tracking down that al Qaeda cell."

"Tell them to go ahead," Brognola advised. "But if Ahmet comes back on radar, I'll want them to be ready to shift gears again."

"If you ask me, if they're looking for al Qaeda there's a good chance they'll bump into Ahmet anyway," Kurtzman stated. "I still think there's got to be a link there somewhere."

As Wethers tapped his headset to pass along instructions, Brognola unwrapped another of his cigars. He began working it between his fingers as he turned to Delahunt.

"Anything on that arms deal Ahmet was involved in when he was arrested? Was he buying or selling?"

Delahunt nodded. "It took some doing but we've traced the currency back to an offshore account in the Caymans. The bank there is stonewalling, but we've got records on them brokering a lot of action with heavyweights in the Middle East, including a Lebanese financier who's been funding Hezbollah training camps in the Bekaa Valley."

Brognola frowned. "That reporter Phoenix just freed from Hamas... Wasn't he looking into an angle about Lebanon being in the loop on those nuclear materials Iran is shuttling out of the country?"

"Now that you mention it, yeah," Delahunt replied. "You think these training camps might figure in?"

"Hold on," Kurtzman interjected. "Let me make sure I'm following this. We're saying Iran's moving nuclear materials to Lebanon by way of Iraq and Syria?"

"That's what Ferris claims," Brognola said. "I haven't had a look at his sources or what kind of intel he's working with, but that's the corridor he's talking about."

"But do you see what I'm getting at?" Kurtzman said. "The northern provinces in Iraq are al Qaeda strongholds these days. Syria's underworld is run by Hamas. And in Lebanon we've got Hezbollah calling the shots. Granted, those folks all would like nothing better than to see us flushed down the toilet, but it's not like they're working hand-in-hand."

"Or are they?" Barbara Price spoke up. "It's not like Ferris is some crackpot. He's got a track record for solid reporting, so if he's putting this out as some cooperative effort, we need to start rethinking a few things."

"None of them good," Brognola added. "Factionalism between those groups has always been one thing holding them in check. The last thing we need is them rallying behind the same game plan."

"Ain't that the truth," Kurtzman piped in over the gurgling of his coffeemaker. "And the idea of those groups breaking bread together is bad enough.

Brognola nodded gravely. The implications of Walter Ferris's news story had a bearing not only on the situation in the Middle East but the one in California, as well.

"Kouri Ahmet is Lebanese," he recalled, thinking out loud. "If you're going to lump him in with some terrorist outfit, it's Hezbollah or Hamas. But if it turns out he's in cahoots with that al Qaeda cell in L.A., that already proves half of Ferris's theory."

"Hang on, everyone," Akira Tokaido interrupted. While the others had been brainstorming, he'd been clicking away at his keyboard, culling through the Farm's databases for cross-links between Ahmet and a possible transport conduit between Iran and Lebanon. He'd found something.

"Get this," the young hacker told his counterparts. "Ahmet trained in Bekaa Valley at a Hezbollah camp near Baalbek. I've got the place linked to funding from a Lebanese financier named Nasrallah Kassem. That ring a bell with anyone?"

"Here," Delahunt said. "That's the money guy behind those accounts in the Caymans I was just talking about."

"I've heard of him, too," Brognola said. "Yes, he's a Hezbollah sympathizer, but he's made his fortune off the Tokyo Stock Exchange and deals in the Far East."

"See what you can find on Kassem's Pac-Rim dealings and run them through the Caymans mix," Brognola suggested.

Tokaido interrupted again. "Before we go there, can we stay focused on Lebanon for a minute?"

"I've got nothing on Ahmet's movements for a week prior to his arrest," Tokaido responded, referring to one of the tracking files he'd just called up. "But I've got a blip from CIA putting him in Lebanon last Tuesday. Baalbek to be exact."

"Right," Tokaido said. "And I'm guessing Kassem has a home in the city there. Or at least some kind of office."

"I don't know what the game plan is for Phoenix now that they've wrapped up in Damascus," Tokaido said, "but Baalbek's just on the other side of the mountains."

"I hear you," Brognola said. As the big Fed wandered over to the far wall, Price glanced at Tokaido and offered a taunting smile.

"No way," Tokaido said, grinning back. "I'm just after some brownie points and a little something extra in my Christmas stocking."

By the time Brognola had reached the monitor depicting a world map, Kurtzman had already read the SOG director's mind and zoomed the graphic to focus on a large, detailed view of the border linking Lebanon with Syria. Brognola studied the map a moment, then turned back to the others.

"Okay," he began, "we've got Ahmet in Baalbek a week ago and in La Paz a few days later. It stands to reason he flew out of Lebanon and stopped off in the Caymans to pick up the cash for the arms deal. Carmen, go ahead and run with that. Factor in Kassem but try to find who Ahmet's contact there was. Airline checks, hotels, cab logs... the whole nine yards."

Brognola turned to Tokaido. "I heard you and, yes, you'll get your brownie points and stocking staffers. Sending Phoenix into Lebanon is definitely the way to go."

"Have McCarter packet any hard copy intel over to Fisk at the CIA branch in Damascus," Brognola told Price. "Apprise them on what we've come up with, then put them on the move, ASAP. If word's gotten out about us taking out that Hamas team, there are going to be a lot of shredders working overtime trying to destroy evidence. Hopefully, Phoenix can get there quick enough to find us something."

"Where do you want them to focus first?" Price asked. "Kassem or the training camp?"

"The camp," Brognola said. "It's probably a reach, but with any luck, Kassem will be there and we can kill two birds with one stone."

"It'll give them a chance to try out Cowboy's Gopher Snake, too," Kurtzman suggested. "They didn't use it in Damascus, right?"

"The camp's definitely the way to go," Tokaido called, staring at his monitor. "Kassem will have to wait for another day. According to what I've got here, he's out of the country on business."

Chapter Six

Nasrallah Kassem was in his midsixties but felt twenty years younger and had doled out a fortune on plastic surgery in hopes of proving it. The results were dubious. Yes, he'd rid himself of a few worry lines as well as some flab below his chin, but one too many facelifts had drawn his olive skin so taut that it looked almost as if the next time he shaved he'd find himself scraping raw bone. Skull-faced beneath a crop of thick, well-coiffed hair dyed the color of charcoal, the vain financier cradled a snifter of cognac in his manicured hand as he held court with the two men seated across from him on the terrace of his high-rise penthouse overlooking the maritime bustle of Victoria Harbour. The lavish quarters was just one of eight furnished residences Kassem maintained around the globe. All but two were in the Middle East or along the Pacific Rim; another was in Libya and the last, a twenty-two-million dollar ocean-view estate overseen by his daughter, Sana, was in the Cayman Islands.

The two men with Kassem were Gohn Len, a tall, lanky Intelligence Bureau chief for the People's Liberation Army, and Pasha Yarad, Iran's balding, stoop-shouldered Deputy Minister of Defense. The three men had all been in proximity to Hong Kong when they'd received the news regarding Ahmet's escape during his extradition to California and had agreed to meet on short notice to discuss the ramifications. They were speaking in French, the one language with which they all had at least a passing familiarity.

"While it's fortunate that Ahmet eluded the Americans, the fact that he's in the States empty-handed is a setback, without question," Kassem said. "I'm confident, however, that we can secure alternative firepower for the mission in Los Angeles. We have other sources, after all."

"I have no doubt that we have the connections to get other weapons," Yarad told the Lebanese businessman as he helped himself to another few grapes from a sumptuous fruit platter set on the table along with a basket of fresh-baked pastries and croissants. The frfty-year-old Iranian was in his element on the topic of munitions and glad for the chance to speak from a position of authority. "And while the Blindicides were convenient enough, any number of LAWs would serve our purposes just as well. AT-4s, RPGs..."

"Agreed," Kassem said, tactfully cutting off Yarad. "But the thought was that it would be more expedient than other options to smuggle LAWs into the States from Mexico."

"Somebody obviously thought wrong," Len retorted, his sallow face contorted into a look that lay somewhere between contempt and annoyance.

"Yes," Kassem conceded, "obviously Ahmet's connections in La Paz should have been better scrutinized. He relied on the wrong people. But you know his track record. Dozens of missions, all carried out like clockwork."

"Perhaps," Len said, "but apparently this time he did a poor job of setting his clock."

Kassem knew Len was baiting him. Of the nineteen leaders comprising the New Dawn Rising coalition, the Chinese officer was, hands-down, the most contentious and uncompromising, and Kassem wasn't the only member concerned that Len's positions were dictated by Beijing's conceit that, given time, they would be able to achieve most of their objectives without the help of others. Kassem was determined not to allow Len's recalcitrance govern the impromptu meeting. Rather than rise to the PLA officer's bait, the elderly businessman paused and quietly sipped his cognac, savoring its cloying warmth on his tongue before swallowing. Then, reaching into the pocket of a tailored silk suit he'd purchased just days before in Hong Kong's garment district, Kassem casually withdrew a filigreed silver cigarette case and helped himself to an unfiltered Pall Mall. When he held out the case to his colleagues, both Len and Yarad shook their heads. Kassem shrugged and lit his cigarette. When he spoke, it was with a nonchalance as calculated as the way in which he'd convinced the others to meet on his home turf.

"Placing Ahmet in charge of this operation was your idea," the intelligence chief persisted.

The intelligence officer's face flushed. He was about to respond but thought better of it. Jaw clenched, Len instead clamped his long, coarse fingers around a ceramic teacup filled with green tea and brought it to his lips. It was all he could do to keep his hand from trembling with anger.

The youngest of three men, Len looked uncomfortable, not only with the situation, but also with being trapped inside his ill-fitting brown suit. Kassem was sure the Asian would have preferred to show up in his medal-encrusted PLA uniform so as to give an appearance of greater cache, but such attire would have drawn unwanted attention in this, an apartment building leased out primarily to business executives. Holding the meeting here had been Kassem's suggestion, and seeing to it that Len came dressed in civilian attire had been but another of the many small ploys the Lebanese entrepreneur had relied upon to place himself at a tactical advantage over his colleagues.

Just as he'd compromised Len by putting him in a suit, Kassem's insistence that they speak in French came at the expense of Yarad, easily the least fluent of the three and therefore forced to ask the others to repeat themselves and speak in rudimentary sentences. And, when they'd first come out to sit on the terrace, Kassem had been shrewd enough to take a seat placing his back to the harbor, forcing the other two men to contend with the glare of the late-afternoon sun whenever they looked his way.

"This is not the time for second-guessing," he said, siding with Kassem for the moment. "We came here to settle on a course of action and pass it along to the others. I suggest we focus our efforts there and leave the hindsight for another day."

The ball was in Len's court. He set down his cup and crossed his arms across his chest. "Very well," he said gruffly. "I'm listening."

Kassem was more amused than put off by Len's petulance. Rather than fuel it, he left the floor to Yarad.

"Our main concern should be verifying that our teams are in place and still ready to carry out the operation," the Iranian said.

Kassem assured Yarad, "Ahmet was in constant contact with the teams up to the time of his arrest. Things were proceeding on schedule. I also made a few calls to the States before you arrived. There have been no other problems aside from those involving Ahmet."

"But Ahmet masterminded this whole plot," Len countered, quick to resume the role of devil's advocate. "He's the go-between for all the groups we have in place in California. Can we really be sure all these different teams will be able to carry things out without his supervision?"

"Your point is well taken," Kassem conceded, feeling it best to throw Len this one small bone. "And yes, it would be for the best if Ahmet were available to oversee things. God willing, he'll elude capture and meet up with one of the teams shortly. But at the moment, that is something beyond our control. Which is why we need to come back to the matter of securing other weapons. It will take more than conventional firearms or explosives for the plan to be carried out the way it was drawn up."

"Understood," Yarad responded. "Then let's concentrate on supplying the teams with what they'll need. You were just saying you had access to other suppliers."

Kassem nodded. "I've already made a few calls. I should have word back shortly. If none of those options seem viable, I can tap into the arsenals of one of my training camps back in Lebanon. The concern there, as before, is the time frame and transport logistics. We need to carry out the attack in a few days."

"Not so fast." Gohn Len stood and moved to one side, taking shelter from the sun beneath an awning that reached out over the terrace. Kassem smiled indulgently, as if to acknowledge his awareness that Len was trying to gain leverage by putting his six-foot frame on display.

Len took a moment, choosing his words carefully. Finally he said, "Given what's happened, I think we should reconsider the whole operation. Why attempt it now when there is too wide a margin for failure?"

"Because this is an ideal opportunity," Yarad reminded the Chinese officer. "How many chances will we get to have all our enemies rounded up under one roof?"

"The Frazier Group meets annually," Len countered impatiently. "We can wait and try again next year!"

"You may be fine with waiting that long," the deputy minister said, "but I, for one, want to see this taken care of now rather than later. Too much can happen in a year. With every day that passes, there is a greater risk that our coalition will be found out. If that happens, all our work — everything we've done to put ourselves in this position — will have been in vain."

Kassem narrowed his eyes and stared through a wreath of smoke at his colleagues, doing his best to restrain himself. Did it always have to be like this? Squabbling and bickering, everyone at cross-purposes? How were they ever to achieve the kind of change they wanted if they couldn't get past their own differences?

"I'll confer with the others," he finally told Len and Yarad, stubbing out his cigarette in a gesture of finality. "We'll take their input into consideration and hopefully have some sort of consensus. In the meantime, though, I think the smart course is to proceed as planned. A plot of this magnitude can always be called off at the last minute, but if we're going to carry it out, the pieces need to be in place."

Both Kassem and the Iranian stared at their Chinese counterpart. Len hesitated, picking up his ceramic cup and taking one last, long sip. The tea had gone cold and left a bitter taste in his mouth. He swallowed it nonetheless, unnerved by the sense that he was swallowing his pride, as well.

"If need be, I might be able to divert some rocket launchers from one of our covert installations in South America," he said, offering up an olive branch to his cohorts. "They could be cargoed in a way that it would be possible to have them delivered to one of the ports near Los Angeles."

Yarad stared at Len, incredulous. "This is the first mention of this as an option. Why didn't you bring it up before?"

Kassem saw an opportunity to ease the ill will between him and Len, and seized it.

"Whatever the case, thank you for the offer," he told the Asian. "We'll only take you up on it as a last resort, though. Fair enough?"

Len nodded tersely and grabbed the valise he'd brought with him to the meeting. "If we choose to go that way, I'll need to have laid some groundwork. I'd best get started. If you'll excuse me, I can show myself out."

"Of course," Kassem said. Both he and Yarad stood, offering Len a polite nod. Once the Asian had left, the Iranian turned to Kassem.

"Leave that to me," the elderly financier told Yarad. "And since we now have an opportunity to speak alone, this would be a good time to address another matter."

"Yes, I've been briefed," Yarad replied. "Those idiots failed to get any information from that reporter before they were killed off."

"Small consolation," Yarad groused. "We still have more components to smuggle out of Iran before the inspectors can catch scent of them. We need to know for sure whether we can still move everything through Iraq and Syria without detection."

Kassem shrugged. "If there are problems with the existing conduit, we'll improvise and find another way. It's the same as with securing rocket launchers for our teams in California. We have many options. It's one advantage of our having a coalition."

Yarad finished off the last of the grapes, then squinted against the glare of the sun, eyeing Kassem.

"You agree with me that it's imperative to follow through on our plan, yes?" he asked. "You weren't just siding with me to vex Gohn Len."

"I'm behind the plan," Kassem reassured the Iranian. "For the same reason as you. The timing is important. But we need to keep in mind that taking the Frazier Group off the playing field is only a first step. To bring the West completely to its knees, we'll need to be able to follow up and speak in a language they understand."

The Iranian smiled. "Trust me, when we have the bomb, the West will hear us loud and clear."

Chapter Seven

Secretary of State Roland Carruthers frowned with annoyance as he read over the NSA briefing he'd just received regarding the escape of Kouri Ahmet. He wasn't sure which infuriated him more, the fact that Ahmet was back on the loose or the circumstances that had allowed him to take control of the government jet bringing him to Los Angeles. He decided the latter was something he could more readily deal with, and within thirty seconds he was on the phone with FBI Director Eric Thompson, a longtime acquaintance and frequent golfing partner. Carruthers, a decorated Gulf War vet who'd parlayed his combat honors into a long-running political career, was never one to beat around the bush, and after a quick hello he got straight to the point.

"I don't want to hear anything about rationales," he told Thompson brusquely. "Whoever arranged Ahmet's transfer needs to get the ax."

"You got that right!" Carruthers snapped. "If it'd been my call, that two-bit son of a bitch would have had an unfortunate accident back in La Paz and never made it to the jet."

"That might've made you sleep better at night, but it would have been a shortsighted solution," Thompson countered. "We were looking at the big picture."

"There are protocols, damn it!" Carruthers said. "Not to mention common sense. No backup security on the plane? One marshal and that was it? Hell, I'm surprised you didn't offer the guy caviar and throw him a prostitute so he could join the Mile High Club!"

"I'm at the top of that nut job's hit list!" Carruthers said. "Upset doesn't even come close!"

"Well, if it's any consolation, we've already reassigned Cook," Thompson said, referring to the FBI's Regional Director for West Coast Operations. "If you want, I'll take under consideration anyone you'd want as his replacement."

"How about Ahmet's head on a platter?" Carruthers suggested. "That would work for me."

"It can be a paper plate for all I care! Just drop-kick that bastard from here to kingdom come and be quick about it!"

"What about that al Qaeda cell supposedly looking to raise hell in L.A.?" Carruthers said. "Anything new on that?"

"It looks like they got their hands on some explosives over the past couple days," Thompson said. "We're not sure of the quantity or what they plan to do with them, but we're running a full court press. The president says he's got some other input factored in, as well."

"He wouldn't volunteer that," Thompson said. "I didn't press. You know how he likes to keep his tricks up his sleeve."

"Don't remind me," Carruthers said, glancing up as one of his aides brought in the next round of paperwork requiring his attention. The secretary stared sourly at the piled documents, then waved the aide away and resumed tongue-lashing his longtime friend.

"Ahmet's had dealings with al Qaeda," Carruthers said. "Anybody put two and two together?"

"Yes, we're considering that he'll try to make contact with them," said Thompson. "The Bureau's part of the search effort, and if we're finished here, maybe I can actually do my job and look into it a little further."

"Good idea," Carruthers said, easing back in his chair. His bluster spent, the secretary cracked his knuckles and detoured the conversation. "Just make sure you don't miss our tee time at the club."

Thompson laughed on the other end of the line. "I knew you had your priorities straight, Roland. I'll see you then."

Carruthers hung up and stroked his chin as he stared out the window of his top-floor office at the State Department. The Washington Monument was visible in the distance, pointing upward at the pewter sky blanketing the nation's capital. There was rain in the forecast and Carruthers knew there was a good chance he and Thompson might not make it out to the links. He figured it was just as well. Carruthers was already having second thoughts about having vented on the FBI director. Maybe it hadn't been wise to draw so much attention to his concern over Ahmet and the state of security in Los Angeles. The last thing he needed was to arouse any suspicion that he planned to be heading there at the end of the week.

The secretary was replaying the conversation with Thompson in his head when one of his cell phones rang. He had two cells; the one ringing was a prepaid disposable with no link to him or the State Department. There were only two people who had the number. Even before he flipped the phone open, he knew which one of them was calling.

"I was just wondering how this would impact on your plans to attend the conference," the caller responded.

* * *

Michelle Renais sighed with bemusement as Carruthers hung up on her, leaving the dial tone to bleat in her ear. The secretary of state's terse bluster hadn't taken her by surprise; she'd been expecting it. The man was so predictable.

Once she'd checked Carruthers's name off her list, Renais rose from her desk overlooking the River Seine and went to the kitchen, breaking off a piece of a half-eaten baguette and slathering it with raspberry jam. She wasn't really hungry, but her stomach had begun to rumble and she didn't want to be distracted by the noise as she made the rest of her calls.

Renais was an alabaster-skinned, doe-eyed brunette in her late forties, thin to the point of appearing frail, though in fact she was known by colleagues and competitors as someone filled with vitality to go with her strong will and fierce determination. Her penthouse flat on Avenue George Cinq was one of the more coveted — and expensive — pieces of real estate in all of Paris, and she owned the place outright, having bought it three years ago with her share of the profits from the hostile financial takeover of Ars Gratia Communications, France's second-largest media conglomerate. She figured by year's end she would have the necessary pieces in place to make a run at forcing her rival into a merger, making her easily one of the most powerful and influential women in all of Europe, if not the world.

Given her stature, it seemed incongruent for Renais to saddle herself with a chore as mundane and secretarial as going down a phone list to confirm attendance at a forthcoming conference. But the import of the gathering she would be presiding over was such that the woman felt it was better to handle the calls herself than to entrust them to some hireling. And, too, there was the need for absolute discretion. The Frazier Group's very existence was a zealously guarded secret, and the organization's success and effectiveness over the years was as much a tribute to its clandestine nature as the collective sway its membership exerted over world events.

Renais slowly nibbled the baguette as she returned to her desk. There was a portable wet bar next to the desk, and she used tongs to place cubes from an ice bucket into a small cocktail glass before half filling it with anisette from a hand-blown glass decanter. The milky liqueur would further help to settle her stomach.

Sitting back down, the Frenchwoman glanced over her list to determine who she would call next. There were five more individuals left to contact: World Bank President Anthony Robin; Scotland Yard's Inspector Bip Hartson; NATO Armed Forces Commander Helmut Marschan; Australian real-estate baroness Veronica Court-Lyle; and Jude Cartier, France's minister of finance. It was a disparate group, to be sure, representative of the Frazier Group's diverse overall membership. The diversity was by design. Kotch Wellmeyer, the outspoken major league baseball owner who was among the organization's founders, had perhaps best summed up the organization's philosophy — and recruitment philosophy — when he'd declared, "If we want to keep Western Civilization from being taken down by the upstarts of the world, we better damn well make sure we cover all the bases."

After some reflection, Renais decided it didn't much matter which order she made the calls in, as long as she saved Cartier for last. The finance minister had just flown back to Paris from an economic summit in Madrid. Renais already knew Cartier would be attending the conference. Contacting the politician would serve another purpose. Renais would give Cartier a chance to reach his flat and unwind, then call him to suggest they get together for drinks. Most likely he would invite her to his place, located across the river three blocks from the Eiffel Tower. She would take him up on the invitation, offer token resistance to his romantic advances, then finally "give in" to his supposedly irresistible charm. They would share a few hours of passion and Renais would make a point to extend the afterglow throughout the week. At the conference, she would do what she could to discreetly help Cartier bend the universe to his will, taking care not to ask for any immediate favors in return. There would be no need to call in markers until the end of the year, when she was ready to make her move on Media Francois. By then, Renais was sure she'd have Cartier wrapped around her little finger and ready to help her finesse the transaction through a gauntlet of antitrust regulations.

Neither Anthony Robin nor Bip Hartson answered their cell phones when Renais tried to reach them, but Helmut Marschan picked up on the second ring. The German officer confirmed that he would be attending the conference, then pressed Renais regarding the meeting's agenda.

"I want to be sure that I have the floor early on to discuss this whole nuclear situation in Iran," Marschan said.

"I thought Iran was only firing up centrifuges as an alternative power source," Renais replied.

"You know that's a lie," the general retorted, clearly unaware that Renais was being facetious. "They're ramping up a covert nuclear program and if the IAEC doesn't find proof, it'll only be because Iran's trundled their weapons-related equipment out of the country."

"The 'pipeline' to Lebanon," Renais said. "Yes, I've heard about that whole rumor."

"I think we're past rumors," Marschan insisted. "If there wasn't concern about that pipeline coming to light, Hamas wouldn't have tried to kidnap that reporter."

"Do you hear yourself?" Renais asked. "Lebanon, Iran and Hamas mentioned all in the same sentence? That's a reach, don't you think?"

"I might've thought that a few months ago," Marschan countered. "Hell, maybe even a few weeks ago. But from what I've been able to find out about this article that Ferris reporter is working on, there's collusion going on. It needs to be addressed."

"I agree with you that it bears looking into," Renais told the German. "And at the conference I'll do what I can to give you some priority in putting it on the table."

"It should be our first order of business!" Marschan insisted. "If that rabble in the Middle East is teaming up against us, we'll have a crisis on our hands."

"If you throw wild dogs together they don't instantly become a pack," Renais countered skeptically. "They'll go after each other's throats before they turn on anyone else."

"Maybe," the German replied. "Then again, maybe this has been going on for a while behind everyone's backs. Maybe they've worked out their differences enough to act in unison."

"If that's the case, we'll handle them," Renais assured the NATO strategist. "Trust me, if the Frazier Group puts its mind to it, we can squash anyone who stands in our way, and we won't need help doing it."

Chapter Eight

David McCarter tightened his parachute harness as he stared out at the thick clouds that obscured his view of the tall mountains flanking the Bekaa Valley. The sun had gone down several hours earlier and the Phoenix Force commander knew that the blackened, overcast skies would aid with their insertion into enemy territory. He and the others were in the cargo bay of a converted DC-10 bearing the emblem of a prominent international delivery carrier. In fact, the plane was one of several owned and operated by the CIA throughout the Middle East. Phoenix Force had secured use of the jet care of Albert Fisk, the operations officer they'd delivered hardcopy intel to following their wrap-up of the Hamas kidnapping incident in Damascus.

Fisk's offer had come with the small price of allowing two Company agents to accompany McCarter's men on their assignment. With Gary Manning temporarily out of action, McCarter had decided there was little to lose in taking on the extra manpower. After all, according to the most recent satellite camera images reviewed by Stony Man's cyberteam back in Virginia, there were an estimated two dozen recruits holed up at the Hezbollah training camp Phoenix Force would be targeting.

Rafael Encizo and Calvin James both nodded. T. J. Hawkins, who'd just pried open the lid of a tuba-size leather carrying case, glanced up at McCarter and said, "Give me just another minute."

One of the CIA agents was up in the cockpit. The other, a gaunt, horse-faced Bostonian named Roger Combs, was crouched next to Hawkins. He checked over his thumb-size digital spy camera, then slipped it into the shirt pocket of his camo fatigues as he glanced inside Hawkins's carrying case, puzzled by the sight of something that looked like a high-tech tool case sandwiched between a garbage can lid and a wide-wheeled skateboard.

Hawkins lifted out the contraption, which was far lighter than it appeared. "TCD-100," he said.

"Tunnel Combat Device," the youngest Phoenix Force member explained. "It's a prototype cooked up by our weaponsmith back in the States."

"Word is a lot of this training camp is underground. With any luck, we'll be able to give you a demonstration."

"Sort of like who you guys really are, right?" Combs countered. "I don't buy that line about you being just some JD special task force."

McCarter interjected, telling the CIA agent, "You want to come along for the ride, fine and dandy. Just save the nosing around for the enemy, all right?"

Before McCarter could respond further, the door to the cockpit opened and the other CIA agent made his way to the main cabin. Junior Hale was shorter than his colleague, thickset but in a way that suggested the bulk was more muscle than fat.

"Two minutes to Geronimo," he announced, moving toward the doorway through which the men would be jumping. "After the insert, Paulie's gonna fly back and refuel, then wait on our word to swoop in for a pickup."

Hale was about to open the door when he spied the TCD. "What the hell is that?" he echoed.

Combs and McCarter exchanged a look. Both men grinned, then Combs told his colleague, "You don't wanna know."

* * *

The training camp's southernmost sentry tower rose on a sturdy wooden framework just inside a greenbelt of thick, thorn-tipped bramble that infested the otherwise infertile, red-soiled hillside and helped to create a natural, if incomplete, barrier around the facility. Yusra Wahin, a rail-thin twenty-year-old Hezbollah recruit who'd just completed his third week of training, was posted on the upper platform, armed with a Kalashnikov AK-47 manufactured two years before he was born. High-powered field binoculars were slung around his neck, and clipped to the belt holding up his baggy camo pants was a black-market Motorola HT1000 two-way radio. Wahin was halfway through his shift, battling monotony and an urge to drop to the planks and catch some much-needed sleep. Sentry duty, after all, had come on the heels of a day already filled with calisthenics, training exercises and indoctrination seminars.

From his vantage point, Wahin could also see two other observation posts rising up from the bramble's edge on the far side of the camp. Sentries were posted there, as well, and the guard suspected they were combating the same ennui that weighed on him. He could see smoke trailing upward from one of the silhouetted figures and immediately felt a craving for a cigarette. He fought off the urge, however. Smoking was supposedly forbidden by sentries, and Wahin lacked the impunity of his older counterpart. He would have to wait until dawn, when he was relieved from his post, to indulge himself.

Wahin had completed his twelfth tiresome lap around the railed confines of the platform when he detected movement up in the mountains to his left. He first suspected it was one of the countless wild goats that periodically roamed up from the valley, but a closer look revealed that the figure was moving on two legs, clutching something difficult to mistake for anything but a long-barreled firearm. Wahin immediately stopped his pacing and grabbed his binoculars, the better to confirm his growing fear.

It was an armed intruder, and he wasn't alone. As Wahin panned with the binoculars, he spotted several more men clearing the ridgeline and fanning out as they began to charge downhill toward the camp.

The sentry anxiously lowered the binoculars and grabbed his two-way radio. He'd raised the device to his lips and was about to relay the alarm when he was struck in the chest by what felt like a white-hot firebrand. The blow threw him off balance and he dropped the walkie-talkie as he veered backward, an intense pain radiating from where he'd been hit. By the time it occurred to him that he'd just been shot, Wahin had careened against the railing behind him. The thin wood splintered under his weight and the recruit instinctively flung his arms outward, clawing at the air as he toppled from the tower. When he struck the half-empty water tank below him, Yusra Wahin's neck snapped, sending him to his Maker.

* * *

When the guard landed on the water tank, a dull, gonglike peal echoed across the mountainside. Rafael Encizo scowled as he lowered the high-powered M-l 10 he'd used to bring the man down.

"So much for the element of surprise," he muttered to Calvin James. "If this peashooter didn't get anyone's attention, that sure as hell did!"

"Not much we can do about it but get a move on," James said, shifting his grip on three of the hastily gathered parachutes with which Phoenix Force and their CIA counterparts had touched down on the ridgeline. McCarter had already hauled the other three chutes halfway down the mountainside and, with the help of CIA Agent Hale, was pitching them over the nearest row of bramble standing between them and the camp. Hawkins was off to the left, moving at a slower pace, the TCD-100 tucked close to his chest. With him was Roger Combs, the other Company operative.

Encizo nodded tersely and followed close behind as James loped downhill to the right of McCarter and Hale. By the time they'd reached another long-running patch of bramble, sentries posted atop the far towers had spotted them. Volleys of rounds thumped into the dirt around them as they ducked low behind the thorn bush.

"Here, give me a quick hand," James said, unraveling the parachutes in the dirt. The nylon fabric was thin, but when the canopies were folded and placed on top of one another, sandwiching the suspension lines, they would provide a layer thick enough to partially blunt the stabbing force of the bramble thorns. The two Stony Man commandos, following McCarter and Hale's lead, draped the parachutes over the coarse shrubbery, then quickly steeled themselves and bounded over. James grunted as he felt several thorns poke through the makeshift barrier as well as his pant legs, drawing blood along his right thigh. Encizo cursed as he took a few barbs of his own. Within seconds they'd cleared the obstacle and were forced to dive in separate directions to avoid the next volley of rifle fire from the sentry towers.

"One down, two to go," James confirmed, ignoring the blood that had begun to seep through his pants. He waited out another few rounds from the enemy, then crawled back to the parachutes and quickly gathered them up. Encizo, meanwhile, brought his semiautomatic back into play, taking sight through the M-110's 30 mm KAC scope and triggering a return shot. Far off across the camp, the sentry in the northeast tower slumped to his platform.

"I was talking about the bramble, but that's okay," James drawled, stuffing the parachutes under his arm. He glanced down at a thin rivulet of blood trailing from his combat boots into the rust-colored dirt.

"Look on the bright side," Encizo told him, grinning savagely. "Leave a trail like that and we won't have any trouble finding our way back."

* * *

McCarter and Hale had made it over their first hurdle, but when they tried to retrieve the parachutes that had shielded them from the briar, the canopies wouldn't give.

"They must be stuck on a branch," the CIA agent said after giving the chutes another sharp tug.

McCarter, who was trading shots with the lone remaining sentry, called out to Hale without taking his eyes off his target. "Leave 'em, then," he said. "We'll have to try to make an end run around the bushes."

Hale let go of the parachutes and grabbed his M-16/M-203 combo rifle. He fingered the carbine's trigger and was unleashing a volley at the distant guard tower when a return round from the sentry clipped him in the ribs.

McCarter looked around and spotted a boulder heap twenty yards to his left. He fired a quick autoburst at the sentry, then rushed to Hale's side, pulling him up to his feet.

McCarter helped the wounded agent straggle along the briar line to the rock formation. Once they reached it, the Briton eased Hale to the ground.

Bullets sang off the boulders above their heads as McCarter tore open the other man's shirt to get a better look at the wound.

Hale winced as he dragged in air and let it out slowly, then spit into his hand, checking for blood. "Missed the lung, at any rate."

"You'll need to hang back and staunch the blood flow." McCarter set down his M-16 long enough to pull off his shirt and tear off one of the sleeves. "These won't be exactly sterilized, but they'll have to do."

Once he'd torn the sleeve in two, the Phoenix Force Leader handed the makeshift compresses to Hale, who was now reclining against one of the larger boulders. The CIA agent needed both hands to press the cloth against the entry and exit wounds. Blood quickly seeped through, reddening his fingers.

"Go on," he told McCarter. "If I'm still kicking when the dust settles, I'm Type O and'll probably be down a few pints."

McCarter nodded, putting on his now-sleeveless camo shirt. "We'll take care of you," he assured Hale, "and when it's over I'll buy you a couple pints of Guinness, too."

"Mind if we swap popguns?" McCarter asked, reaching for the CIA agent's combo. "The grenade launcher might come in handy."

McCarter handed the other man his M-16, then cast his shirt aside and clutched Hale's over-under. He scrambled halfway up the boulder heap and was forced to duck when sniper fire glanced off the rocks. From the higher vantage point, he was able to see past the briar line. If he could get to the other side and dogleg to his left, there was a dirt access road that he figured would take him to the camp without having to contend with the thorn bushes.

Inching upward, McCarter propped his borrowed carbine in a niche between two rocks and sighted up on the far guard tower through the M-16's scope.

From his position he wasn't able to get a clear bead on the sentry, but the enemy gunner had shifted his attention to James and Encizo, who were using their parachutes to clear yet another of the bramble clots. Taking advantage of his foe's distraction, McCarter sprang forward, bounding up over the top of the rock heap and down to the other side. He hit the ground running and dodged left, crouching low as he made his way to the road. By the time he reached it, the remaining sentry had been taken out, courtesy of Encizo's M-110.

As McCarter jogged down the road leading toward the camp, he saw the first sign of Hezbollah reinforcements rising up from their underground lair. Like ants, they began to emerge from several different openings and fan out in all directions.

"Not good," McCarter murmured to himself. "C'mon, T.J., get busy with that bloody Gopher Snake already!"

Chapter Nine

The TCD-100 had essentially been the creation of Stony Man armorer John Kissinger, but Hawkins had spent time at the Farm's weapons lab helping Cowboy construct the device and configure its computerized operating system. He'd also worked side by side with Kissinger during the Gopher Snake's field trials, so it was no surprise that when the weapon was given the green light for the battlefield, Hawkins had been placed in charge of its operation.

As the battle raged around them, Hawkins and Roger Combs had detoured into an earthen culvert that ran along the training camp's eastern perimeter. Sat cam footage had pinpointed several tunnel openings along the length of the ditch, and while the Stony Man cybercrew considered them to be escape routes, Hawkins figured they could also be used to access the Hezbollah's underground lair.

There was water in the culvert, ankle-deep and filled with sediment that clawed at the men's boots, forcing them to move slowly. Hawkins had the Gopher Snake tucked under one arm, leaving the other free to defend himself with a KRISS Super V submachine gun. Combs, who was carrying a pair of full-face gas masks, was similarly armed. The five-pound, .45-caliber firearms were light enough to wield with one hand, and the two warriors had a chance to prove it moments later when three Hezbollah soldiers emerged from the nearest tunnel armed with AK-47s. Combs and Hawkins had the drop on them and burped a quick half dozen rounds their way. The Super V's muted recoil and muzzle rise allowed for deadly accuracy, especially at such close range, and all three men crumpled into the brackish water without having had a chance to return fire.

The intruders forged ahead, ready to empty their magazines should others appear. Nearing the tunnel, they sidestepped the bodies. When no one else came forward, Hawkins crouched near the raised entrance and unclipped the TCD-100's remote transceiver from its underhousing.

Combs nodded, his eyes on the tunnel. Hawkins adjusted the remote's settings, then carefully set the Gopher Snake into the mouth of the tunnel. He flicked on the transceiver and stared at the small, embedded screen providing him with an image taken from the wheeled device's front-mounted camera.

* * *

"Get up and move out!" the Hezbollah commandant shouted from the doorway leading to the subterranean barracks. "We're under attack!"

Half dressed and barely half awake, a dozen recruits staggered from their cots and grabbed assault rifles, then warily followed their burly leader into a leg of the networked tunnels carved out beneath the training camp. The nearest staircase leading up to the surface was to their left. As they approached it, the men came upon a faint haze wafting through the tunnel. Immediately they began to hack and cough, their eyes tearing with a burning sensation.

"Tear gas!" the commandant shouted, blinking furiously as he veered to one side, crashing against the tunnel wall. Glancing down the passageway, he spotted the TCD-100 rolling toward him like some oversize toy. The tear gas spewed from a spray nozzle just below the Gopher Snake's angled Kevlar shield. His eyes stinging, a wave of nausea sweeping over him, the commandant nonetheless willed himself to raise his AK-47. He was about to unleash a round when strobe lights mounted on the TCD's shield began to blink with staccato frenzy. The intense, flickering illumination temporarily blinded the man as well as the fighters huddled close to him, and though he managed to fire his weapon, only a few rounds glanced off the TCD-100's bulletproof shield; the rest pummeled the ground.

Others fired as well with the same futility. Moments later they were brought to their knees when a partition in the Gopher Snake's shield briefly parted, allowing it to launch a pair of modified XM-84 stun grenades. The flash-enhanced explosions echoed loudly through the enclosed space, further immobilizing the combatants. They fell upon one another, trying to flee the small, wheeled contraption that had effectively neutralized them. As the tear gas thickened around them, the men doubled over and retched violently, too caught up in their misery to notice Hawkins and Combs advancing toward them, their hastily donned gas masks equipped with built-in night-vision goggles that minimized the effect of the tear gas.

Combs gunned down several of the men and Hawkins knocked a few others unconscious with the butt of his KRISS subgun, then cleared the way so that he could use his transceiver to guide the Gopher Snake past them and around the next bend in the tunnel.

"Gotta say, I am, too," Hawkins confessed. The device had worked even better than he'd expected, and the TCD-100 had spent only half its arsenal. Hawkins figured the device was still capable of dealing with any other enemy forces still lurking in the tunnels.

"C'mon, boy," he called down to the Snake as if taking a pet dog out for a leisurely stroll. "Let's keep up the good work."

* * *

Rafael Encizo and Calvin James had cleared their way past the last briar hurdle. Both men were bleeding thanks to the barbed thorns, but the wounds seemed less threatening than the throng of dispersing Hezbollah warriors they now found themselves faced with. Veering past the sentry's body at the base of the nearest tower, the Stony Man commandos took up positions on either side of the water tank and began firing. They were answered by AK-47s, a steady barrage of NATO rounds forcing them to press close to the tank, which took enough hits to begin draining water out onto the reddish hardpan.

"What do you think?" James called to Encizo as he reloaded his carbine. "We're outnumbered, what, maybe five to one?"

"A least that," Encizo shouted over the noise of his assault rifle. He saw two men go down near the tents, weapons falling from their lifeless hands. "That's usually par for the course, though, right?" he added.

Once James reloaded, he held back firing for a moment, instead grabbing at the ammunition belt slung around his hips. He unclipped a baseball-size M-67 frag grenade and quickly enabled it, then cocked his arm and flung it in the direction of a tunnel opening where still more terrorist recruits were surfacing. The explosive detonated shy of the hole, but its casualty radius was wide enough to kill half the emerging soldiers outright and pound the others with frag shards, voiding any chance they might help ramp the odds still further against Phoenix Force.

The grenade blast was still resonating through the valley when it was joined by another, this one care of a 40-mm high-explosive round launched from McCarter's M-203 into a supply truck several Hezbollah gunmen had taken cover behind. The initial blast ruptured the gas tank, further disintegrating the vehicle. There were screams of agony as shrapnel sprayed the surrounding enemy. As the maimed terrorists fell to the smoke-shrouded earth, James and Encizo ventured clear of the water tank and advanced, raking the camp with their carbines. Behind them, Junior Hale had apparently stopped his bleeding enough to crawl up the rocks and add to the onslaught with bursts from McCarter's M-16.

The tide of the battle quickly shifted in Phoenix Force's favor. The covert ops fanned out, whittling down the enemy as they sought to encircle the camp and block off escape routes. When no further combatants emerged from the tunnels, McCarter and the others assumed that Hawkins had made good use of the Gopher Snake and kept Hezbollah from replenishing its forces aboveground.

As the surviving terrorists saw their ranks dwindle, the fight began to go out of them. Several men threw down their weapons and dropped to their knees, placing their hands on their heads in a gesture of surrender. A few others fired wildly in midflight, racing away from the smoldering carcass of the bombed truck, only to be cut down. Two recruits scrambled into one of the parked Jeeps in hopes of escaping out onto the main road, but another frag grenade, this one heaved by Encizo, rolled beneath the chassis and its concussive blast flipped the vehicle into the air, throwing the men clear before landing upside down in the dirt. Stunned, the recruits cried out for mercy and straggled to their knees, joining those who'd already given up the fight.

Three others made a valiant last stand near one of the far sentry towers, forcing James and Encizo to flatten themselves on the turf to avoid rounds from their AK-47s. McCarter and Hale responded by shifting aim and targeting the gunners. Within seconds the men were down, having fired the last shots that would be heard from the enemy.

Once he sensed the skirmish was over, McCarter warily stepped clear of the rocks he'd taken cover behind, his eyes on the carnage.

McCarter's colleagues rose to their feet and began to cautiously make their way through the camp, motioning for the surviving Hezbollah warriors to group together near the veiled helicopter. The beleaguered recruits complied, some of them sobbing, others crying out in pain. McCarter, meanwhile, backtracked to the boulders where he'd left Hale. The CIA agent was slumped across the rocks, M-16 at his side. The Phoenix Force leader climbed up to him. Hale had lost his makeshift compresses and his initial wounds bled heavily onto the rocks. He'd taken two more slugs, as well, one to the shoulder, the other a clear killshot to the head. McCarter fingered the man's wrist for a pulse, already knowing he wouldn't find one.

There was nothing to be done for Hale. McCarter grimly braced himself, then hoisted the dead man off the rocks and slung him over his shoulder. He could feel Hale's blood drenching him as he slowly hauled the body back to the camp. James and Encizo had finished rounding up the prisoners. There were ten of them. As McCarter went to join them near the helicopter, he detected movement through the smoke near where James's grenade had earlier cratered the hardpan. A half-clad Hezbollah soldier was rising up from the tunnels, hands clasped to his head. Even as the man was stepping out onto the level ground, another recruit followed behind him, then yet another. Soon a total of seven young men had appeared, all unarmed, all hacking and blinking away tears from the gas that had left them defenseless. Finally Hawkins brought up the rear, still wearing his gas mask, still clutching his KRISS Super V subgun.

"Nice work, Teej," McCarter told him, dropping to one knee so that he could ease Hale's body to the ground.

McCarter was bathed in sweat and blood. He rose slowly, his legs aching from the exertion of toting the corpse.

"There's still a few men in the tunnels," Hawkins reported. "Five dead, probably that many out cold, at least for now. Combs has 'em covered, but I'd best get back before they come to."

"About what you'd expect," Hawkins reported. "Command post, weapons cache, storage area. Plenty to search through."

"Combs has his camera, so go ahead and let him take a few shots, but don't spend any more time down there than you have to."

"Hold off for now," McCarter said, glancing at the net-shrouded Huey. "If we can get this sucker going, we won't have to wait around."

Hawkins nodded, leaving his prisoners in Encizo's care and venturing back underground. McCarter turned to James as he approached the helicopter. "Help me get the net off."

"Gonna hotwire it?" James asked as he grabbed one edge of the thick netting slung over the Huey's rotors. He worked with one hand, keeping his M-16 trained on the prisoners with the other. McCarter was doing the same.

"If that's what it takes," the Briton said. "We'll have room for Hale and a couple prisoners. Hopefully some of them speak English and will horsetrade info for some leniency."

"If it were us, they'd probably just gun us down and be done with it," McCarter guessed. "Can't see doing it, though. We'll just leave 'em."

James stared at the prisoners. They were all young, some in their teens. They looked back at him, some still fearful while others had turned sullen, their eyes filled with hate. It sickened James to think that these men would no doubt quickly regroup with others and resume their training, possibly even more determined than ever to turn themselves into killing machines for the Hezbollah cause. But he knew McCarter was right; they couldn't in good conscience just massacre the whole lot of them. To do so would be to drag Phoenix Force down to the enemy's level. It was bad enough that the Stony Man commandos had to regularly navigate their way through moral gray areas to carry out their assignments; if they were to succumb completely to the dark side, they would have betrayed not only their country, but also themselves. Still, the matter didn't sit well with James.

"Gotta say," he finally murmured, "giving them a free pass sucks, big time." "Tell me about it," McCarter said. "Sometimes war is more than just hell."

Chapter Ten

Leystra Hot Springs was a once prominent New Age retreat located eighty miles east of Los Angeles in the heart of a heavily wooded forest blackened by the 2007 fires that had turned Southern California into hell on Earth. The twenty-one-acre retreat had fallen on hard times even before the fire, and when flames had ravaged most of the outbuildings and neighboring establishments, the facility's owners had filed for bankruptcy and closed its doors. The grounds had been fenced off haphazardly with posted caveats against trespassing, but the low-bidding rent-a-cops hired to back up the warnings rarely so much as drove past the isolated property, much less searched it for intruders.

As such, the haven had become a retreat, not for the pampered and well-to-do, but rather a succession of downtrodden squatters, some hardbound transients, others former area residents left homeless in the wake of the fires. However, judging from the aerial surveillance that had prompted Able Team's early morning arrival, it appeared that the hot springs' latest uninvited guests were of a far more sinister nature.

Grimaldi and his Stony Man confederates weren't the only ones targeting the isolated facility. The California Highway Patrol was in the process of barricading the access road in both directions, and SWAT teams had already spilled out of two armored Humvees and begun to venture into the dense brush surrounding the hot springs. To the north, another pair of helicopters — one a CHP H-20, the other a refurbished SWAT Huey — hovered low over the mountainous terrain that stretched behind the retreat. The heavy show of force was in response to word that more than one person had been seen on the grounds. Kouri Ahmet apparently wasn't alone.

"Whatever happened to the good old days when we took care of these things ourselves?" Carl Lyons muttered as he eyeballed the backup forces. The Able Team commander was sitting beside Grimaldi up front in the Bell's cockpit; Blancanales and Schwarz were in back, feeding ammo cartridges into their M-16s.

Grimaldi eased the chopper over the leafy oak trees surrounding the retreat, then hovered in place above one of the hot springs. The pool had once been enclosed, but fire had claimed the surrounding structure, reducing it to charred ruins. Half submerged in the murky, steaming water was the missing Forest Service pickup. Floating facedown nearby amid scattered leaves and debris were two bodies, one stripped to its shorts, the other still uniformed.

"That's gotta be the rangers," Lyons said, peering down at the corpses. "Let's see if we can't give those poor bastards some justice."

Grimaldi pulled away from the spring, then backtracked to a large, cracked patch of asphalt thirty yards downhill. As the pilot lowered the chopper, Lyons turned to his colleagues.

"You and I'll handle the ground search," he told Blancanales. "Gadgets, stay aboard and keep the fly open in case we need air support."

"Got it," Schwarz said, throwing open the side door of the passenger compartment. Blancanales eased past him. Once Grimaldi had brought the chopper to within a few feet of the tarmac, he bounded out. Lyons followed. Both men crouched low, fanned by the copter's rotor wash as it pulled back up into the air.

Of the retreat's eight buildings, only three remained standing. The nearest was a graffiti-festooned, garage-size bungalow set off a flagstone pathway linking the parking lot to the hot spring where the pickup had been spotted.

"I got this one," Lyons told Blancanales. "You take the one over there. We'll hit the main building last."

Blancanales nodded and cautiously advanced toward a half-scorched two-story outbuilding with two large bay openings. A late-model Dodge Caravan had been backed into one bay; the other contained the rusted-out remains of a tractor and large riding lawn mower. The van had a layer of road dust but Blancanales could see that the windshield wipers had been used recently, likely by the al Qaeda sleeper cell Able Team had been trying to track down in Barstow. It now seemed certain that Kouri Ahmet's aborted attempt to secure portable rocket launchers had been on behalf of the Iraqi terrorist squad. Obviously the fugitive's parachute jump from the highjacked Gulfstream had been orchestrated to bring him within range of the Iraqis. The enemy had last been spotted in Barstow, but Blancanales's gut told him that this was their primary hideout, the one from which they were planning whatever violence they hoped to unleash on Los Angeles. If Blancanales and his fellow commandos had anything to say about it, that plan would never be carried out.

Both large-framed picture windows on the second floor of the outbuilding had been vandalized, and Blancanales was startled when several pigeons suddenly fluttered out through a break in the glass. He doubted that it was his approach that had spooked the birds, and when he glanced up he detected further movement behind the broken glass. Acting on instinct, the East L.A. native veered sharply to his right, avoiding the stream of gunfire that rained down from one of the windows, tearing up the asphalt where he'd been standing a moment before.

"Got a live one over here!" Blancanales shouted to Lyons as he rolled behind an overturned litter barrel. Bringing his M-16 into play, he returned fire, shattering what little glass remained in the window frame and perforating the wooden slats below it. He'd missed his target, however, and more rounds blitzed his way, chewing the tarmac and glancing off the trash bin. When Lyons doubled back and fired at his assailant, Blancanales welcomed the diversion and rolled clear. Once back on his feet, he zigzagged toward the building. Nearing the bay where the Dodge was parked, he peered in and spotted a gunman bounding down a back stairway leading from the second story.

Blancanales drew up and strafed the staircase, taking the gunman out at the knees. The Iraqi pitched forward, dropping his rifle and somersaulting down the steps before landing in a sprawl near the Caravan. He was still alive and crawled toward his weapon, managing to close his fingers around the stock before Blancanales finished him off with another burst from his M-16.

There was at least one other al Qaeda operative still up on the second floor, however, and after forcing Lyons to cover with an autoburst, the gunner moved to the top of the stairs and shifted his aim toward Blancanales. By then the Able Team commando had reached the building and dived forward, eluding the blasts sent his way. Scrambling past the parked van, he helped himself to the slain attacker's carbine, a Chinese-made QBZ-95. He took aim at the ceiling and quickly emptied the weapon. Above the loud din of gunfire, he heard the unmistakable sound of a body dropping to the floor above him.

Blancanales looked out through the bay opening and saw Grimaldi drifting toward him in the OH-58C. Schwarz was leaning out of the chopper, pouring more rounds into the second story. Blancanales waited out the assault, then waved to his colleague and gestured that he was heading up the steps. Schwarz nodded and pulled himself back inside the chopper. As Grimaldi flew over the building, Blancanales cast aside the QBZ and charged the steps, taking them two at a time, M-16 in firing position.

Clearing the last step, Blancanales saw the second assailant stretched out dead on the floor. He started toward the body, then flinched, hearing a noise behind him. A beam of sunlight glanced off the knife blade streaking toward him, and the next thing he knew, Blancanales felt the sharp edge rip through his shirt and glance off his ribs. The man holding the weapon had lunged at him, and when the two men collided, Blancanales was sent reeling backward. He grabbed his attacker and both men went tumbling down the staircase.

Blancanales took the brunt of the fall, cushioning the knifeman from the steps. By the time he reached the ground, the Stony Man commando's wind had been knocked from his lungs. He lay, stunned, as the Iraqi rose to his knees, still clutching the now-bloodied knife. He was about to plunge the blade into Blancanales's chest when a volley of 7.62 mm NATO rounds streaked into the service bay, eviscerating the terrorist's midsection. The knife fell from the Iraqi's hands as he pitched forward on top of his would-be victim.

Groaning, Blancanales shoved the man aside and gasped for breath, blinking away the stars that flashed across his field of vision. Lyons caught up with him a moment later.

Blancanales ripped his shirt open and inspected the bleeding gash along his rib cage. "Could've been worse," he said. "Thanks for the backup."

"No problem," Lyons said, eyeing his teammate's wound. "You're going to need stitches on that sucker, though."

"Later," Blancanales said. He turned his attention to the two men lying dead next to them. Both looked to be in their late twenties, dark-haired and olive-skinned. Neither was Kouri Ahmet.

"Gotta be," Blancanales said. He gestured at the Dodge Caravan. "The van matches the one that grease monkey saw up in Barstow."

"Speaking of that scumbag," Lyons said. "If we didn't get him here, odds are he's still out..."

The Able Team leader's voice was drowned out by a fresh outbreak of gunfire. He and Blancanales glanced toward the bungalow Lyons had been headed for before the assault at the outbuilding. They could see another gunman standing in the open doorway of the smaller building, directing fire up at the OH-58C.

* * *

"Swing around!" Schwarz shouted at Grimaldi, bracing himself in the chopper's open doorway.

"Gladly!" Grimaldi answered. The Stony Man pilot had just missed being hit by the slug that had punched through his side window. He dipped the chopper sharply, then brought it about-face so that Schwarz could see the gunman, who'd ducked for cover behind a flagstone wall extending out from the bungalow. Schwarz tattooed the wall, keeping the enemy pinned behind it. From the corner of his eye, he saw Lyons and Blancanales spread out so they could advance on the gunner from separate directions.

Grimaldi urged the OH-58C up and forward, trying to bring the shooter back into view. As he did so, rounds from yet another gunman began to pepper the chopper's underside. Grimaldi turned to his right and saw the enemy leaning out from a large, wisteria-choked pergola behind the bungalow.

Schwarz shifted position and leveled his M-16, firing before the assailant could retreat behind one of the pergola's wooden colonnades. The rounds found flesh and the gunner keeled to the ground, his upper torso freshly embroidered.

The first shooter, emboldened by Schwarz's distraction, rose from behind the flagstone wall and sent a fusillade whizzing through the chopper doorway before Gadgets whirled back around and nailed him.

By now Lyons and Blancanales had reached the bungalow. Grimaldi left them to raid the interior and pulled away, guiding the chopper above a meandering walkway that led back to the remaining building, a larger, one-story cinder-block orientation center with a sun-faded sign out front that still beckoned visitors with an inviting come-on: Our Spring's Just the Thing!

The first of the SWAT ground units had begun to materialize from out of the vegetation surrounding the orientation center. Wearing flak jackets over their camo fatigues, they spread out, encircling the building. From Grimaldi's aerial perspective, he could see that the main entrance was still boarded up, but a side door was ajar. As he watched, two of the SWAT officers approached the entryway, one brandishing a MAC-10, the other a semiautomatic Benelli M-1 shotgun. They were within ten yards of the door when it suddenly flew open. A short, wiry man dived out headfirst, rolling on impact with the ground and scrambling quickly to his feet, a 9 mm Heckler & Koch MP-5 cradled close to his chest. He managed to fire a killshot into the face of the SWAT shotgunner before being brought down by the other commando's MAC-10.

As the rest of the SWAT team converged on every available opening to the O-building, Grimaldi brought the chopper up higher in the hope of gaining a vantage point from which Schwarz could effectively lend fire from the air. The maneuver was a fortuitous one.

Seconds later, with a deafening roar, a series of explosive charges detonated inside the building, blowing its cinder-block walls outward and turning the roof into a frag shower that hailed upwards, pelting the OC-58's skids and underbelly. Had Grimaldi not just changed his position, the flying shrapnel would have likely sheared his rotors, bringing the bird down. As it was, the flyboy was hard-pressed to keep the chopper aloft when the blast's shock wave tossed the craft about.

The jolt caught Schwarz off guard and threw him out the Bell's open doorway, M-16 flying from his grasp. If not for his martial arts training, the Stony Man warrior would likely have plummeted sixty feet to certain death on the flagstone walkway below. Instead, with nimble instincts, Schwarz was able to throw out his right arm and break his fall by grabbing the chopper's right skid. His fingers clamped tightly around the cold metal, buying him the time needed to raise his other arm and secure a firmer grip.

Grimaldi couldn't hear Schwarz over the rotors and the din of the explosion, but when the displaced weight pitched the chopper to one side he realized Schwarz was still aboard and quickly compensated, righting the aircraft and then slowly bringing it down.

Lyons and Blancanales had been knocked to the ground by the blast, but by the time the OH-58C had dipped to within ten yards of the pathway, both men were on their feet. They scrambled over and grabbed Schwarz's dangling legs, allowing him to let go of the chopper's skid. As they eased him down to solid ground, the helicopter floated off, bound for the parking lot where the whole ordeal had begun.

"Tell me about it," Schwarz said, flexing the life back into his numbed fingers. "Don't try this at home, kids."

The team's levity was short-lived, giving way to a grim silence as they made their way to the debris-filled crater that had once been the orientation center. The blackened, smoldering hellhole was nearly twenty feet deep, flames consuming any trace of the explosives that had created it. Lying on the perimeter like tossed dolls were the members of the SWAT team, most of them dismembered by shrapnel, none of them breathing.

"What the hell did they have stored in there, World War III?" Lyons wondered, gazing past the bodies into the crater.

The blast had caught the attention of the rest of the backup teams, and by the time Grimaldi joined his colleagues, the other two choppers were headed toward them. Sirens wailed to life out on the road as a pair of CHP Crown Victorias pulled out of their barricade positions and raced toward the parking lot along with one of the SWAT Hummers.

Blancanales had ventured over to the enemy gunman who'd dived from the building shortly before the explosion. He turned the body over, then looked at his partners.

Lyons glanced at the crater and shook his head. "If he's in there, it's gonna take more than dental charts to ID him."

Chapter Eleven

"They had a couple choppers on their tail in the homestretch but made it to Israel in one piece," Barbara Price said, clipboard in hand as she paced the Annex Computer Room, apprising the Stony Man cybercrew on Phoenix Force's mad dash for a safe haven after taking out the Hezbollah training camp in the Bekaa Valley. She'd just gotten off the phone with David McCarter, who'd called from a covert Mossad medical facility near Nahariya. "We lost a Company op and Calvin needs to be threaded up where some briars tore his leg open, but everyone else pulled through with nicks and scratches."

"Is Manning coming down from Damascus to hook up with them?" Huntington Wethers inquired.

"No," Price responded. "He's rebounded from the concussion but it looks like he has a separated shoulder, so he'll be out of the combat loop awhile."

"There was a problem with the X-ray machine where he was treated," Price said. "They went with a best-guess diagnosis and have him in an arm sling. He insisted on pitching in somehow, so we've got him flying to Hong Kong to see if he can find out what Kassem's up to."

Kissinger, the Farm's tall, broad-shouldered weaponsmith, had pulled up a chair next to Aaron Kurtzman's computer station and helped himself to some of Bear's infamous coffee. The ex-DEA field agent usually didn't bother with mission briefings but he'd made an exception for this one, anxious to hear how his TCD-100 had performed in its first true test.

"T.J. says you'd better hurry to the patent office," Price told him. "He says the Snake aced everything it's programmed for."

"Uh-oh," Akira Tokaido sniggered from across the room. "Watch, Cowboy'll land himself one of those monster defense contracts and that'll be the last we see of him."

"You wish," Kissinger laughed. "It'll take more than a windfall for you guys to get rid of me."

"With James and Manning out, we could always ship you out to help Phoenix Force pick up the slack," Kurtzman suggested.

"Sorry," Kissinger said. "Go ahead, fire. I take it there was more upside to that raid than giving the Snake a thumbs-up."

"As far as firming up the link between Ahmet and Kassem, there was no hard evidence at the camp, but Phoenix took a couple prisoners and hopefully they'll get something out of them when they're questioned."

"I don't doubt that," Wethers said. "And I don't think we'll want to know the specifics about the interrogation."

"You're probably right," Price said. "But even if nothing comes out of that, it looks like we might've found a few more pieces to the nuclear puzzle."

Price nodded. "Before they took off from the camp, Phoenix managed a quick sweep of the command post and some of the tunnel bunkers," she explained. "Looks like Hezbollah was storing equipment needed to convert enriched uranium into weapons material."

"No confirmation yet," Price replied. "One of the Company ops photoed the equipment. CIA's going over the downloads as we speak. It won't surprise me if at least some of the gear is traceable back to Tehran."

"This raid might put us a step ahead of him in terms of breaking it all down," Price responded. "Besides the equipment, there were plans for an underground UE lab. It might be that Hezbollah was going to do more than just hold on to Iran's contraband."

"I think so," Price said. "If you figure Ferris was kidnapped in hopes of keeping a lid on this whole collusion story, these rogue states are out of luck. The cat's out of the bag, and whatever Ferris doesn't go public with will probably wind up being leaked.' There's no way they'll be able to proceed. At least not on the sly."

"You got that right," Kurtzman ventured. "I can think of at least a couple neighboring countries that'll take exception to having nukes cooked up in their backyard."

"It won't be just them," Price said. "NATO and the UN will likely weigh in and give the IAEC a lot more teeth in terms of nosing around, and they won't be just looking at Iran now."

"What happened to the equipment?" Wethers asked. "I'm guessing there was no room to store it on that Huey Phoenix flew out in."

"They set charges in some of the key bunkers," Price said. "They took out the equipment along with a cache of Israeli B-300s," Price said. "I know they're inferior to the weapons Ahmet tried to score in La Paz, but I'm surprised they didn't try to smuggle those into the States instead."

"It's a long haul from Lebanon to L.A.," Kurtzman surmised. "They were probably afraid Mossad would sniff them out before they got them more than a few miles past the border."

Price was about to respond when Hal Brognola entered the Computer Room, looking haggard and agitated. The SOG chief had a cigar out and had apparently already snapped off one end from working it too hard between his fingers. Price had conferred with him prior to briefing the others about the Bekaa Valley operation, so she was concerned there was some new fly in the ointment.

"I just finished speaking with Carl," Brognola reported. "Able Team just had a run-in with Ahmet and that al Qaeda cell they were trying to track down."

Brognola responded quickly, passing along what he'd been told about the altercation at Leystra Hot Springs, including news about the blast that had taken out an entire L.A. SWAT unit.

"It could have just as easily been our guys," he concluded. "Carl said they were headed for the building when it went up."

The news gave the others pause. It was by no means the first time they'd heard of their field teams having close calls and most likely wouldn't be the last, but to be once again reminded how tenuous things could be for their men was unsettling.

"It sounds like al Qaeda rounded up plenty of firepower without getting their hands on rocket launchers," Wethers speculated.

"The thinking is this cache was earmarked for something they had in mind for the freeways out there," Brognola said. "Lyons says they searched one of the outbuildings and found the traffic maps al Qaeda'd picked up outside Barstow. They had some key interchanges marked off, most of them cloverleaves with high overpasses."

"That would be my guess," Brognola said. "There's no security in place for bridges out there. Strap a big enough charge to the base of a couple supports, you'd have a good shot at bringing down the whole overpass. It'd cripple things in all four directions."

"And they think they have gridlock out there now," Tokaido said. "Somebody pulls that off, they could bring the whole place to a standstill."

Brognola nodded. "I'm sure you're right, so we have to think we dodged ourselves a bullet."

"It looks that way," Brognola said. "There were three bodies in the bomb crater... or at least what passes for bodies. One of them was wearing what looks like a Forest Department uniform."

"Which is what we figure Ahmet changed into after he bailed out of the extradition jet," said Kurtzman.

"That's the theory," Brognola replied. "They've got a couple Forensic Teams out their playing Humpty Dumpty with all the remains. It'll be days before they make any positive IDs, but you'd think it's a lock the guy in the uniform was Ahmet."

Brognola shrugged vaguely, then pitched his cigar in the trash. "With a guy like Ahmet," he said, "unfortunately, there's always room for doubt."

* * *

The crossways bus depot servicing the San Fernando Valley was located in Sherman Oaks on a rundown stretch of Ventura Boulevard just south of the 101 Freeway. Ten passengers were lined up outside, waiting to board a half-filled bus that had just arrived from San Bernardino County. The driver bounded out and motioned for them to stay put.

"Got a few people getting off first, folks," he told them as he unlocked the luggage compartment located beneath the seating section.

Eight passengers disembarked from the bus: two elderly women, a mother with two small children, and three men, two of them carrying overnight tote bags they'd been able to stash in overhead bins. One of the tote-bearing men carried identification papers claiming him to be Val Al-Jafar, an American-born linguistics professor at Wynmoor City College in Pennsylvania. The man was, in fact, Mousif Nouhra, field leader of the al Qaeda sleeper cell that had just been decimated in the conflagration at Leystra Hot Springs.

The fugitive terrorist was wearing a snug, short-haired wig the same color as the goatee he'd shaved off back at the al Qaeda hideaway. The Forest Department uniform he'd donned for his escape from the San Jacinto Wilderness Preserve had been given to one of Nouhra's lackeys. Ahmet had changed into a pair of khaki dress slacks and a loose-fitting, lightweight sweater, and had rounded out his disguise with a pair of tinted aviator glasses. As with Nouhra, there was nothing about his appearance or demeanor that suggested that he was anything other than one of the hundreds of thousands of law-abiding L.A. residents who happened to be of Middle Eastern descent.

Leaving the depot, Ahmet and Nouhra made their way down the bustling boulevard, where it seemed that every other storefront was being made over in efforts to gentrify the neighborhood. They walked at a leisurely pace, taking care not to attract attention to themselves. In Ahmet's bag, among other items, was the portable radio he'd listened to on the long ride from Hemet, monitoring newsbreaks about the incident at the hot springs. The media was touting the al Qaeda angle and playing the story as if L.A. had been spared its own dire version of 9/11 and that Angelenos could rest safely now that the enemy in their midst had been vanquished. Neither Ahmet nor Nouhra could have hoped for a better spin on things.

"Let's just hope everyone here keeps patting themselves on the back long enough for us to carry out our plan," Nouhra told Ahmet as they waited for a crosswalk light to change.

"If that's the case, it will have been worth it to sacrifice a few men," Ahmet replied. "Not to mention all those explosives."

"Explosives can be replaced more easily than men," Nouhra said, a sudden edge in his voice. Ahmet looked at him, concerned.

"You're having second thoughts?" he said. "I thought you understood the need to bait the Americans into a raid."

"Understanding is one thing," Nouhra said. "Losing good men is another. I trained most of those men. We'd been in place here together for nearly two years."

"I meant no disrespect," Ahmet countered. "I've lost teams of my own. It's never easy."

Nouhra nodded, accepting his counterpart's apology, at least on the surface. There was still a part of him that regretted the toll that had been paid and resented the fact that it was his men rather than another of the teams that had been forced to die to throw the Americans off their scent. He would do his best to put aside his feelings and stay focused on the larger picture, but it would not be an easy task.

Once they'd reached the south side of the boulevard, the men continued past a clothing store and a half-built coffee shop, then turned down a side street leading south toward a picture-book suburban neighborhood. A cross alley separated the upscale homes and their landscaped yards from the business corridor, and wedged between the alley and the nearest store was a nondescript two-story, four-unit apartment complex. Access to the apartments was from the alley parking lot, where a utility van was parked next to a Land Rover SUV.

The men headed up an outdoor staircase leading to the upper two apartments. Nouhra knocked on the second door they came to. A towel hung across the door's decorative window. It was pulled aside briefly, then fell back into place as the men heard the unlatching of a dead bolt. Moments later the door was opened by a middle-aged, pot-bellied Palestinian wearing a gray sweatsuit stained with curry. Zeba Moussallem ran the clothing store Ahmet and Nouhra had just passed en route to the apartment, but the business was only a front. The Palestinian's foremost function on the planet was as team leader for a Hamas sleeper cell that had been hiding in plain sight for the better part of the past seven months. Three members of MoussaUem's cadre lived out of the other three apartments in the complex. They weren't present, having been sent off to conduct surveillance at the hotel where the Frazier Group would be meeting later in the week.

"I just heard you were killed in the explosion," Moussallem told Ahmet as he let the visitors into his small, two-room apartment.

"A misconception," Ahmet said, grinning for the first time since boarding the Crossways bus back in Hemet.

Moussallem turned to Nouhra. "My condolences for the loss of your men. We just lost a Hamas team of our own in Damascus, also to American forces."

Behind Moussallem, two more men were seated in overstuffed chairs across the room. Dang Win, owner of the Land Rover SUV, had just arrived from Koreatown, where he commanded a crew of nine men belonging to Kim Jong-il's covert international terrorist brigade. Seated next to him was Kruzan Shiv, a Kashmir separatist wanted by Interpol and the Indian government for a series of bombings in Mumbai and Calcutta that had claimed more than three dozen lives the previous summer, including a handful of American tourists. He'd brought a couple of his men with him; they were in the adjacent kitchen, responsible for the smell of curry that wafted through the apartment.

Ahmet and Nouhra exchanged greetings with their notorious counterparts, then Nouhra and Moussallem took seats on the sofa near the main window. The drapes were closed and the apartment was dim. Ahmet remained standing, the better to intimate that he was in charge.

"Have you heard from Nekehf?" Ahmet asked, referring to the planted Egyptian double-agent who was New Dawn Rising's conduit to the Frazier Group. It had been Nekehf who'd been passing along details regarding the arrangements for the Los Angeles conference Ahmet and the others hoped to turn into a bloodbath.

"I spoke to him an hour ago back in Cairo," Moussallem said. "He's still using his wife's surgery as an excuse not to attend the meeting, but he asked to stay apprised so that he could provide input by phone."

"If I knew everyone at the conference was going to be killed, I would make my excuses, too," Aliment said.

"Yes, of course," Nouhra interjected, a glint in his eye. "It's always best to leave martyrdom to others."

Moussallem detected the animosity between the new arrivals and attempted to diffuse it, steering the conversation back to the point at hand. "Nekehf says that everything is going according to schedule on the Frazier Group's end. They, like everyone else, think that after what happened at the hot springs, the coast is clear and there is no danger."

"Good," said Ahmet. "Let's hope they keep thinking that up until the moment we annihilate them."

Chapter Twelve

"Do what you have to," Nasrallah Kassem murmured into his cell phone. "And, remember, we never had this conversation."

Kassem clicked off his cell and slipped it into his coat pocket, then raided his silver cigarette case for another smoke. He lit up, then rose from his seat and went to the terrace railing and stared out at the ordered chaos that was the streets of Hong Kong. He had a business meeting to attend in the financial district later, but business matters were the furthest thing from his mind. He was still focused on damage control following his meeting the previous day with Pasha Yarad and Gohn Len.

He'd had Len placed under surveillance the moment the Chinese intelligence officer had left his high-rise, and after conferring with the other members of the coalition, he'd been given the green light to put a hit on Len once he'd secured a more reliable replacement from within the ranks of Red China's ruling hierarchy. On that front, Kassem had deliberated over his choice of five standby candidates, settling on one of Len's subordinates, Anhg Mee, a zealous opportunist that the Lebanese financier felt best able to hit the ground running in terms of carrying out the directives of the New Dawn Rising coalition. Within moments after speaking with Mee, Kassem had contacted the man dogging Gohn Len's tracks, ordering the intelligence officer's execution.

Now, the order in place, Kassem brooded over his next move. He'd spoken with Kouri Ahmet during the night and, albeit reluctantly, had signed off on the fugitive's plan to sacrifice the al Qaeda team in hopes of giving the impression that he'd been killed and that Southern California was no longer under the immediate threat of a terrorist attack. Yes, the ploy would reduce the chances that the Frazier Group might opt to cancel its conference in Los Angeles at the last minute, but the price seemed high. Al Qaeda was a key player with the coalition, and Kassem had been concerned about alienating the sect. Ahmet had assured him that Nouhra was on board with the plan and would arrange things so that his al Qaeda superiors would believe that their men had died nobly during the raid on their hideout. Kassem had yet to hear if the plan had been successfully carried out, but if that was the case, there still remained the task of equipping the other teams with the weaponry they'd need to take out the attendees at the Frazier conference.

Obviously, Gohn Len's offer of securing rocket launchers through his connections in South America wasn't an option. For that matter, Kassem still had his doubts that the targeted officer even had such connections. Kassem felt it was more likely that the offer was a fabrication, Len's bumbling way of attempting to take the heat off himself after his abrasive behavior during their strategy meeting. In any event, by the time Kassem headed to the financial district for his meeting, Len would be as dead as his hopes of conciliation. The weapons would have to come from somewhere else.

Anhg Mee had already volunteered to look into the matter on his end, but after the debacle in La Paz, Kassem knew better than to put all his eggs in one basket. It would be better, he felt, to instigate at least two other efforts to smuggle weapons into Los Angeles. As the days ticked by, he could then monitor the situation and decide which of those efforts was most viable.

Kassem still believed the trove of B-300 shoulder launchers stored at the training camp in the Bekaa Valley was a weak option. If there were more time, it might be possible to smuggle them halfway around the globe, but on such short notice a transfer seemed too rife with obstacles. It would be better, he figured, to tap into his extensive ties with the international black market.

Kassem knew better than to keep notes or written telephone numbers, but he'd committed to memory each of his contacts and, as he continued to stare out at the city and neighboring harbor, he compiled a mental list and went through it, weighing pros and cons, trying to decide who he would contact first.

The financier had yet to make a decision when his cell phone vibrated in his suit coat pocket. He took the phone out and frowned when he saw the display. The call was coming from one of his aides back in Lebanon. Kassem had left instructions that he wasn't to be disturbed except in the case of emergencies, so he was already bracing himself when he clicked to take the call.

"It's the camp in the Bekaa Valley," his aide reported, his voice tight with concern. "It was raided during the night. We lost more than half our men there, and the nuclear materials... most of them were destroyed, along with the B-300s and the rest of our weapons cache."

Kassem's normally unflappable demeanor lapsed for a moment as the coalition mastermind spit out a short, virulent stream of epithets. In their wake, he took in a breath, willing himself to be calm. A flurry of questions arose in his mind, scattering his concerns about black market arms. He asked the question foremost in his mind.

"We don't think so," the aide responded. "From what the survivors tell us, the attack was carried out by Westerners."

* * *

Gary Manning wasn't sure if it was jet lag, painkillers or the aftermath of his concussion, but as he rode the elevator toward the thirty-fifth floor of Hong Kong's Mattnic Towers, the big Canadian felt as if his head and stomach were stuffed with soggy cotton. A dull ached gnawed at his spine just below the base of his skull. Manning adjusted the sling stabilizing his shoulder and leaned against the wall, taking hold of the rail with his good hand. Maybe jumping right back into things wasn't such a good idea, he thought to himself.

Once he got off on the forty-eighth floor, Manning felt a little better and wondered if the high-speed elevator might've been the problem. Rallying himself, he headed down the hall. Mattnic Towers was an office high-rise, and the Canadian walked past suites for an investment firm and insurance conglomerate before he reached his destination. The placard on the door read San-Mon Industries. There was a buzzer linked to an intercom next to the door frame. Manning pressed it and when he heard a beep he recited the password Barbara Price had passed along to him.

Moments later the door was opened by a bland-looking man in his midforties wearing an off-the-rack charcoal suit. Mel Fletch was a twenty-year veteran with Interpol's Pac-Rim office in Hong Kong. He'd spent most of that twenty years in surveillance, and the tools of his trade were visible behind him: a Greene-173 200X digital camera and an Opti-Gear Terrain-Bias telescope. Both pieces of equipment were mounted on tripods and aimed through half-opened blinds facing the high-rise apartment complex across the street. Their focal point was the outdoor terrace of Nasrallah Kassem. Poised in front of the camera was Fletch's partner, Jordai Kenney, a petite, Australian-born brunette wearing jeans and an old-school leather shoulder holster over a sleeveless olive-colored T-shirt. She looked to be as physically fit as Fletch was out of shape and when she glanced Manning's way, he saw in her gray eyes a look of steely self-confidence.

"Let me guess," she wise-cracked. "You're so good you can whip these clowns with one arm tied behind your back."

Fletch handled the introductions. Manning offered up one of his Justice Department monikers, Nicholas Hayes.

"Seriously, Nick," Kenney said as she shook Manning's hand. "What's with the sling?"

"Not sure," Manning said. "There was a snafu with the X-ray machine. They figured it'd be the same treatment either way, so 'Hello, sling.' "

"You look a little green around the gills," Kenney said. "If they've got you on something, the elevators probably pulled a whammy on you."

Kenney gave Fletch a playful swat on her way to a kitchenette set off in the corner. There she fished through a cabinet stocked with herbal supplements, taking out a few bottles and shaking some capsules into her palm. She held them out to Manning along with a small bottle of spring water.

Manning took a leap of faith and downed the capsules, chasing them with the water. Kenney, meanwhile, went back to the camera and resumed her stakeout. "Let's bring you up to speed," Fletch told Manning. "We've had an eye on Kassem since he got in two days ago. We might've come up with something yesterday. He met out on the terrace with a couple guys for over an hour. Kenney here got some decent head shots and had them run through headquarters for an ID. You can check them out if you want."

A computer printout lay on a nearby table. Manning picked it up and looked it over. There were grainy photos of two men placed alongside clearer images obviously culled from an intel database.

"They're middleweights in the scheme of things," Fletch explained. "Yarad's Iranian, Len's Chinese and of course Kassem's from Lebanon. Strange bedfellows in anybody's book, right?"

Manning nodded, skimming the intel printed out beneath each man's photos. "Yarad's in politics, Len's with MI."

"And Kassem's a money guy," Kenney added without taking her eyes from the camera. "No seeming connection."

"We wish," Fletch replied. "We've run checks on pending business mergers that might involve all three countries. Zip. Political agendas? No sure fit there, either. And something tells me they weren't just waiting on another guy so they could play bridge."

"Well, we know Kassem's got his finger in the terrorism pie," Manning offered, "and I assume that's why you're staking him out. Seems to me that has to be the angle. My people are looking at some possible collusion between renegade states in the Middle East. Maybe it goes beyond that."

Kenney looked up from the camera and told both men, "Nobody there now, but Kassem was out on his terrace making a phone call just a few minutes ago."

"Not yet," Fletch interjected. "We were trying to wrangle a way into the apartment below so we could feed something up to the terrace, but it looks like Kassem's leased all the adjacent rooms under an alias. We push too hard trying to get in there, we'll tip our hand."

"They work, huh?" Kenney said, grinning. "Who needs the pharmaceutical companies if you know a good herbalist."

Manning couldn't believe the effect the supplements had had on him. His neck and shoulders still ached, but the nausea was gone and the fog between his ears had lifted.

"You got something that'll get me out of this sling?" Manning asked, only half joking.

"No pills for that," Kenney said. "If you want, though, I can check your shoulder to see if it's slipped out of place."

"You sure?" Kenney said. "If it's out, I can give it a good yank and put it back in place."

"She means it," Fletch said. "Jordai used to be a field medic. Knows her stuff."

"Thanks, but I'm good for now." Manning turned to Fletch, anxious to get the conversation back on track. "This pow-wow yesterday, did anything unusual happen? Anything we can go on?"

"Actually, yeah," Fletch said. "There was a point where it looked like Len wound up on the wrong side of the conversation. Things got a little dicey, then he got up and left. Jordai went down to tail him when he came out, but he'd already slipped out the back way."

Manning mused, "Something tells me he'll pop up back on our radar sooner or later."

Chapter Thirteen

The Chinese intelligence officer did indeed have connections in South America that he was willing to turn to in hopes of acquiring rocket launchers for the mission in Los Angeles. His contact was his former brother-in-law, Boh Xiao, a black marketer whose specialty ran more along the lines of drug-running and money-laundering. Xiao, however, ran in the same circle as arms merchants, and Len had felt the younger man might well have access to the weapons Kassem and the other members of the coalition were seeking. The big stumbling block had been Len's long estrangement with his brother-in-law, a rift centered around Xiao's short-lived marriage to Len's youngest sister. Len had known about Xiao's criminal leanings even before the man had begun dating his sister, and the two had argued on countless occasions, several times nearly coming to blows.

As Len had predicted — and hoped — the marriage had failed and Xiao, in disgrace, had left the Orient for the Philippines, and from there he had continued to wend his way across the Pacific, working his rackets and building up a clientele of fellow undesirables. Guatemala had been Xiao's home for the past five years, and though he and Len had never so much as spoken since their last face-off, the intelligence officer had kept tabs on Xiao's doings, vowing to kill the other man if he so much as tried to reestablish contact with his sister. Despite such deep-seated hatred, Len had touched base with Xiao following his meeting with Kassem, confident the smuggler would be willing to put aside their differences if the price was right. He'd been mistaken, however. Xiao had hung up on Len before an offer could be put on the table, and Len's follow-up calls had gone unanswered.

Now, still in Hong Kong, bags packed for his return to the mainland, Gohn Len was reeling from yet another setback. Sitting on the edge of his bed in his modest room at the Cordoba Hotel, the tall officer slowly lowered his cell phone, his stomach turning to knots. He'd just finished speaking with his subordinate, Anhg Mee. Mee had promised to look into the availability of WPF thermobaric RPGs for what Len had described as a top-secret assignment, but he'd done so in a manner that had aroused Len's suspicions. It was Mee's nature to ask a lot of questions to try to impose his view of things, but in this instance there had been no reticence or hesitation. Mee instead had seemed, if anything, overanxious to assure Len that the matter would be taken care of. It was, in fact, almost as if the younger man had been expecting Len's call. The implications were, for Len, ominous. It would be just like Kassem, he felt, to take so much offense to being second-guessed at yesterday's meeting that he would seek to retaliate without waiting to see if Len could make good on his offer to track down another arms supplier. And if Kassem was of a mind to replace Len on the coalition, how better to do it than to turn to his second-in-command?

It had been more than twelve hours since Len had last eaten. He had no appetite but felt that if he quelled his hunger pangs it might lessen the uneasiness in his stomach. His flight back to Beijing was not for another four hours. There was time for breakfast before he'd need to check out of his room. He thought about ordering room service but decided against it. Giving in to his paranoia, however, before leaving the room, he strapped on his web holster and slid his 9 mm Glock pistol into the sheath, then raided his luggage for a six-inch switchblade and placed it in his coat pocket.

Five minutes later Len stepped off the elevator at the third floor of the hotel. The Cordoba was part of a multiuse complex including an upscale, three-story shopping mall linked to the hotel by means of a glass-enclosed footbridge. The concourse was busy, but Len's years of field experience were such that he was able to tune out most of the shoppers around him and focus on possible threats. By the time he'd reached the mall, the intelligence officer had confirmed his worst suspicions.

A man who'd been loitering in the lounge area just off the hotel elevator had fallen into step behind Len as he headed for the mall, keeping pace while allowing other pedestrians to fill the gap between them. Len had gotten only a fleeting glimpse of the man, but once he reached the mall he stepped into the second store he came to and pretended to take interest in a display of luggage accessories. There was a mirror in the display case and Len checked it out of the corner of his eye, watching his pursuer glance in briefly before continuing past the shop. Len lingered a few moments longer at the display case, then ventured out of the store, making his way farther into the mall. He noticed the other man lingering at a nearby news kiosk. He was in his midthirties and looked as if he could be Lebanese, increasing the likelihood that he was following Len on orders from Nasrallah Kassem. He wore drab slacks and a windbreaker several sizes too large for him, no doubt to better conceal whatever weapon he might have secured beneath it.

So that's it, then, Len thought to himself. Kassem had put a hit out on him; he was sure of it.

Continuing past the busy storefronts, Len stopped at a kiosk and bought a yogurt smoothie. It wasn't the breakfast he'd had in mind, but it sounded like something that might soothe his stomach. As he waited for the drink, he took out his cell phone and turned away from the counter, placing one hand over his free ear to give the impression he was trying to block out any unnecessary noise. He pretended to make a call, using the maneuver as a pretext to steal another glance at his pursuer. The man in the windbreaker had stopped in front of a nearby directory sign and was staring absently at the mall's layout, taking care not to look Len's way.

Once he'd paid for the smoothie, Len meandered toward the directory sign, cell phone to his ear. As he passed within earshot of his pursuer, he ignored the other man, taking care to smile and laugh a few times as if he were on the phone with some friend he hoped to meet before heading back to Beijing.

"All right, then," he said into the cell phone as he walked by his pursuer. "I'll be there shortly. It will be good to see you again."

Len wasn't sure of the extent to which his pursuer had been eavesdropping, but he was certain that he'd given no clue that he knew he was being followed, much less marked for execution. As he approached the nearest escalators, Len's mind raced, pondering a course of action. Close as he'd come to his pursuer, confronting the other man hadn't been an option; security inside the mall was tight and Len knew that if he'd tried to catch the other man off guard and gun him down, he himself would have been shot by armed security.

Once he reached the escalators, Len headed down to the next level, considering other alternatives. The Justice Department, where several of Len's longtime colleagues had offices, was located just down the block, and just outside the mall there was a rail stop for the MTR. Either option held promise in terms of allowing Len an opportunity to escape his would-be assailant. But if he eluded the man, it would only be a temporary solution. Len would still be a marked man. No, there had to be another way.

* * *

Hong Kong Park, located directly adjacent to the Cordoba Hotel, was an eight-hectare urban getaway built on the site the former Victoria Barracks, which dated back to the glory days of British rule over the islands in the mid-nineteenth century. Some of the original buildings were still standing but had been incorporated into the park, which had opened in 1991. Gohn Len, years before joining the PLA Intelligence Ministry, had been part of the park's original security detail. He still made a point to visit the park whenever he was in Hong Kong, and just the day before he'd walked the rambling garden pathways prior to his ill-fated meeting with Nasrallah Kassem and Pasha Yarad. He knew the facility's layout like the back of his hand, and the moment he'd seen the mall sign pointing out the pedestrian walkway leading to one of the park entrances, Len realized the best way to deal with the assassin who, even now, was riding down the escalator, still on his tail.

Len subtly lengthened his stride as he fell in with the dozens of other shoppers headed toward the park. Soon he was outside the mall, making his way over a back alley used by delivery trucks servicing the mall's various stores. A wide staircase at the end of the walkway led down to one of the park entrances. Loitering near the gateway were a number of attractive women who, despite their conservative dress, made little effort to disguise the fact that they were streetwalkers on the prowl for marks. Len knew they'd be there.

Since the park's opening, this particular entrance had become a magnet for prostitution, and during his years as a security guard, he'd had his share of interactions with the women, sometimes merely sending them off with a warning, other times detaining them for arrest by the local police. There had been times, too, when, in a moment of weakness, he'd propositioned the women, engaging their services for free in exchange for a promise not to turn them in to the authorities. He felt shame for having engaged in such trysts, but now, he realized, those illicit experiences could well provide him with the means by which to turn the tables on his pursuer.

By the time he reached the bottom of the staircase, Len had pinpointed the woman likeliest to aid in his plan. She was younger than the others, with a faint look of timidity in her otherwise come-hither gaze. Like the others, she was dressed in a modest skirt and blouse and carrying an attache case to give the appearance she was a young businesswoman waiting to meet a colleague. Len knew there was likely nothing in the case but a handful of prophylactics and perhaps some lingerie brought along on the chance a customer wanted to take her back to his hotel room rather than have his needs attended to in an out-of-the-way section of the park.

"There you are, right on schedule," he told the woman, putting on a performance for the sake of the man following him. The woman looked puzzled, but before she could respond, he smiled and took her hand, then leaned in close and whispered, "I know the going rate and I'll pay double if you just do as I say."

"There's no sex involved," Len interrupted as he led her through the gateway. Once they were in the park, he brushed back a lock of the young woman's hair and leaned close again, this time as if to kiss her ear. In the same motion, he stole a glance behind him, monitoring the approach of his pursuer. As Len had hoped, the other man was making his way toward the park, staying close to those around him so as to not appear conspicuous.

"I'm just asking for a quick favor," Len whispered to the woman. "All you have to do is act as if we'd already spoken and arranged to meet here."

As they headed farther into the park, most of the crowd remained on the main walkway leading to the lotus pool and aviary. Len and the woman veered off to the right, taking a narrow pathway that led them past a sign reading No Attractions — Park Personnel Only. The woman seemed to have expected the detour; this was, after all, the path taken by most of the streetwalkers looking to turn their tricks at the nearest available location. The path wound past a series of tall, thick hedges before reaching a straightaway. Directly ahead was a little-used restroom facility, half the size of a two-car garage. As Len pointed to it, he was already handing the woman several large-denomination bills.

"All you have to do is go into the women's room," Len told her quickly. "Stay in the doorway until you see another man headed this way. Make sure he sees you, then go inside and let the door close behind you."

"That's not your concern," Len told her. "Now go! And once you've closed the door, stay inside for a few minutes. Don't come right back out."

"Go!" Len whispered angrily, giving the woman a faint push. Every second counted at this point.

As the woman headed toward the restrooms, Len turned and moved a few steps to his left, concealing himself between a large trash bin and one of the shoulder-high concrete block walls flanking it on three sides. Reaching into his coat pocket, he pulled out his switchblade and triggered open the six-inch blade. Seconds later, his pursuer appeared, eyes on the woman who was now just closing the restroom door behind her. The man had already unzipped his windbreaker and was reaching inside it when Len made his move.

Lunging forward, the intelligence officer lashed out with the switchblade, plunging it into the other man's chest, directly below the sternum. The assailant barely had time to realize what had happened when Len twisted the knife, ravaging the man's heart. Blood spurted from the wound as Len used his free hand to grab the man by the windbreaker, jerking him close and staring into his eyes, watching the life go out of them.

As the assailant's legs gave out beneath him, Len dragged the man behind the trash bin and laid him out on the concrete slab. No one would be able to see him and his body would likely go undiscovered until park workers came to move the trash at the end of the day. Len unearthed the switchblade from the dead man's chest and cast it aside, then opened the assailant's windbreaker. Sheathed in the man's web holster was a blood-soaked, suppressor-fitted Ruger MK II. Len took the weapon and reached into the trash bin for a scrap of newspaper. He used it to clean the gun, then slipped the weapon into his coat pocket. Afterward, he scooped a handful of plant trimmings from the trash bin, sprinkling them over the trail of blood left on the ground.

By the time Len had finished, the young woman he'd propositioned had yet to reappear from the restroom. Len was glad. He didn't want to waste time dealing with her. Quickly he traced his steps back toward the main walkway, taking care not to call attention to himself. Bypassing the staircase leading up to the mall, Len instead circled around the building to the main road. There, he flagged down the first available taxi and gave the driver the address of Nasrallah Kassem's high-rise.

Chapter Fourteen

"They're beautiful," Michelle Renais said, speaking into her cell phone as she stared at the bouquet of long-stemmed roses she'd set on the bathroom windowsill of her Parisian flat. "That was so thoughtful of you, Jude. Truly."

The woman was soaking in a raised tub filled with lavender-scented bubbles, an early-morning glass of champagne in her free hand, celebrating the ease with which she had secured Cartier's promise of support in her attempt to seize Media Francois at year's end. There'd been no need to ask, much less wait a few months to ask for his help: the sexual favors she'd heaped on the politician the previous night had worked even better than anticipated and he'd made his offer less than an hour after they'd retreated from his bedroom to his study for a nightcap. She'd wound up staying a few hours longer, dozing in Cartier's arms, before returning to her flat to continue preparations for the Frazier Group conference. The flowers had arrived shortly after she'd finally gotten through to Scotland Yard's Bip Hartson and received confirmation that he would be flying to California for the meeting as scheduled. Hartson, of course, had made a point to express relief over the news that an al Qaeda sect had been neutralized in a deadly confrontation just east of Los Angeles. Now it was Cartier's turn.

"Nice of the Americans to dispense with the riffraff before our arrival," he told her after bringing up the matter.

"Yes," Renais conceded, glancing at the folded copy of the International Herald on the chair beside her tub. She'd just finished reading the article about the incident at Leystra Springs when Cartier had called. "Short of a red carpet, I couldn't think of a better way to welcome our little gathering."

"Everyone but Bonilla and Nekehf," Renais said, referring to Spain's representative to the United Nations and a trusted Egyptian foreign affairs analyst the Frazier Group relied on for an insider's view of Islamic militancy. "Bonilla's point man on that whole disarmament treaty they're trying to settle with North Korea and was concerned it'd raised too many eyebrows if he were to suddenly go AWOL."

"Understood," Cartier said, "but if he's helping to hold that tyrant in check, he's going about our business anyway."

"My thought precisely," Renais said. "And as for Nekehf, his wife is having surgery this week and he asked to be excused."

"Of course." After a brief pause Cartier said, "Then Carruthers will be there, too, I take it."

Renais smiled faintly to herself, hearing the tinge of jealousy in the man's voice. She wasn't all that surprised that Cartier had caught wind of her recent fling with the U.S. secretary of state. She hoped, though, that the minister hadn't yet figured out that the affair had had little to do with passion so much as her using Carruthers — just as she was now using Cartier — to help execute a financial takeover that had run into problems due to cold feet on the part of an American partner in the transaction. By the time Carruthers had figured out he was being played, the takeover had been a fait accompli. When he'd railed at Renais for using him, she'd used it as an excuse to break off the relationship, knowing there was little he could do to get back at her without risking his political future. She, after all, knew the extent to which Carruthers had broken the law to help her out.

"Roland will be staying in a room on the second floor," Renais assured Cartier. "You and I, on the other hand, will be suite-mates on the fourth."

"Not to mention the fact we'll be sharing on the flight there," Cartier replied. "It will be one time I wish it flew a little slower."

Renais laughed gaily, then, as discreetly as possible, wrapped up the call. Once she'd hung up, she finished her champagne and set the crystal flute aside, then idly flicked her fingers at the large, soapy bubbles around her.

* * *

"It's always a sad day when Americans give their lives to defend us against infidels," intoned Roland Carruthers, standing in front of the bevy of reporters that had been waiting for him outside the State Department when he stepped out of his chauffeured Towncar. He was responding to a question about his perspective on the news from Leystra Hot Springs. "My heart goes out to the families of the slain SWAT members, but I hope they can find solace in realizing how many thousands of American lives may have been spared thanks to the courage of their loved ones."

"There are reports that Kouri Ahmet was among those killed in the explosion," one of the reporters shouted above those around them. "Ahmet had specifically targeted you for your outspoken views against Islamic fundamentalists, so is it fair to say that you're personally relieved by this news?"

"I make it a point not to live in fear of the Kouri Ahmets of this world," Carruthers insisted. "Terrorists by definition thrive on the sense they can immobilize us with their rhetoric and through acts of cowardly violence. Yes, we will take their threats to heart and do what we can to prevent them from being carried out, but if we cease to go about our daily business out of concern these scoundrels will do the unthinkable, we have already played into their hands. I don't intend to give them that satisfaction. And, speaking of daily business, I have a full day ahead of me, so if you'll excuse me..."

One of Carruthers's aides had already opened the main doors for him, and when armed security guards fell into position on either side of the entrance, the secretary of state eased past the media phalanx and entered the building. It was only then that he dispensed with his look of defiant bluster and allowed himself a sigh of relief. Ahmet's death was the best news he'd heard all week; perhaps all month. And to know the son of a bitch had taken down an entire al Qaeda cell with him was icing on the cake, especially since they'd been killed so close to Los Angeles. Now, finally, he could relax a little more about heading to the West Coast for the Frazier Group conference.

As he rode the elevator up to his floor, Carruthers nodded inattentively in response to his aide's nonstop chatter. The secretary was thinking about Michelle Renais. The conference would be the first time he'd seen her since their breakup. Judging from the way he'd snapped at her when she'd called the day before, he realized just how strongly he still felt about the way the woman had used him. He knew it was probably in the best interests of the Frazier Group for him to let bygones be bygones and not let personal matters encroach upon the business he and the other attendees would be considering at the get-together, but Carruthers hoped there would be an opportunity for him to come face to face with the Frenchwoman so that he could tell her just what he thought of her duplicity. Better yet, he hoped there might be a way to manipulate the proceedings in such a way that he could somehow discredit her without drawing focus on the misdeeds he'd carried out at her behest. The idea of a woman running the group had never sat well with him to begin with, and having that woman be one who'd used him and then cavalierly cast him aside... It was all too much. If Carruthers had anything to say about it, by the end of the conference, Michelle Renais would have been ousted from her position and replaced by a man. Preferably himself.

Chapter Fifteen

Nasrallah Kassem had already filled his valise with the paperwork he would need for his meeting in the financial district, but as he stood at his desk in the large den of his high-rise Hong Kong apartment, he forced himself to double-check to make sure he hadn't forgotten anything. The Lebanese financier was furious with himself. It wasn't like him to give in to distraction. He'd long prided himself on his ability to mentally compartmentalize, to keep his business affairs separate from his terrorist activities and, when necessary, to quickly shift focus from one concern to another. And yet, here he was, faced with the need to concentrate on a pending multibillion-dollar business negotiation — the hostile takeover of Media Francois under the guise of a shadow conglomerate several times removed from New Dawn Rising — and his mind was hopelessly elsewhere.

A few moments ago as he was still grappling with how best to deal with the news of the attack on the training camp in the Bekaa Valley, Kassem had received a call from Kouri Ahmet, confirming that the coalition's al Qaeda cell in California had been offered up as a pawn to better increase the chances of taking out the Frazier Group when they met in Los Angeles. Ahmet had, as planned, arranged it so that the Americans had been led to believe he was among those slain in the attack at Leystra Hot Springs. Now that he and Mousif Nouhra had met up with the leaders of the surviving teams, Ahmet was pressing for the delivery of weapons needed to carry out the attack on the Frazier conference. Kassem had assured him that the matter was being looked into, but in the event no rocket launchers could be smuggled into the States in time, he'd also suggested that Ahmet consider contingency plans. One of those plans, Kassem had reluctantly insisted, needed to be the option of calling off the attack. Ahmet had steadfastly refused the latter option. With or without the coalition's support, Ahmet had declared that, one way or another, he and the other team leaders — Nouhra, Zeba Moussallem, Dang Win and Kruzan Shiv — intended to see the mission through, on schedule. When Kessam had challenged Ahmet's defiance, the freelance terrorist had hung up on him.

So now, on top of everything else, Kessam found himself faced with the prospect of mutiny. He knew Ahmet well enough to know that the renegade was not one to bluff. If he and the other cell leaders were intent on going rogue, there was nothing he, Kassem, could do to stop them. Withholding their rocket launchers? No, that wouldn't work. If they couldn't attack the Frazier conference with shoulder missiles, Kassem knew they would find another way; he'd already gone so far as to suggest they do just that very thing.

Kassem's grim ruminations were interrupted once again by the nudging vibration of his cell phone. He fished the device from his suit pocket, hoping it would be from the hit man he'd sent after Gohn Len, confirming that at least one thing had gone right. But the call was from his chauffeur, calling from downstairs: Kassem's car was ready to take him to the financial district.

Kassem ended the connection, then, after quick deliberation, thumbed a long-distance number, placing a call to the Cayman Islands.

* * *

A thirty-three-year-old Harvard graduate with a Ph.D. in Economics, Sana Kassem not only oversaw the daily affairs at her father's coastal home in the Cayman Islands, she also managed the lion's share of his financial transactions originating out of the offshore banking center. Kassem had tried for years to keep his daughter out of the loop in terms of his terrorist dealings, but early on she'd figured out the extent to which he provided financial backing to Hezbollah and other insurgent groups. She'd badgered, cajoled and finally convinced her father to let her get involved in the New Dawn Rising cause and had since proved her worth countless times over, to the point where Kassem now considered Sana his most trusted associate and adviser. Sana knew that, like most men of his generation, her father likely had wished that his firstborn had been a male heir, but for him to have put that disappointment aside and do all he could to see that she flourished under his wing filled the woman with pride as well as a determination to prove herself as worthy as any son. And this was one of those days when Sana found herself in a position to underscore just how valuable to her father she had become.

Seated at her desk in front of a glass wall overlooking the Grand Cayman estate and the gleaming Caribbean waters that lay beyond it, Sana was hurriedly setting out all the paperwork she would need to help Kassem shepherd through the complex financial transaction he would be carrying out within the hour halfway across the globe. She felt harried and nervous, having gotten off to a late start after allowing herself to get sidetracked watching a CNN report on the al Qaeda sleeper cell that had been decimated in an altercation with U.S. authorities at an abandoned resort just outside of Los Angeles. She'd been shaken by the news, on several levels. She knew the terrorist group was part of the contingent her father and the other New Dawn Rising founders had helped plant on American soil. And yet, here it was, a day after the attack, and she had yet to hear from her father about the incident. For that matter, Kassem had yet to touch base with her to make sure everything was ready on her end for the forthcoming attempt to take over Media Francois. It wasn't like him to be so remiss, and she was beginning to worry that something had gone wrong in Hong Kong. The concern was only fleeting, however, because Sana knew there was another, far more likely explanation for his silence.

Sana had known Ahmet for several years, and there had been an undeniable attraction between them from the moment they'd first met during one of her homecoming visits to Lebanon. Her father had detected the chemistry and advised Sana to keep her distance from the terrorist. Sana had done her best to oblige, and the fact that she lived in the Caymans had made it relatively easy to stay out of Ahmet's orbit. Still, there had been several more occasions when their paths had crossed, and in each instance it had been clear that the heat between them had not abated. If anything, the notion that they were each the other's forbidden fruit had only increased their unspoken, yet mutual, desire.

And then, last week, when Ahmet had flown to the Caymans to pick up currency for the weapons deal in La Paz, he and Sana had finally succumbed to temptation, capping off a night swim in the estate's Olympic-size pool with a frenzy of lovemaking in the nearby cabana. The tryst had been passionate — everything Sana had expected it would be — but in the aftermath, everything had changed between them. Be it postcoital remorse or merely a sense that their curiosity had been satisfied at the expense of learning they had no real emotional connection after all, they'd both agreed they'd made a grievous mistake. They'd vowed to keep the incident a secret between them and Ahmet had left for Mexico ahead of schedule rather than stay on the island any longer than necessary. When he'd wound up arrested only days later while attempting to purchase the black market shoulder missiles, Sana had felt a twinge of guilt, wondering if their escapade had somehow thrown Ahmet to the point where he'd dropped his guard. The feeling had weighed on her so much that she had finally called her father and confessed to the indiscretion, trying to soften the blow by claiming it had all been nothing more than an innocent lark. Kassem had been livid, moreso than Sana could ever remember him being with her. She had apologized profusely, but Kassem had not been appeased and they hadn't spoken since. And now, with the news that Ahmet was dead, Sana suspected that things would likely be even more strained between her and her father. Given that, it was no wonder, she felt, that he hadn't called.

He greeted her, not warmly but also without the harsh recrimination that had been in his voice the last time they'd spoken. She did her best to sound equally reserved.

"About what happened in California? Yes," Sana replied, making a point not to mention Ahmet's name. "I'm sorry, Father."

Kassem quickly changed the subject. "The Media Francois deal," he said tersely. "Is everything ready on your end?"

"Yes," Sana told him, even as she continued to arrange the paperwork. "And while I was setting everything up, I double-checked with all our banking contacts here. To the best of their knowledge, there haven't been any attempts yet to trace the money from the arms deal in La Paz back to us. To be safe, though, I went ahead and gave a few bonuses as an incentive for them to pass along word if anyone starts looking into our accounts."

Sana detected a flicker of parental pride in her father's voice and tried to milk it. "Like father, like daughter," she said.

"I suppose you're right," Kassem said. "But the truth is, I was calling about another matter. It has to do with Kouri Ahmet."

Sana listened in stunned silence as Kassem quickly explained how one of the al Qaeda operatives had been dressed up to pass for Ahmet and subsequently charred beyond recognition in the explosion that had also taken out the L.A. SWAT team. All the while her mind raced, trying to grasp the implications. When her father was finished, she told him, "I don't know what to say."

"Then just listen," Kassem told her. "There's more. Ahmet and I have had a falling out. He's broken off contact and is working on his own with the teams in Los Angeles. He intends to carry things out without our supervision."

Sana couldn't believe what she was hearing. It was as if her fling with Ahmet had never happened; once again, she felt as if her father was taking her into his confidence and anxious to hear her counsel. She was taken aback, so much so that she had to blink away a sudden welling of tears. It was all she could do not to blurt out her thanks for Kassem's forgiveness.

"You said you're prepared for the takeover, yes?" Kassem said. "We have a couple hours before everything will be put into motion."

"What I need you to do then is to make a few calls," Kassem said. "We need two things done. First, we need to send someone to La Paz to track down the informant who arranged for Ahmet to be arrested. I'd recommend Jorge Holmas. You know him, yes?"

"Yes, of course," Sana replied. Holmas was a kingpin with the Yucatan Cartel, an organized crime faction that trafficked drugs, weapons and prostitutes throughout the Caribbean as well as Mexico. Kassem had done business with the man in the past but always tried to keep him at arm's length, wary of the Mexican's eagerness to broaden his sphere of influence beyond the criminal underworld. Sana was taken aback that her father would now turn to him. "But why would you want to bring him in to..."

"Let me finish, then I'll explain," Kassem told her. "The informant has no doubt been either placed in protective custody or slipped into some kind of witness protection program. He'll be difficult to find, but Holmas will know how to grease the right palms."

"But will he agree to help?" Sana wondered. "He's been clamoring to have his cartel join NDR with an equal standing. We've always refused."

"Not 'refused,'" Kassem corrected. "We've stalled him, saying we'd take the matter under consideration."

"It was, for the most part," Kassem conceded, "but he's always had his uses for us. This is another instance."

"Tell him we're prepared to let him join ranks with us, provided he can demonstrate he's up to the challenge. Your word should be good enough, but if he needs my confirmation, give him my number."

"I'll call him right away," Sana promised. "But you can't be serious, can you? About making his cartel an equal partner?"

"We'll let him think what he wants," Kassem assured his daughter. "At the end of the day, his men will always be nothing more than a goon squad for us."

"Call him," Kassem said. "But before you do, there's another matter you'll need to take up with him. Another test. We need shoulder rockets to replace those Ahmet failed to get his hands on. Holmas has the necessary connections."

"You need to emphasize the time factor," Kassem went on. "He needs to be able to guarantee delivery to Los Angeles within a couple days."

Sana felt she'd finally figured out what her father was up to. "This is all a way of trying to win Ahmet back into the fold," she guessed.

"Yes," Kassem replied, "but there's a catch. Ahmet needs to think these favors are coming strictly from you."

* * *

The clock was ticking and Kassem's valet was still waiting downstairs so the Lebanese financier quickly explained his plan to Sana and then signed off, promising to call her in an hour once he'd met up with Pasha Yarad and his other partners in the Media Francois takeover. Once he signed off and stuffed the cell phone back into his pocket, Kassem closed his valise, cursing to himself. He was both ashamed and repulsed at the idea of needing his daughter to do his dirty work for him in hopes of salvaging the situation in California. It was just another in the string of indignities to have beset him of late.

This is a nightmare, he thought to himself as he hurriedly adjusted his tie. Five days ago everything had been right with Kassem's world and it had seemed to him that New Dawn Rising would soon supplant the Frazier Group in terms of influencing world events from behind the scenes. Now, it seemed, everything was falling apart. Yes, there was still a chance the coalition could rebound from this run of misfortune, but Kassem could feel a nagging sense that the unraveling would continue.

Leaving the den, Kassem stopped by the kitchen long enough to down what was left of the Turkish coffee he'd left on the counter. He was setting the small ceramic cup in the sink when he was startled by a pounding, splintering sound in the front vestibule. Kassem whirled and glanced toward the entryway, his heart jolting with a raw, sudden fear. A ragged hole had appeared in the front door, just above the lock, and a moment later Gohn Len kicked the door open and charged in, brandishing a handgun.

"You seem surprised to see me," Len told Kassem, pointing the gun his way. "Why is that?"

"There's been some misunderstanding," Kassem offered feebly, his knees weakening beneath him.

Gohn Len calmly fired the Ruger. Muffled rounds plowed through the valise Kassem had instinctively pulled in front of him. The financier staggered backward, blood spewing from his chest. The Chinese intelligence officer continued to advance on his betrayer, planting a final shot in Kassem's forehead. The valise fell from Kassem's lifeless fingers and he slumped to the marble-tiled floor, turning the white stone crimson.

Len stood over his victim, eyes still gleaming with rage. He wasn't finished with Kassem yet....

Chapter Sixteen

"Sore, but no complaints," Gary Manning said. The Stony Man operative was in a back room of the Interpol suite, wrapping up a cell phone call with Aaron Kurtzman back at Stony Man Farm.

"Well, from the sounds of it, if you do have any complaints, your new buddies there will fix you up with some more of those voodoo herbs, right?"

"I'll let you go," Kurtzman told him. "If we connect the dots on those guys who met with Kassem I'll get back to you ASAP."

"Good enough," Manning said. "And tell the guys not to have too much fun without me."

Manning hung up, confident that Kurtzman or someone else at the Farm would be calling back shortly with a link between Kassem, Pasha Yarad and Gohn Len. There had to be a frail out there somewhere, and given the Farm's far-reaching access to global intel, it would only be a matter of time before the cyberteam sniffed it out. In the meantime, Manning figured he'd lean on Fletch and Kenney for a lead or two he could sink his teeth into. The Canadian never had much patience when it came to stakeouts, and he was none too keen on the idea of staying holed up in the high-rise until Nasrallah Kassem gave them reason to leave. Now that his head had cleared, he was restless to take some kind of action.

The two Interpol agents were stationed at the window when Manning rejoined them, Fletch using the telescope while Kenney manned the camera.

Kenney stared out the window, then hurriedly put her eye back to the viewfinder. Manning crossed the room and stared over the agents' shoulders. Through the slotted blinds he could see activity out on Nasrallah Kassem's terrace.

Manning didn't need a zoom lens or telescope to see what has happening. The tall Chinese agent was dragging someone across the terrace to the railing. Manning figured it had to be Kassem and, from the looks of it, the Lebanese financier was either dead or unconscious.

Manning watched on as Len hauled Kassem to the terrace railing, then hoisted the financier up and gave him a fierce shove over the side. Kassem began to plummet toward the ground more than forty floors below. Manning had no interest in waiting to see the body land. He'd already turned and was bolting for the door.

"Right behind you!" Fletch moved from the telescope and grabbed his web holster from the back of the chair beside him. He glanced at Kenney and told the woman, "Stay on the camera!"

Kenney nodded, unlatching the digicam from its tripod and moving to the window, throwing open the shutters. Gohn Len had already vanished from the terrace, and Kenney knew it was likely that any further activity worth capturing would be taking place on the ground. By the time she'd opened the window and leaned out to aim her camera at the grisly scene below, Manning and Fletch were out of the office.

* * *

Keys in hand, Faiq Unis, Nasrallah Kassem's uniformed chauffeur, was standing next to his freshly polished black Lincoln Towncar when he heard the first screams and saw the look of wide-eyed horror in the eyes of several pedestrians close to him. By the time he glanced up to see what they were staring at, Kassem's freefall from the terrace had been broken by the taut canvas awning that extended out over the main entrance to the high-rise. There was a loud thump as awning sagged under the financier's weight and tore at its seams. Kassem's body proceeded to bound off the awning and topple onto the front hood of the Lincoln. Unis gaped in mute wonder as gravity pulled the corpse down and deposited it in the gutter. It was only then, staring down at the contorted heap of ruined flesh and tailored silk, that the driver realized that the dead man was his employer.

Unis froze, in shock. Some of the pedestrians brushed hurriedly past him, still screaming, anxious to distance themselves from the fallen corpse. Others jostled the valet as they moved to the curb and huddled over Kassem. Unis's first impression was that they were coming to the man's aid, but when someone emerged from the huddle clasping the dead man's cigarette case, the chauffeur realized what was happening. Enraged, Unis lunged forward, grabbing the thief by the wrist. He quickly threw the other man into a full Nelson and tugged hard on his pinned arm until the silver case dropped from his grasp. The case fell to the sidewalk, only to be snatched up seconds later by another would-be Samaritan.

"Jackals!" Unis roared, shoving aside the first thief and kicking the second in the shin. The first thief cursed and threw himself at Unis. As the two men grappled with each other, the second thief retrieved the cigarette case and dashed off. Another pedestrian had helped himself to Kassem's money clip and a third let out a triumphant cry as he held aloft the Rolex watch he'd just slipped off the slain financier's wrist. Others continued to pick at Kassem like crows on roadkill.

The doorman had rushed inside to alert security, and moments later a pair of burly uniformed officers charged out to the sidewalk, pistols drawn, blowing whistles that drowned out the frenzied cries of those frisking Kassem for more valuables. One of the officers pried the first thief off Unis while the other shouted for the other scavengers to move away from the body.

The melee brought traffic along the street to a standstill. Several drivers got out of their vehicles to get a better view of the commotion while others leaned on their horns and cursed the delay. Far down the block, a police siren yelped to life, but the cruiser was hopelessly ensnarled in the gridlock. The officer riding shotgun finally got out, unholstering his police-issue pistol as he wandered between cars, making his way to the high-rise.

Farther down the road, Manning and Fletch, guns drawn, as well, were also threading their way through traffic.

Maiming had almost reached Kassem's car when he crossed paths with the police officer, who promptly drew a bead on him and yelled, "Freeze!"

One of the security guards looked up and moved forward, backing the cop up, gun trained on Manning.

"U.S. federal agent!" Manning shouted, pointing to the badge he'd fortuitously clipped to the web holster partially concealed by his arm sling. "I'm after the man who did this!"

Manning compromised, pointing his G-Model Colt 1911 A-l toward the cloud-patched sky overhead.

As the policeman inspected Manning's badge, the Canadian glanced past him toward the front entrance to the high-rise. Gohn Len had just emerged from the building. The Chinese assailant stopped for a moment, taking note of the cop and the security officers. When his gaze met Manning's, Len took a hesitant step backward, then turned and retreated inside.

The cop stepped back, nodding that Manning was free to go. The Canadian immediately broke into a half run, shouting to the security guard standing between him and the building, "He's getting away!"

Manning caught the guard flat-footed and quickly raced past both him and Faiq Unis. A bystander who'd just pried a signet ring from Kassem's hand was about to run off when he found himself in the covert op's path. Manning bowled the man over, grimacing as his wounded arm bore the brunt of the collision. He ignored the pain and charged into the building, determined to get his hands on Kassem's assassin.

* * *

Gohn len had hoped to make an easy getaway amid all the commotion out on the street. Now, back inside the high-rise, he cursed himself for not having taken the back way. He'd concealed the Ruger beneath his suit coat, tucked inside the waistband of his pants. As he quickened his stride and crossed the lobby, he let his hand drift inside his coat. He'd passed the elevators and concierge desk when he heard someone shout, "Stop!"

Len ignored the command and continued toward the rear entrance. A parcel carrier had just entered the building, pushing a handcart stacked high with boxes. Len veered toward him, pulling out the Ruger.

"Give me your keys!" he hissed, pressing the gun's silencer against the deliveryman's rib cage as he circled around, using both the packages and the carrier to shield himself.

Manning slowed to a stop in the middle of the lobby, gun still trained on Len. His entire back was throbbing and the pain had radiated up to his neck. He was certain the shoulder had been dislocated again, rendering the sling pointless. Gritting his teeth, he freed the arm, exhaling as a fresh jolt of pain surged through him. Around him, several people screamed and fled out the front exit. The concierge ducked behind her desk and began dialing her cell phone.

Len, meanwhile, slowly backpedaled toward the rear entrance, dragging the deliveryman and the loaded dolly along with him. The automatic doors whispered open behind him. Once outside the building, Len grabbed the parcel carrier's keys. As the entryway doors hissed closed, he glanced over his shoulder and saw the delivery van backed up to a loading dock a few yards to his left.

* * *

Mel Fletch froze at the far side of the loading dock and leveled his pistol at Gohn Len. The Interpol agent considered himself to be a fair shot, but he wasn't about to risk hitting the deliveryman Len was using for cover. He felt his best option was to keep Len distracted and hope Manning could take advantage.

Without hesitation, Len whirled and fired, skimming a silenced round off the loading dock and driving Fletch to cover. The Interpol agent was still crouched behind the raised platform when he heard a scuffling and the hollow sound of tumbling parcels. A split second later, several of the boxes bounded off the dock on top of him, followed by the carrier, who'd been shoved by Len with so much force that one of his shoes had flown loose. Fletch was knocked to the ground, the gun flying from his hand. The carrier's right knee had caught him squarely in the jaw and for a moment he was dazed, his field of vision aswirl with stars. By the time he regained his senses, he could hear Gohn Len starting up the delivery truck.

Groaning, Fletch untangled himself from the deliveryman and swept the boxes aside, looking for his gun. Even as he was closing his fingers around it, he could smell the truck's exhaust fanning out from the loading dock.

* * *

Racing across the lobby, Manning winced each time his feet struck the marbled floor. The impact made it feel as if he were being stabbed between the shoulder blades with a cattle prod. He did his best to block out the pain, resolved to prevent Gohn Len from eluding capture. The Chinese gunman had vanished from view the moment the tinted rear doors had closed behind him, and it wasn't until Manning was within a few yards of the glass that he could see the delivery truck pulling away from the loading dock.

When the entry doors hissed open, the Stony Man operative charged out onto the loading dock. Mel Fletch was racing toward the truck, but Gohn Len had the accelerator to the floor and there was little chance of the Interpol agent catching up with the retreating vehicle. It was all up to Manning.

Stuffing his automatic back into his shoulder holster, the Canadian bounded to his right along the loading platform, eyes on the back of the truck. In Len's haste to get behind the wheel, he'd left the rear doors open. It was the break Manning was looking for. Once he reached the end of the dock, he flung himself forward, arms outstretched. When his fingers closed around the upper frame of one of the open doors, he held on tight. The toll on his shoulder brought forth an involuntary roar of pain.

The delivery truck veered sharply to the left as Len tried to avoid a Hyundai sedan backing out of a parking place in the crowded rear lot. With a sickening crunch the truck clipped the sedan's front end, spinning the small car. Manning was nearly thrown clear when the door he was clutching swung wildly on its hinges. He continued to hang on as the door extended out to one side like a mutant fin, bringing him on a collision course with the Hyundai.

Coiling his legs, Manning timed the impact and kicked off the smaller vehicle's crumpled front quarter panel, forcing the truck door to swing back around. Once he'd been carried within range of the rear storage area, Manning braced himself again. At the last possible second, he let go of the door. His momentum carried him into the truck and he landed hard on the metal floor, crashing into a heap of large boxes.

* * *

By now Gohn Len had cleared the parking lot. The collision with the Hyundai had gnarled the truck's fender but done little to slow it. Still clutching the Ruger as he manned the steering wheel, Len picked up speed and veered down a side street, swerving past oncoming traffic and then shooting into an alley across the way.

Len could hear his pursuer inching closer behind him, shoving aside the toppled parcels in his way. He took his right hand off the wheel and fired blindly behind him. Manning rolled sharply to his left, striking the side wall as he strove to stay clear of the shots pulverizing the boxes around him.

Len was out of ammunition by the time he reached the end of the alley. Tossing the gun aside, he grappled the steering wheel and turned sharply to his left and surged back out onto yet another side street. He was unable to avoid an oncoming taxi and the truck shuddered as the vehicles collided.

Manning, who'd just been flung to his right, was now thrown forward by the impact. Once the truck groaned to a stop, he struggled to his feet. Len had thrown his door open and was half out of the driver's seat when Manning dived forward, tackling him. Both men tumbled out of the truck, landing hard on the pavement. Len lashed out with his right arm, elbowing Manning in the right cheekbone.

The big Canadian's head snapped back and his vision clouded. He fought off the coming blackness and struggled to remain conscious, aided somewhat by the intense pain emanating from his neck and shoulders. Len, meanwhile, pushed himself clear of his attacker and lurched to his feet, only to find himself confronted by the driver of the taxi he'd just run into. The other man was furious, screaming curses as he let loose with a right cross that was as errant as it was vicious. Len easily averted the blow and countered with one of his own, a karate chop to the right temple that dropped the cabbie in his tracks.

Len looked around him wildly, then charged between the taxi and the car behind it. Across the street, flanked by tall, ivy-laced columns, was another entryway to Hong Kong Park. Len dragged in a hopeful breath as he bolted for the entrance. If he could make it inside the park, he figured he could once again take advantage of his familiarity with the grounds to shake off his pursuer.

Struggling to his feet, his vision clearing, the Stony Man op clawed at his holster for his pistol. Despite the numbing pain in his left shoulder, he waved the arm frantically, motioning to a few pedestrians wandering near the fallen cabbie.

The pedestrians may not have understood English, but the sight of Manning's gun convinced them to get out of the line of fire. He drew a bead on Len. Much as he'd hoped to take the man alive, the big Canadian wasn't about to risk letting him make it into the park. And there was no time for misgivings about shooting a man in the back. In his condition he wasn't about to trust his aim, so Manning emptied the Colt.

Gohn Len was within a few yards of the park entrance when the first of the rounds burrowed through his right thigh. He tried to keep running, but follow-up shots found their mark, as well, one piercing his spine, the other his skull. Pitching to one side, the intelligence officer careened off one of the columns and dropped to the sidewalk. His cheek pressed against the cold concrete, and as his eyes began to close, Len's last sensation was that of blood pooling around his face. By the time Manning reached him, Gohn Len was dead.

Chapter Seventeen

When taken prisoner after the raid on the Bekaa Valley training camp, Hezbollah recruits Langar Riis and Jai Pohon had expressed a willingness to cooperate with their captors. Thus far they had yet to follow through. There had been no opportunity for interrogation on the chopper ride to Israel, as Phoenix Force had been too preoccupied with outrunning their aerial pursuers, and once the stolen Huey had landed at Mossad's three-acre facility on the outskirts of Nahariya, the prisoners had refused to answer questions. Instead they'd gone on a rant about their legal rights and demanded counsel. The Mossad officials who'd taken custody of the men had responded by incarcerating them inside a small, vacant storage building located near the helipad. Several more attempts had been made to get the men to talk, some involving David McCarter with the aid of a Mossad interpreter, but Riis and Pohon seemed intent on stonewalling For the most part, they had contented themselves with glaring silently at their interrogators. The few times they'd spoken, it had been merely to reiterate their mantra: we want lawyers.

Several hours had passed since the recruits had last been confronted. Shackled by the wrists and ankles, they'd had little to do but stare at the walls, watching their empty, windowless quarters slowly turn dark as the afternoon light gave way to dusk. Wary the building might be bugged, the men had exchanged little more than a few furtive whispers. They tried to maintain a look of stoic bravado, but as the minutes dragged by, both Riis and Pohon began to feel a tug of apprehension. It was becoming clear that there would be no lawyers, no chance to use the legal process to wrangle a way out of their predicament. Both men were beginning to doubt the wisdom of having chosen to leave the camp. Perhaps, they felt, it might have been better after all to have stayed behind and faced whatever punishment their Hezbollah superiors would mete out for their having let the Americans seize control of the camp long enough to destroy its weapons hoard and nuclear contraband.

Soon the sun was down and the cramped confines had turned dark. Langar Riis, nerves on edge, his stomach roiling with hunger, finally shouted, "We have rights! We want food!"

Pohon glared at Riis in the darkness. His pent-up frustrations finally got the better of him. "Weakling!" he taunted, no longer concerned whether or not anyone was eavesdropping. "What's next? They offer you a slice of bread and you'll start babbling? Tell them anything they want to know?"

"Shut up!" Riis snapped. "This was your idea! 'Let's work them, Langar. They can be played.' Isn't that how you put it?"

"And I was right!" Pohon insisted. "We just have to wait them out. They have their rules. Sooner or later they'll have to follow them."

"So you say," Riis stormed back. He turned to the door and shouted again, "We demand something to eat!"

The recruit was answered by silence. He responded in kind, closing his mouth and leaning back against the cold brick wall behind him. Pohon remained quiet, as well, but soon Riis could hear the other man murmuring to himself. He strained his ears and could finally make out a few words.

"You're praying?" Riis scoffed. "If you're so confident things will work out, why are you praying?"

"Maybe I'm praying that they'll resort to torture and try it out on you first," Pohon retorted. "Now shut up and try to find some courage!"

Before the men could lapse into another argument, the door eased open and someone switched on the overhead light. The sudden illumination took the prisoners by surprise and they recoiled, squinting. David McCarter stepped into the room, then moved to one side, allowing a Mossad agent to wheel in a cart upon which rested a CD-ROM projector.

The Mossad agent translated for Riis and Pohon as he plugged the projector into the nearest outlet and aimed its lens at the far wall.

"There won't be any need for lawyers," McCarter assured the recruits. "We're going to let you go."

As the Mossad agent again translated, Riis looked at his colleague, then at McCarter.

"We understand English, so we don't need an interpreter," he told McCarter. "What's this about letting us go?"

"Just what I said," McCarter said with a shrug. "You'll be freed. After the show. So kick back, take a load off and enjoy. I'd have brought popcorn, only I couldn't find any."

McCarter glanced at the Mossad agent, a heavy-set man in his late thirties with an Uzi submachine gun slung over his shoulder. When he nodded at the Phoenix Force leader, McCarter reached for the light switch. The switch had a dimmer and he brought the lights down slightly. The Mossad agent turned on the projector.

Riis and Pohon found themselves watching news footage taken in the immediate aftermath of a suicide bombing that had taken place several weeks ago in Tel Aviv. The sound was turned up, allowing them to hear the screams of grief and agony from the wounded and those who'd happened upon the massacre. The camera lingered on maimed bodies, bloodied children and bereft women who cried out as they stared at the blackened remains of what had once been a small family-run restaurant. Sirens soon wailed in the distance, and in time police and paramedics could be seen making their way through the chaos. Amid the pandemonium, an eight-month-old infant sat forward in a stroller, staring down curiously at her mother, who lay on the sidewalk, an arm severed by shrapnel, her lifeless eyes staring upward at the cloud of smoke billowing from the ruins.

"It was a Hezbollah attack, probably carried out by someone trained at your camp," McCarter replied casually. "They did good work, don't you think?"

"Twenty-three," the Israeli responded coldly. "Ten men, the rest women and children. None of them Mossad. None of them with the government."

"And you want us to tell you where the next attacks are planned?" Riis asked with annoyance. "Is that it?"

"Listen to your friend," McCarter said cheerfully. "No need to tell us anything. Like I said, you'll be free to go after the show's over. All you have to do is keep watching."

Riis knew there had to be some kind of trick involved, but he couldn't figure it out. Reluctantly, he turned his attention back to the images flashing across the far wall. The news footage had given way to home movies taken at funeral services for several of the bombing victims. There was more wailing, more cries of grief, more looks of abject sorrow. The camera lingered on the faces of the survivors and the relatives of those who had died.

In all, the presentation lasted nearly a half hour. By the time it ended and McCarter had brought up the lights, neither Riis nor Pohon was speaking. "Sorry we didn't have a full-length feature," McCarter apologized. "But, on the bright side, that means you get to leave sooner. Nice, huh?"

The Mossad agent wheeled the cart to one side, then moved to the prisoners, using a key to unlock their shackles. When Riis and Pohon remained seated, he told them gruffly, "What are you waiting for?"

McCarter grinned at the prisoners. "Well, you guys were the catch, but since you're not talking, it's not like you're keepers. We gotta throw you back in the lake, so to speak."

The Lebanese recruits were trying to grasp the metaphor when the Mossad agent stepped back, unslinging his Uzi.

Riis and Pohon warily rose to their feet. McCarter opened the door for them and motioned the way out.

Riis and Pohon started for the doorway. McCarter stepped aside, smiling at the men as they moved slowly past him, eyes filled with uncertainty.

Outside it was dark, but the moment the prisoners stepped clear of the storage building, a pair of searchlights suddenly shone down from two nearby sentry towers. The beams were directed, not at Riis and Pohon, but rather at the helipad. There, standing close together in a tight pack, were twenty Israeli civilians, most of them men, most of them armed with rocks or makeshift clubs. In the harsh glare of the searchlights, the Hezbollah recruits recognized mourners from the funeral footage they'd just viewed. Their faces were now etched, not with grief, but with a look of solemn intent. A look of vengeance.

"Why not?" McCarter said. "Back in America, it's our holiday season. The giving season. We're just doing our part to celebrate here, so we're giving you your freedom. Go for it."

Riis stared at the mob out on the helipad, then looked back at McCarter, this time with less defiance.

"Shut up!" Pohon interjected. He made a move toward Riis but the Mossad agent intervened, stepping between them and forcing Pohon back with the stubbed barrel of his Uzi.

* * *

This was Calvin James's third trip to the examination room. The first trip, the deep briar wounds to his right thigh and calf had been cleaned out and stitched closed. Later, once it had been confirmed that the stitches were holding up and that the wounds had not become infected, the attending Mossad physician had applied two layers of translucent, medicinal-treated adhesive patches intended to allow limited movement without pulling the stitches apart. Now, in response to James's determination to return quickly to active duty, the medic had just finished enclosing the Stony Man warrior's bandaged leg in a perforated flex-nylon sheath. The procedure completed, James took a few tentative steps, testing the leg, then turned and walked back to the examination table, giving the medic a thumbs-up.

"You're not quite there yet," replied the medic, a lean, fastidious-looking Israeli in his early forties, "but the sheath will allow for a full range of motion when you're out in the field. When you're not moving around, and especially at night, you'll want to take the sheath off so the wounds can breathe a little. Don't pull it off. Use the zipper."

"And make sure you finish off the antibiotic regimen," the medic advised. "Those briar toxins are slow-acting, so don't think you're okay just because there haven't been any symptoms."

"You're all set then." The medic went to the nearby sink to wash his hands. "And I want to thank you again. That training camp's been on our hit list for a while. Now that you've taken it out, we can focus our efforts elsewhere."

The medic nodded. "Unfortunately, yes. I'm sure in a few months we'll be making plans to go after them again."

"Speaking of plans," James said, stepping into a fresh pair of camo pants, "I need to check with my crew and see what's next on our dance card."

Once he finished dressing, James left the medics' quarters. The tower searchlights had just gone dim. James was on the opposite side of the helipad from the storage building where the Hezbollah prisoners were being held. Near the helipad, a group of armed Mossad commandos was conferring with a group of nearly two dozen civilians. Some of the civilians were shouting and pointing at the storage building. James had helped McCarter and one of the Mossad psych-warfare specialists concoct a strategy for breaking the prisoners' silence. He assumed he was witnessing the aftermath of that ploy being carried out. Anxious to learn if the strategy had worked, he circled the mob, heading for the storage building. On the way, he saw Rafael Encizo and T. J. Hawkins seated at a bench near the mess tent, wolfing down rations under the dim light of a single incandescent bulb dangling from a rope stretched across the dining area. James joined them. Encizo had a patch covering stitches on his left forearm and Hawkins had been bandaged where he'd been nicked by bramble.

"It worked," Encizo said, answering James's question before the Chicagoan had a chance to ask it. "One look at those vigilantes loosened our boys' tongues up quick."

"Well, actually, just one of them caved right off," Hawkins corrected. "I think they might have to bring the other guy back out for an encore."

Hawkins nodded. "Seems they were fine at first with the idea of just scaring the prisoners into talking, but now a few of them want to follow through and lynch the poor bastards."

James glanced at the crowd. "I guess we probably should've taken that into account."

"I'm sure they'll settle down," Encizo said. He pointed to a plate next to his, still piled high with lamb and rice. "They were closing the mess so we got you some take-out. Pull up a chair."

"I think he's got it covered," Encizo told James. "C'mon, take a break. You're supposed to be out of action."

Hawkins watched closely as James grabbed a nearby chair and dragged it over to the bench.

"Me, too," James said. "They gave me the 'Bionic Man' treatment, though, and I'm good to go."

"I hear you," Encizo said, patting his bandaged forearm. "If they sell those glorified bandages at the gift shop here, I'm gonna load up."

"Making arrangements to have Hale's body flown back to the States," Encizo reported. "And he's waiting to hear back from his guys in Damascus on those photo downloads."

Encizo nodded. "Bear'll get a feed at some point. We're on standby in case they come up with another likely target."

"Hard to say at this point," Hawkins interjected. "I touched base with the Farm before I sat down. Sounds like Gary's Hong Kong vacation turned into a bit of a thrill ride."

Chapter Eighteen

"If word of this gets back to anyone, I'll never live it down," Gary Manning said.

Manning was stripped down to his boxer shorts and laid out facedown on a blanket draped across a table back at the Interpol's office. His shoulders were draped with a foul-smelling poultice made of herbs mashed together with a chalkish clay and tree sap. Poking out of his skin in nearly thirty different places were long, hair-thin acupuncture needles. Kenney circled Manning, gently twirling some of the needles and relocating others with what the Canadian could only hope was some level of expertise.

Manning had just returned from Gohn Len's room at the Cordoba Hotel, where he'd gone searching for clues after finding the key card in the dead officer's pocket. Unfortunately, Len had been meticulous at covering his tracks. The address book he'd left behind was filled with names and numbers matching up with data already on file with both Interpol and Stony Man Farm; nothing had pointed to Len having any connections beyond the PLA's densely populated infrastructure. Other documents found in his luggage had proven equally benign, dealing with budget requests and procedural issues that clearly had no bearing on Len's mysterious meeting with Pasha Yarad and Nasrallah Kassem. Manning's only breakthrough had come about inadvertently when his search of Len's suite had been interrupted by hotel security officers arriving with local homicide detectives acting on the discovery of a body stashed behind a garbage bin in Hong Kong Park. A young prostitute had placed Len near the murder scene, and when Manning learned that the victim had been carrying a Lebanese passport, the Canadian figured the man's death was tied to Len's subsequent storming of Kassem's high-rise apartment. While awaiting word as to the dead man's identity, Manning had returned to Mattnic Towers, so much in pain that he could barely see straight. When Kenney had suggested she might be able to help, this time with something other than just another handful of pills, Manning had let himself be talked into the treatment he was now undergoing.

"Almost finished, Nick," the Australian told Manning as she adjusted the poultice, moving it closer to the Canadian's neck. "You still in pain?"

Kenney had begun to remove the array of needles when Mel Fletch entered the office. For the past hour he'd been unwillingly partnered up with local authorities combing through Nasrallah Kassem's apartment across the street. He took one look at Manning and said, "I figured she'd get kinky with you eventually."

"You mean something that screams, 'This is what they were meeting about yesterday'?" Fletch shook his head. "I jimmied his attache case, though, and we might get a lead out of it."

"There were bullet holes in the paperwork, but I was able to make out enough to figure Kassem was on his way to a business meeting when he was shot. Apparently he was trying to push through a hostile takeover of some media conglomerate back in Europe. Media Francois."

Kenney took out the last of the needles, then gestured for Manning to sit up. The Canadian obliged, holding still as the woman carefully began to pry off the hardened poultice.

"It's a multibillion-dollar deal," Fletch explained. "Apparently, Kassem didn't have the cash flow to pull it off alone, so he had some backers. One of them was Pasha Yarad."

"That's the one," Fletch said. "There were two other investors. One's a Saudi we have linked to al Qaeda attacks on oil facilities in Abqaiq. The other is one of Khadaffi's key money men in Libya."

"Sit still and relax a minute," Kenney advised once she'd freed the poultice from Manning's shoulders. As she took the wrap to the kitchenette, she asked Fletch, "What are you saying, Mel? These guys want to buy out some French media outfit and starting putting out the Rogue State Weekly?"

"Too soon to say what they had in mind," Fletch said. "I'm trying to get confirmation as to whether they went ahead on the deal when Kassem didn't show. And I wish to hell there'd been some hint of where this was all going to take place."

"Had to be somewhere in the financial district, right?" Manning said. "He has to have at least one office there."

"I'm sure he does, but one of Len's slugs ate the only address listed on all the paperwork," Fletch replied. "And, not that I'm surprised, there's no listing in the Central phone book for a business with Kassem's name attached."

"If they did carry the deal out," Manning ventured, "I'm sure they'll be just as careful about leaving their names off this Media Francois's stationery."

"You're probably right," Fletch responded. "The paperwork looked like they were going to do everything through shadow companies. The one that popped up most often was Hillen-Jacoby Enterprises."

"The other companies all sound like they're made out of white bread, too," Fletch said.

"This isn't helping me," Kenney said as she took what looked like a small, limp pillow from the oven and brought it back to the table.

"Let me put it another way," Fletch said. "Look what we've got. Lebanon, Iran, China, Libya and a Saudi cozying up to al Qaeda. How many of these folks are we going to be swapping Christmas cards with this year?"

"Strange bedfellows with a common enemy. Got it." Kenney placed the heated pillow so that it straddled Manning's neck and rested across his shoulders. Manning grimaced.

"Keep it there and don't mind me," Kenney told him as she began to run her fingers along the Canadian's vertebrae.

"They're putting aside their differences," Manning elaborated, trying his best not to be distracted by the woman's touch. "If they can focus on the fact they all want to see us taken down, they probably figure they can make a better run at us."

Fletch nodded. "Only this game plan's not all about bombs and assault rifles," he said. "They're working money angles, being media savvy, getting their finger into politics. You name it."

"Exactly," Fletch said. "They're thinking, 'Why blow the place up if we can just take it over instead?'"

Manning was trying get a handle on this latest twist when Kenney removed the heating pad and settled her right hand against his lower back, pushing it slightly inward.

"Almost there," she told him. "Stay loose. I'm going to give you an adjustment."

Manning tried his best to loosen the tension in his shoulders. Kenney leaned forward, meanwhile, bracing herself against the edge of the table as she placed her hands on either side of Manning's head.

Manning followed the instructions and had just finished exhaling when Kenney suddenly torqued his head sharply to one side. Manning heard something pop in his neck, followed almost immediately by a wholly unexpected sensation.

"The pain's gone," he blurted. Incredulous, he jostled his head back and forth, then his shoulders. The piercing twinge that had been bothering him since his drop through the roof of the greenhouse back in Damascus had left him.

"It wasn't your shoulder," Kenney pronounced. "You had a couple neck vertebrae out of place."

"You're kidding," Manning said. He tested his left shoulder and found he had a full range of movement with only a faint soreness.

"Those quacks back in Syria misdiagnosed you," Kenney said. "Of course, if they were like most doctors, even if they'd gotten X-rays they probably would've missed it."

"And I always thought it was the chiropractors who were the quacks," Manning said. He turned to Kenney. "I owe you."

"Nah," Kenney said. "I'm practicing without a license, so it's gotta be pro bono."

"If you two are done flirting, how about we get back to work?" Fletch suggested.

Kenney handed Manning his pants as she told Fletch, "Okay, spoilsport. What did you have in mind?"

"The financial district," Fletch said. "I know it's a needle in a haystack, but Kassem's partners have to be hanging out there somewhere. Me might as well start looking."

The Stony Man commando had nearly finished dressing when a cell phone chirped on the table near the computer setup. It was the phone Manning had taken off Gohn Len.

"Somebody's determined," he said as Kenney reached for the phone. It was the fifth time in the past hour that the cell phone had rung. As with the other times, however, when the Interpol agent tried to accept the call, she was blocked and routed to a voice prompt asking, in Mandarin, for a PIN code.

"Damn it!" Kenney swore, stabbing her thumb at the press pads, to no effect. After another two rings, the phone went silent.

"Rigged SIM card," Kenney explained. "It not only self-erases any activity, but there's some kind of access lock. You can't pick up a call or make one without the friggin' code."

"Probably a precaution against somebody like us trying to tap in," Fletch ventured.

"Ya think?" Kenney retorted, frustrated. "Hell, if we could answer the damn thing, we could maybe figure out who's calling and find out what that bastard was up to."

* * *

When Boh Xiao's call was once again routed to his brother-in-law's message service, the Chinese black marketer clicked off his cell phone and cursed.

"Where the hell are you?" Xiao ranted, stabbing the phone back into the pocket of his loose-fitting camo pants. He'd lost track of the number of times over the past hour he'd tried in vain to reach Gohn Len in Hong Kong. Yes, he realized there was a chance his brother-in-law was paying him back for his refusal to pick up Gohn's calls after hanging up on him the day before, but the notion did little to curb his hair-trigger temper.

Still fuming, the barrel-chested renegade spit a glob of tobacco juice into the dirt at his feet and raided his pocket for a fresh chaw. He packed his right cheek with the stringy wad and trembled slightly as the nicotine jolt shot through him. Xiao was standing atop a forested hillock in the midst of the dense Guatemalan jungle just south of the Mexican border. It was the only spot within walking distance of his camp that he was able to pull in a phone signal, and from the peak he could see, off in the distance, the stony spires of several ancient Mayan ruins dating back nearly two thousand years. He couldn't see them, but he knew there were likely tourists and archaeological teams prowling around the ruins. There was little chance of their crossing paths with him and his band of rogues, however, as the ruins and Xiao's camp were separated by the Escondido River, a murky, crocodile-infested waterway generally regarded as off limits to all but poachers and drug-runners. Xiao was concerned, however, that if he remained in view atop the hill much longer, someone across the river was bound to spot him. The last thing he needed was to rouse enough curiosity to have someone send a helicopter flying over to see what he was up to.

Pulling a long-bladed machete from a sheath strapped to his right thigh, Xiao took out his frustration on the surrounding vegetation as he made his way down the steep, vine-choked trail leading back to the campsite, one of a half dozen hideaways he'd set up throughout Guatemala over the past five years. Several of his men sat on the trunk of a fallen tree in the clearing they'd hacked out of the wilderness, stuffing themselves with tin rations. Another two men were off near a parked Jeep, being administered to by a former veterinarian from Guatemala City, the closest thing Xiao's crew had to a resident medic. The men had been wounded during a hit-and-run siege of a Shining Path transport truck five miles to the south the previous night. Another three men had died in the attack, which had also claimed eight members of the terrorist sect.

And for what? Xiao mused darkly to himself. A deal that might never happen if he couldn't get hold of Gohn Len.

The gun-runner sheathed his machete and plopped on a tree stump next to a large, oblong crate and peered at its contents: six Russian-made RPG-18 rocket launchers, neatly cradled in foam rubber packing molds. Xiao's plan had been to secure the weapons, then offer them to his brother-in-law at an inflated price. The idea had been that Gohn Len would be desperate after not being able to get back in touch with Xiao after their initial conversation, but obviously the plan had backfired. Xiao knew that eventually he'd be able to find another buyer, but he was no fan of spec operations and liked even less the idea of being weighed down by unsold inventory. And the fact that he'd taken on the Shining Path to secure the weapons sat poorly with him. If the terrorists were to find out he'd been responsible for the theft, it was a given that they'd target him for retribution.

Xiao called out to one of his men to toss him a can of processed meat. He spit out his tobacco chaw and was prying open the tin when, off in the distance, he heard the sudden crackle of gunfire. He had men stationed out in the surrounding wilderness, and his first instinct was that the sentries had engaged someone who'd breached the camp's perimeter.

"Just what I don't need!" he seethed, casting aside the rations and raiding his holster for an OTs-33 autopistol. All around him, his other men similarly vaulted into action, taking up an array of automatic pistols and assault rifles. The gunfire in the jungle continued, intensifying. Whoever had come after Xiao, clearly hadn't come alone. Xiao felt a stab of dread, fearing that his concerns about reprisal from the Shining Path were coming true.

"Fan out!" he barked as he crouched and ventured to his right, ducking beneath a low-hanging tree limb. When an incoming round nipped at the branch, Xiao threw himself to the ground, then began crawling through a dense maze of prickly ferns. He'd advanced a few yards when he caught his first glimpse of the enemy — a gunman zigzagging downhill toward the camp, using erratically spaced trees for cover. Xiao fell silent, leveling his pistol and taking careful aim. He waited for the assailant to lurch into his sights, then pulled the trigger. There were eighteen rounds in the OTs-33's magazine; Xiao dished out three of them, striking the other man in the chest. Down he went, snapping twigs under his deadweight before striking the ground.

Emboldened by the kill, Xiao scrambled to his feet, taking out another intruder farther uphill with another autoburst. Behind him, he heard one of his men cry out, clearly on the receiving end of enemy fire. There was nothing Xiao could do for him. Undaunted, he charged forward until he'd come to his first victim. Holstering his autopistol, Xiao helped himself to the dead man's HK-21 machine gun, which had been rigged with a 20-round HK-11 box magazine.

Xiao was about to move on when he did a sudden double-take. The man he'd just killed had landed on his back and was staring dead-eyed up at the surrounding treetops. Xiao was taken aback.

His men weren't under attack by the Shining Path after all. The slain gunman wasn't Guatemalan.

Chapter Nineteen

Jorge Holmas had been going by the same game plan as Boh Xiao when he'd floated an offer to the Shining Path for a cache of readily available shoulder rockets. He'd made the offer earlier in the day, not long after speaking with Sana Kassem. He wanted to get his hands on the launchers first, then go back to the woman with a highball counteroffer. His contact with the Shining Path had been surprised by the Mexican's request, coming as it had fresh on the heels of an ambush in which the terrorist group had lost the very goods Holmas was seeking. Holmas had immediately suspected that Sana was double-dealing. The idea had infuriated him at first, but upon reflection he'd decided he could use the knowledge in his favor. After all, if he could seize the weapons back from his rival bidder, it'd increase his chances of cutting a better deal with Kassem and her colleagues with New Dawn Rising. And so he'd struck an agreement with the Shining Path: in exchange for a shipment of cocaine Holmas had just smuggled into Mexico from Peru, he was given the green light to track down the parties responsible for stealing the rocket launchers. The Shining Path would have its revenge without bloodying its hands and Holmas would have the rockets; it was a win-win offer.

And now here Holmas was, a vengeful fury in his eyes, his Mexican cartel force two dozen strong, closing in on a sizably smaller band of cutthroats tracked to their jungle hideaway through the simple task of following Jeep tracks leading away from the ambush site. The gangsters had managed to fully encircle the camp before one of them had been spotted, triggering the staccato song of gunfire that still reverberated through the jungle. Holmas had already seen three of his men go down, but by his count twice that many of Boh Xiao's confederates had fallen, as well. If they could hold those odds, it would be a quick fight.

Like taking candy from a baby, Holmas thought to himself as he riddled one of the enemy sentries with a chorus of Remington .223s from his Heckler & Koch SL8-6. The other man twitched and reeled to one side before toppling from the crotch of a split-trunked ciba free, landing hard amid the ferns below. Holmas put a slug through the man's skull for good measure, then ventured onward, seeking out his next victim. Over the rattle of gunfire he heard the sound of a car engine and veered toward it, using the frees for cover. He was sidetracked momentarily when rounds from another of Xiao's men buzzed past his ear, driving him to the earth. He rolled through the ferns and came up firing. A blind volley from his assault rifle bored through the surrounding foliage and brought forth a cry when the bullets found flesh. Holmas stayed put long enough to reload, then lurched back to his feet. He'd nearly reached the enemy campsite and, on the other side of the clearing, he saw two men huddled in the front seats of a Jeep pulling away from the fallen frees.

Holmas calmly tracked the vehicle in his sights. Once he'd targeted the driver, he pulled the trigger, then watched with satisfaction as the Jeep veered off the dirt road and slammed into a tree with enough force to throw its riders clear. The driver laid still where he fell, but his passenger, the veterinarian from Guatemala City, staggered quickly to his feet and looked around wildly, not sure of his next move. Holmas spared him having to make a decision, dropping him in his tracks with a follow-up round from the gas-operated HK.

The din of gunfire was already dwindling around Holmas. Content that the battle was all but won, the Mexican gang lord made his way down to the campsite and crouched in front of the crate containing the rocket launchers. He took a quick inventory, satisfying himself that he had indeed gotten hold of his admission ticket to New Dawn Rising.

Moments later Holmas heard footsteps in the brush behind him. He whirled, dropping behind the crate.

"All clear," one of his men called out to him, making his way to the campsite, the barrel of his assault rifle nudging the spine of a captured foe who stumbled ahead of him, bleeding from the scalp and thigh. It was Boh Xiao, doing his best to appear as if he were still somehow in control of his destiny.

"Go ahead, take them," he told Holmas, speaking in Spanish as he gestured at the rocket launchers. "But maybe we can strike some kind of deal."

"I don't hear any more gunfire," he told Xiao mockingly. "Your men are all dead and you're next. How does that put you in a bargaining position?"

Xiao slumped forward, dropping to his knees next to the tree stump where he'd been sitting when the melee had first broken out. He leaned against the stump, breathing heavily. "I know how to get you top dollar for those launchers," he bartered. "At least twice the market price."

"Let me go," the smuggler said, spelling out his terms. "You can send someone with me, just until we reach the village. There's a train station there. I'll buy a ticket, then call you from the loading platform. I'll give you the number of who to contact. Once you confirm what I've just told you, your man leaves and I board the train. We both get what we want."

Holmas appeared to be thinking it over. As he did so, a handful of his fellow gangsters made their way to the camp. Several had sustained bullet wounds, but the rest were unscathed. The sound of another car engine droned through the jungle, announcing the approach of a muddied parcel truck bearing the forged insignia of Cent/Am Postal Carriers. Holmas waited until the truck had eased its way past the crashed Jeep, then turned back to Xiao.

"Your offer is generous but a little convoluted," he told his prisoner. "Maybe I can make it more simple. I already have Sana Kassem's number, so I don't really need you."

With that, Holmas raised his HK SL8-6 and turned Boh Xiao's heart into confetti.

Chapter Twenty

"First it's this skin patch stuff," Aaron Kurtzman grumbled as he dumped coffee grounds in the trash basket next to his computer station and prepared to refill his trusty coffeemaker. He'd just fielded updates from Manning as well as his Phoenix Force counterparts back in Israel. "Now it's herbs, acupuncture and chiropractic adjustments. What's next?"

"Think of it as New Age spit and bailing wire," Akira Tokaido suggested from his nearby console. "Whatever keeps them going, I say."

"Agreed," said Hal Brognola, pacing the floor between them. "Hell, I'll swap my cigars for a shaman's snake rattle if it'll help matters."

"Okay, okay, memo received," Barbara Price said, glancing up from her clipboard. "When the dust settles I'll be happy to look into updating the medical regimens around here, but for now, how about we try to sort things out so I can come up with a plan of attack?"

"David's interrogation of those Hezbollah prisoners." Brognola turned to Kurtzman. "You said they described the delivery trucks that brought the nuclear equipment to the Bekaa Valley."

Kurtzman scrolled down the notes he'd transcribed while taking the call from the Phoenix Team leader. "They were redesigned tanker trucks."

"To the eye, they look like large-capacity fuel transporters," Kurtzman said. "Six-wheels, aluminum tanks, probably a four-or five-thousand-gallon storage area... that's if they were conventional tanks."

"Actually they carried both," Kurtzman said, checking his notes. "Neither prisoner remembers all the specifics, but the way they put it, there was a seam separating the tank into halves. They'd crack the seam, then the two halves would swing on down on hinges from either side of the truck, and each half was a few feet thick and filled with fuel."

"I can see it," Brognola said, cupping his hands together, then unfolding them. "But they weren't complete halves, right?"

"No," Kurtzman said. "Each holding area followed the curvature of the tank, top to bottom, which left a round gap in the center. The equipment was stored in the gap and cushioned with foam rubber so it wouldn't clang around if the truck went over tracks or hit any bumps in the road."

"Picture a Twinkie," Kurtzman explained. "The cake part is where they stored the fuel. And they stored it in such a way that it'd pass muster if they had to go through any border inspections."

"All the company decals were magnetized," Kurtzman explained. "They could be taken off and swapped for others from whichever country the shipment was passing through. Obviously they had separate invoices and ladling bills, too."

"I'm just the messenger," Kurtzman reminded his boss. "David's the one who got it out of them."

"We go through NSA's backlogged sat cams until we spot the truck at the training camp, then lock in on any identifying characteristics. Once we know what we're looking for, we wait to see what the CIA comes up with on the digicam photos of the equipment. If they can pinpoint where the stuff was manufactured in Iran, we can take into consideration existing roadways and draw a straight line between there and the Bekaa Valley, then go back to NSA and cull any satellite footage covering the roadways in between. With any luck, we'll be able to hone in on the delivery route and maybe even a few waystations. Say we catch the truck making a pit stop in northern Iraq, we've probably got an al Qaeda cell tied into this whole conspiracy effort."

Tokaido whistled and stared at Wethers with grudging admiration. "Please tell me that didn't all just come off the top of your head."

Wethers offered what for him was a rare smile. "It's just a variation of what we've done in other situations."

"All right," Brognola said. "I think we've got that covered. If we're able to flag one of these waystations, we'll put Phoenix Force on it. Sound good?"

"Good," Brognola said. "Let's move along. Hong Kong. Manning's back in fighting form. Do we keep him there or put him back with Phoenix?"

"Right now he's following up on that meeting Kassem was supposed to attend," Kurtzman reported. "My guess, though, is Kassem's partners probably fled the coop once they found out he was murdered."

Kurtzman nodded. "Interpol's got the local police helping them sweep every airport on the islands. APBs are out on Yarad and the guys from Libya and Saudi Arabia. The downside is we don't have anything concrete to hold them on."

"Not yet," Brognola said, "but maybe if we turn over a few rocks between now and then we might come up with something. Anyone game?"

"It's yours," said Brognola. "Now, what about this whole takeover business? Is that just a sidebar or should we be looking into it?"

"I'm already snooping around," Kurtzman said. He was busy working his keyboard. "Nothing so far on any official bid for Media Francois. Could be Yarad pulled the plug on things for the time being, or maybe the story just hasn't broken yet. I'll keep an eye open."

"As far as Kassem earmarking funds for the takeover? Nothing," Delahunt replied. "But I'm having trouble getting the input we need, so I wouldn't rule out anything."

"The banks Kassem was working with have beefed up their firewalls. I tried the link I used to track the funds for the rocket deal, but it's been cut off," Delahunt explained. "I made a few direct calls hoping to finesse something, but they've got everyone on voice mail all of a sudden."

Brognola weighed the new developments, then asked Delahunt, "With Kassem dead, who's minding the store in his place?"

"I was just about to get into that," the redhead replied. "I have something, and it ties into why I came up blank trying to place Kouri Ahmet in the Caymans just before he turned up in Mexico. It looked like he'd sidestepped hotels and public transportation, so I kept digging into Kassem's holdings and turned up a property deed. He owned a place on Grand Cayman. It's across the island from the banking centers and sits on the coastline. There's a private dock along with a landing strip and helipad."

"Which means Ahmet could've flown in or come by boat without showing up on anyone's radar," Price surmised.

"Let's assume you're right," Brognola said. "Kassem wasn't in the Caymans when Ahmet showed up for the money. Who was his middleman?"

"Middlewoman," Delahunt responded, glancing at the data on her screen. "Kassem's only child is a daughter. Sana. She's in her thirties and has a business degree out of Harvard. I've got a few data blips that put her on the island, so I'm guessing she's been doing the point work for Kassem in terms of handling the money he funnels through there."

"Then she's probably the one putting a muzzle on the banks they're using," Wethers suggested.

"No doubt," Brognola said. "And with her father dead, she probably has a lot more on her plate to deal with."

"I'm thinking the same thing," Brognola said. He stared at the world map on the far wall monitor, focused on the indicator lights where Stony Men forces were deployed. They were spread thin, without question. He turned back to Price and asked, "Is Cowboy still on the grounds?"

Price nodded. "I saw him back at the main house earlier. He said he was going to spend the day at the weapons lab."

"Let's take him up on that offer to join the festivities," Brognola said. "See how fast he can be ready to fly to the Caymans."

* * *

Red-eyed from weeping, Nasrallah Kassem's sole heir wandered the grounds of her father's estate, still reeling from the news of his death. There had been countless times over the years when she had entertained the notion of taking over the reins of Kassem's financial empire and assuming his place among the hierarchy of New Dawn Rising, but all of those fantasies had involved her father retiring peaceably, content to offer periodic advice as he enjoyed a life of well-deserved leisure. Perhaps it had been naive of her not to consider other scenarios, but the idea that she would be forced into Kassem's shoes by virtue of his murder was something she had never taken into account.

Now, even as she struggled with her grief, the woman was plagued by the notion that she had already bungled matters by refusing to carry out financing of the Media Francois takeover. She knew it was what her father had wanted, but when the time had come to make a decision, she'd also recalled his warnings about the other members of the coalition. Never trust them completely, Kassem had told her time and again. Give them a chance to take advantage of you and they will, every time. And so, when Waiz Buday had pressured her to release the funds earmarked for the transaction, she'd gone with her first instinct and balked. At this point she was still unclear as to the circumstances of her father's death. What if Buday and the others had been behind it? If that were the case, for her to have collaborated with them by turning over the bulk of her father's fortune would have been tantamount to treason against his memory. She hadn't been willing to risk such a damning transgression. But what if she was wrong? She'd alienated herself, not only from Buday but most likely a handful of other NDR leaders. If they took offense, it was likely they would retaliate by labeling her a pariah and attempting to shut her out of the coalition, or worse.

Sana's meandering took her past the private airstrip and helipad to the back gate, where the head of her four-man security detail was manning a booth near the long, wooden staircase that extended down to a cove where a belt of white sand extended in both directions from the dock where Kassem's five-million-dollar luxury yacht was moored alongside two smaller boats. She accepted the security officer's condolences on her father's death, then asked him to make arrangements to bring in more armed personnel to protect the grounds.

Sana excused herself and headed back toward the main house. On the way, she stopped by the outdoor pool. She thought back on her dalliance with Kouri Ahmet in the nearby cabana, then recalled her father's final instructions to her: to use that moment of indiscretion as the means by which to bring Ahmet back under NDR's control. She'd already followed Kassem's advice and contacted Jorge Holmas. The Mexican gangster had listened to Sana's offer but stopped short of agreeing to it. He would have to think about it, he'd told her. She'd suspected he was fishing for a better deal but had held back from offering one. Now, in light of what had happened since, she wondered if she really wanted to carry out that plan or, as she had with the Media Francois takeover, call things off.

"I've talked with my people," Holmas said, getting quickly to the matter foremost on his mind. "We're prepared to do what you've asked — kill Ahmet's informant and see to it that he gets his rocket launchers. All you have to do is double your offer."

"It also wasn't the only offer you made," Holmas countered. "You were playing the field. Something you didn't bother to mention."

"Fine, deny it if you wish. We still want double." Almost as an afterthought, Holmas added, "Incidentally, we have the launchers already. We can have them smuggled into the States inside of two days."

Sana forced herself to concentrate. She knew she had to be decisive. "I'll pay you double if you drop the demand to join NDR."

"No deal," Holmas countered just as quickly. "Double your offer and get us into NDR or we're finished talking."

"I can't make any guarantees, Jorge," Sana said, her stomach clenching at her willingness to address the man by his first name. In the same thought, however, she felt that perhaps she was her father's daughter, after all; Kassem was the one who'd taught her there was leverage to be gained when one could make a personal connection with whomever one was negotiating with.

"Double your offer and do what you can with NDR," Holmas told her. "I'd want proof of your efforts with them."

"This is what I can do," Sana responded. "I'll give you the price we discussed for the launchers and a guaranteed delivery by midnight tomorrow. The same deadline applies for taking care of Ahmet's informant. If we have proof you killed him by then and the delivery goes through without a hitch, then I will double the fee."

"I have someone tailing the informant as we speak," Holmas replied. "I plan to take care of him personally, and I'll see that you have proof he's been eliminated."

"And how about on your end?" Holmas queried. "How will I know if this mission of yours has succeeded?"

"If we succeed," Sana assured Holmas, "you'll be able to turn on any station in the civilized world and get your confirmation."

Chapter Twenty-One

Pol Blancanales and Gadgets Schwarz were spending their downtime in a franchise hotel room located just off the San Bernardino Freeway in Upland, twenty miles from where they'd clashed with the al Qaeda cell in Leystra Hot Springs. Blancanales sat on the bed, channel surfing with the TV remote while Schwarz played solitaire with a deck of cards a previous lodger had left behind. Their boredom was palpable.

"How many years before we retire and get to do this full-time?" Blancanales wondered sarcastically.

"Tell me about it," Schwarz replied. "If this is what the golden years are all about, I'll pass."

"What, busting illegal bingo games at the retirement home isn't your idea of a good time?"

Schwarz laughed ruefully. "It might be if they'd let me keep an assault rifle in my room."

"Dream on," said Blancanales. "The way I hear it, you have to register your dentures if the teeth are too sharp."

Blancanales stopped changing channels when he came across the local news. The lead story was still the deadly terrorist incident and its proximity to the suburban community. There were no new developments and the segment was composed primarily of sound bites from local residents, most of whom seemed to be thrilled with their chance to be in the spotlight.

"I never figured on seeing the bad guys stopped right here in our own backyard," opined a local shopowner. It turned out the owner had smelled opportunity and quickly whipped up a supply of T-shirts depicting a photo of Osama Bin Laden above the boastful claim "Upland says, Up yours!"

The men fell silent as the news report cut away to a taped clip from Roland Carruthers's impromptu news conference outside the State Department.

When the segment ended and gave way to a commercial, Blancanales turned off the TV and cast the remote aside. His mood had turned suddenly dark.

"I don't know about you," he told Schwarz, "but the more I hear people bragging how the coast is clear, the more I get this feeling they're wrong."

"Same here," Schwarz confessed. "I didn't think much about it at the time, but it's been bugging me the way we found those forest rangers. Seems like if al Qaeda had wanted to stay hidden, they would've buried the bodies and done a better job of hiding the truck. Hell, the first search team to fly over needed what, five whole seconds to spot everything?"

"I won't swear on the Bible to it," Schwarz said, "but it just doesn't add up. Yeah, they managed to take out a SWAT team, but judging from those explosives and the freeway maps, you gotta figure they a had little more wide-scale carnage in mind."

"Could be they just botched things," Pol suggested. "I mean, it's not like these guys are Einsteins. Hell, Ahmet let himself get pinched by an informant."

"And then he turned around and pulled a couple world-class Houdinis wriggling off the hook," Schwarz countered. "After all the trouble he went through escaping, why would he turn around and let himself wind up being French-fried in a bomb blast? It's too goofy, man, I'm telling you. I mean, if he wanted to go out in a blaze of glory, why didn't he pull a 9/11 with that jet he commandeered? You know, plow it into the nearest skyscraper. That would've put the fear of God into people around here more than going up in smoke somewhere out in the boonies."

Before the two men could fuel their suspicions any further, Carl Lyons announced himself as he unlocked the door and let himself in. He had bags of take-out from a nearby restaurant.

"You should've seen the T-shirt I came across out there," he said as he set the food down on the coffee table.

"I think we did," Blancanales replied. He passed Schwarz a cheeseburger and unwrapped a burrito for himself as he told Lyons about the news segment they'd just watched, then filled him in on their newfound theory about the al Qaeda standoff. Lyons listened patiently, nodding between bites of his chili dog.

"You might be on to something," Lyons said afterward. "Turns out the Farm's thinking along the same lines. I just talked with Barb and Hal. Aaron ran an intel check on Ahmet and there are no dental records on him. No DNA samples, either, and that body in the bomb crater had its fingers turned to cinders, so it's not like the coroner's going to get any prints."

Lyons nodded. "They want us to keep thinking in terms of him still being out there somewhere. Same with Mousif Nouhra."

"We've got the same problem with him as with Ahmet," Lyons said. "No telling for sure he's one of the unidentified bodies they pulled out of that crater. It's no big reach to think he snuck off, too."

"If that's the case," Schwarz put in, "it makes it even more likely that whole shebang at the hot springs was a smokescreen, right? The bastards want us to think we nipped things in the bud while they're off planning something bigger."

"Writing off an entire al Qaeda team seems like a steep price for something like that," Lyons said, "but, who knows? These guys are big on playing the martyr card, so we shouldn't put it past them. And we've got another thing to consider if Ahmet and Nouhra are still in the mix. Those Army Gideon scumbags they got the explosives from? Wherever they scurried off to, odds are they didn't decide to suddenly get out of the arms racket. If they're still in contact with Nouhra, you gotta figure there's going to be a discussion about replacing the arsenal that took out that SWAT team."

"Wouldn't surprise me." Lyons polished off the rest of his chili dog, then wiped his mouth and tossed the napkin aside. "If they've got an encore planned, they're going to want something to carry it out with."

"One thing, though," Schwarz said. "Would they really go back to the same people?"

"Why not?" Lyons reasoned. "It's not like they know we were on their scent up in Barstow. They up and left on their own, probably so they could go replenish their inventory. The Farm's checking on any recent black market deals or munitions thefts within a hundred-mile radius. If a flag goes up, we'll have a better idea where to look for them. With any luck, Ahmet and Nouhra will be heading there, too, and we can throw a little welcoming party."

"Yes and no," Lyons replied. "They want us to stay put, but Jack's already out lining up a set of wings for a little side mission in the Caymans. Something to do with that code descrambler Bear and Cowboy have been working on."

Lyons quickly explained the situation regarding Nasrallah Kassem's daughter and the aborted takeover attempt on Media Francois. "They've already sent Kissinger with the descrambler to see if he can do an end run around some bank firewalls and maybe hack into Kassem's daughter's cyberspace. Grimaldi will be doing some aerial recon of the estate she's staying at."

Blancanales finished eating and took a few sips of soda, then eyed the remote warily. "Are we holed up here until somebody coughs up a lead? I hope not, because the cabin fever's getting old real quick."

"I don't see it being that long of a wait," Lyons said, plop-ping onto the nearby sofa. "Hal says he's privy to everything going on with the FBI and the locals around here. If they don't make any headway, you can bet the cybergeeks will find something. Meantime, I say kick back and recharge. No telling when we'll get another chance."

"Here," Blancanales said, tossing Lyons the remote. "Play Ring-Around-the-Channel a few times and see if you go stir-crazy, too."

"Hey, just because there's a TV doesn't mean to you have to watch it," Lyons countered. He kicked off his shoes and put his feet up on the couch. "I'm okay with grabbing a little shut-eye. But before I do, there's one other thing. Something that came up when David was interrogating some Hezbollah prisoners in Israel."

"According to the prisoners," Lyons explained, "apparently Ahmet met with this Kassem guy at the training camp just before he set out for Mexico."

"Yeah, and that's another angle Grimaldi'll be working with Cowboy," replied Lyons. "Now let me finish sometime this century, would you?"

"This guy overheard Kassem and Ahmet talking about California," Lyons went on. "He's claiming there wasn't any mention of a specific plan other than the fact that it involved rocket launchers and something called a 'freezer group.' Either of you heard of that term before?"

"No," Blancanales said, "but it sounds to me like some kind of spin on sleeper cell. Y'know, maybe like they've been in place even longer than usual."

"That was my take, too," Lyons said. "And if that's the case, I'm not sure if it applies to the al Qaeda goons we took out. The intel we've been going on pegged them as being in the country only a few months."

Lyons shrugged. "It's not like Ahmet's a one-man army. If he's still on the loose, I'm guessing he's got more heavies to keep him company. And I don't mean just Mousif Nouhra."

Lyons nodded gravely. "Whether it's a freezer group or something else, I'm with you about the hot springs being just the first round. You ask me, Ahmet's looking to throw an even bigger punch in round two."

* * *

It was a short ride from Zeba Moussallem's Sherman Oaks apartment to Mullholland Drive, the winding, two-lane road that stretched past multimillion-dollar homes along the eastern spine of the Santa Monica Mountains. When he reached the thoroughfare, Kruzan Shiv turned right and headed west. Kouri Ahmet rode beside him in the front seat of the Kashmir separatist's utility van. Moussallem sat in the back along with Dang Win and Mousif Nouhra. The terrorist team leaders were quiet, each lost in his separate thoughts.

Halfway to Sepulveda Pass, the fancy homes gave way to large, undeveloped tracts of rugged, weed-choked terrain. Shiv slowed and after several more sweeping bends in the road he turned off onto a dirt road that wound through mountain brush for a few dozen yards before ending abruptly at a clearing marked with a long-standing Lot For Sale sign touting the parcel's panoramic views and close access to the 405 Freeway. There was no one around and the nearest house, more than a hundred yards away, was all but obscured by a stand of eucalyptus. Shiv parked and the men slowly piled out. Ahmet looked around, then glanced at Moussallem.

"The photos you took were excellent," the Lebanese renegade said. "Everything looks just as I pictured it."

"This way." Moussallem started down a dirt frail that split off where the driveway had ended. Ahmet and the others followed close behind.

They hadn't gone far when Nouhra's cell phone buzzed. He answered it quickly, then told the others, "I need to take this."

Nouhra stayed put as the others moved on. It didn't take long for them to reach their destination, an overgrown ridgeline that gave way to a deep, bowl-like valley, in the middle of which stood the recently completed Vista Summit Hotel. The six-story, billion-dollar structure was the pride and joy of real-estate mogul Bryan Worrell. Composed primarily of reflective glass panels, the hotel was built as a half circle wrapped around the world's third-largest outdoor swimming pool, which had been landscaped so as to give the appearance of being a small, private lake complete with a wide swath of pristine sand. A small, nine-hole golf course stretched out behind the hotel and snaked its way into the surrounding canyon. Most of the fairway sod had been laid, but a crew of groundskeepers was still busy planting palm trees and some of the more than twelve million dollars' worth of other ornamental plants handpicked by Vista Summit's landscape architect to adorn the course as well as the garden belt that encircled the hotel. The Vista would be officially opened after the holidays, but over the coming weekend the facility would be hosting the Frazier Group, an arrangement orchestrated by Worrell, one of thirteen Americans belonging to the clandestine organization. The event had been kept out of the press, for obvious reasons, but the lid of secrecy had not been tight enough to elude the scrutiny of its equally covert rival faction, New Dawn Rising.

"Impressive, yes?" Moussallem said, noting the look on Ahmet's face as he stared down at the hotel.

Ahmet nodded absently, his attention focused on the top floor, where, centered at the apex of the half circle, a massive, round-edged multipurpose center seemed to hover twenty feet in the air above the hotel like a flying saucer. Ahmet had to look closely to see the mirrored elevator column and network of spindly columns upon which the separate facility rested. From where he was standing, the elevated structure was at his eye level. Looking around him, he saw similar vantage points all along the mountains that encircled the valley, all of them offering the easy concealment of rampant chaparral, all of them situated within a comfortable range of a well-aimed shoulder rocket.

"There's still time," Ahmet replied calmly. "Nouhra has feelers out with the paramilitary group he got the explosives from. They might have what we need."

"Maybe that's who he was talking to," Shiv replied, glancing back down the path. Nouhra had apparently finished his call and was on his way to join them.

"It's not too late to get back in touch with the coalition," Moussallem suggested. "Perhaps they've secured some replacement rockets."

"Why take orders from them anymore?" Ahmet countered as Nouhra emerged from the path and fell in alongside Shiv. "We know what they want. Let's show them we can give it to them without their help. It will teach them to treat us with more respect."

"No," said Ahmet, raising his voice slightly as he glared at the teamless al Qaeda leader. "Your problem is still having had to make a sacrifice for our cause."

Zeba Moussallem sensed the escalating tempers and moved between Ahmet and Nouhra, acting as peacemaker. "Keep shouting and they'll spot us from the grounds. Is that really what you want?"

Nouhra shot Ahmet a withering glance, then backed away, using Dang Win and Kruzan Shiv as a buffer.

"That phone call," Ahmet asked. "Was it with the people you got the explosives from?"

Nouhra glared defiantly at the Lebanese renegade. "Perhaps," he said icily. "Do I have to account to you for my personal affairs? Am I one of your lackeys?"

Ahmet sighed. "I merely asked a question," he told the Iraqi. "If that upset you somehow, I apologize."

"When we made the initial deal for explosives, I mentioned wanting to get our hands on some shoulder launchers," he reported. "They didn't have any and didn't think they could find any on short notice. But it turns out they could. Only three, however."

"Their asking price is high," Nouhra said, "but lacking other options, I think we should meet it."

"You trust them?" Ahmet asked. "You don't think there's a chance they could be trying to set us up?"

Nouhra shook his head. "They hate the establishment here as much as we do," he said. "It might be they're jealous that we're taking action while they sit behind their computers and write manifestos, but set us up? No. I trust them."

"As soon as tonight," Nouhra replied. "I just have to confirm and make the arrangements. They wouldn't give me a time or place until I agreed to their price."

"I'll do what I can," Nouhra said. "And I'll want one of the teams to go with me."

Nouhra managed a faint smile. "It's easier to trust someone if you don't tempt them showing up alone with a briefcase full of currency."

"Let's do it, then," Ahmet decided. He turned to Nouhra, reining in his anger. "If you could make the call...."

Chapter Twenty-Two

Roland Carruthers lived a short drive from the capital in an upscale, free-lined cul-de-sac populated mostly by fellow government employees. Holiday decorations had already gone up in some of the yards and the fresh layer of snow blanketing the neighborhood gave it a look of festive, Yuletide spirit. Two teenage brothers from the house next door were shoveling fresh snow from Carruthers's driveway when he pulled up in his Cadillac Escalade. The secretary of state inched past the sidewalk and parked on the stretch of asphalt that had just been cleared away. He grinned at the boys as he stepped out of his SUV.

"Maybe when I get back," Carruthers told him, reaching for his wallet. "I'm heading out of town for a few days."

"Absolutely," Carruthers said. He peeled a fifty-dollar bill from his wallet and handed it to the boys. "Keep the change. We'll call it a Christmas bonus."

The boys thanked Carruthers profusely, then went back to work as the secretary let himself into the house. His wife, Davina, was still at her teaching job around the corner at Bethesda Middle School, but he could see that she'd already packed and set her luggage in the side hallway. Carruthers raided the refrigerator for a can of beer and popped the tab as he went into the master bedroom. His wife had set out his suitcase; it lay open on the bed, ready for him to fill with what he planned to take along for their four-day weekend. As far as the neighbors and general public was concerned, the secretary and his wife would be making a routine getaway to their winter home outside Tucson. A flight had, in fact, been booked to Arizona, and Carruthers planned to spend the night at the ranch house. Come morning, however, Davina would remain behind while he flew on to Los Angeles, taking a private jet to a small airfield in Santa Monica where his arrival for the Frazier Group conference would be likeliest to go unnoticed.

Carruthers had just taken his first sip of beer and was standing in front of his closet, deliberating wardrobe choices for the trip, when his untraceable cell phone sounded.

"That'd be a little hard to do, since I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Media Francois," Renais said. "The hostile takeover attempt. You're behind it."

Carruthers let the accusation hang in the air as he downed half the beer in one long, ear-buzzing swallow. He was still trying to make sense of what the woman was saying.

"Sorry," he told her. "I'm still in the dark here, but from the sound of it, I kinda wish I could take credit."

"Go ahead, be coy about it," Renais taunted angrily. "My people are on it. We'll find your fingerprints on the deal and then I'll come after you with both barrels."

"First off," Carruthers snapped, his gaze drifting to the trove of memorabilia on the far wall commemorating his service in the Marine Corps, "I don't take kindly to threats, especially when they're groundless."

"Second, we're meeting in a couple days to discuss matters of mutual interest to all the partners," he went on. "If you think you're going to blow into L.A. with a bug up your ass about some personal business none of us give a rat's ass about, it's not going to fly. Do you understand me?"

"I might have figured you'd stonewall," Renais said. "Deny it all you want, but this is going to backfire on you, I promise."

"I look forward to seeing you, too, sweetheart," Carruthers said. "Say hi to that new beau of yours for me, too, would you? I understand you two are going to be holding hands on the flight over."

The Frenchwoman lapsed into her native tongue, heaping a stream of invective at Carruthers, then abruptly hung up on him. Carruthers stared at his cell phone, shaking his head with bemusement. He finished his beer, then crumpled the can and tossed it in a wastebasket near his desk. Switching phones, he put a quick call through to his aide back in Washington.

"Whatever you're doing, drop it," he demanded. "Find me everything you can on Media Francois, especially anything to do with some kind of takeover attempt that's taken place in the past forty-eight hours."

* * *

"What do you know, for once Lady Luck is on our side," Jordai Kenney told Gary Manning and Mel Fletch as she moved away from the lobby reception area at the U.P. Ropal Securities building, located at the southern fringe of Hong Kong's financial district. It was only their second stop, and if they'd come up empty the trio had planned to split up so that they could cover more ground. Now, it appeared, they would be able to stick together.

Kenney was holding the computer-run photos of Pasha Yarad, Waiz Buday and Sheikh Dara Elhessen II that she had shown to the security guard manning the sign-in desk. Manning glanced at them.

"Lady Luck indeed." Fletch led the way to the elevators. "Let's go pay a visit."

As they started the long ride up to the forty-fifth floor, Kenney asked Manning, "How's that neck doing?"

"I'll hold you to that." Kenney smiled, then promptly changed the subject. "It's good we brought photos, because the office here isn't for Hillen-Jacoby or any of the other shadow companies. It's a middleman outfit. Lawyers and accountants."

"I think so," Kenney said. "The way the guard explained it, these guys count the beans and check for contract loopholes if there are any last-minute changes in a takeover attempt."

"I am," Kenney said, "but I've got a crack memory. I'm just telling you what Gabby spilled to me downstairs when I flirted with him a little."

"Okay, that's it," Fletch complained good-naturedly. "When we're through here, can you two just get a room or something?"

Manning and Kenney let the taunt pass. Both were thankful when the elevator finally stopped.

Kenney stepped out first and led the men to a spacious reception area at the end of the hall. A young, amiable-looking woman in her early thirties manned the front desk, a phone headset mussing her pageboy hairdo. She half glanced at Manning and the others, politely signaling for them to wait a moment. Once she finished her call, she put on her best smile and sized up the nationality of her visitors before greeting them in fluent English.

"Are you sure you've come to the right place?" she queried innocently. "This is Boddicker Partners. None of those individuals works here."

"They're clients here on business with one of your agents," Kenney asserted, holding out the computerized photos of the men they were seeking. "They might have announced themselves under other names. Probably with an outfit called Hillen-Jacoby."

The receptionist eyed the photos and stiffened visibly. Her smile went south, flattening in a way that Manning took to mean her defenses were about to go up. He also noticed the woman's hand go to her phone console, pressing a button.

"Wait, I forgot something," Kenney interrupted, flashing her Interpol badge. "Here. And just so we're clear, I may have asked nicely, but we aren't in the mood for a runaround and you aren't going to turn us away telling us something other than what we already know. So how about if we try again? We're here to see these men."

Before the receptionist could respond, a uniformed security officer emerged from the back hallway. Manning was expecting him and anticipated another attempt to run interference. Rather than wait on the officer's lead, he reached inside his coat and pulled out his pistol, taking careful aim at the bridge between the guard's eyebrows.

Fletch repeated the command in Mandarin as he drew his own gun and circled the receptionist's desk. The guard already had his hands in the air. Fletch quickly disarmed him. Kenney was close behind, waving the photos of Yarad, Buday and Elhessen.

As the guard stared at the photos, Manning strode past them and made his way down the hall, peering into the first offices he passed.

"They're not here," the guard explained nervously once he'd had a look at the photos.

"Well, you both got your stories straight, I'll give you that much," Fletch said. He stayed with the guard and receptionist as Kenney helped Manning search the suite. There wasn't much ground to cover. Besides a conference room and lounge area, there were only three offices. Two were empty. The only person in the third room was a befuddled accountant in his late fifties.

As with the receptionist and guard, Kenney showed the accountant the photos of the investors they were seeking.

"They signed in but they didn't sign out," Kenney told the man. "Where are they?"

Manning lowered his gun, disappointment throwing a damper on his adrenaline. "They called for a helicopter?"

He backtracked to the reception area and quickly updated Fletch, then returned to the elevator and took it to the top floor. When he reached it, he had to take a hallway to get to the staircase leading up to the roof. He still had his gun out, but even before he stepped outside, he had his doubts that he would need it.

There was a helipad on the roof, but it, like the rooftop itself, was deserted. Yarad and the others were long gone.

* * *

Shek Kong airfield, a former Royal Air Force base and onetime Vietnamese refugee detention center, was located far to the north of the financial district on the Chinese mainland. The facility was under the jurisdiction of the People's Liberation Army and, as such, wasn't about to fall under the scrutiny of Interpol or island authorities seeking Pasha Yarad and his investment partners for questioning in the matter of Nasrallah Kassem's murder or the death of Gohn Len. It was for that reason that Yarad had chosen the airfield after arranging to be picked up from the rooftop of the U.P. Ropal building once he'd learned why Kassem had failed to show up to help with the planned hostile takeover of Media Francois.

Now, less than two hours later, the Iranian diplomat stood outside the airfield's small terminal in the midafternoon gloom, confident that he had effectively distanced himself from any dragnet that might have detained him from attending to the latest monkey wrenches that had been thrown into the once-promising machine known as New Dawn Rising. For the time being, his contempt for the People's Republic had been tempered by the reassuring sight of armed soldiers posted in front of every outbuilding and alongside the military aircraft hangared near the lone runway.

With Yarad was his lawyer and chief financial officer, Asil Roshed, an equally dour-faced, white-haired man, as well as two other NDR partners who'd come to Hong Kong specifically to help see through the now-aborted business venture. Libyan entrepreneur Waiz Buday was a sleek, handsome man in his early forties dressed in a black leather jacket and tweed slacks. Sheikh Dara Elhessen II, on the other hand, wore a traditional white-robed thobe and matching ghutrah headdress. The Saudi was a few years younger than Yarad but shared the Iranian's slouched, haphazard posture. He, like Buday, had arrived in Hong Kong late the previous night, long after Yarad's meeting with Kassem and Gohn Len. Now, with the Media Francois deal on hold, they were waiting for a maintenance crew to finish servicing the eight-seat Learjet 45XR that would soon be taking them back to their respective countries. Neither man was pleased at having made the trip for naught.

"I still say we should have proceeded with the transaction," complained Buday. "Enough of the details had been put into motion to alert the Media Francois board. If we'd followed through, the takeover would have been a fait accompli before they could have had a chance to react."

"Followed through?" the Saudi scoffed. "With what? Kassem had controlling interest. There wasn't enough funding in place to carry it out without him."

"His funds were in place," the Libyan countered. "All we had to do was lean a little harder on the girl."

"Do you really think that would have worked?" Yarad interjected. The Iranian was fed up with the other men's discontent. "In one breath we tell her that her father has been murdered, and in the next you're badgering her to sign off on half his ownings."

"Kassem had already agreed to the takeover," Buday persisted. "I only asked that she carry out his wishes. It's what he would have wanted."

"I know that she's supposed to be an intelligent businesswoman," Buday countered. "I know that she claims to support the cause. This was her chance to prove it."

Of the three, Yarad had seniority within the ranks of New Dawn Rising, and his word carried enough weight to silence both Elhessen and the Libyan. The elder politician sighed with disapproval and glanced away from his colleagues a moment, taking in the dense, dark clouds moving in from the north. The clouds looked ominous, choking the sky, and periodically the formations would brighten for a moment as lightning flashed inside their wispy bowels. The Learjet pilot had already warned the men that there was a chance the approaching storm could delay their takeoff. The idea sickened Yarad. Was it really possible for them to be subjected to yet more travail?

Finally the Iranian turned back to the others. As he spoke, his focus was primarily on Buday.

"Just a day ago, I was the one arguing for us to press forward and carry out our agenda despite obstacles," he related. "I clashed with Gohn Len over this very matter. Now Gohn Len is dead. Nasrallah Kassem is dead. And over in America, we have lost a valuable team of al Qaeda operatives. It was thought that Kouri Ahmet had died, as well, but the news that he is alive comes with the knowledge that he has decided he is free to act without our counsel. We are in disarray."

Off in the distance, thundered pealed through the darkening sky. The fast-moving clouds were advancing toward the airfield, and Yarad could see the first drops of rain already beginning to fall on the tarmac. The Iranian was not one to normally place stock in omens, but in light of all that had happened, he decided this one time he would make an exception.

"We need to take pause," he told the others. "We need to regroup and access the situation in light of all that has happened."

When a brilliant shaft of lightning crackled its way through the cloud cover, Yarad's lawyer spoke up for the first time, addressing a more immediate concern.

The men turned and were making their way toward the terminal when, between claps of thunder, they heard the turbo drone of a small jet. Glancing northward, they saw a Cessna 441 Conquest II materialize out of the clouds and angle its way downward toward the runway. The PLA emblem was emblazoned on the plane's fuselage.

Kassem had earlier apprised Yarad that the Chinese officer would be replacing Gohn Len as the PLA's representative with New Dawn Rising. It was Mee who had greased the skids to allow a helicopter to spirit Yarad and the others to Shek Kong, and the intelligence officer had further volunteered to fly in from Beijing to meet with his new partners. Gratitude aside, the Iranian had secretly hoped to leave the country before Mee's arrival, thereby stalling, however briefly, China's input into NDR's plans regarding the Frazier Group. Now, however, it looked as if Yarad and the others would have to officially welcome their newcomer, after all. Kassem had mentioned that Mee seemed more agreeable than Gohn Len, but Yarad had a sinking feeling that the slain officer's replacement would, in the long run, prove just as meddling and contentious.

As he watched the Cessna touch down on the runway, Yarad murmured darkly, "Would it have been asking too much for his plane to be brought down by lightning?"

* * *

Several minutes after the Conquest II had landed and taxied to a stop near the terminal, Anhg Mee was still seated in the passenger compartment near a window allowing him to see the four men who'd moved beneath an overhang to avoid the increasing rainfall. Except for one man, Mee recognized all of the men from photos on file back at the Second Intelligence Department in Beijing. They were all scowling, especially Pasha Yarad. Mee wasn't surprised. Gohn Len had always spoken of the men with contempt, citing their notions of Muslim superiority and a certain smugness that Len had felt masked an inner fear of China's truer might in the grand scheme of things. Mee had sensed a similar undertone in Nasrallah Kassem's voice when the Lebanese financier had propositioned him about replacing Gohn Len as China's representative to the New Dawn Rising coalition, and even Pasha Yarad's request for assistance earlier in the afternoon had, to Mee's ear, seemed patronizing.

"Scowl all you want," Mee whispered to himself, holding a cell phone to his ear as if it were an important call that was keeping him aboard the craft rather than his intention to make the other men wait on him. He stayed put a few minutes longer, until finally the pilot emerged from the cockpit with the confirmation Mee had been waiting for.

"Thank you," Mee told the pilot. Pocketing his cell phone, the thirty-year-old Luoyang native rose from his leather chair and patted the creases from his uniform. The officer was dressed in full regalia, including the two Citations for Merit, Second Class, he'd received over the past ten years for his part in HUMINIT operations on behalf of the PLA.

The heart of the fast-moving storm had already moved past the airfield, but a steady downpour was still pattering the tarmac when Mee disembarked. He ignored the rain, making do with his military cap to keep the drops from splattering his face. With a sense of assured purpose, he strode toward the terminal, pausing only to direct the baggage crew where to wheel the large crate they'd just hauled out of the cargo bay.

"Over here," he said, pointing to a dry area directly beneath the terminal overhang, a few feet from where Pasha Yarad and the others were standing. As the crew carried out his orders, Mee greeted his dour reception committee with a broad, confident smile.

"Perhaps I should have been a little more cautious about flying in such inclement weather," he told them, "but I knew you would be anxious to meet me."

Yarad responded indirectly. "Our thanks again for providing the use of a helicopter as well as the airfield."

"Anything to help my new colleagues," Mee replied briskly. Rather than move closer to the men for a more formal greeting, he stopped several yards in front of them, gesturing for the luggage crew to leave the unloaded crate in the space between him and the others.

"Since this is our first meeting together," Mee told the Libyan, "I thought it best that I come bearing gifts. Just so that we can start things off on the right note."

With that, the Chinese HUMINIT specialist leaned over and pried open the lid of the crate, revealing a shipment of WPF89-1 rocket launchers. Mee stood back and savored the stunned expressions on the faces of all four men on the other side of the crate.

"They're thermobaric," he told them casually. "Equipped with FAE warheads to maximize casualties when striking soft targets. You need them for a hotel conference room, correct?"

"This will serve the purpose," Mee assured the Iranian. He closed the lid on the crate, then told the men, "I also have a few suggestions as to how we can get these to America quickly."

Chapter Twenty-Three

David McCarter stood at attention as the flag-draped coffin of CIA agent Junior Hale was loaded into the DC-10 cargo plane that would transport it back his hometown in Cincinnati. With him were his fellow Phoenix Force warriors — T. J. Hawkins, Calvin James and Rafael Encizo — as well as Hale's partner, Roger Combs, and Walter Ferris, the U.S. Global News reporter whose kidnapping had prompted Phoenix Force's deployment in the Middle East. Ferris had just flown in from Damascus. His face was still swollen where he'd been struck by the butt of an AK-47 moments before Encizo's sniper round had triggered the lightning-quick raid that freed the reporter while taking out the Hamas crew that had taken him hostage.

Once the casket had been loaded and the cargo bay door had been closed, McCarter and the others snapped out of attention. The Londoner turned to Ferris.

"We asked nicely," McCarter said. "If our people didn't say 'please,' I apologize."

"You didn't have to twist my arm," Ferris conceded. "If not for you guys, it'd have been me going home in a box. I owe you."

"Enough to spill what we need to know?" James interjected. "No holding back to protect some scoop?"

"The last thing I'm concerned about now is scooping anyone," Ferris assured the others. "Honestly, I was ready to talk with you in Damascus, but by the time I was out of surgery you'd already split."

"Just rest assured," Ferris said, "if there's a way I can help knock Iran out of the nuclear picture, I'm all for it."

"Glad to hear it," McCarter said. He gestured to the nearby mess station. "Let's take a load off and hash it all out, then."

As the six men left the runway and approached the mess tables, Ferris asked, "What happened with the Hezbollah prisoners you were interrogating?"

"Mossad transferred them to a detention center with better security," McCarter explained. "The folks we brought in to help convince them to talk got a little carried away and wanted to string the guys up."

"They'll be under lock and key while Israel decides what they want to do with them," McCarter continued. "My guess is they'll go through a few more interrogations about the training camp."

"We'll stay in the loop on that," Combs said. "We figure the guys left behind after the raid will be farmed out to other facilities. Once we have a better take on where they'll end up, we'll most likely double up with Mossad and go back in again."

"Probably a good idea," said Ferris. "If I'm right, they're sitting on more of Iran's nuclear gear than you took out."

Ferris shrugged, then turned back to McCarter. "Will you be going back in, too?"

"Actually," the reporter confessed, "finding out who you guys are is proving a bit of a problem."

"Let's keep it that way," McCarter said. "But to answer your question, we have other plans."

Reaching the mess area, the men took seats around one of the far tables, placing themselves beyond earshot of Mossad commandos plowing through rations closer to the serving tent. McCarter turned to Combs, giving him the floor.

"I took photos of that nuke equipment stored at the camp," the CIA agent told Ferris. "We just got confirmation that the stuff originated in Iran, just like you've been claiming."

"Pretty much," McCarter said. "We've got plenty of intel to go on, but we're hoping you can fill in the blanks. Game?"

"On the surface," Ferris explained, "Karaj is pegged mostly as a backup manufacturing plant and storage facility for Iran's nuclear arms program. But I think there's more to it than that."

"The place fronts itself as Iran's Nuclear Research Center for Agriculture and Medicine," Ferris said. "They've got all the buildings and personnel in place to pass things off as unrelated to weapons development, but it's all a cover. There are two manufacturing plants, and my guess is one of them turned out the gear that wound up in the Bekaa Valley. Am I right?"

Combs exchanged a glance at McCarter, then told Ferris, "I know it's a little one-sided for us to pick your brains and not return the favor, but a lot of what we've come up with is going to have to remain classified, for obvious reasons. You even being a part of this discussion runs against protocol, but we're looking for shortcuts and figure you can help."

"We'll toss you a few crumbs along the way to make this worth your while," Combs said, "but none of this gets out until we've all done our thing, and even then you can't name sources. For the record, you've never met me."

"Same for us," McCarter added. "And just so you know, it'd be easy enough for us to find out who your other connections are, but we'll hold off so long as we have your word you won't put out anything that compromises our mission."

"Okay, then," McCarter went on. "Near as we can figure, Karaj is first stop on the delivery route Iran's been using to smuggle its nuke gear out of the country one step ahead of IAEC. We have sat cam photos of delivery trucks parked outside of one of those manufacturing plants you were talking about."

"You're making it a little hard for me to sound like I'm the one holding the cards, mate," McCarter replied. "That was supposed to be classified, but, yeah, they're using rigged tankers. And the distribution route you were trying to uncover runs from there to Lebanon through Iraq and Syria. We've pinpointed waystations in Al Mawsil and Halab in Syria. From Halab, we figure the trucks head south along the Syrian border before crossing into Lebanon."

"We thought about hitting one of the hubs," McCarter said, "but it makes more sense to take out the starting point first. If we can get in and find nuclear equipment on Iranian soil, they're out of luck denying a weapons program. Once we've got them dead to rights, you can come forward with your piece citing the distro hubs. We'll leak enough verification for your story to hold water. You'll get the kudos and hopefully raise enough of a stink that the UN and IAEC can move in and make sure Syria and Lebanon don't pick up the nuclear slack. Mossad's ready to throw in some muscle, and there will likely be political pressure from neighboring countries to ice the cake."

"We're flying to Iran later today," McCarter told the reporter. "According to our intel, you managed to get into Karaj and stay off their radar for two months while you snooped around."

"We don't plan to stick around there that long," McCarter said, "but we're hoping you can help us out with the insertion. Safest drop zone, strongholds to steer around, other logistics."

"Done," Ferris said. "I can't say I know the place like the back of my hand, but if you're looking to get a peek at that facility, I know the best way to go about it."

"There's no guarantee this will be strictly recon," McCarter responded. "If we're spotted or the need arises, it becomes a combat mission."

"Ever hear of war correspondents?" Ferris bartered. "And, as part of your homework, I'm sure you know I served in the Gulf War."

"I was carrying an M-16, not a pen and paper," Ferris said. "I know how to handle myself. And, if I can explain, I enlisted to go to Iraq because I thought it was the right thing to do. I know we didn't find the WMDs we were looking for, but I know they were there. I saw some good men go down in that search, and after my hitch, part of the reason I turned reporter was so I could follow through and make sure they hadn't died in vain. If we pinpoint this distribution pipeline and follow it from end to end, it's not just Iran we'll catch red-handed. I'm betting we'll find Iraq's nuclear arsenal, too. Probably in Lebanon."

"Pretty long speech for somebody who just had their jaw put back together," James said.

"I just want to make it clear I'm not looking to play tag-along," Ferris responded, still pressing his case. "I'm willing to pull my weight and do whatever's needed. Not just working my contacts, either. If all hell breaks loose, I'd be fighting alongside you."

"We did say we were going to have to keep an eye on you." McCarter turned to his comrades. "Any objections?"

* * *

"It's all set," Barbara Price told Hal Brognola, joining the SOG director in a small dining alcove down the hall from the Annex Computer Room. "Phoenix leaves for Iran as soon as their jet refuels. They had Ferris fly down for a debriefing and apparently he invited himself along."

The mission controller nodded. "I'd already checked on his background, so it didn't surprise me."

Price had brought along two cups of Kurtzman's notorious coffee and sat one of them in front of Brognola. He smiled thinly and waved it off.

"Thanks, but I've got my intestines in a knot," the older man said, uncapping a bottle of liquid antacid. "I'll stick with this for now."

"Cowboy and Jack are both en route to the Caymans," Price reported. "They'll land close to the same time. Carmen will update them on anything she's come up with between now and then so they can figure out a plan of attack. Most likely Cowboy will get started with the descrambler while Jack tries to get a bead on Kassem's place."

Brognola nodded. "Not to be a vulture, but given what happened to Kassem, his daughter might be a weak link in all this."

"We'll see," Price said. "Bear's trying to wrangle a sat cam over the islands so we can keep an eye on the runway there. It might be too late, though. You have to think there's a chance she's already flown out to deal with the body."

"That and to meet with the partners on this Media Francois deal," Brognola added. "Speaking of which, has Manning had any luck tracking them down? I know about the office they were using before they hopped a chopper. I mean after that."

"Not yet," Price confessed. "Hong Kong's getting hammered by back-to-back storm fronts. It's slowed things down as far as canvassing the airports."

"That would certainly help." Price sipped her coffee, then went on. "The big concern is that we haven't been able to pinpoint whose helicopter was used for the getaway."

"Well, first off, obviously," Price said, "if we knew what they took off in, we'd know what we're looking for and we could narrow the search."

"Of course. But there's something else, right?" Brognola said. "Wait, I think I have it. The China thing."

Price nodded. "I know it's looking like Kassem might've put a hit out on Gohn Len, but that's not the same as saying China's been taken out of the equation."

Brognola figured out the rest. "And if China's still a factor and helped with the getaway, it might've been through the PLA. And they have air bases near enough to Hong Kong to provide a safe haven, right?"

"A couple," Price said. "It's not like we can just send in search parties, though. And even if we spot choppers on the airfield, who's to say if they were used by Yarad?"

"What about security cameras?" Brognola asked. "Did Gary check to see if there were any mounted on the rooftop of that finance building?"

"That just leaves Carl and Rosario," Price went on. "They're still on standby outside L.A., waiting for Akira to get back to them with something more solid on where this Army Gideon outfit turned up after skipping out of Barstow."

"What about this 'freezer group' McCarter was talking about? Have we gotten anywhere on that?"

"Zip so far," Price confessed. "We're going through all the databases and the 'freezer' hits all have to do with appliances. If you need a new refrigerator, we've got plenty for you to go on."

"I'll have to check with the wife on that one," Brognola said. He took another swig of antacid, then pocketed the bottle and withdrew another cigar.

"At this point," he went on, "I say we skip the 'freezer' part and focus on 'group.' Given all the players Kassem was dealing with, I'm thinking we need to start considering that there was more than just this one al Qaeda cell planted in L.A. What if some of his other partners sent covert squads there?"

Brognola unwrapped his cigar and began rolling it between his fingers as he stared past Price at the blank wall behind her. He ran down a mental checklist, going over everything they'd just discussed as well as all of the other pertinent data linked to the present crisis. It seemed that they had covered all the bases. It was only when he began to think more about Ahmet's extradition that he felt he'd come upon a stone that had yet to be unturned.

"What about Ahmet's arrest down in Mexico?" he said aloud. "Have we put that under the microscope yet?"

"Beyond what we were given? No," Price admitted. "We tracked the money back to the Caymans, but that's it."

Price shrugged. "Not much. We have a name, and, to be honest, I can't remember it off the top of my head. I just know he was your basic thug working both sides of the street. Why? You think there might be more to it than that?"

"At this point, I'm not sure what I think," Brognola said. "And, honestly, I don't even know if it's a straw worth grasping for."

* * *

Stephano Prinz wobbled slightly as he got up off his bar stool and fished through his pockets for money to pay his bar tab. One too many tequila chasers, he thought to himself.

Prinz had been on a bender the past few days, drinking to celebrate the nice piece of change he'd picked up for luring Kouri Ahmet to his arrest at a back alley rendezvous just down the block from the tavern that had suddenly become his second home. The police had advised that he relocate and had even offered to put him into a protection program, but Prinz had brushed off the offer. The way Prinz saw it, Kouri Ahmet's people were half a world away and had other, far more pressing problems to deal with. He wanted to stick to his turf and had the impunity to figure he could do it on his terms. When he wasn't drinking, Prinz had been whoring, indulging himself on higher-priced call girls instead of the streetwalkers he usually went to for pleasure. He planned to find himself another one this evening, but first he wanted to sober up a little. He didn't want to go through a repeat of the previous night, when he'd passed out in the arms of one of the fancier tourista hookers, only to wake up with his money gone along with his clothes. It'd taken him all day to track down the woman and get the money back after leaving her black-eyed, bruised and filled with second thoughts about having tried to take advantage of him.

Prinz peeled off a few bills, leaving the bartender a hefty tip, then stumbled from the bar, welcoming the fresh air out on the street. His car, a customized Viper, was parked halfway down the block, but Prinz knew he was in no shape to drive. He figured he'd walk to the cafe and knock back a few espressos, then maybe put down a good meal to help absorb some of the alcohol. If he felt better afterward, he'd see about tending to his libido. Maybe this time he'd shave and shower, then put on some decent clothes and haunt one of the ritzier hotels near the beach where there always seemed to be an available American divorcee looking to satisfy her fancy for a Latin lover.

As he waited at the crosswalk for the light to change, Prinz took out his cigarettes. He was lighting one when two men sidled up to him from behind. He felt the unmistakeable bulge of a gun press against his ribs as one of the men leaned in close to him and whispered, "Come with us."

Before Prinz had a chance to react, the two men were half-dragging, half-guiding him around the corner of a knickknack shop that had just closed for the evening. There was a drab-looking sedan parked in the alley behind the shop, its engine running. The men shoved him toward it.

Prinz finally had the presence of mind to cry out for help, but by then it was too late. The shout was muffled as one of the men clamped a hand over his mouth and pinned one arm behind his back. When the rear door to the sedan swung open, Prinz's abductors spun him and shoved him inside, then slammed the door and stepped back. The car switched gears and rumbled out of the alley to the street, heading right, away from the business district.

The informant wasn't alone in the back seat. Jorge Holmas sat beside him, holding a vintage Nagrant M-1895 revolver fitted with a Bramit suppressor. Prinz, whose underworld dealings over the years had put him in contact with the Yucatan cartel on countless occasions, knew at once who he was dealing with. He was mistaken, however, about the reason for his abduction.

"That was one of your women?" Prinz blurted, his brow suddenly awash with perspiration. "I had no idea! I never would have touched her had I known!"

"We don't need to play games," Prinz bartered, his voice slurred. "If I made a mistake, I'll make it up to you. But you have to know, she took my money clip! It was a fortune! You always tell them never to steal from a custom..."

"Enough!" Holmas snapped, cutting the other man off. "Stop whining and act like a man!"

Prinz fell silent, slumping in the seat next to Holmas. Staring out the window, he saw they had left the village behind and had turned onto an old, two-lane road that led to the mining district. It had already turned dark and the city lights had been replaced by the blackness of undeveloped country land. Prinz knew it could mean only one thing. He turned back to Holmas, desperate.

"Just name your price," he pleaded. "I'll pay it. If I don't have it on me, I can get it."

"Your breath stinks of tequila, Stephano," Halmos calmly told the man. "A smart man like you should know better than to let a bottle of liquor do his thinking for him. You should have done a better job of hiding, too."

Prinz tried to bring himself under control, but a sudden sob racked through him. "You can't kill me! I told you, she stole from me! She provoked me!"

Holmas aimed at the informant's head and pulled back the hammer on his Nagant. "I'll tell you one more time. Stop whining and act like a man!"

Prinz nodded feebly. He felt a rise of nausea but fought the sensation back. Tears welled in his eyes. Why was this happening? he thought to himself. He'd just slapped the woman around a little; he didn't really hurt her. And it wasn't as if she hadn't deserved it. Why couldn't Holmas understand that?

A few miles out into the country, the sedan pulled off the main road and started down a gravel drive leading to one of the silver mines. The mine had been played out and shut down for several years, and twenty yards up ahead the main gate was padlocked shut. The car stopped a few yards shy of the barrier. The driver, one of the men who'd earlier helped Holmas steal the cache of shoulder rockets from Boh Xiao across the border in Guatemala, stayed behind the wheel and left the engine running. The man beside him got out of the front seat and opened the back door on Prinz's side.

Prinz warily climbed out of the sedan. The nausea swept over him again and he doubled over, retching into the gravel at his feet. Holmas got out of the other side of the car and circled around, staring at Prinz with disgust.

Prinz righted himself but was still weak in the knees. He leaned against the car for support and tried to reason once more with Holmas. "If you don't want money, I can give you information! Anything you want to know! Agents assigned to look into your affairs, the names of other informers trying to set you up. Anything you want!"

"What I want is for you to shut your mouth!" Holmas snapped. He pointed. "Go stand in front of the gate!"

Fear and adrenaline had tempered Prinz's drunkenness. Realizing he was doomed, he figured he had nothing to lose by trying to escape, and suddenly he lunged forward, reaching out for Holmas's pistol. It was a clumsy maneuver, however, and the gang lord easily sidestepped the charge, then retaliated by striking the back of Prinz's head with the butt of his Nagant. The informant toppled with a groan, landing hard on the gravel. Holmas gestured to the other man, who leaned over and jerked Prinz to his feet, then dragged him to the gate and dumped him, then stepped clear of the sedan's headlights and withdrew his cell phone. The phone had a built-in video camera.

As his colleague began taping, Holmas stepped forward, took aim and fired six times, the 7.62 mm Nagant rounds boring into Prinz, one after another. Blood spewed from the wounds, drenching the dead man's clothes.

Once he'd fired the last round, Holmas lowered his pistol, then stuffed it back into his holster.

"Just so you know," he told Prinz, his words falling on deaf ears, "it had nothing to do with some cheap whore."

Chapter Twenty-Four

It was well after sundown when Jack Grimaldi arrived at Owen Roberts International Airport just outside Georgetown. John Kissinger had landed over an hour earlier and already left the terminal. Grimaldi rented a car, then drove into the city to meet up with Kissinger, who'd checked into a hotel located directly across the street from Island National Bank, the institution that had dispensed the cash found on Kouri Ahmet at the time of his arrest in La Paz. A guest key was waiting at the front desk; Grimaldi took it and caught up with Kissinger in a top-floor suite facing the courtyard.

"Already hard at it, eh?" Grimaldi said as he dropped his duffel bag on the sofa.

Kissinger had set up a makeshift workstation on the dining-room table, using a USB adapter to link a notebook computer with his prototype code-descrambler, a palm-size device capable of running two million possible security codes per minute. He'd already gone through nearly the decoder's entire cache. Once those options had been exhausted, Kissinger planned to use the computer's secure sat com link to access the Stony Man Farm databases to draw on a nearly limitless supply of alternative codes. The objective at this point was to access INB's internal account records by way of the bank's wireless router.

"I hear that Gopher Snake of yours went great guns over in Lebanon," Grimaldi remarked, watching Kissinger program the descrambler's next set of password variations. "Let's hope this puppy barks just as well."

"Amen to that." Kissinger spoke between bites of a room-service BLT as he stared at the whizzing status icon on the decoder. "This is apt to take a while, so you might want to go ahead and check out Kassem's compound. Even if Bear drags a sat cam over, it'd help if we could get a closer view."

"I did already a quick flyby on the way in, but, yeah, a follow-up sounds good." Grimaldi picked up the local phone book and thumbed through the directory. "With any luck I can get through to one of the air tour companies."

"I'm sure some of them do night runs," Kissinger said. "You can do like David did in Damascus and strongarm a loaner."

"Worth a shot. If not, I'll work the local honchos for some kind of Coast Guard bird."

Kissinger drew Grimaldi's attention to the notebook screen, where he'd uploaded a Web site aerial view of Nasrallah Kassem's estate. "You saw these mountains running behind the place, right?"

"Looks like there are a few fire breaks," Kissinger said, eyeing the screen. "You could probably get within hiking distance."

"Decent plan B," Grimaldi said. "I can always rent a fishing boat, too, but I wouldn't be able to see much besides the dock and..."

"Wait a sec," Kissinger interrupted, holding a hand up to silence Grimaldi. "Got a nibble here."

The Stony Man pilot set down the phone book and peered over the weaponsmith's shoulder. The descrambler screen's icon had locked in an accepted password and verified entry to the bank site.

"Hell, half the battle's won," Kissinger said. "Stick around. If I can wrap this up quickly, I'll go with you."

"That, or you could try hacking your way into Kassem's place," Grimaldi suggested. "Computer, phone line, cell intercepts — take your pick."

* * *

Sana Kassem hung up her cell phone, her eyes once more awash with tears. She'd just spoken with some of her father's longtime business associates in Hong Kong, making the arrangements to have his body flown back to Lebanon. All three men had confirmed the same story regarding Nasrallah Kassem's death: that he'd been murdered by Chinese intelligence officer Gohn Len, who himself had later been killed by an as-yet unnamed American purportedly working for the U.S. Justice Department. Sana knew that Len was affiliated with New Dawn Rising, and she'd yet to hear back from Pasha Yarad or any of the other partners in the stalled plan to take over Media Francois, so she was unclear as to whether her father's death had been ordered by NDR or had stemmed from his longstanding animosity toward Len. In any event, for the moment she was glad that she'd nixed the takeover. Her pressing concern now was to decide on a course of action beyond seeing to her father's burial.

The woman was back in her den office at the main house. Although Nasrallah had spent little at his Caymans manor, the house felt empty. Yes, there were additional guards stationed downstairs as well as out on the grounds, and her small staff of housekeepers were off sleeping in their respective quarters, a mere intercom buzz away, but Sana was nonetheless overwhelmed by an abject sense of isolation.

She reached for a cup of coffee on the desk and sipped it. It was cold, but she drank it anyway. She knew she wouldn't be able to sleep, so she felt it was best to stay awake and try to find some way to keep herself busy. There was a small stack of paperwork on her desk that needed tending to, but she looked away from it and instead reached for the mouse to her laptop and clicked on her Web mailbox. There were three more messages, condolences from friends and business acquaintances. She was reading through them when a tab rose from her task bar, signaling that yet another message had come through.

It was from Jorge Holmas. It said simply, "Ready to proceed with delivery. Contact me with details ASAP."

There was an attachment to the e-mail. Sana opened it and was diverted to a media player. She sat, transfixed, as Stephano Prinz's cold-blooded execution played out on the screen. There had been no mention as to Prinz's identity, but Sana knew that it had to be the informant who had set up Kouri Ahmet for arrest in La Paz. She also knew that if Ahmet were to see the footage, he would realize that his betrayer had been eliminated.

Sana had a decision to make. Should she proceed with the plan to send shoulder rockets to Ahmet in hopes of luring him back under the wing of New Dawn Rising? Or would it be better to follow through and keep NDR in the dark until she could determine whether they'd had a hand in her father's death? Or should she just pay Holmas off and put everything on hold as she had the planned takeover of Media Francois?

Torn with uncertainty, Sana closed the windows on the computer but left the machine running. She rose from her desk and headed out of the den. She would walk the grounds, she'd decided, and sort through her options.

Had she remained in front of the computer a moment longer, she would have seen a firewall alert flash on her screen, informing her that someone was attempting to access her computer.

* * *

"We're in," Carmen Delahunt informed her Stony Man cyber-mates, passing along the news she'd just received from John Kissinger. "Cowboy's tapped into Sana Kassem's computer. Same with the bank she and her father were running funds through."

"That was quick," Hal Brognola remarked. He and Barbara Price had rejoined Aaron Kurtzman and Carmen Delahunt in the Computer Room. Huntington Wethers and Akira Tokaido were on break, both taking quick catnaps in the staff lounge. "What'd he find out?"

"For starters, her last e-mail included an attachment of an execution video," Delahunt said. "Some guy gunned down in front of a gate. It was dark, and Cowboy enhanced a still frame to get a better look at a sign on the gate. Looks like it was a silver mine in La Paz."

"I'm waiting on a still of the guy's face so I can run it through the databases," Delahunt said, "but that's gotta be it."

"Not yet," Delahunt said. "Cowboy's checking domains and ISPs, but you have to figure it probably went out on a public computer."

"If so, we can check log-ins," Kurtzman interjected. "It's an extra step, but what the hell."

"Whatever the case, this links Kassem's daughter with Ahmet," Brognola said. "We need to stay on her. I take it she's still on the island."

Delahunt nodded. "Cowboy hasn't been able to tap her phone, but he called there saying he was a local reporter following up on her father's murder. She wouldn't take the call but he got confirmation that she's there. At least for now."

"Grimaldi eyeballed the place when he was flying in and saw a chopper on the pad," Delahunt reporter. "He thinks he saw a plane in the hangar, too. Throw in a few cars, her father's yacht and couple speedboats and she's got plenty of options. I've got intel on her father's body being flown to Lebanon, so it's only a matter of time before she heads there."

"I'd rather we got to her before then," Brognola said. His unsmoked cigar had begun to unravel and he cast it in the trash, then rubbed his hands together, ridding himself of a few tobacco flecks. Price looked at him.

Brognola mulled it over, then said, "Go ahead and line up the paperwork, but let's not go there just yet. We might get more if we wait to see how she plays things out."

"Jack's trying to score a tour chopper," Delahunt said. "He can keep an eye out to make sure she doesn't go anywhere, but I'm guessing she's got security all over the place, so barging in's probably not a great option."

"We'll save that for a last resort," Brognola said. "Hopefully Cowboy can get that tap on her line and we can find out a few more things without tipping our hand."

"There's a big pile of change locked down for a quick transfer," Delahunt said. "The numbers match up with those Hillen-Jacoby had staked to the bid for Media Francois."

"I'm less concerned about that than keeping tabs on the woman," Brognola suggested. "Check back with Jack and make sure he's got that chopper lined up. If he needs help pulling strings, do what you can."

"Not yet," Kurtzman responded. "NSA's dragging their feet. Something about getting fed up with playing gofer for us. The Prez already told them to give us carte blanche, but they're asking a lot of questions about who the hell we are."

Brognola smiled ruefully. "Can't say as I blame them. And we have been a little demanding."

"They did chip in on another front, though," Kurtzman reported. "I ran with your lead and had Gary check the roof cams at that building in Hong Kong Kassem's partners skedaddled from. We got a make on the chopper that picked them up."

Kurtzman nodded. "Mi-17 passenger variant. Sat cams picked up a match at Shek Kong Airfield, just a bunny hop away on the mainland. There are a couple private jets out on the runway there, too. One's PLA, but the other looks civilian. The rain's got them grounded, at least for the moment."

"That'd be my guess," Kurtzman said. "Gary and his Interpol buddies are trying to figure the best way to get in there before the skies clear."

"That won't be easy," Price ventured. "The place is swarming with armed PLA, right?"

"That was my take," Kurtzman said. "But you know Gary. Tell him something can't be done, he's going to find a way to prove you wrong."

Chapter Twenty-Five

"Yeah, it's PLA, all right," Gary Manning said, "but it's not like the place is an impregnable fortress."

The Stony Man commando was standing in front of a picture window on the fifth floor of a hotel overlooking Shek Kong Airfield. The hotel, part of a clustered development set in the foothills just to the north, was less than a quarter-mile away from the complex. Beyond the neighborhood of modest homes and retail shops surrounding the hotel, a wide greenbelt extended to the periphery of the airfield. There were no fences barricading the facility from the outside world and except for the PLA insignia on some of the aircraft being doused by the latest storm front, Shek Kong looked much like any number of small, private airfields Manning had flown out of back in the States.

Jordai Kenney was in the room with Manning. Mel Fletch was out in the rain, managing a team of more than two dozen Interpol agents loosely positioned around the airfield, taking what shelter they could manage from the torrential downpour. Fletch was in an unmarked sedan parked across the street from the main gate on Kam Tin Road, monitoring what little activity there was at the entrance. He'd called in a few minutes ago, reporting no sign of Pasha Yarad or his Libyan and Saudi counterparts.

"Okay, let's assume they're in the terminal waiting out the storm," Kenney said. "That's apt to be a while, since there's supposed to be two more fronts passing through once."

The Australian's remarks were punctuated by a flash of lightning that stabbed at the runway, followed within seconds by a clap of thunder so loud it rattled the windowpane. The lights in the apartment flickered, then resumed their dull, constant glow. The thunder had caused Manning to flinch, compounding the tension between his shoulders. He could feel the muscles knotting and a faint spike of pain radiated downward from the base of his skull.

The next thing Manning knew, Kenney's fingers were on his throat, warm and soft. He recoiled slightly, taken by surprise.

"Hey, easy, sailor," Kenney told him. "I'm just trying to loosen you up a little before it goes out all the way. It's called a massage. Strictly medicinal."

Kenney laughed. "You're right. He'd figure this is where we forget about our problems for a few minutes and go roll in the hay."

"Well, the movie'll have to wait," Kenney said. "Now relax a minute, would you?"

Manning relented, allowing the woman to knead his tightened muscles as he stared out the window at the rain.

"That, too, but I was talking about this." Manning gestured out at the airfield. "With all your people out there, it's like I'm part of a small army all of a sudden. I'm used to a tighter crew. The strategies are all different."

"When the rain lets up, it won't be just five guys going in there. We'll be spread all over the place."

"Then let Mel call the shots and just fall in line," Kenney suggested. "I'm sure you did that at some point before you went elite."

Manning tested his neck and shoulders. The pain had already subsided. He grinned at Kenney. "Score one more for the voodoo princess."

More lightning tore a seam through the clouds and once again the lights dimmed, this time for the duration of the window's rattling.

Manning turned his attention back to the airfield, watching fresh sheets of rain splatter the tarmac. An idea came to him. "Maybe we could use the storm in our favor."

"They've only got one airstrip," Manning said. "It'd be easy enough to knock it out of commission, but what if it happened in a way that didn't look suspicious? It'd make it easier for us to move in."

"So, what, we sneak a lightning rod out onto the runway and hope it gets zapped?" Kenney shook her head. "I just saw lightning strike there and it didn't do squat."

"It's not like we need a big crater or anything." Manning pointed to the runway. "All we have to do is knock out the lights. Darken the runway and nobody's going anywhere."

Manning nodded. "It'd snafu things in the control tower, too. Have them think the storm caused it and they'll be thinking more about restoring power and watching the perimeter."

"Backup generators," Manning said. "I know. But this place looks pretty low-tech. Even if they're up on maintenance, there's not much chance the generators will kick in with a finger snap. Hell, I remember sitting on a runway for two hours back in L.A. a couple years ago before the backups fired, and LAX is state-of-the-art."

Kenney stared through the rain, surveying their target. The idea seemed plausible enough. She even thought she could tell which of the facility's outbuildings likely housed the power plant. As she was staring at the structure, another thunderclap shook the windows and made the lights flicker. This time, Kenney noticed that lights throughout the airport had been similarly affected.

"Looks like they're on the same power grid as here. If we trigger an outage, we can knock out the whole area," she said. "They'd be less likely to think they were singled out."

"Easy fix." Manning reached for his cell phone. "I have access to the mother of all Yellow Pages."

* * *

The New Dawn Rising contingent had retreated to what passed for the VIP lounge of the airfield terminal. The sparsely furnished cubicle was located on the second floor. There was a propaganda mural on one wall and a bulletin board with military postings on another. Several rows of Naugahyde-upholstered seats faced the runway, allowing the men to watch the downpour pelt their grounded planes. Pasha Yarad stood off to one side, cell phone to his ear, as Anhg Mee paced before the others, still lobbying to ingratiate himself into their ranks.

"Once the storms pass, I can arrange for a cargo plane to fly in to pick up the rockets," the intelligence officer explained. "We have access to an airstrip in the Hawaiian Islands where we have long-range transport helicopters. The rockets can be transferred to one of the helicopters and flown to a container ship already en route to Los Angeles. From there, it will be an easy matter to conceal the weapons in one of the containers so they can pass through port security. All that would remain would be getting the container to where Ahmet and the teams can pick them up."

"Give me an example." Mee's voice was calm, but his patience had worn thin. After all he'd done to come riding to NDR's rescue, he'd expected something more from these ingrates than sullen discontent. At any moment he half expected them to accuse him of having seeded the rain clouds just to ensure an audience with them.

"Haven't they installed scanners at all the ports in Los Angeles?" Buday said. "If you hide the rockets in a shipment of dishwashers, a scanner will see the difference."

Mee smiled through his rising anger. "With all due respect, you're the one oversimplifying."

Yarad's lawyer, Asil Roshed, was quick to side with Mee. He told Buday, "Those scanners aren't X-ray machines. They only detect radiation, and even then they aren't used around the clock on every piece of cargo that passes through."

"Exactly," Mee said, thankful for this one small crumb of support. He built on it and lectured Buday. "The U.S. is awash with Chinese imports. If some company over there has cut a multimillion dollar deal to sell dishwashers made in Guangzhou, they're going to see to it that they get their inventory the minute it comes off the ship. Besides, all the security in Los Angeles is focused more on carriers with links to Islamic groups. They're looking for dirty bombs and nuclear materials, not conventional arms."

"Positive," Mee snapped. "We've been sending munitions to our own covert teams in America for years. Not once has a shipment been intercepted."

"Your own covert teams?" The Saudi could see from the clenched look on Mee's face that their newest partner had just realized his gaffe. "Are you saying that PLA is running its own game plan separate from the coalition?"

"We have our own interests, yes," Mee replied, scrambling to maintain some leverage over the conversation. "And I'm sure you and the other partners have agendas and strategies that you carry out unilaterally, as well."

"I'm sure you're right," Elhessen replied, "but when we were assembling teams for the mission in Los Angeles, your predecessor made no mention of having agents in America that could be placed at our disposal. We had to look elsewhere."

Before this sudden bone of contention could be further chewed on, Pasha Yarad rejoined the group, his already stern countenance clouded now with a look of wrath.

"I was finally able to get through to Ahmet," he told the others. "I mentioned the possibility of having WPFs delivered to him, provided he recant his talk of severing ties with us and acting alone. He said he would have to think about it."

"What's to think about?" Asil Roshed said. "We have what he needs. He can't carry out the mission if he doesn't have rocket launchers."

"That's just it," Yarad said gravely. "I don't know if he's bluffing or not, but he's claiming he's found some launchers on his own."

Chapter Twenty-Six

The Lebanese terrorist was back at Zeba Moussallem's apartment, exulting in his latest turn of fortunes. A few hours ago he'd been faced with a master plan stymied by the lack of firepower to carry it out. Now, it was as if rocket launchers were dropping into his lap. Not only was Mousif Nouhra on his way to secure three of the weapons from his paramilitary suppliers; Ahmet had also just finished speaking with Pasha Yarad, who was offering twice that many thermobaric WTFs, albeit with the price of placing himself back under the yoke of New Dawn Rising. And before that Sana Kassem, of all people, had told him she could arrange for him to receive additional rocket launchers by way of her contacts in Mexico.

Ahmet wasn't sure which part of Sana's offer had pleased him most: the weapons offer, the confirmation that his informant in La Paz had been killed, or the woman's plea for forgiveness based on the mistaken notion that distraction over their dalliance in her father's cabana had somehow blinded him to Stephano Prinz's treachery.

"You've already committed to the launchers available here in California," said Moussallem, sitting across from Ahmet in the living room. Kruzan Shiv could be heard off in the bedroom, huddling with his fellow Kashmir separatists. "Do we really need the others?"

"It would give us an advantage," replied Ahmet, who'd already considered the options this sudden windfall had presented him with. "Not only could we carry out our plan here as conceived, we could use the extra launchers for a separate attack. Somewhere across the city. We'd wait until the Americans had thrown all their resources here, then hit them elsewhere."

"A nice thought," the Palestinian said. "But what about the fallout afterward? You said yourself that Kassem's daughter wants to split off from the coalition and act on her own. What happens when she learns you've agreed to abide by NDR, as well?"

"It would be a can of worms for them to sort through," Ahmet said. "I say we take from both of them, then let them go at each other. Sana lacks the experience to run her own operation, and NDR has too many chiefs trying to stir the broth to be effective. Let them stay together long enough to dispense with Sana, then they can self-destruct at their own leisure. Meanwhile, we'll have carried out our mission and shown that we can be a force of our own."

"Why not?" Ahmet said. "There's only one of us I don't see eye-to-eye with, and I have Dang Win's assurance that Nouhra will be eliminated once he's brokered the deal with Army Gideon."

"And you think Win will also come back with more explosives as well as the rocket launchers."

"Win will help himself to whatever the paramilitarists have on hand," Ahmet said. "Army Gideon will be snuffed out along with Nouhra, and all of this will be laid on al Qaeda's doorstep. Let America point the finger at Bin Laden and go after his legions for payback. We'll retreat and lie low while we plan where to strike next."

"I like the scenario, but this presumes that everything plays out the way you envision it."

"It will," Ahmet said with determination. "Our being offered more than what we need to blow up the Frazier Group? It's a sign. God has given us his blessing. Nothing will go wrong."

* * *

Akira Tokaido woke from his nap feeling anything but refreshed. He'd apparently flailed in his sleep and the blankets were in disarray around him. There was a note on the nightstand next to his bed. "You snore like someone who has sleep apnea. You might want to have it checked out."

Tokaido recognized Huntington Wethers's handwriting. The African American had a droll sense of humor so Tokaido wasn't sure if his colleague was making a joke or merely pointing out that he'd been unable to sleep. He trashed the note, took a quick shower, then joined the others. He helped himself to a cup of coffee from Aaron Kurtzman's overworked percolator. Kurtzman's back was turned and he seemed immersed in his work, but as Tokaido headed toward his workstation, he heard a telltale, exaggerated snoring sound behind him. He turned and saw Kurtzman grinning over his shoulder at him.

Tokaido shrugged and called out to the others as he strode past Wethers and Carmen Delahunt and plopped into his ergonomic chair. "Anyone else? Open season on the young guy!"

Delahunt glanced at Tokaido and shrugged. "No wisecracks here. I probably snore even worse than you do."

"Let's just get back to work, can we, people?" Brognola pleaded. He was standing by the wall monitors with Price, looking over the latest intel she'd amassed on her clipboard.

Tokaido started up his computer. "Anything come up while I was off snoring?" he asked.

"Actually, yes," Wethers said. "I'm just a few minutes ahead of you, but I've got something just off the wires, so to speak. Apparently at some point over the past thirty-six hours there was an insider heist from an arms depot at the Marine Corps Logistics Base near Barstow. Three Gustav M2 phase-outs. They were set aside and earmarked for the scrap heap but never made it there."

"Indirectly," Wethers said. "Since they're calling it an inside job, the thought is maybe this Army Gideon sect has some pull at the base and put in an order."

"Which would mean they probably didn't scatter too far when they ditched that safehouse Able Team raided, right?" Tokaido said.

"Correct," Wethers said. "And the fact that it's rocket launchers that were taken, I think it's safe to say they're still in contact with Mousif Nouhra.

Assuming, of course, that he didn't die in that explosion at Leystra Hot Springs."

"I say we figure the guy's still alive, along with Ahmet," Tokaido said. "Let me check to see if these Gideon wackos are back online yet."

Tokaido donned his headphones, cued up some Metallica on his MP3 player, then resumed the task he'd started before his break. He'd been monitoring the Army Gideon Web site, looking for clues as to where the militant group had relocated. There'd been plenty of activity on the site over the past hour, and he honed in on the message board, running quick searches for "rockets," "launchers" and a half dozen other variants. When nothing came up, he shifted focus and began scrolling through the messages one by one, trying to pinpoint those sounding most like they'd come from the group's leader. The likeliest suspect was someone going by the handle Fed Buster. Tokaido was less concerned with the content of the poster's rantings at this point than his IP address.

Once he'd confirmed that all of Fed Buster's messages had come off the same server, Tokaido opened a fresh screen and uploaded an in-house software program allowing him to directly access the ISP records. Any law-enforcement personnel working above the counter would have had to secure a court order to reach the point Tokaido had gotten to with a few keystrokes, but this was one of those cases where a special presidential order from the White House served its purpose well. Inside of thirty seconds, Tokaido was yanking off his headphones and raising his fist in the air.

Tokaido nodded. He was already putting through a speed-dial call to the Able Team crew members still deployed in California. As he waited for Carl Lyons to pick up, he told the others, "Our paramilitary one-stop shopping center migrated just a few miles south of Barstow. They're in Hesperia."

* * *

"What'd I tell you?" Carl Lyons said, stabbing his feet back into his shoes as he grabbed for his web holster. "Hell, I didn't even get in forty winks."

The Able Team leader had just fielded Tokaido's heads-up on the location of Army Gideon's new quarters. Blancanales and Schwarz were likewise suiting up for combat, packing fresh magazines into their pistols and sorting through duffel bags for ancillary firepower to bring to their pending war dance.

"Any word if they've been in contact with Ahmet or Nouhra?" Schwarz asked as he clipped frag grenades to an ammunition belt already loaded with backup magazines.

"No," Lyons reported, "but they just got their mitts on a handful of Gustav rocket launchers. If that's not a special order for our perps, I don't know what is."

"Hesperia's less than a half hour away, tops," Blancanales said. "Maybe we can beat the shoppers there and be waiting for them."

"Not that it matters at this stage," Schwarz said, "but I keep wondering who they plan to take out with these rocket launchers they keep trying to get their hands on."

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Michelle Renais's cup of coffee shook faintly in her hand, testimony to her barely reined-in fury as she returned to the loading gate for the Boeing 767 that would be taking her and Jude Cartier to Los Angeles. Cartier was holding a seat for her, silver-haired and distinguished-looking in his upscale trench coat. He was on his cell phone, wrapping up a call with an associate back in Paris. Their trans-Atlantic flight had been uneventful. Both had slept most of the way, and while they were awake, Cartier had listened patiently as Renais railed about Roland Carruthers's supposed part in the stalled takeover of Media Francois. Now that they were on the ground, waiting out their ninety-minute layover, the French minister of finance was doing what he could to address the woman's concerns. Judging from the relaxed smile on his face, he was clearly having success.

"Excellent," he told his caller. "I'll touch base with you again in a few hours."

"You're all set," he told Renais. "I've lined up the backers you'll need to go after Media Francois ahead of schedule. Provided the other party holds off on their offer another twenty-four hours, you should have no problems ushering everything through."

"I don't understand. We discussed all this on the plane. I've covered all the bases."

"There's one base we didn't consider," Renais said. "That swine Carruthers is at it again!"

The woman's voice came out harsh and shrill, so much so that she drew attention from several other passengers waiting to board the flight. Renais glared back at them, then lowered her voice.

"Are you sure?" The smile had left Carter's face, replaced by a look of skepticism.

"Of course I'm sure! I just talked to my people. A bid's just been placed on the table, and it's the same outfit that was going after Media Francois! It has to be Carruthers!"

Cartier sighed, fighting back his exasperation. Renais was clearly mired in the same obsession that had seized her the moment she first heard about the MF takeover bid. It was a side of her the finance minister found grating, and the idea of having to spend another six hours buffeting Renais's foment was more than he cared to deal with.

"Look, there's no proof it's Carruthers," he told her, taking care to keep his voice low. He knew he sounded stern, if not patronizing, but at this point he didn't care. "You've already checked, Michelle, and I just made my own queries. The only paper trails connected to the takeover bid lead to Hong Kong and the Cayman Islands, and they both run into dead ends."

"Because Carruthers is trying to be clever," Renais insisted. "But I'm not fooled for a second."

"Yes, the owners of these companies are protecting their identities," Cartier went on, "but, again, there's no indication Carruthers is involved. None. In fact, I called in some favors and had his assets looked into. There's been no significant movement for months. He has everything tied up in American holdings. I really don't think he has any interest in acquiring Media Francois, much less your company. It would be totally out of character for him."

Cartier's patience had reached its limit. Fed up, he stared hard at the woman. "Do you ever listen to yourself? The way you go on and on about him? Are you really that insecure? That vain?"

The Frenchwoman's pale face flushed crimson and her pupils shrank to the size of pencil points as she eyed Cartier accusingly.

Cartier knew he'd gone too far, but he'd had enough. There had been several times over the past few days when the minister had been plagued by doubts as to the wisdom of a romantic involvement with Renais. In each case, he'd allowed himself be swept along by the passion of the moment, and it was only now, in this sorry moment, that he realized just what a fool he'd been. It was too late to undo things; like some mindless puppet he'd let the woman pull his strings to get him to do her bidding. And for what? So he could listen to her blather on about supposed retaliation by the last lover she'd used and then discarded?

"You had a fling with Carruthers," he told her, his suppressed anger rising to the surface. "You got what you wanted from him and moved on. He went back to his wife. He moved on, too. What makes you think he still cares about you enough to go to these absurd lengths to get back at you? You, who are supposed to be planning for an important conference, maybe the most important one we've had in years. But are you preparing yourself? No. Instead you're carrying on like some spoiled schoolgirl who thinks every boy in the classroom has to fall all over themselves trying to please her. Enough!"

The color drained from Renais's face every bit as quickly as it had appeared. Her lips trembled as she took in a breath, fighting to compose herself. Finally, with an icy calm, she finished her coffee and gracefully set the cup aside, then began to gather up her purse and overnight bag.

"I've already taken care of Carruthers," she told Cartier, her formal politeness as transparent as the lace collar enveloping her delicate, alabaster neck. "Thank you for all your help and consideration. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to see about having my seat changed for the flight to Los Angeles."

Renais had started off, saving her arsenal of profanities for the passengers who'd clearly insisted on eavesdropping on her fallout with Cartier. She spit at them in French, leaving most of them perplexed as to the exact nature of the insults she was heaping on them. Cartier watched the woman storm her way to the check-in counter, then shook his head sadly and shrugged at the other passengers.

"C'est la vie, " he told them as he reached for a newspaper and raised it before him as a protective screening, feigning interest in the sports coverage contained within. Behind the paper, he scowled, berating himself for having gotten involved with Renais in the first place. What had he been thinking?

Beyond the self-recrimination, Jude Cartier also couldn't help half wondering what the Frenchwoman had meant when she said she'd taken care of Carruthers.

* * *

Roland Carruthers'S aide back at the State Department hadn't had any better luck than Jude Cartier in terms of finding out details about the conglomerate attempting to take over Media Francois. The secretary of state had received a call while making a run to the corner store to buy a few provisions to tide his wife over at their winter home while he flew on the Los Angeles for the Frazier Group conference. His aide had passed along the news that MF's hostile suitors were hiding behind dummy corporations with funding lined up in Hong Kong and the Cayman Islands. He'd also learned, like Michelle Renais, that the Frenchwoman's own media company was now targeted for a takeover.

"Serves her right," Carruthers muttered to himself as he pulled into the driveway of the split-level ranch home he'd acquired several years ago, seeking an occasional respite from the brutal winters on Capitol Hill. He parked his rental Buick and carried the groceries into the house, half smiling to himself as he imagined the histrionics Renais had likely resorted to when finding out that some unknown financial shark was circling her. As with the Media Francois deal, he almost wished he'd had a part in the machinations.

"Got everything you'll need while I'm gone," Carruthers called out to his wife as he made his way into the kitchen. "They were out of those oyster things you like, but I got..."

Carruthers's voice suddenly trailed off. Davina had been standing at the sink, staring out the window into the backyard, but when she turned at the sound of his voice, he could see that her eyes were red and filled with fury. She was holding a tumbler half-filled with Scotch and, without warning, she dashed its contents into her husband's face. The Scotch burned Carruthers's eyes. Startled, he dropped the bag of groceries.

Carruthers was still regaining his wits when the woman stepped forward and slapped him across the face, holding nothing back. Davina was not a slight woman and the slap sent Carruthers staggering backward into the wall behind him.

"I just had a nice talk with Michelle Renais," she told Carruthers, hovering in front of him defiantly. "Something about your little side excursions earlier this year when you were in Paris for the NATO talks. It sounds like you two had quite the 'negotiations.'"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Carruthers said, still trying to blink the Scotch from his eyes. "That woman's delusional."

Davina was wearing jeans and a pair of pointed-toe, crocodile-skin cowboy boots. Without warning, she launched her right foot into her husband's groin, doubling him over in agony. She wasn't finished. Lunging forward, she shoved Carruthers while he was off balance, knocking him to the floor.

"That brain between your legs," she told him. "She described it perfectly. I'd tell you everything else she described, except it makes me sick just thinking about it!"

Carruthers felt queasy. He curled himself up protectively as Davina continued to kick at him.

Davina backed away from Carruthers and yanked open the utility drawer next to the refrigerator. She pulled out a Smith & Wesson .38 Special police revolver, thumbed off the safety and took aim at her husband.

"Don't worry, I won't shoot unless you force me to," Davina assured him. "I'm not crazy and I'm not stupid. Why kill you when I can just divorce you and take you for everything you're worth?"

"Shut up, Roland!" Davina shouted. "Your bags are still packed for Los Angeles. Take them and get out of here! And don't bother coming back. I'll be staying here awhile. I'll have my lawyers get in touch with you about sending my things from Washington. You piece of shit!"

Carruthers knew there was no point in trying to reason with Davina; not now. He struggled his way to his feet, still half blinded and aching where he'd been kicked. He turned from Davina and lurched from the kitchen.

"Have a nice trip!" Davina shouted at him. "Say hello to whomever you wind up 'negotiating' with!"

Carruthers ignored the taunt. He made it as far as the bedroom, then sagged into an easy chair, dragging in deep breaths as he tried to regain his equilibrium. There was a part of him that wanted to charge back into the kitchen and put Davina in her place, but he let the notion pass. It wasn't his wife, after all, who he blamed for the degradation he'd just been subjected to. Rather, it was the woman who'd called her up, blowing the whistle on an affair that, as far as Carruthers was concerned, was ancient history.

"Bad move, Michelle," he murmured as he grabbed a towel lying on the armrest of the chair and rubbed the liquor from his eyes. When he finished, he wrung the towel between his hands, wishing it were Michelle Renais's neck. He couldn't wait, now, for a chance to confront the woman in Los Angeles. He vowed, "That psycho bitch will pay."

Chapter Twenty-Eight

"Phoenix Force is in the air," Barbara Price told Hal Brognola and the others gathered in the Annex Computer Room. "They should be in Karaj in a few hours."

"Good." Brognola glanced at Huntington Wethers. "What's the sat cam situation there?"

"We have one in place, but there's a lot of cloud cover," Wethers reported, checking the NSA image being relayed to his computer. "It doesn't bode well for surveillance but it'll probably help with the insertion."

"As for Able Team," Carmen Delahunt chimed in, "they're a few miles from Hesperia, so we should have something on this whole Army Gideon thing shortly."

"I just gave him the specs on the power station near Shek Airfield," Kurtzman said. "It's just a matter of getting to it and coordinating things with Interpol so they can pull the raid off without tripping over each other. No sign of the rain letting up there, so he should have time."

"I'm sure they'll manage somehow," Brognola said. "That leaves the Caymans. Any word from Cowboy or..."

"Hold on," Akira Tokaido interrupted, glancing up from his computer console. "Let's back up to Army Gideon a minute."

"Could be," Tokaido said. "First let me ask — when David got those Hezbollah prisoners to talk back in Israel, was he working through a translator or was it all in English?"

"I don't remember it coming up," Brognola said. "Bear? You took the call on that."

"There was an interpreter," Kurtzman recalled, "but David said most of the interrogation was in English. Why?"

"I'm thinking we might have a 'lost in translation' thing going on," Tokaido said. "Once David's through tumbling with the Iranians, we need to ask if he's sure that prisoner heard Ahmet and Kassem talking about a freezer group. It could be the guy's pronunciation was just a little off."

Tokaido gestured at his screen. "I've been going through the Army Gideon posts and there are a couple references to something called the Frazier Group. As in, not 'freezer.' "

When no one else in the room came forward, Price asked Tokaido, "In what context was it mentioned?"

"It popped up twice," Tokaido said. "Both times in conspiracy rants by AG's head honcho. He mentions the Frazier Group in the same breath as Bilderberg and the Trilateral Commission. You know, the whole white-folks-are-secretiy-running-everything tirade."

"There's no shortage of those outfits," Brognola said. "Does he get into any specifics?"

"Nope. He just goes on about how these groups are the real powers behind the throne and won't stop at anything to get what they want."

"Easy to see why he went and did business with al Qaeda, then," Delahunt remarked. "Nothing like a good conspiracy theory to rally the quacks together."

"Let's look into it," Brognola suggested. "See if we can get our hands on some more details."

"Working on it," Tokaido said, "but hopefully Able Team can nab this Gideon bigshot and get him to blow his trumpet."

* * *

Army Gideon leader Curtis "FedBuster" Leetin was something of a modern-day Jekyll and Hyde.

By day, the forty-seven-year-old Florida native was one of several hundred civilians employed at MCLB — the Marine Corps Logistic Base — in Barstow, putting his mechanical skills to use repairing ground-combat and combat-support equipment. Considered the "go-to guy" for difficult assignments, Leetin had a reputation for salvaging high-priced military gear that others had been prepared to write off as inoperable. He'd saved the Marines tens of millions of dollars annually in replacement costs and, as such, was widely admired at the Yermo Annex, where he'd dutifully put in forty-hour work weeks over the past sixteen years. As with the other civilian employees, Leetin had passed a rigorous background check before being hired, and though most of his peers were subjected to equally discerning annual reviews, the crack mechanic's reputation and consistently high approval ratings had allowed him to skate through these latter rituals with little more than a cursory once-over. The fact that he attended church regularly, helped run monthly recruiting drives and played poker every two weeks with several heads of MCLB's administrative security staff had further helped Leetin to be considered beyond reproach.

There was, however, another side to Leetin that had gone unnoticed by both his work colleagues and supervisors.

More than twenty years ago, a seemingly innocuous rainy-day visit to a used-book store in Hialeah had changed Leetin's life. A disillusioned graduate school dropout from FSU at the time, Leetin had chanced upon the store's wealth of dog-eared revolutionary tomes, and after a rapt few hours reading The Anarchist's Cookbook from cover to cover, he'd maxed out his credit cards buying a shelf s worth of books and for the next few weeks he'd holed up in his apartment indoctrinating himself to all things subversive. Out of that experience, Leetin had committed himself to the long, clandestine journey that implanted him deep within what he perceived to be enemy territory and spawned the creation of Army Gideon, a hardened cadre of like-minded souls who considered events like Waco and Ruby Ridge as an affirmation of federal overreach and intrusion into the lives of its citizens. His great aspiration was to one day earn the same amount of reverential admiration from those who, like him, clamored for an end to governmental oppression in the United States and other Western countries where the ruling order was deemed infested with Machiavellian greed and avarice.

Little wonder, then, that several weeks earlier Leetin had eagerly answered the call to assist Mousif Nouhra in carrying out a furtive mission that the al Qaeda operative had promised would help decisively knock America off its supposedly imperialistic throne. It had been no problem for Leetin to surreptitiously parcel together stray, negligible explosives from various sources within MCLB and the surrounding Barstow area, then deliver to Nouhra the combined cache that had taken out the SWAT team during the ill-fated conflagration at Leystra Hot Springs. Procuring a small handful of Gustav M2 antitank launchers had been a little more problematic, but Leetin had risen to the challenge, not only securing the weapons from the base but doing so in a way that deflected suspicion on a pair of Marines who'd gone mysteriously AWOL the same day he'd carried out the internal theft.

Now, with Nouhra due to pick up the launchers in less than an hour, Leetin was preparing his minions for the transaction. Things were going to be handled a little differently than the last time, when Leetin's crew had merely handed over the explosives, then swiftly left their short-term hideaway in Barstow to avoid the remote possibility they'd been set up. This time, Leetin, now confident of the Iraqi's legitimacy, was determined to stay in the loop. Army Gideon would no longer be content to sit on the sidelines and cheer on those acting on their convictions. With or without Nouhra, Leetin was ready to take the playing field.

"Remember, we hold our ground, no matter what," the middle-aged, balding zealot told the eight followers gathered around him. Most were men his age, though there were a few younger members, including Rob Kitsey, an acne-scarred cable installer. Kitsey owned the crudely constructed, two-story log cabin where the men were holed up. He'd inherited the place and its surrounding acreage from his uncle, a mad poet who'd wandered off into the adjacent desert on a spiritual quest three years ago, only to find himself killed and half-devoured by a roaming pack of wild dogs. For most of the past two years, the isolated cabin had served as headquarters for Army Gideon. There had been a time when Kitsey was proud of having turned the site over to Leetin. Of late, however, he'd begun to doubt the wisdom of his generosity, and it was that doubt that prompted him to question Leetin's strategy.

"What if they just tell us to fuck off and try to leave with the launchers?" Kitsey asked. '"Cause I'm thinking that's what they're going to do."

"If you'd shown up on time, you would've heard our contingency plans," Leetin answered sharply.

"Hey, I told you," Kitsey complained. "My last installation was way the hell up in Oro Grande. I got here as soon as I could. This being my place and all, how about cutting me a little slack?"

"Yeah, okay, you're right," Kitsey relented. "All I'm saying is I gotta earn a living like everyone else here. If I get sent out to the boonies last thing, that's what I gotta do."

Kitsey nodded, diverting his gaze from Leetin. His anger continued to simmer inside him, however. The installer was fed up with Leetin's bristling arrogance and the way the older man insisted on running things. The way Kitsey looked at it, over the past year Leetin had become every bit as much power hungry and controlling as the heads of state he so soundly denounced on the Army Gideon Web site. It reminded him of that old Who song his uncle used to play all the time back when he used to come visit on weekends, something like here's the new boss, just like the old boss...

"As for our backup plan," Leetin went on, pacing in front of the table upon which rested the trio of computers through which Army Gideon spread its gospel into cyberspace. "I'll wait in here with Rick and Hanson while the rest of you spread around outside. Four of you take the main gate. If we can't come to terms with these guys and they insist on going solo, they won't get out of here alive. It's that simple."

"If it comes to that," Leetin responded evenly. "What, you think the neighbors are going to care? They can't see the place and with all the target practice we take out back, they'll just think it's business as usual."

"Yeah, I get that part," Kitsey said. "It's going gonzo on al Qaeda I'm a little worried about. We sting those guys, you think word's not going to get back to their people in Iraq?"

"Did you miss the part where this is a backup plan?" Leetin snapped. "If those guys play ball, everything will be hunky dory just like before."

* * *

Before taking Mousif Nouhra to the scheduled rendezvous with Army Gideon, Dang Win had made a brief stop in Koreatown to pick up a handful of his most entrusted enforcers. Had the California Highway Patrol found reason to intercept Win's Land Rover en route to Hesperia, it would have been the gang-busting coup of the year, as Win's six-man goon squad had been responsible for a total of twenty-three murders across L. A. County over the past two years. By the end of the evening, the Korean operative expected that tally to rise.

After taking the Hesperia exit off the I-15 freeway, Nouhra passed along directions from the front passenger seat as Win drove another three miles, passing a business strip small and two clustered housing developments before reaching the unincorporated part of the city. There, asphalt gave way to a gravel road winding past a trailer home park and several small farms. Once he'd passed the last of the farms, Win turned off his lights and eased off the accelerator, relying on moonlight to negotiate his way around chuckholes and a few large clods of dirt. A quarter mile up road, Rob Kitsey's log cabin stood alone on a sprawl of rolling, semibarren land dotted with discarded appliances, random clumps of mesquite and a few ancient Joshua trees. Far beyond the cabin, out on the open desert, a handful of dirt bikes and ATVs could be seen bounding along the trails of a makeshift recreation area.

Win drove another fifty yards, then slowed to a stop and glanced into the rear of the Land Rover, where his six followers sat pensively, dressed in black, each armed with either an assault rifle or silencer-equipped pistol.

In quick succession, five of the six men piled out of the SUV. The sixth man, Rohbi Tidha, remained behind. He would accompany Win and Nouhra when they met with Curtis Leetin to verify that the Army Gideon leader had, in fact, procured the Gustav M2 rocket launchers he'd offered to sell them. They also planned to survey the cabin to see if there was any other inventory — especially explosives — worth getting their hands on. Regardless of their findings, Win and Nouhra had no interest in carrying out a transaction with Leetin. Army Gideon had outlived its usefulness; this time instead of cash, the paramilitary sect would be given severance pay in the form of streaming lead.

Once his soldiers had cleared a rickety perimeter fence and disappeared into the shadows, Win gave the Land Rover some gas and continued toward the gate to Leetin's property. He hadn't gone far when Nouhra suddenly pointed into the distance.

Win glanced toward the cabin and saw a handful of men spill out into the night. As dark as it was, he could still see that they were armed.

Apparently Win's death squad was of the same opinion. Moments later, the first rattle of gunfire barked through the night. Win saw one of Leetin's men go down. The others quickly began to spread out, returning fire.

"Hang on," he told Nouhra and Tidha as he unzipped his coat to allow for quick access to his holstered pistol. "It looks like we're going to settle things sooner instead of later."

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Able Team had chosen to take the back way to the Army Gideon compound. When the first gunshots were fired outside Kitsey's cabin, the Stony Man commandos were making their way down a dirt road leading past the hilly, desert terrain where the off-roaders were chewing up the sand. Given the high-pitched, back-firing whine of motocross bikes and ATVs, it was impossible at first for Lyons and the others to realize that all hell had broken loose. It took a stray bullet grazing the front hood of their rental car for Lyons to slam on the brakes and take notice.

Figuring they were the intended target, Lyons killed the engine and grabbed his door handle.

Blancanales was already halfway out the passenger's door. Schwarz bailed from the back seat and dropped to a crouch in the dirt alongside him. M-16s at the ready, both men peered warily over the hood, braced for more incoming rounds. None was forthcoming, but as their eyes quickly adjusted to the darkness, they could see activity on the nearby property. There were muzzle-flashes, but clearly the shots weren't being directed at them. When Lyons circled around to join them, Blancanales gestured toward the cabin.

"They weren't after us," he stated. "Looks like there's a little disagreement over the going price for rocket launchers."

Lyons eyed the compound. Dang Win's Land Rover had just crashed through the front gates and three men had piled out, exchanging gunfire with Army Gideon. Elsewhere, he could see more men moving furtively across the uneven terrain toward the cabin.

"What do we do?" Schwarz asked. "Let them duke it out, then go after whoever's left?"

Lyons glanced over his shoulder at a row of cars and trucks parked behind them just off the dirt road. A handful of teenagers had apparently arrived just before Able Team and had yet to unload the dirt bikes strapped upright in the bed of their pickup. Nearby, two men had stopped dismounting their all-terrain vehicle from its trailer hitch and were looking at both the Stony Man warriors and the melee taking place uphill around Kitsey's cabin.

"Playing it smart sometimes isn't the way to go," he murmured, turning back to Blancanales and Schwarz. "I say we crash the party."

* * *

Had Dang Wests strategy played out as intended, most likely his men would have been able to pull off a one-sided massacre. As it was, the Koreans were at a disadvantage. They'd not only been spotted before they could reach their desired positions, but they were also unfamiliar with the terrain. The first of them to die, in fact, had been compromised by an unanticipated gully, losing his balance when the ground suddenly dipped beneath his feet. He'd fallen forward, his AK-47 flying from his hands, and he was still groping the dark ground to reclaim it when 5.56 mm x 45 mm rounds from an Army Gideon SIG SG-550 slammed into him.

Several yards to the dead man's right, one of his colleagues flattened himself on the coarse earth and tracked the killshots back to the rusting hulk of a discarded clothes dryer. He took aim with his AK-47 and fired at the man crouched behind the appliance. The dryer was no match for the blasts; several of the shots were deflected off course but a few more stayed true, bringing the assailant down. The Korean had little time to savor his revenge, however, as he'd betrayed his position and was subsequently gunned down himself, sniped from the second-story window of the cabin, where AG member Candy Hanson had taken up position shortly after the battle's outset.

The early losses to his squad went unnoticed by Win, who'd nearly joined them on the fatality list when the Land Rover had been fired upon as it crashed through the entry gates. The gunshot that took out the front windshield missed him by inches, and then only because he'd turned the SUV sharply and thrown himself to one side. Next to him, Mousif Nouhra had slouched in the passenger seat and was throwing his door open with one hand while the other whipped out the Ruger .22 autopistol concealed inside his jacket.

"Take them out!" Win shouted, both to Nouhra and Rohbi Tidha, as he shoved his way out into the night. He hit the ground running and lunged back toward the raised brick column supporting the gate hinges. Tidha was headed there as well, armed with a Beryl Mod. 96 assault rifle. Together, they crouched behind the column, waiting out enemy rounds that chipped away at the brick and mortar.

"They're by the cars," Tidha whispered, stealing a glimpse at the vehicles parked haphazardly in front of the cabin. He spotted a gunman hunched behind a Ford Bronco and coughed out a three-round burst, riddling the SUV's chassis. Unscathed, the AG gunner leveled his AK-47 and was about to fire back when Win cut loose with his Beretta M-9 and brought the man down. Another shooter responded from behind the next car over, driving Win back to cover.

The Korean was looking around for the best way to advance on the enemy when, above the din of gunfire, he heard a pained howl on the other side of the Land Rover. Mousif Nouhra staggered into view, clutching his chest, then keeled forward into the dirt. He tried crawling back to safety, but raised puffs of dirt marked the frail of automatic gunfire streaking across the ground toward him. Two more slugs plowed into him. He twitched briefly, then lay still.

Win didn't like the way things were shaping up. Clearly, they'd arrived just ahead of a planned ambush, but he was concerned that the paramilitary group still had the home court advantage. He wasn't about to give up, however.

"Keep fighting!" he shouted to Tidha. "No way are we dying out here in some no-man's-land."

* * *

It was Rob Kitsey who'd slain Mousif Nouhra, but he found no cause for rejoicing. Lying dead on the ground a few yards from him was Johnny Steib, his closest friend among the ranks of Army Gideon. After all these years of embracing the notion of a violent revolution, this was Kitsey's first actual taste of combat, and he was at once both sickened and terrified. Fear was the stronger emotion, and once he'd emptied his Smith & Wesson at the column Steib's assailant was concealed behind, Kitsey didn't bother to reload. Instead, he took one last look at his friend's body, then turned and ran the other way.

He reached the cabin unharmed and circled around to the back side, intent on fleeing into the desert. He'd made it halfway, passing an old, half-collapsed toolshed, when he caught a glimpse of a single headlight cutting a swath through the darkened property. A second later, a 250-cc Yamaha Enduro crested the rise directly in front of him and went briefly airborne, then touched down, rear-wheel first.

Carl Lyons half stood on the foot pegs, keeping the bike stable. When the front wheel touched down, the Able Team leader dropped back onto the seat, allowing himself to free one leg as he bore down on Kitsey. He veered at the last second and kicked outward, clipping Kitsey across the shins. The fleeing recruit bellowed as he was upended and sent reeling to one side. He crashed hard into the toolshed, striking his head on the edge of the listing roof. The emptied S&W dropped from his hands as he crumpled to the earth.

Lyons clamped hard on the brakes, bringing the Yamaha to an abrupt stop. He then set the bike down and sprang clear, yanking his pistol from his holster. He saw that Kitsey was unconscious and decided he'd deal with him later. At the moment, there were many more obvious threats to deal with.

* * *

Gadgets Schwarz was on the second dirt bike, a larger Honda. He'd come in wide of the cabin and when he cleared the rise at the edge of Kitsey's property, instead of Army Gideon he found himself on a collision force with one of Dang Win's carbine-toting street thugs. Like Lyons, he'd needed both hands on the controls as he went airborne, and the element of surprise allowed him to compensate for being unarmed. The Korean gunman had just turned his way and was bringing his Kalashnikov into play when Schwarz ended his jump. Rather than veering to one side, however, the Able Team warrior felt his best course was to head the bike straight at the enemy.

When he plowed into the assailant, the impact threw Schwarz forward, but he'd seen it coming and was ready. He let his momentum carry him over the handlebars and torqued his body slightly so that he struck the gunman with his shoulder, catching him squarely in the forehead. The Korean went down, out cold. Schwarz somersaulted past him and landed hard on the gravel. His bike skidded past him, bucking slightly as the twin engines stalled out.

Schwarz's knee throbbed where he'd landed on it and he could feel blood bubbling up from what he was sure would be a slow-healing abrasion. He was in far better shape than the Korean, however, who, like Kitsey, had gone down for the count. Schwarz hobbled over and had just grabbed the man's assault rifle when a sniper round from the upper floor of the cabin angled past him and clanged off the fallen motorcycle.

The closest thing to cover was one of the nearby Joshua frees. Schwarz dived toward it, landing a few feet shy and crawling the rest of the way, chased along by followup rounds from the cabin shooter. Gasping for breath, he readied the carbine and leaned out from behind the free, squeezing off a three-shot burst. He missed the sniper but drove him away from the window.

"Need a lift?" Blancanales shouted as he pulled up alongside Schwarz in the borrowed ATV, a small, fiberglass vehicle with cartoonishly large, knobby wheels.

"Just to the nearest appliance." Schwarz pointed to an old refrigerator lying sideways on the ground twenty yards from the bullet-riddled clothes dryer.

"Done," Blancanales yelled over the ATV's engine. "But tell me — whose side are we on here?"

* * *

Lyons moved cautiously along the side of the house leading to where the cars were parked, armed with his 9 mm Colt pistol. When he reached the corner, he dropped low. He could hear someone firing close by. Before he could inch forward to investigate, gunfire from the main gate blistered the log siding above his head. He flattened himself to the ground and peered through the darkness, catching a slivered glimpse of Rohbi Tidha poised behind the brick column. The man drew back from view before Lyons could get off a shot.

Lyons cursed. Shifting focus, the Able Team leader crawled forward until he could see the Ford Bronco and the other cars parked alongside it. He had a clear shot of an Army Gideon gunner who was drawing bead on Blancanales's ATV. Before the other man could get a shot off, Lyons brought him down with his Colt, then pulled back and quickly sprang to his feet. Overhead, he could now hear shots emanating from the cabin's second story. There was no way for him to know if Blancanales or Schwarz were the targets, but Lyons figured the sniper needed to be taken out, regardless.

There were three grenades clipped to Lyons's ammo belt. Two were flash-bangs. Lyons reached past them for an M-67 fragger. Given the miniholocaust that had been unleashed at Leystra Springs, he was wary there might be explosives stored in the cabin, but at this point he was more concerned about the threat the sniper posed to his colleagues. He thumbed loose the grenade's safety then took a step back, his eyes on the larger of the two upstairs windows facing his side of the property.

Once he'd squeezed the spoon lever and removed the pin, Lyons wound up and let the grenade fly. He bolted away from the house and dived forward as he heard the glass break. The moment he hit the ground, he cupped his hands over the back of his head and braced himself for the blast that soon followed. The roar was deafening, blowing out the remaining windows and sending forth a shower of splintering debris. Lyons winced as he felt a slab of wood strike his thigh.

He stayed put until he felt certain there would be no follow-up explosions, then rolled over and got back on his feet. The cabin seemed structurally intact, but smoke billowed from the windows and Lyons could see flames begin to lap at the interior walls. He knew there was no way the sniper could have survived the blast, but there was still a chance that anyone down on the ground floor could still be in the fight. If that were the case, he wanted to get to them while they were still disoriented.

Circling back to where he'd left his bike, Lyons saw that Kitsey had regained consciousness and was sitting up next to the shed, a dazed look on his face as he watched the flames begin to devour his uncle's cabin. The fight had gone out of him and he was weeping. When he spotted Lyons, he raised his hands in the air and cried, "Don't shoot! I surrender!"

Kitsey nodded feebly. "Leetin and Hanson," he said. Realizing Lyons probably didn't know the men by name, he quickly clarified. "Leetin's the one in charge."

* * *

Hanson was already dead, slain shortly before the explosion by one of Win's henchmen who'd picked him off while he was firing at Win and Tidha through the front doorway. Leetin had been knocked to the ground by the upstairs blast, which had also toppled all three computers as well as every piece of furniture in the main room around him. As he rose to his knees, the Army Gideon leader smelled smoke and could see a cloud beginning to seep its way down the staircase. He assumed the grenade had been thrown by one of Mousif Nouhra's men and that the hellstorm taking place outside the cabin involved more al Qaeda forces engaged with his meager would-be army. He had no way of knowing how his men had fared thus far, but his gut told him that they were being routed.

Looking at the disheveled ruin that surrounded him, Leetin felt a stab of despair and resignation. Twenty years of dreaming and now, the same night he'd decided to finally take action, it had all fallen apart on him.

"Bastards!" the mechanic swore, kicking aside an overturned chair and snatching up an AK-47. He no longer cared if al Qaeda shared his contempt for the U.S. government and all it had come to stand for. All he wanted now was to come face-to-face with the son of a bitch who'd double-crossed him.

Leetin whirled, carbine in hand. Instead of Mousif Nouhra, it was a blond-haired commando who stood in front of the inert corpse of Candy Hanson. Leetin was taken aback, but not enough to throw down his weapon. Eyes filled with hatred, he squeezed the trigger, even as he felt the sledgehammer-like thump of three killshots obliterating his chest.

* * *

Once Schwarz dropped Rohbi Tidha with a round fired from behind the discarded refrigerator, the only enemy left standing was Dang Win.

Still intent that Hesperia would not be his Waterloo, Win rushed from the gateway column and scrambled back behind the wheel of the Land Rover. Windshield or not, he hoped to back his way out onto the gravel road and beat a hasty retreat to the interstate. He'd keyed the ignition and was shifting the SUV into reverse when he saw Blancanales circle around the blazing cabin and head toward him in the ATV. Furious, Win drew his pistol and took aim past the shattered glass.

Blancanales floored the smaller vehicle and crouched low to avoid Win's fire as he bore down on the Land Rover. At the last possible second, he bailed and dived to one side, tumbling on the hard-packed dirt of the driveway. He heard the loud crunch of the ATV slamming into the SUV. The impact was forceful enough to disable the Rover's engine and activate the steering wheel airbag.

Win was knocked backward by the inflating bag. Shaken and covered with white powder, he half climbed, half fell from the vehicle. He was still holding his gun and he lurched clear of the open door, ready to kill the man who'd thwarted his escape.

Blancanales was ready for him. There was no time to shout for Win to surrender. The Able Team commando, on his knees in the dirt, raised his gun and fired, emptying the pistol's last few shots into the other man. Win crumpled and fell, dying a few yards from where Mousif Nouhra had been felled earlier.

Slowly, Blancanales rose to his feet. He heard someone approaching from behind and spun.

Lyons nodded. Before the two men could fan out to inspect the grounds for other survivors, Schwarz appeared. He'd circled behind the house and had Rob Kitsey with him. The cable installer had his hands on his head and was limping slightly.

Chapter Thirty

"This is getting surreal, people," Aaron Kurtzman told the assembled crew at the Annex Computer Room.

He related Carl Lyons's account of the shootout in Hesperia, concluding, "And here's the kicker. There was no sign of Kouri Ahmet at the scene, and instead of another al Qaeda team, Mousif Nouhra showed up with a band of North Koreans."

"Surreal is right," Akira Tokaido said. "Is there any country with black hats that hasn't signed in on this debacle yet?"

"Okay, I know it seems like we're trying to make one picture out of a handful of different jigsaw puzzles," Hal Brognola said, "but I think there's a way to tie this all up."

"Let's start with the Frazier Group." Brognola turned to Tokaido. "Just before Ironman checked in, you found something on these people. I didn't get a chance to pass it on, so go ahead and brief everyone."

"It's not much," Tokaido said. "I've got two things. First off, there's a British industrialist named Thomas Frazier who pops up as an early member of the Bilderberg Group. Apparently he was ousted in the early sixties for being too radical."

"That's an oxymoron, isn't it?" Delahunt interrupted. "I thought Bilderberg was radical to begin with."

"They are, but they tend to draw the line at violence," Tokaido corrected. "Bilderberg's big notion is that they're so powerful they don't have to go around killing anyone to get their way. Frazier was advocating assassinations and sponsored coups, especially against Third World countries and Islamic powers in Asia and the Orient. And, remember, this was in the sixties, when everyone else still had cold war on the brain."

"Anyway, when they threw Frazier out, he wrote a treatise about the threat of Islamic fundamentalism, mailed it to a few reporters, then dropped out of sight. He did a good job of it, too, because there's a forty-year gap where there's no mention of this guy except for references to this treatise, which found its way into a lot of right-wing manifestos.

"The only other mention of him this century is his dying five years ago at his place just outside London. There are a couple obituaries, but none of them go beyond what I just told you. They're all 'He made a lot of money, raised a little hell, then disappeared.' That's it."

"But you think while he was incommunicado he started up his own secret society," Huntington Wethers surmised.

"That's gotta be it," Tokaido said. "And I'm guessing it's still around. And all these bad guys we're chasing after? I figure they somehow found out about the Frazier Group and branded them the next Great Satan."

"Okay, I think we all understand that," Brognola said. "And, like you've all just said, there are a lot of entities tied up in this so-called Eastern bloc. I don't know if they have an official name or structure, but look what we know we're dealing with so far — Nasrallah and Sana Kassem from Lebanon, a Hamas sect in Syria, Mousif Nouhra's al Qaeda team from Iraq, Pasha Yarad next door in Iran, and then on the other side of the continent we've got representatives from China and North Korea. That seems like plenty, but I'm sure before we're through we'll find some link to rogue states in Africa, the Pacific Islands and maybe even south of the border here in Central and South America."

"I'm sure you're right," Price said. "But I also think we need to find out who's involved with Frazier. Obviously, the torch was passed on and it's being carried by someone in Los Angeles."

* * *

"It should be just another few minutes," the pilot told Roland Carruthers before disappearing back inside the cockpit of the Learjet 25 that would be taking the secretary of state to Los Angeles. The plane had been idling on the runway at Tucson International for nearly twenty minutes, most of which Carruthers had spent on the phone long distance with his lawyers back in Washington. He still had hope that his wife would cool off and reconsider her divorce threat, but if she were to carry it out, Carruthers wanted to protect his assets as best he could.

The Learjet passenger compartment sat eight, but Carruthers was flying alone. He'd already helped himself to a shot of bourbon from the galley wet bar, and he figured he was entitled to one more before the flight. Rising from his seat, he poured himself a double. He hoped it would settle his nerves and help him put his domestic issues out of his mind so that he could concentrate on the forthcoming Frazier Group conference. A few days ago he'd had no real interest in pursuing any other matters except those related to his business portfolio, but now he was committed to doing all he could to use the gathering as a means to get back at Michelle Renais.

Once he sat back down, Carruthers took a legal pad from his briefcase and, off the top of his head, began to write out the names of those members he thought might side with him in pushing through the Frenchwoman's ouster as the group's leader. There would be forty-three other members attending the conference, and he was quickly able to come up with a list of eighteen likely supporters. With himself as the nineteenth, that left him twelve votes shy of the two-thirds majority he would need. He figured that with some discreet lobbying and some backroom deal-making he could easily round up another seven backers. Beyond that, it would be a challenge.

Carruthers was writing out the names of several fence-straddlers when his covert cell phone chirped. He checked the display and was surprised to see that Jude Cartier was trying to reach him. Carruthers was hesitant to answer, certain that the French finance minister was still firmly in Michelle's camp.

He let the phone ring and knocked back half his drink. In the time it took for the liquor to burn its way down to his stomach, Carruthers reconsidered and accepted the call. It was always a good idea, he'd decided, to keep his enemies close.

"Good evening, Jude," Carruthers boomed jovially into the cell phone. "You're not calling to gloat, are you? I understand you've fallen under the spell of my old flame."

Carruthers's interest piqued as he sensed the bitter tone in the Frenchman's voice.

"Do tell," he prompted Cartier. "Has she tossed you aside already? Wait, I guess that would be a little difficult, seein' how the two of you are still up in the air together somewhere, right? Looking down on the Rockies yet?"

Cartier sidestepped his personal issues with Renais and got straight to the point. "I'm not all that certain the woman is the right choice to head up the Frazier Group anymore," he said. "I think we should consider doing something about it."

Carruthers let out a broad laugh as he stared down at his legal pad. As he crossed Cartier's name out of one column and added it to another, he told the Frenchman, "It's funny that you should mention that...."

Chapter Thirty-One

Kouri Ahmet checked his watch as he anxiously paced back and forth on a mountain trail ten miles west of the luxury hotel where he hoped to carry out his mission to deliver a death blow to the Frazier Group. He was up on the ridgeline of a tall, untamed stretch of the Santa Monica Mountains Wilderness Preserve, miles from the countless gated communities the majority of Calabasas's well-to-do residents called home. With him was Kruzan Shiv and the Kashmir separatist's two henchmen. They'd hiked to the peak from a trailhead just off the western-most leg of Mullholland Highway. This late at night there had been no one else out on the trail; the only other living presence they'd come across had been a coyote that had fled from their approach and could now be heard yipping at the moon from somewhere off in the chaparral.

"Nouhra hasn't checked in yet, either. He was supposed to call once he was finished with Army Gideon."

The idea hadn't occurred to Ahmet. He flipped open his cell phone and eyed the bars on the luminescent display, then cursed in Arabic.

"No?" Shiv chuckled. "I guess that's the downside to making sure we're where no one will spot us, eh?"

"It's always ticking," Shiv replied. "Think of something else. Watch that little snuff movie of yours again. You saved it, right? You don't need a signal to watch it."

Ahmet stared at Shiv, then looked back down at his cell phone. He wasn't about to admit it, but he knew the other terrorist was right; he did need to relax. And the idea of rewatching the execution video Sana Kassem had sent him did have a certain calming appeal, so he thumbed through the phone's commands until the footage came up on the small screen. He stared intently, feeling once again a vicarious exhilaration at the sight of Stephano Prinz being gunned down in front of the silver mine gate in La Paz. It was, for Ahmet, almost as satisfying as if he'd been there pulling the trigger himself.

Ahmet was about to watch the sequence yet again when he suddenly stopped, finally hearing the sound he'd been waiting for since he and the others had scaled the peak half an hour ago. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw a small twin-engine plane flying in from the Malibu coastline and making its way toward the mountains.

Ahmet stuffed the cell phone back into his pocket. The others watched along with him as the plane flew closer. As it neared the peak, a dark, coffin-like shape tumbled from the aircraft's fuselage and plunged through the night. Within seconds, a self-activating parachute bloomed upward and quickly filled out, slowing the crate's descent.

The drop was nearly on target. Ahmet and the others headed fifty yards up the moonlit pathway before being forced to trailblaze their way through the brush down to where the crate had landed amid a dense patch of mesquite. The parachute had already collapsed, draping itself across the nearby shrubs.

"What did I tell you?" Shiv told Ahmet as they drew near. "All is well now, yes?"

ShiVs men pulled aside the parachute and as Ahmet and Shiv bent over the crate, which had splintered slightly on impact but was still sealed tightly, bound with thick cables. Ahmet had been advised to bring wire cutters, and he produced the tool, snipping at the cables until he was finally able to open the crate. Inside were the six Russian-made RPG-18 rocket launchers Jorge Holmas had helped himself to after his Mexican gangsters had routed Boh Xiao's minions back in the jungles of Guatemala.

"Now," Ahmet said, running a hand across the gleaming surface of one of the weapons. "Now I can relax."

* * *

The delivery plane was a Cessna Citation X, the high-speed jet Jorge Holmas had long relied upon to allow him to move quickly around his Mexican criminal empire. After the contraband rocket launchers had been dispensed, the pilot had circled and doubled back, allowing Holmas to peer down through binoculars as they passed over the drop zone. He could see men gathering up the parachute and presumed Kouri Ahmet was among them.

"That's it, then." Holmas set the binoculars aside and leaned back in his seat. Moments later, as the jet zoomed past Malibu and out over the Pacific, the pilot came on the intercom.

"Yes, but just to refuel," Holmas told him. "I still have business to attend to in the Caymans."

* * *

Had Sana Kassem known the extent to which her media takeover maneuvers were wreaking havoc within the ranks of the Frazier Group, she would have been elated. In truth, however, escalating a feud between Michelle Renais and Roland Carruthers had been not been part of the Lebanese heiress's agenda. Her role in the attempted takeover of Media Francois had been, all along, merely that of following her father's instructions. She did understand, however, the conglomerate's strategic importance, as it was the most prominent communications company in the Western world advocating a better understanding of Islamic culture. Nasrallah Kassem's feeling had been if New Dawn Rising secured control of Media Francois, they would have a more viable mouthpiece for discreetly advancing its cause than "in-house" Islamic media arms like Al-Jazirah that, for the most part, essentially preached to the converted.

As for her decision to now target Ars Gratia, Sana's foremost intent was to send a message to the NDR hierarchy. The woman felt that if she were to single-handedly help Kouri Ahmet carry out the attack on the Frazier Group and then follow up by seizing a formidable Western media entity on her own, she would decisively establish herself as a force to be reckoned with. Once these two objectives were carried out, Sana intended to contact Pasha Yarad and the others with an ultimatum: they would either provide irrefutable proof that they'd had no hand in her father's murder or she would splinter off from NDR and cobble together her own coalition, this one made up exclusively of Islamic members.

"Do whatever you have to, but make sure everything is carried out," Sana told her father's long-time Hong Kong partners, who were now acting on her behalf in the Ars Gratia takeover. "I have business to attend to here, but I'll be available if you need me."

"Have you set a time for your father's funeral services?" the man on the other end of the line said. "We'd like to attend."

"That's one of the things I'm dealing with," Sana assured the man. "I'll be flying to Lebanon first thing in the morning. I want that takeover completed by then so that it's out of the way. Do you understand?"

Sana wrapped up the call, then set the phone back on the cradle. She felt overwhelmed. Taking over Ars Gratia; dealing with Kouri Ahmet and Jorge Holmas; having to plot the best course for contending with New Dawn Rising: how was she supposed to give all these matters due consideration when the grief over her father's death weighed so heavily on her?

Sana was downstairs in Nasrallah's bedroom, which overlooked the grounds near the helipad and airstrip. It'd been months since he'd visited, but there were a number of personal effects set out on the dresser and nightstand, giving the sense that the woman's father had perhaps just gone out on an errand and would be returning shortly. There was, in fact, still a part of Sana that refused to believe that the next time she saw him he would be cold and lifeless, bound for a grave next to that of the mother she'd never had a chance to know. Anhdi Kassem had died giving birth to Sana, her only child. And now, with her father gone, Sana was alone in this world, without family. The full import had yet to hit her, but she knew that the emptiness she felt would likely only deepen. She also knew that if she let it, the emptiness could well consume her, preventing her from safeguarding her father's legacy as well as all he'd worked for. She had to force herself to act, to see through, one at a time, the countless tasks that lay before her.

On the nightstand next to Nasrallah's bed was an awkward-looking clay picture frame Sana had made for her father years ago as a child. The photo inside the frame had been taken the same day she'd given Nasrallah the present. He was holding her in his arms and they were both smiling out at the world. Sana remembered that day clearly. She'd never felt so happy.

Sana raised the photo to her lips and kissed the image of her father. "I love you," she whispered. "Please give me strength."

* * *

"I see her," Jack Grimaldi said several minutes later, guiding a tourist chopper along the coastal perimeter of Nasrallah Kassem's estate. He was speaking with John Kissinger, who was still back at the hotel in Georgetown. "She's carrying a few things out to the hangar. Her jet's parked there."

"Don't worry," Kissinger told him. "I just tapped to her line. She's not leaving until morning."

"Not gonna happen," Kissinger replied. "The Farm hasn't been able to roust a judge out of bed. It'd probably take until the start of business hours and that'll probably be too late."

Grimaldi scanned the grounds, then reported, "Beefed up. Guards all over the place."

"Go ahead and fly past, then double back," Kissinger suggested. "You might be able to make a couple more passes without raising a red flag. Look for some kind of chink in the armor and we'll take it from there."

Grimaldi veered to his left, cutting inland toward the far north edge of the property. There were several guards posted near the gate to the long wooden stairs leading down to the beach. When one of them glanced upward and reached for his binoculars, Grimaldi opened the throttle and sped on.

Chapter Thirty-Two

As yet another boisterous thunderclap shook the walls of the upstairs lounge at Shek Airfield, Waiz Buday stared out at the flooded runway and swore, then shouted, "How many storm fronts are we going to have to wait for?"

"We get these often at this time of year, but never quite as prolonged," Anhg Mee told the Libyan.

"We should have gone up when we had the chance," Buday complained to Pasha Yarad. "We could have outrun the storm or at least flown around it."

"Hindsight," Yarad replied tiredly. "The fact is, we're stuck here until it stops. And it will stop eventually."

"That's what we all said an hour ago." Buday moved away from the window and fell to pacing in front of the chairs. Mee was on his feet, as well, while Yarad remained seated next to Asil Roshed, who had a hand cupped to one ear and a cell phone pressed against the other. Across from him, Sheikh Dara Elhessen II had laid himself across a bench and somehow managed to fall asleep.

"I think I know why Sana Kassem isn't taking your calls," the lawyer said. "It seems she's been up to a few things besides arranging for her father's funeral."

"I was afraid of that," Yarad said. "She's the one supplying Ahmet with other rocket launchers, isn't she?"

"I have no confirmation on that," Roshed said. "I've been told of activity she's taken on the financial front. She's taken the money her father earmarked for Media Francois and is going after another company instead. Ars Gratia."

"Are you still so eager to feel sorry for her? First chance she gets, she turns her back on us!"

Yarad had no quick response. Roshed answered for him. "She's just showing that she's not about to be pushed around," he speculated. "That's all this is. Her way of asserting herself. With her father gone, she most likely feels vulnerable and wants to send us a message that she won't be taken advantage of."

"You have no proof of that," the Libyan countered. "It could just as likely be that she's acting out of spite and will carry it even further!"

As Buday continued to argue with the Iranians, Anhg Mee crossed away from them, glad to see their anger had sidetracked them from the accusations he'd been fielding since he'd let slip that the PLA had its own covert operatives in America, awaiting orders that would serve the specific needs of China rather than the widespread agenda of New Dawn Rising. He was angry with himself for having been so easily baited into the revelation. He hoped now, more than ever, that his procurement of the thermobaric warheads would pay off in a way that would appease Yarad and the others. If word were to get back to Beijing about his slip of tongue, Mee knew that he would likely suffer the same fate as his predecessor, Gohn Len.

There was a ceiling-mounted television set off in the far corner near where Elhessen was napping. The set had been on all the while, but the sound was turned down and the congregated members of New Dawn Rising had been too preoccupied with infighting and watching the relentless downpour outside to bother themselves with the PRC's sanctioned programming. Even when the screen fell into Anhg Mee's field of vision, he barely noticed, preferring instead to gaze vacantly at yet another ragged shaft of lightning combing the mountains beyond the airport. It wasn't until the image of a stone-faced announcer gave way to videotaped footage of what looked to be a large desert bonfire that Mee finally paid attention to the broadcast. When he saw the Chinese characters for Los Angeles, California superimposed on the screen, Mee's interest piqued. He stepped forward and turned up the volume, then stepped back.

The sudden amplification roused Elhessen from his slumber on the nearby bench. The sheikh stared at Mee angrily as he sat up.

By now Buday had wandered over. Yarad and Roshed remained seated but turned in their chairs, equally drawn by the tinny noise of the television set.

Mee held a hand up to silence the Libyan. He waited until the videotaped footage ended and the announcer came back on screen, then told Buday, "It sounds like our North Korean team was just killed in a gun battle."

"I didn't hear the whole report, but North Korea released a statement denying that it has terrorist squads in the U.S.," Mee said. "They wouldn't come forward like that unless they were trying to cover for us."

"Again, I didn't hear all the details." Mee reached for his cell phone. "It sounded, however, like they were involved in a shootout with their arms suppliers. I'll check with Beijing for more information."

Mee thumbed his cell phone open and was about to bring the device to his ear when he caught himself. He stared at the phone, puzzled.

The Iranian lawyer took his cell phone back out and pressed the redial button. He frowned. "That's odd. I'm not getting a signal now, either."

Buday stared out into the rain. "Lightning must have struck one of the relay towers and knocked out..."

The Libyan's voice trailed off as the terminal was suddenly engulfed in darkness. Outside, the lights along the runway as well as in the neighboring village had also gone out.

* * *

Once he'd learned the location of the power facility servicing Shek Airfield and the surrounding vicinity, he'd had Jordai Kenney pass along directions to an Interpol agent up to the task of knocking out the desired grid. By the time the sabotage was carried out, Manning and Kenney had stolen their way across the field separating the neighborhood from the airfield. Unlike those in the terminal, Manning was ready when the lights went out.

Doing their best to ignore the stinging downpour, Manning and Kenney sprang from cover and sloshed through ankle-deep water to the airstrip, then charged across the glistening tarmac, passing both luxury jets as well as the helicopter that Yarad and the others had used to escape from the financial district. Their eyes were already adjusted to the darkness, and through the slanting rain they could see the shadowy outlines of other Interpol agents storming the airfield from other directions. Three of them were converging on the control tower while others massed around the terminal. Far to the east, a pair of headlights cut a sudden swath through the darkness. Manning heard the splintering of wood, then a quick exchange of gunfire at the main entrance.

The sound of gunfire increased as PLA soldiers realized the facility was being raided. Manning had his gun out and joined in the battle once he and Kenney reached an outbuilding where they'd determined the backup generators were located. Two PLA soldiers were just about to enter the building when they spotted the intruders. They attempted to bring their rifles into play, but Manning and Kenney had the drop on them. Killshots to the chest sent both soldiers slumping to the ground.

Manning holstered his pistol and snapped up one of the assault rifles. Kenney, meanwhile, fished a penlight from her pocket and shone it inside the small building.

Manning had already unclipped a frag grenade from his ammo belt. Kenney threw the door open all the way, then scrambled clear. Manning retreated a few steps before removing the grenade's pin, then lobbed the bomb through the opening. In unison, both he and Kenney dropped to the sodden ground.

The outbuilding was made of reinforced cinder block and the walls held up under the concussive force of the explosion, but the roof was blown clear and rent into shards that splashed loudly as they landed in the widening pools of rainwater. Manning and Kenney waited out the shrapnel, then bounded back to their feet and surveyed their handiwork. Smoke and flames rose up through the opening created by the grenade.

"Nice job," Kenney called out as she appropriated the other assault rifle. "Where to next?"

Manning glanced across the tarmac and saw an Interpol agent easing a commandeered utility truck past a luggage cart in front of the terminal. Once the truck was positioned directly in front of the doors, the agent parked the vehicle and bounded out, then used his carbine to systematically ravage the tires, ensuring that the truck would stay in place and barricade the front entrance.

"Looks like things are going according to plan," Manning said. "Let's stick with the program."

* * *

After splintering his way through the main gate, Mel Fletch leaned low over the steering wheel and sped along the access road leading to the terminal.

Twenty yards ahead, two PLA soldiers stood in his way, carbines aimed at his Hyundai. When they fired, the front windshield turned into shattered pellets that drew blood as they struck both Fletch and the agent riding beside him. The other agent groaned as one of the slugs burrowed into his shoulder.

Fletch held his course, smashing one solider to the ground. The other was thrown into the air, carrying him across the rain-slicked hood and through the windshield frame. He struck Fletch's interim partner headfirst and his leg swung around, catching Fletch squarely in the jaw. Dazed, the Interpol agent briefly lost control of the vehicle. His foot slipped from the accelerator and tapped the brake, throwing the Hyundai into a spinout.

Fletch cursed as he fought to regain control, but the Hyundai swung completely around and left the roadway, plowing its rear end into a concrete barrier. Fletch was thrown back against his seat, then punched in the face and chest by the deploying airbag. The passenger's bag had inflated, as well, pinning the unconscious PLA soldier against the other agent.

"I can't breathe!" the man wheezed hoarsely, trying to dislodge the soldier's limp right arm from its inadvertent stranglehold on his neck.

Fletch was light-headed himself but as the bags began to deflate, he leaned over and shoved the unconscious soldier partway back through the windshield. The other Interpol agent sucked in a quick breath, then unclicked his blood-soaked safety belt.

"You don't look so hot yourself," his cohort responded, "but how about we wait and freshen up later?"

Fletch nodded, throwing his door open. He drew his gun and stepped out into the rain. He was wobbly on his feet and leaned against the car, waiting to regain his bearings. When gunfire raked along the side of the Hyundai, he instinctively dropped to the ground. The bullets whizzed past him. He peered around the vehicle and traced the shots to the soldier he'd struck on the road. The gunman was firing from a prone position and presented a difficult target, but when Fletch dealt out half the rounds in his magazine, a couple of them paid off, silencing the attacker.

Elsewhere, Fletch could see at least a dozen other PLA soldiers firing at his Interpol squad. Up in the control tower, his men had shot out the windows and were using the elevated platform as a sniper post, but he was still concerned that they might have bitten off more than they could chew.

"How are you faring?" he called over the roof to the agent who'd been with him in the car.

* * *

The Chinese officer had made his way to the escalators and called down to the PLA soldiers standing around uncertainly on the ground floor below, telling them to fall into place and wait for further orders. Now he waited impatiently for Pasha Yarad and the rest of the NDR contingent to make their way through the darkened lounge to join him. Outside the building, thunder had been replaced by a steady exchange of gunfire.

"Does it matter?" Waiz Buday punctuated his retort with profanities when he struck his shin against the edge of a chair. Like the rest of the men, the Libyan was unarmed and caught off-guard by a sudden feeling of helplessness. "We're trapped in here like fish in a barrel!"

"Stay calm!" Mee shouted, eager to seize control of the situation. "We have plenty of men. I'll see that we get out of here!"

"Do as he says," Yarad intoned as he shuffle-stepped blindly in the direction of Mee's voice.

"The escalator's not working, so use it like a staircase," Mee told the others once they'd reached him. "We have security waiting for us."

One by one, the five men cautiously made their way down the escalator, hands on the thick, rubberized belt that served as a railing. As they neared the ground floor, they could hear the scuffling of the soldiers. Mee was leading the way, and after he exchanged a few words with one of the soldiers, he told the others, "They've barricaded the front doors with a truck but there's a back way. Everyone stay close!"

Once everyone had descended the escalator, they fell into line. Two soldiers led the way and another two brought up the rear as the group threaded its way through the blackened terminal. They passed through a doorway behind the luggage counter and inched past an idle conveyer belt. Asil Roshed strayed too much to one side and elbowed a stack of cardboard packing boxes, sending them tumbling to the floor.

From the baggage area, the procession continued down yet another hallway, more narrow and even darker than the spaces they'd just vacated.

Seconds later, the lead soldier suddenly lurched forward, howling as he tripped over something laid across the floor. The second soldier crouched over, reaching into the darkness until his fingers brushed across a body sprawled on the concrete. Murmuring to himself, he sought out the man's wrist to check for a pulse. Before he could find it, the hallway was suddenly illuminated by two high-powered flashlights. Holding one of them was Jordai Kenney, who stood in front of the door the NDR leaders had hoped to escape through. Gary Manning had flicked on the other light after stepping out of an alcove Mee and the others had just passed. Like Kenney, Manning held the flashlight in his left hand, leaving his right free to fire the assault rifle he'd taken off a slain soldier earlier. He was within a few yards of the two soldiers guarding the rear of the column and a quick burst took them out of the play before they could make a move against him. Kenney gunned down the lead guards in the same manner. When Angh Mee dived forward to grab one of the fallen soldier's weapons, Kenney put a bullet through his hand, then charged forward and lashed out with a karate kick that sent the intelligence analyst reeling backward.

The other four NDR leaders froze in place, terrified that they would be the next to die.

"Keep going the way you were headed," Manning told them, gesturing toward the rear door. "And unless you give us reason to, no one else needs to die. You're more valuable to us alive."

* * *

The rain had at long last begun to let up by the time Mel Fletch and his wounded colleague had fought their way to the terminal. A break in the cloud cover had already let a sliver of moonlight shine down on the airfield. From what he could see, Fletch calculated that Interpol had lost at least three agents while taking out the lion's share of the PLA security force. He helped add to the toll when he stole his way around the front end of the truck parked at the front entrance and took out a pair of soldiers putting up resistance from behind a luggage cart. When the snipers in the control tower mowed down another three men emplaced near the planes, the surviving soldiers, soaked and demoralized, began to throw down their weapons in surrender.

Fletch's partner, weakened by his rifle wound, sat on the front bumper of the truck and bent over, pressing his hand to his shoulder in an effort to staunch the flow of blood.

For the first time in nearly three hours, neither thunder nor gunfire echoed across the airfield, and even though the storm had lessened, in the relative quiet the patter of rain seemed louder than ever. Fletch ventured out from behind the truck and shouted to his cohorts, "Round up anyone who's surrendered! We should be able to fit them all in the back of the truck here!"

The Interpol agent stepped around the men he'd slain near the luggage cart. For the first time, he noticed the oblong cart resting on the carriage bed. He was raising the lid when a pickup truck rolled into view from behind the terminal. Jordai Kenney was at the wheel and Gary Manning stood precariously in the back, standing guard over Pasha Yarad, Asil Roshed, Anhg Mee, Waiz Buday and Dara Elhessen. The prisoners were seated in the truck bed, glowering. Roshed, the lawyer, was bargaining on everyone's behalf.

"I keep telling you, we've done nothing!" he protested. "You have no grounds to take us hostage!"

"Save your breath," Manning told the lawyer. "You can do your explaining once we're out of here."

"While they're at it, maybe they'll be able to explain this," Fletch called out. He pointed to the crate containing the thermobaric rocket launchers. "I don't see an address label, but something tells me these babies were postmarked for Los Angeles."

Chapter Thirty-Three

Kouri Ahmet's euphoria over Jorge Holmas's shipment of rocket launchers was quickly tempered when he returned to Zeba Moussallem's Sherman Oaks apartment. The Pakistani had been watching the news earlier and told Ahmet that Mousif Nouhra and Dang Win had been killed in Hesperia along with Win's Koreatown thugs in a three-way battle with Army Gideon and members of an unidentified U.S. law-enforcement agency.

"There's been no word if there were even any rocket launchers," Moussallem concluded. "For all we know, it was a setup."

* * *

Ahmet slumped into a chair, letting the news sink in. The launchers he and Kruzan Shiv had retrieved from the mountains an hour ago lay on the nearby coffee table, half wrapped in the parachute they'd been placed in after being removed from their packing crate. Shiv sat across from the table, hunched over Moussallem's laptop, refreshing a handful of news sites in hopes of learning more about the altercation that had dealt yet another blow to the terrorists' covert mission to lay waste to the Frazier Group during their forthcoming conference at the Vista Summit Hotel. Shiv's men were downstairs with Moussallem's fellow Pakistanis.

"Just that there were follow-up explosions when the cabin burned down," Shiv replied. "It could have been launcher warheads."

"Does it really matter?" Moussallem suggested. "They said they had only three launchers. We now have six. And I trust you tested them so we know they work."

Ahmet nodded. "We fired one with a dummy warhead and there were no problems. I'm sure the others work as well."

"Then we're still in good shape," Moussallem said. "Yes, we've lost two teams, but we still have enough men to carry out our plan. And we don't need the coalition's help. You can call Yarad back and tell him what he and the others can do with their launchers."

"I've already tried calling him," Ahmet said. "The others, too. None of them is picking up."

"They're trying to make us sweat," Shiv offered, glancing up from the computer. "They've probably heard about this latest setback and figure we've been put in our place."

"And if Kassem's daughter keeps them in the dark about sending us launchers, they'll go on thinking that way," Moussallem added.

"I know all that!" Ahmet snapped. "It's not NDR or Sana that I'm concerned about."

"What happened in Hesperia," Ahmet said. "Think about it. From the sound of it, law enforcement was there too quickly. They weren't just responding to whatever happened between our men and Army Gideon. They had to know we were going to be there."

"I already mentioned that it might have been a setup," Moussallem reminded his colleague.

"But what if it wasn't Army Gideon's doing?" Ahmet countered. "What if the Americans are on to us? And if that's the case, who's to say they aren't sending out disinformation on this attack?"

"They're reporting that Nouhra and Win were killed along with all the others," Ahmet said, "but what if they were taken alive? They could be in custody, spilling everything they know."

"Anywhere but here," Ahmet said. "Someplace neither Nouhra nor Win is aware of."

Moussallem exchanged a furtive look with Shiv, then told Ahmet, "I know a few places. We could move and be there within an hour. But what about our plan? Are you saying we should call it off? Now that we have what we need to carry it out?"

Ahmet pondered a moment, then told the other men, "I think we should move, then I think we should stake out the hotel to see if they've increased security. If they have, then, yes, we'll call things off."

"Then we'll move up the attack," Ahmet said decisively. "Instead of waiting another few days, we'll strike tomorrow."

"Not all the members will be there yet," Moussallem stated. "We'd planned to wait so that we were sure we would have them all together, when we knew they would be meeting in the conference room."

"Whoever's there tomorrow will be in the conference room," Ahmet said. "If we can kill enough of them, it will be almost the same as if we killed them all. The Frazier Group will be thrown into disarray. When the bodies are found, their secrecy will have been compromised. Everyone will know there is such a group. Those who are spared will be forced to regroup, and even then they will have lost most of their clout. There will be a vacuum and we can have a say as to who fills it."

* * *

Barbara Price had just informed him and the others in the Computer Room of the clashes both in Hesperia and at Shek Airfield. The headlines were encouraging. Now Brognola, like the others, wanted to know more details.

"How did Gary get out of there in one piece?" the big Fed asked. "Not to mention all those folks from Interpol."

"They helped themselves to the luxury jets," Price said. "Apparently, Mel Fletch and another of the Interpol agents are licensed pilots, so they shoe-horned everyone in and managed to take off just ahead of the PLA's reinforcements."

"The ones we were most interested in, yes," the mission controller responded. "Pasha Yarad and his attorney, Waiz Buday, Dara Elhessen and Anhg Mee. And I don't know how they managed it, but there was room left over for the rocket launchers. No one's talking yet, but Gary figures Mee must've appropriated them from PLA's arsenal and was planning to fly them to the States."

"Then we dodged ourselves a major bullet, big time," Carmen Delahunt remarked. "Where are they now?" Akira Tokaido asked.

"The U.S. air base in Japan," Price replied. "Mee was wounded and is in surgery, but no one's talking and Yarad's lawyer is clamoring for everyone to be released."

"That's to be expected," Brognola said, "and, as good as this news is, unless we can string together something more solid, I don't see us being able to hold them for more than twenty-four hours without an uproar."

"You're right, unfortunately," Price conceded. "We can make a good case for them being part of some alliance linked to what's been going down in Los Angeles, but there's no smoking gun yet. It's all just theory right now."

"I take it that Army Gideon prisoner Able Team got their hands on hasn't been much help," Aaron Kurtzman said.

"Not the way we want," Price admitted. "He's coughed up enough to throw the book at Army Gideon, but they're already a nonfactor. And the only terrorist he can finger is Mousif Nouhra."

Price shook her head. "Not a thing. And, unfortunately, Ahmet's still out there somewhere, and who knows how many more sleeper cells he has at his disposal."

"Still working on it," Tokaido said. "The search engines keep coughing up excerpts from Frazier's manifesto, but they're nearly all linked to more fringe groups like Army Gideon. I'm cross-referencing them, but if I get any leads, they'll most likely point more to Ahmet than Frazier."

"I'm curious," Wethers interjected, his eyes on Tokaido. "You mentioned something about Frazier's funeral coming up on your first search. How in-depth was the write-up on that?"

"Not very," Tokaido said. "It was just one of those morgue obits everybody keeps on file if they need to run something on short notice. Why?"

"I'm just wondering if there's a way to backtrack and find out where the funeral services were held," Wethers said. "There might not be any written record, but if you could find out who officiated and where it was held, you might be able find out who showed up to pay their respects."

Tokaido smacked his forehead with the palm of his hand. "D'oh! Why the hell couldn't I have thought of that?"

"Don't beat yourself up," Brognola told Tokaido. "Shrug it off and get back on it. Meanwhile, we need to keep turning over more rocks until we find some hard evidence."

"Jack and Cowboy are still sniffing around the Caymans," Delahunt reported. "The only thing criminal they've got so far is that e-mail file on Stephano Prinz's execution, but I don't see that helping us much."

"Cowboy says all of Kassem's assets are still locked up," Delahunt said, "but he says Kassem's daughter's looking to go elsewhere with that chunk of change that was set aside for Media Francois."

"Doesn't seem like it at this point," Delahunt confessed, checking the data on her screen. "She's looking at another media takeover, this time a smaller outfit based out of Paris. Ars Gratia."

"She's a little more attractive than Murdoch, from what I've seen," Price said. "Just as ruthless, though."

"I hear she's a bit of a siren, too," Delahunt said. "Lures men in until they crash on the rocks, then cleans them out and moves on."

"If I ever cross paths with her I'll be sure to put wax in my ears," Brognola said. "But what I don't understand is all this interest in French media holdings? Am I missing something?"

"Beats me," Kurtzman said. "Cowboy's still nosing around Sana's cyberspace and trying to glom on to her cell phone. Maybe he'll come up with something."

"Tell him to keep trying," Brognola advised, "but at some point I think we're going to have to send them in and get to her before she flies off to Lebanon."

"Grimaldi says he's already working on it," Delahunt reported. "But even if we grab Sana, we're going to have the same problem as Gary. If she won't talk, we're stuck holding someone without due cause."

"On that cheery note," Kurtzman responded, "let's move along to the last ace up our sleeve."

Kurtzman nodded. "They're about to land in Karaj. If they can get the goods on this sleight of hand Iran's pulling, the trail will lead to Pasha Yarad. With enough evidence, he'll go down, and hopefully in a way that'll knock the rest of the dominoes over."

Brognola turned to the far wall, eyes on the map of the Middle East. "You hear that, David?" he murmured out loud. "Ball's in your court."

Chapter Thirty-Four

Phoenix Force's insertion into Karaj was carried out much the same way they'd infiltrated Lebanon to begin their assault of the Hezbollah training camp in the Bekaa Valley. Under cover of night and with the aid of a similar cloud cover, the Stony Man commandos parachuted from a cargo plane — this one a legitimate IntEx DC-3 — to a relatively level plateau cresting the Elbourz Mountains just north of Karaj. Walter Ferris was with them and, as in the earlier mission, T. J. Hawkins had brought along Kissinger's prototype TCD-100 Gopher Snake.

"I know you said that thing's classified," Ferris remarked, eyeing the tunnel weapon as he disengaged himself from his parachute, "but I'm guessing it's some kind of robotic access device. Like the ones bomb squads use to go after suspicious parcels."

"You're on the right track," Hawkins told him. "This baby's more offense than defense, though."

"And if we tell you any more, we'll have to kill you," Rafael Encizo wise-cracked.

Ferris grinned back at Encizo. "I've dealt with people who've said that and meant it."

The plateau was barren and, like most of the mountain range, uninhabited, but off to the south the men could see the domelike glow of city lights. From the same direction, they could also hear the faint, mournful howl of a train whistle.

"Like I told you on the plane, Karaj is a rail hub between Tehran and the Caspian Sea," Ferris told the others as they made their way to the plateau's edge. When they reached it, the men crouched, reducing their visibility. Staring downhill, they could see a high-powered locomotive hauling a chain of box cars along tracks that ran along the outskirts of Karaj. The city itself lay a quarter mile beyond the tracks. There were several large industrial parks scattered across the flatlands in between.

"We're after that third complex from the left, correct?" the Phoenix Team leader asked Ferris.

The reporter nodded. "Yeah, the one next to the farmland," he said, pointing. "There's a spur that leads to the train yards about a mile to the north. They might use the rail line for other goods, but, like you've been saying, the nuke gear winds up loaded in tanker trucks."

McCarter honed in on the site with his high-powered binoculars. "I see a couple of tankers. With any luck, we can catch them cracking one open."

"If that happens, I'm ready," Calvin James said, patting the fist-size camcorder clipped to his ammo belt.

McCarter was still surveying the industrial park when the train bolted past in the foreground a hundred yards below. Moments later, a billowing dust cloud rose up from either side of the tracks and began to drift lazily across the valley floor. Within seconds, the men's view of the warehouse complex was obscured.

"Volcanic ash," Ferris explained. "The crater's about a half mile south of here."

"It's been years since an eruption, but the foothills are still lined with ash. There's sediment mixed in along with dregs from some mining operations. We'll pass by a few shafts on our way down. I camped in one for a spell last time I was here."

Ferris shook his head. "They found thicker veins farther north so all the activity shifted up there. In any event, whenever there's wind, it whips the stuff up same as that train did. That's why the city went up so far from the mountains."

"I might've missed it before the ash kicked up," James told Ferris, "but I didn't see those choppers you told us about."

"They're on the far side of the warehouse," Ferris said. "When I was here there were two of them. One was a big rig Sikorsky and the other was some small Bell transporter."

"Not sure," the reporter confessed. "I want to say a two-seater, but it might've been bigger."

"Let's hope so," McCarter said, "because if your contacts don't show up on cue, we'll need to pull another Lebanon and make do with the local merchandise. If it comes to that, I'd rather go with something smaller than a Sikorsky."

"I'll let my contacts know we've landed," Ferris said, setting aside the M-16 A-l he'd been loaned for the mission along with a 9 mm Colt pistol. As he punched a number into his cell phone, McCarter turned to his men.

"I'll update the Farm, too," he told them. "Next time the ash kicks up, we'll use it for cover and make our move."

* * *

The security detail at the so-called Karaj Nuclear Center for Medicine and Agriculture was entrusted to professionals far more vigilant than the raw recruits who'd manned the sentry towers at the Hezbollah camp in the Bekaa Valley. Given the installation's importance with regards to maintaining the secrecy of Iran's covert weapons program, the site was guarded by nearly three dozen elite IRIA-Zolfagar 58th Mountain Commandos working in split shifts so that any given time at least twenty men were on duty. The bulk were assigned to groundlevel operations: gate surveillance, safeguarding the fenced perimeter, and overseeing the transfer of stored weapon materials to the specialized tanker trucks that, for the past three years, had been spiriting contraband out of the country one step ahead of IAEC inspectors. Additionally, two-man crews were stationed around the clock at the four enclosed lookout towers rising from each corner of the complex's main warehouse.

It was a sentry in the northeast tower who first spotted a handful of men crouched atop the distant mountain range to the east. Even with binoculars he was too far away to see much more than darkened silhouettes, however, and by the time he'd alerted the other guard to his discovery, the mountains themselves had all but vanished behind the dust cloud triggered by the passing freight train. Still, there were protocols to be observed.

"It may be only a false alarm," the second sentry told his colleague as he grabbed his walkie-talkie and waited for the dust cloud to settle, "but all the same, we need to issue a Code Six."

* * *

Since Walter Ferris'S last investigative foray into Karaj, the KNCMA facility had beefed up its helicopter force. In addition to the Sikorsky CH-53E Super Stallion and Shabaviz 2-75 utility chopper the reporter recalled seeing, the site now had a reverse-engineered Bell AH-1J Sea Cobra at its disposal. The two-seat gunship was outfitted with a three-barrel, 20 mm XM-197 nose gun as well as a TOW missile system mounted between the stublike wings extending from its fuselage. And when the Code Six — far periphery intruder sighted — was called down from the sentry tower, it was the Sea Cobra that was pressed into duty. Within forty-five seconds of receiving the alarm, a pilot was strapped into the cockpit and had fired up the Pratt & Whitney Twinpac T400 engine. He was joined shortly by a uniformed gunner, who squeezed into the rear seating compartment. Out on the nearby tarmac, a dozen armed soldiers were scrambling into line in front of the station's security commander.

"Ready the Jeeps and a convoy truck, then stand by for further orders," the commander intoned, raising his voice to be heard above the Cobra. When the gunship lofted into the air, stirring up a maelstrom, the officer clamped a hand to his head, holding his cap in place as he went on. "I want to see what we're up against before we leave the compound."

* * *

Phoenix Force was halfway down the mountain when McCarter spotted the Sea Cobra rising from the KNCMA facility.

"Nice that we had a plan," Hawkins said, "but I'm thinking now might be a good time to think about improvising. Us against a gunship's going to be like cockroaches taking on the exterminator."

"If that's the case," McCarter said, already thinking one step ahead, "maybe we should do what cockroaches do best."

Chapter Thirty-Five

Jordai Kenney stood in a bare room adjacent to the U. S. base's interrogation chamber, nursing a cup of coffee as she stared through a mirrored window and monitored Mel Fletch's interrogation of Pasha Yarad.

The Australian Interpol agent turned at the sound of Gary Manning's voice. The Phoenix Force operative had just entered the room, carrying a leather overnight bag.

"My team's on a gig in Iran," Manning said, "but we've got other people involved with a situation in Los Angeles. They need me to pitch in."

Kenney laughed lightly. "Sure thing, 'Nick.' Best to wait until that neck of yours is fully stabilized, anyway. I'd hate for you to throw something out."

"If there was time, I'd risk it," Manning told her. "Unfortunately, my plane's waiting."

"Sure, no problem." Kenney extended her free hand. "Put 'er there, soldier. It was nice working with you."

They held a look, then Kenney took her hand back and told Manning, "Now get out of here before we start getting all sappy."

They exchanged a final smile, then Manning turned and headed out. He knew he'd probably never see Kenney again, and he suspected she knew it, as well. It was something that came with the territory. Still, Manning felt a pang of regret. He could only hope there would come a day when he and his fellow warriors would have a chance to relax between missions and enjoy the freedoms they'd committed themselves to protecting. Until then, like many a time before, it was up to him to tough it out and answer duty's call.

* * *

Hal Brognola checked one final drawer in the desk he sometimes used in the Computer Room. There were a few loose strands of tobacco amid the paperwork and outdated files, but he couldn't find what he was looking for. The SOG director pinched up the tobacco and deposited it into the trash, muttering, "Close, but no cigar."

He was sorting through his pens for one thick enough to serve as a substitute when Barbara Price wandered over.

"My security blankets," Brognola said. "I'm out of cigars and need something to fidget with."

"Can't help you there," Price said, "but if it's any consolation, we have a little more good news on the California front."

"Army Gideon had three computers at their place in Hesperia," Price said. "They were all pretty well scorched, but Gadgets was able to extract one of the hard drives and get it running. He hacked in and flagged a few e-mails that look like they were from Mousif Nouhra. They weren't very well coded and given the time prints on the last few, he figures they had to do with setting up the deal in Hesperia."

Price nodded. "We wrangled the ISP and got an address in Sherman Oaks. Able Team's on the way to check it out."

"Oh yeah!" Akira Tokaido exclaimed from across the room, interrupting Brognola. Price and the SOG director glanced over at the computer wizard, who was indulging in one of his trademark fist pumps.

"I take it this has to do with that lead about Frazier's funeral service," Brognola said.

"Right you are." Tokaido glanced at the others and reported, "I got some guy working graveyard shift for the paper in Manchester that ran that funeral blurb I was talking about. Turns out he covered the service, but it got bumped by some soccer riot."

Tokaido nodded. "He said there were over a dozen big players there, but he only remembers a few of them. One was local. Bip Hartson."

"That's the one," Tokaido said. "Another — ta-da — is the guy we were trying to extradite Ahmet to L.A. for conspiring to assassinate."

"Ars Gratia," Aaron Kurtzman murmured. "The media company Sana Kassem's making a run at."

"The dots are connecting," Brognola proclaimed. He'd never gotten around to finding a pen to toy with, so he instead rubbed his hands together as if they were sticks he was hoping would catch fire. "Let's start making some calls and see if we can't find out if any of those three have business in Los Angeles this week."

* * *

At the same time Roland Carruthers's private jet was beginning to make its descent toward Santa Monica Airfield, Michelle Renais was on the other side of the city, waiting for her luggage at the baggage carousel at Burbank's Bob Hope Airport. Jude Cartier had already claimed his things and left in the Towncar he and Renais had originally intended to share. The Frenchwoman, still enraged over the tongue-lashing the finance minister had given her during their layover in Washington, had refused to ride with him. Once her bags came down the carousel, she planned to take a taxi to the Vista Summit Hotel.

As she waited, Renais stepped clear of the throng gathered around the carousel and placed a call to her business advisers in Paris. They confirmed that an effort was still being made to buy Ars Gratia out from under her, and much as they were trying to fend off the takeover, they'd hit a snag. Apparently, Cartier had not only withdrawn the support he'd lined up earlier; he'd also frozen the accounts of several of Renais's key backers, weakening their ability to buttress the Frenchwoman's stock shares. Renais was assured that everything would be done do keep Ars Gratia under her control but her advisers stressed that she was vulnerable.

Even as she was processing this grim news, Renais was considering other options, not only in terms of saving her company, but giving both Cartier and Carruthers what she considered to be a well-deserved comeuppance. Her flagging spirits rose suddenly when, just as she was wrapping up her call, she glanced at one of the other carousels and saw Inspector Bip Hartson standing among other passengers awaiting luggage from his flight from England. Aside from his duties with Scotland Yard, the Londoner was an avid player in the global stock markets, and Renais knew he'd done well for himself by using investigatory clout to drive his investments. He was someone capable of not only fronting capital but also unmasking the parties behind the shadow companies she'd found herself up against. Renais took the sighting as serendipity and was immediately determined to make the most of the situation.

Pocketing her cell phone, Renais turned and eyed her reflection in the opaque glass of the wall separating the claim area from outdoor curb. She'd put her hair up for the flight, but now she quickly snatched away the pins and barrettes, then shook her head and let the tresses tumble to her shoulders. Next, she reached to the neckline of her blouse and unfastened the two top buttons, parting the lace collar enough to expose her cleavage and the faintest glimpse of her satin bra. She knew that Hartson, like nearly every other man belonging to the Frazier Group, was a renowned womanizer, and she'd filed away the inviting glances he'd cast her way the few times they'd crossed paths in recent years. She'd always been cordial, even flirtatious, and had made a point to send the inspector a case of his favorite brandy after he'd cast the deciding vote that had placed her in charge of the secret organization. Perhaps now, she decided, it was time to let Hartson realize just how grateful she truly was to have him in her corner.

* * *

Able Team was within three blocks of the address where Schwarz had determined that Mousif Nouhra had used a computer to arrange the aborted arms transaction in Hesperia. Traffic on Ventura Boulevard had been brought to a stop. The Stony Man commandos could hear sirens and up ahead Carl Lyons saw flashing lights as well as a thick cloud of smoke reaching up into the night.

"It wouldn't surprise me," Blancanales said grimly from the passenger's seat. "I had a feeling they might try something like this."

Sitting in back of the rental car, Schwarz leaned forward and pointed to a strip mall parking lot off to their right. "I say we park and check it out on foot."

Lyons pulled into the lot and parked. There were carbines stashed in the trunk, but neither he nor the others felt they would be needing them now. Pistols concealed beneath their coats, they walked down to where the street had been closed off, allowing fire crews from seven different trucks to do what they could to fight the blaze consuming the small apartment complex where Zeba Moussallem and his Hamas colleagues had been staying. The scene looked all too similar to the inferno Able Team had witnessed only a few hours earlier in Hesperia. Flames spewed from every window and had already eaten their way through the roof. Firemen directed a steady stream of water at the fire from four different hoses, to little effect. The police had arrived and were doing their best to hold back a growing crowd of onlookers. Paramedics stood near two ambulances double-parked on the side street facing the building.

* * *

Kouri Ahmet and Kruzan Shiv stared down through binoculars at the Vista Summit Hotel from behind chaparral cloaking the ridgeline of the Santa Monica Mountains. The first of the guests for the Frazier Group conference had begun to arrive, and the horseshoe driveway leading to the front entrance was lined with Towncars, limousines and taxicabs. A lone rent-a-cop watched over things. Clearly there'd been no increase in security at the hotel.

"Helmut Marschan," Ahmet whispered, recognizing the German officer unloading bags from one of the taxis.

Zeba Moussallem joined them moments later, pocketing his cell phone. He'd just spoken to one of his men, who'd stayed behind in Sherman Oaks to monitor the fire they'd set prior to vacating the apartment complex.

"The whole building will wind up destroyed," he assured the others. "Not that we left much behind in the way of evidence."

Moussallem nodded. "No changes as far as the conference goes. There should be at least two dozen members here by morning, maybe more."

Chapter Thirty-Six

After taking some of her father's things to the family jet, Sana Kassem had returned to the main house in the hope of getting a few hours' sleep before her flight to Lebanon. She was too restless, however, and as if the anxiety weren't enough to keep her awake, she'd also received, within minutes of each other, two disconcerting calls on her cell phone.

The first had been from Jorge Holmas, informing her that he was en route to the Caymans. He'd delivered the rocket launchers to Ahmet, as promised, and he wanted to settle up, not only for the delivery, but also for having carried out Sana's request to execute the informant who'd arranged for the Lebanese's arrest in La Paz. Sana had hoped to stall Holmas or to at least pay him off without having to deal with him face-to-face, but clearly the Mexican gangster had other ideas, and with everything else on her plate, Sana didn't want the extra burden of having to watch her back against retaliation. So she'd assured Holmas that she would wait for his arrival before leaving for the Middle East.

The second call had been from her father's financial partners in Hong Kong, advising her to release the funds for the Ars Gratia fund immediately, as the media company had apparently learned it was being targeted for a takeover and had instigated a counteroffensive. The stock price was inching upward, and there was a good chance Sana would have to allocate still more funds to see the transaction through. Sana had protested that she was spread thin and, like many tycoons whose worth was largely tied up on paper, it was no simple matter to merely snap her fingers and free up additional funds. There were liquidity issues, and as it was she knew she'd be hard-pressed to come up with the cash to pay off Holmas. Still, she'd promised to do what she could.

Finally resigned that she would have to do without sleep, Sana quickly changed and strode down the hall from her upstairs bedroom to the den. She keyed the intercom and told one of the house staff to bring her some coffee, then settled down at her computer to work.

It was only after she'd accessed her father's bank accounts and redirected the earmarked Media Francois funds for use in the Ars Gratia takeover that Sana received her first indication that someone had breached her firewalls and tapped into her computer. John Kissinger's descrambler had done a yeoman's job of covering its tracks once it had exited Sana's system, but the prototype software had been unable to completely erase every log-in entry it'd made. Tracks had been left behind, and when Sana's computer initiated its hourly self-run security scan, a pop-up screen informed the woman of several instances in which multiple attempts had been made to access files before the correct password had been entered. All the attempts had occurred in the past two hours, at which time Sana had been away from the desk.

Her first instinct was that the cyberintrusion had been carried out by someone acting on orders from Pasha Yarad or one of his NDR colleagues, no doubt in response to her refusal to take their calls. Leaning over the keyboard, Sana feverishly clicked away, accessing her accounts, fighting back fear that the hacker has somehow managed to plunder her father's assets. Even after she ascertained that all her banking records had been merely surveyed rather than tampered with, the woman's paranoia intensified along with her rage.

"They won't get away with this!" Sana vowed, now even more certain than ever that she'd done the right thing in taking unilateral action in dealing with Ahmet and setting her sights on Ars Gratia. After this, there was no way she would be able to trust Yarad and the others. Never.

Sana was so focused on tracing the intrusions on her computer that it took the head of her security detail several knocks on the open door frame to get her attention. She whirled in her chair and snapped at the man.

"We have a possible situation," the guard told her. "A tourist helicopter has been making repeated flybys over the estate."

"I realize that," the guard said, "but they always pass by quickly so they can get to Spiers Point for the cliff divers. This helicopter has gone back and forth from several different directions, always hovering just beyond the property. It stays up there two or three minutes at a time before moving on."

Sana had been preoccupied with her computer situation when the guard had first spoken, but now his report fuelled her concern with NDR. Had they sent someone to spy on her from the air, as well?

"Yes," the guard told her. "I wrote down the name of the tourist outfit. It's G.C. Aero View. Their offices are here on the East End."

The guard shook his head. "It just flew off, headed south, toward their offices."

* * *

Working the controls of his borrowed helicopter, Jack Grimaldi made one final pass along the mountains extending behind Nasrallah Kassem's estate, then turned and guided the chopper back toward East End Bay. On the way, he put a quick call through to John Kissinger.

"Finally," Kissinger said. "How many times did you have to fly back and forth before they wised up?"

"I lost track," Grimaldi said. "Anyway, four guys just piled into a Lexus RX and hightailed it out of the compound. My guess is they'll be waiting for me when I land."

Grimaldi signed off, then veered his course, heading out over the water. As he passed by Spiers Point, he took note of the high, illuminated cliff jutting fifty yards into the Caribbean. There were spectators on the beach, staring up at two men standing on the edge of the precipice. One of them stood rigidly in place, his eyes out at the water. Then, as if succumbing to gravity, he stiffly leaned forward and went over the cliff. His arms swept up over his head, aligning parallel to each other. By the time he hit the water, he was straight as a dart, raising barely a splash as the bay swallowed him up. Moments later he surfaced, unharmed, and began to swim toward the beach, where the spectators cheered him on.

"That's nothing," Grimaldi murmured. "You want to see something really risky, try this..."

* * *

The G.C. AeroVew office was located two blocks off the main tourist strip in East End Bay. Three helipads were fenced off in an area between the parking lot and the main building. An eight-seat EC-130B4 helicopter rested on one of the pads, facing off with a slightly smaller ECO-Star on the next pad over. The third pad was, for the moment, vacant. There was a Closed sign on the front door but there were lights on inside the building, a one-story structure dummied up to look like a gigantic version of the EC-130, down to the large ornamental rotors spinning lazily atop the roof.

The Lexus RX from Nasrallah Kassem's estate was parked in front. Concealed from view behind tinted windows, four security goons awaited the arrival of the third helicopter. Their leader, a beefy, florid-faced man named Denton Younger, was in the front seat next to the driver. He clutched a Polish-made WIST-94 semiautomatic in his meaty fist. Behind him, another two men were similarly armed.

"Remember," he told them, "wait until he's cut off the rotors and gotten out. We'll intercept him on his way to the building."

"If we have to, we'll kill him along with the night clerk," Younger said. "We'll make it look like a botched robbery."

"Where the hell is he?" the driver interjected, staring up through the skyroof "He should be here by now."

The men fell silent. Off in the distance, they could hear the smooth murmur of the approaching ECO-Star's engine. Glancing past the men in the back seat, Younger spied the chopper through the rear windows. It was less than a quarter mile away.

The men braced themselves as the chopper drew near. Within moments, they could see it passing overhead through the skyview window.

The helicopter floated past the Lexus and out over the parking lot, then slowly swung around as if preparing to land. At the last possible second, however, the chopper suddenly swung forward, back out toward the street, and dropped slowly to a stop directly in front of the Lexus.

Before the men could react further, a mounted searchlight affixed to the chopper's nose flashed on, blinding them. At that same instant, a Ford sedan driving past the Lexus swerved suddenly, crossed lanes and screeched to a stop at an angle just shy of the SUV's rear bumper.

* * *

John Kissinger had come to the Caymans armed with more than just his prototype code descrambler. When he bounded out from behind the wheel of his rental Ford sedan, he was armed with a snub-nosed ARWEN 37S Mark III riot gun. Using the open door as a shield, he took aim and fired a tear gas grenade at the rear window of the Lexus. The tinted glass shattered, and a noxious cloud began to immediately envelope the men trapped inside the vehicle.

Kissinger checked the gun's rotary magazine. Four more cartridges remained, all less-lethal 37 mm foam rounds. When the would-be assailants stumbled out of the Lexus, rubbing their eyes, the armorer picked them off, one-by-one, pellets either knocking them to the ground or their knees.

Three of the four goons had dropped their weapons and were clearly immobilized. Denton Younger still had his pistol, and though he was nauseous, half-blinded and sprawled on the sidewalk next to the Lexus, the security leader was still determined to fight back. He took aim in the general direction of the gunner firing from behind the door of the Ford. Younger was about to empty his WIST-94 when the weapon was shot from his fingers by an autoburst coming from behind him. Howling, he dropped the gun and curled up, drawing his bloodied hand in close to him.

Twenty feet behind Younger, Jack Grimaldi leveled his Government Model 1911A pistol at the other goons. "Who wants to be next?"

By now the Aero View night clerk, alerted by the commotion, had emerged from the front entrance brandishing a sawed-off shotgun. He wasn't sure who was supposed to be the enemy. Grimaldi helped him out.

"They're from the place I said I needed to case out," the Stony Man pilot explained, pointing at the goon squad. "You want to help keep an eye on them, great, but make sure you stay downwind of the tear gas."

Grimaldi followed his own advice and retreated a few steps, waiting for the downdraft from the chopper blades to fend off the advancing cloud. Kissinger, meanwhile, grabbed a gas mask from the Ford and pulled it over his head, then ventured forward, helping himself to the security detail's fallen handguns. By the time he'd rounded them up, the first of three police squad cars was racing down the side street toward the commotion.

The pilot holstered his pistol and withdrew his forged government credentials. Holding them in clear view, he stepped out into the middle of the street, squinting past the squad car's headlights as the vehicle braked to a stop. Both front doors swung open and uniformed officers lurched out, guns drawn.

"U.S. Justice Department!" Grimaldi shouted to them and slowly moved forward, holding his hands out at his sides. When he was close enough, he handed over his ID and quickly explained a declassified version of what had just gone down. Without mentioning either Nasrallah or Sana Kassem by name, he concluded by saying it was vital that he and his partner proceed to the address their would-be assailants had come from.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

A growing wind had begun to sweep across the foothills at the base of the Elbouz Mountains, adding more volcanic ash and mine dust to the thick cloud already raised by the passing freight train. As the Iranian Sea Cobra helicopter drifted overhead, visibility along the rugged, sloping terrain was limited. If was as if those aboard the chopper were staring into a chalklike fog. The plateau had been abandoned, though, and there were several figures moving erratically downhill near where a handful of mineshafts had been bored into the base of the mountains.

"I can't make them out," the Cobra's gunner complained. "The dust is too thick."

As the gunship dropped slowly toward the mines, the gunner continued to stare at the figures and could finally determine that they were men in ragged clothes — local transients from the looks of them — kicking a soccer ball back and forth near a rusting ore cart that lay on its side near a set of tracks that led into the nearest tunnel.

"Some homeless nobodies." The gunner lowered his binoculars. "It looks like we came out here for nothing."

"It's the middle of the night," the pilot countered. "They can barely see, yet they're playing soccer? It makes no sense."

"They were up on the plateau earlier," the pilot said. "It's even colder up there."

The pilot brought the chopper down another twenty feet, its rotor wash dispersing the dust around it. They were within thirty yards of the ground when one of the transients suddenly torqued his body and sent the soccer ball hurtling upward. As it bounded off the nose of the chopper, another of the transients picked up a small rock and threw it at the chopper, as well, striking one of the skids. There were three other men, but they clearly had no interest in taunting the chopper crew. They began to flee toward the nearest tunnel, beckoning for the other two to follow.

The man who'd kicked the soccer ball held his ground a moment and shook a fist at the chopper while his friend let fly with another stone. Finally the other three men had to backtrack and grab them by their shirts to pull them toward the mineshaft. The kicker shook himself free and pointed to something on the ground near the ore cart. From the chopper it looked like a shield resting atop a small motorized cart. The others shook their heads and grabbed hold of the man again while pointing fearfully up at the chopper. Finally, huddled close together, the men staggered their way along the tracks and disappeared inside the cave.

"They thought they were playing David versus Goliath and wondered why we didn't fall down," the gunner scoffed. "How about we fire a few rockets into that shaft and teach them a lesson?"

"Let's just find out what they're up to," the pilot said, bringing the chopper down still farther. "And I want to see what that thing is they left behind."

Moments later, the Cobra's skids nestled into the ash and sediment layering the ground outside the mineshaft. The pilot killed the engine and grabbed a submachine gun from behind the cockpit. The gunner was already holding a carbine. Together, they bounded out of the helicopter, ready to investigate.

They were within ten feet of the small wheeled contraption when it suddenly whirred to life. As in the tunnels back in the Bekaa Valley, two openings appeared in the TCD-100's exposed shield. Before the chopper crew could react, the strobe lights went off and stun grenade discharged, unleashing a debilitating roar as well as enough concussive force to send the men stumbling backwards into the nearby ore cart.

As the men cried out, T. J. Hawkins rolled out from the ore cart. He set aside the Gopher Snake's remote control and sprang forward, clubbing the pilot's skull with the butt of his autopistol, knocking him out. When the gunner whirled and raised his carbine, Hawkins stabbed his right foot outward, kicking the barrel aside. He then spun around and let loose a karate chop that caught the gunner squarely in the throat, dropping him. Hawkins clipped him in the head the same way he'd dispatched the pilot, with the same results.

Hawkins had begun to strip off the gunner's jumpsuit when McCarter led the others out from a mineshaft thirty yards to the right of the one the transients had disappeared into.

While Calvin James and Rafael Encizo joined McCarter and Hawkins, Walter Ferris lingered behind a moment and called out to the transients who'd been pressed into decoy duty. When the bedraggled men reappeared, Ferris jogged over to them, pulling out a thin wad of Iranian currency. He thanked the men again, then doubled back to rejoin Phoenix Force. By then, McCarter and James were both stepping into the Iranians' flight suits.

"Are you sure you don't know those guys from before?" McCarter asked Ferris. "Because they handled themselves like pros."

"They just did what came naturally," Ferris told the Londoner. "A chance to thumb their nose at the man and get paid to do it? What'd you expect?'

"You'll be reimbursed for whatever you paid them," McCarter assured the reporter.

"We can worry about that later," Ferris said. "Getting our hands on the chopper was just the first step."

The dust cloud whipped up by the winds was dissipating. McCarter stared through the thinning haze toward the Karaj facility. His gaze stopped when it came upon the rail tracks. He turned to Ferris.

"You said you holed up here in the mines for a while," he said. "Were you able to get a sense of the train schedules?"

"As often as they barreled past here? I sure as hell did," Ferris replied. "This time of night's when they run the most."

"Perfect," McCarter said. "Get in touch with your contact. Tell him there's been a slight change of plans."

* * *

Iran was shrewd enough to realize they were under satellite surveillance by those hoping to glean proof as to the existence of their supposedly nonexistent nuclear weapons program. As such, when it came time to load materials into their specially designed tanker trucks, the work at the Karaj facility was done beneath a large, raised canopy extending outward from the second-story roofline of the manufacturing plant's west wall. The forty-foot-high bay was open at both ends and one of the tankers had just pulled into the loading area beneath the canopy.

Three soldiers stood guard in the harsh glow of rigged spotlights as a crew of mechanics swarmed over the trunk's storage tank, using powerized wrenches to unfasten the bolt clamps securing the seam that ran down the center. They worked with skillful precision, and in a matter of minutes the task was complete and they scrambled to the ground. One of them signaled the driver, who activated the hydraulic system working the large, loaf-size hinges securing each tank half to the truck bed.

The separation procedure was identical to that described by the Hezbollah prisoners David McCarter had interrogated in Israel. Supported by the hinges, the two tank halves slowly pulled away from each other like a pair of unfolding wings. Once the halves had been lowered to a point where they were parallel with the ground, the driver shut off the hydraulics. Remaining in the center of the truck bed now was a narrow, raised platform two feet high and three feet wide running three quarters of the length of the tank area. Anchored support straps hung loosely from the edges of the platform at twelve-inch intervals, ready to be wrapped around the nuclear contraband once it was safely aboard.

The manufacturing plant's loading docks extended from the west wall, and the shipment intended for the tanker truck was already set out for pickup. A large forklift groaned its way to the dock, and the driver slowly eased its prongs through the gaps in the skid that the nuclear equipment rested on. The gear itself was exposed; storing it in a crate would have made it too unwieldy to fit on the tanker platform. Polished metal gleamed in the floodlights as the load was hoisted from the dock and wheeled over to the truck. There, the job of transferring the cargo onto the platform was left to a robotic crane mounted on runners that extended several yards above the truck. Padded, hydraulic arms slowly reached down from the structure and gently clamped themselves to either side of the equipment. The mechanics moved forward and manually inspected the arms to make certain the gear was properly secured, then stepped back.

With a faint hiss, the arms lifted the gear and carried it over to the truck platform and, with slow deliberation, began to set it into place. The procedure was going smoothly, like clockwork, just as it had the dozens of other times nuclear components had been loaded for delivery out of the country. There was no reason to expect this time would be any different.

It was only after the gear was resting on the platform and the mechanics had clambered back aboard the truck to secure it in place that the soldiers watching over things realized that something was amiss.

The AH-1 Sea Cobra dispatched to investigate possible intruders in the nearby mountains had just returned to the compound, but instead of heading for its waiting helipad on the east end of the manufacturing plant, the chopper had inexplicably detoured into view just past the edge of the raised canopy. As it turned sideways and hovered in place, the soldiers saw the aircraft's gunner raise something the size of a cigarette lighter to his face.

"He's taking photos!" one of the soldiers cried out, dumbfounded, as he quickly raised his carbine into firing position. "It's not Ogen!" he added quickly, referring to the gunner routinely assigned to the Cobra.

By the time all three soldiers had begun to fire at the chopper, it had backed away from the opening and swung around so that its XM-197 turret gun and pylon-mounted TOW missiles were aimed at the tanker truck. The rounds fired at the chopper had either missed their mark or had negligible effect. When the Sea Cobra returned fire, however, it was another matter entirely.

* * *

After they'd bound and gagged the Sea Cobra's two-man crew and left them with the transients in one of the mineshafts, Encizo, Hawkins and Walter Ferris had taken up positions behind the raised rail bed supporting the tracks that ran along the foothills. The dust cloud had subsided, but they were shielded from view of the sentries posted in the towers of the manufacturing compound McCarter and James had just infiltrated in the stolen gunship. The intrusion had been timed to coincide with the approach of the next freight train, and, as Ferris had predicted, the front lights of the locomotive hauling the steel-wheeled caravan could be seen three miles to the south and the men could already feel the rail bed trembling slightly beneath them.

Seconds later, the three men heard the telltale rattle of the Sea Cobra's turret gun, followed by the booming explosion of a TOW missile.

Like Hawkins and Ferris, he was armed with an M-16/M-203 over-under combo. While the other two men took aim at the closest two sentry towers, Enzico's sights were on a clot of ground froups visible through the facility's barbed-wire perimeter fence.

In unison, all three men fired their submounted grenade launchers. Hawkins and Ferris both scored direct hits, but the reinforced towers held up against the force of the 40 mm charges. Encizo wreaked more carnage with his round, which disintegrated a section of the fence, adding bits of barbed wire to the frag shrapnel that wiped out half the men he'd been aiming at and dropped the others to the ground, maimed and bloody. It was a hefty toll, more than enough to draw the compound's focus away from the Sea Cobra, allowing McCarter and James to fly clear of the grounds, taking with them the incriminating digital photos of nuclear gear being loaded onto the jerry-rigged tanker trucks.

With the freight train bearing down on them, Encizo and the others sprayed a few standard rounds from their carbines, then cast the weapons aside and rose from their prone positions, crouching to remain out of view of the sentries while preparing to make their getaway.

As the train thundered past, stirring up fresh clouds of volcanic ash, each of the men sprinted up the rail bed slope, running parallel to the passing boxcars. Their eyes stung from the dust and spitting gravel, but their lives were on the line and they kept running, closing in on the train.

Without breaking stride, Encizo timed the approach of the next boxcar and suddenly leaped at a slight angle, his right foot seeking out the lowest rung of a ladder hanging down just past the coupling. His arms were stretched out, as well, and when his fingers closed around an upper railing, he hung on tightly and could feel himself being yanked along by the train's momentum. He quickly swung up his other foot so that he was no longer half suspended.

Once he felt he was safely aboard, Encizo glanced behind him. Hawkins and Ferris were similarly clinging to two of the other freight cars. They'd made it.

Now all they had to do was to hold on for another few miles, at which point the train would be stopping at a rail yard to drop off some of its cargo. Ferris's contact would be there, waiting with a hay truck whose bundles were stacked in such a way that, as with the obliterated tanker truck, there was a hollowing where Encizo and the others would conceal themselves. The truck would leave the rail yard and quickly vanish into a neighboring forest, where McCarter and James would be waiting in a clearing. The Sea Cobra would be left behind and Ferris's associate would take them to a farmhouse in the nearby foothills, where they would hide out until it was safe for them to steal their way back across the mountains to a private airfield. There, Ferris had already lined up the same pilot that had spirited him out of the country after his fact-finding mission the previous summer. Granted, there were a lot of variables to be considered and there was always the chance that something could go wrong, but having made it this far, Encizo felt confident that they would slip clear of the enemy and live to tell the tale.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Sana Kassem was waiting near the hangar when Jorge Holmas's Cessna Citation touched down on the private landing strip and slowed its way to a stop. She wasn't alone. The bulk of her security force had positioned itself around her in a show of force. When the plane door opened, Holmas appeared and stared out at the well-armed retinue.

"I have my pilot with me and two other men," he told Sana. He had to raise his voice, as the jet's turbofans were still running. "Is this how you conduct your business? By intimidation?"

"I have a father to bury in Lebanon," Sana responded calmly. "I have a long flight ahead of me. I don't have a lot of time to haggle with you."

Holmas stepped down from the plane. His two bodyguards appeared in the doorway behind him, each brandishing a Milkor MGL-140 six-shot grenade launcher. One of the weapons was aimed at Sana, the other at the tight formation of security agents flanking her. Sana's men took wary aim at Holmas's goons but held their fire. What was supposed to have been a straightforward business transaction had suddenly become a tense standoff.

"What is there to haggle about?" Holmas said calmly, never taking his eyes off Sana. "We've already negotiated and come to terms. I've already carried out my share of the bargain."

"Something has come up on my end," Sana responded. "I can't meet your terms right now. I need more time."

"I'll meet your terms as soon as I can," Sana bartered. "I'll pay you more to compensate for the inconvenience."

Holmas spit at the tarmac in front of him, then told Sana, "Your father was a man of his word. He would have handled this correctly."

"My father knew how to make hard choices," Sana countered. "Let me show you what he would have done."

Nasrallah Kassem's daughter raised her right hand slightly. A second later, there was a crackle of rifle fire from three snipers stationed at open windows on the second floor of the main house. Half of Jorge Holmas's head was turned to pulp by a Mauser SR-93 .338 Lapua Magnum round. The Mexican gang-lord's lifeless body had yet to hit the ground when another bullet tore through the throat of one of his backup men. The other gunman was struck in the shoulder and staggered back inside the Cessna, then quickly regained his balance and launched a 40 mm grenade into the midst of Sana's security force. Six men were killed instantly. Sana and another five of her men were knocked to the ground, either stunned or wounded.

Inside the jet, the pilot blew out the cockpit window with a Steyr AUG bullpup assault rifle and crouched as he turned his aim on the distant house. The battle was on....

* * *

"This wasn't part of the plan," John Kissinger said as he stared at the mayhem being played out on the grounds of the Kassem estate.

He was in the passenger seat of the Lexus RX Grimaldi had just driven up to the front gate. They'd expected the SUV's tinted windows would have allowed them to slip past security before anyone noticed the rear glass had been shot out. As it was, the guards had left their posts at the entryway, leaving the iron-barred gate closed behind them.

Kissinger could see Sana Kassem on the ground near the airstrip. As bullets streaked overhead, she was trying to crawl past the strewed bodies of fallen security personnel. Two of her men were trying to get to her as they traded shots with Holmas's pilot and the remaining bodyguard with the grenade launcher.

"I don't think finesse is an option at this point," Kissinger said. "We need to get in and get out, quick."

"I figured you'd say that." Grimaldi had already shifted the Lexus into reverse. He backed up twenty yards, then put the SUV in drive and floored the accelerator. "Hang on..."

The Lexus surged forward, picking up speed. The gate was sturdy but the SUV, as small as it was for its class, still packed enough force to rip the barricade off its hinges and send it flying to one side. The front end had crumpled and there was a raised crease where the front hood had buckled slightly, but the Lexus's power plant was undamaged and Grimaldi continued to give the vehicle more gas as he bore down on the airstrip. Kissinger, meanwhile, cast aside his ARWEN riot gun in favor of a frag grenade from his ammunition belt.

As it turned out, the Lexus's tinted glass helped the warriors' cause, after all. Because Sana's remaining forces thought a carload of reinforcements had arrived to help turn the tide, none of them bothered firing Grimaldi's way as he veered around bodies and closed in on a small, waist-high utility shed Sana's rescuers had dragged her behind. As for Holmas's dwindled force, both his men were preoccupied with the snipers in the main house as well as the small handful of other security agents who'd managed to survive the initial grenade blast.

Once the Lexus had pulled up alongside the utility shed, Kissinger readied his grenade, then threw open his door long enough to step out and fling the projectile through the open doorway leading to the passenger cabin of Holmas's Cessna. Seconds later, the turbojet's fuselage ruptured from the force of an explosion that killed both the pilot and his launcher-toting confederate.

The damage done, Kissinger quickly circled around the Lexus, whipping out his Colt 1911A. When the guards shielding Sana realized Kissinger wasn't one of them, they tried to turn their guns on him. The armorer brought one of them down before he could get a shot off. Grimaldi, firing from inside the SUV, nailed the other gunner just as he pulled the trigger, sending an errant slug into the earth.

Kissinger stepped past the bodies and hauled Sana to her feet, ignoring her feeble attempt to fend him off.

When an incoming round clanged off the shed next to him, Kissinger pulled Sana close. He normally had disdain for criminals who took innocent bystanders hostage and used them as human shields, but this was no time for moral dilemmas. Pressing the barrel of his pistol to Sana's head, he shouted out to her surviving crew.

"She won't be harmed by us!" he told them. "Keep firing and her death is on your heads."

Sana was about to blurt something. Kissinger clamped his free hand over her mouth and brusquely escorted her back around to the passenger side of the Lexus. He threw open the back door and helped the woman inside, then followed behind and pulled the door closed. It was only then that he released his grip on the woman.

"Never mind that," Kissinger told her as Grimaldi shifted into gear and headed for the untended family jet standing idle just outside the nearby hangar, fuelled and ready for its flight to Lebanon. Kissinger broke the news that there'd been a slight change of itinerary.

"We're taking your plane," Kissinger said. "I know you have a funeral to arrange, and my condolences on your loss, but if you want a hand in seeing how your father's laid to rest, I'm afraid you're going to have to cooperate with us."

Chapter Thirty-Nine

"I'm handling it just fine, mate," Bip Hartson said, cell phone to one ear as he tipped the room service attendant who'd just wheeled in a tray containing a Continental breakfast for two. The Scotland Yard Inspector was wearing one of the Vista Summit Hotel's complimentary bathrobes.

The attendant left as Hartson finished his call and then helped himself to a strawberry from the fruit platter. He was pouring coffee when Michelle Renais emerged from the bathroom, wearing a similar robe, her hair wrapped in a towel. She smiled at Hartson and moved close to him, giving him a kiss.

Renais laughed. "That's not what I meant, but, yes, it was wonderful, wasn't it?"

Hartson nodded and gestured at the breakfast spread. "You mean this, then? It was sent up gratis, courtesy of Worrell."

Renais slipped into a chair at the table across from the bed where the two Frazier Group members had spent their passion. Hartson wheeled the cart over and sat across from the woman. As he poured coffee for both of them, the woman went on, "Speaking of gratis, I called my people while I was in the bath. They say that whomever was trying to go after my company has backed off. I take it you had a hand in that. That's what I was thanking you for."

"I'll take a little credit," Hartson said, "but the truth is, your suitor bowed out because she's been detained by the authorities on a matter that has nothing to do with the takeover."

"Nasrallah Kassem," Renais interjected. "I know him. He was killed just the other day in... My God, of course! Hong Kong! It was him?"

"That's correct," Hartson said. "It wasn't Carruthers who was after you. It was Kassem who'd put together the run at Media Francois. After he was killed, his daughter, for whatever reason, shifted targets and went after you. In vain, it turns out."

"We'll have to look into it further," she said finally. "And I may have been wrong about Carruthers, but the man is still a pig. He deserves to be taken down a peg."

"When someone crosses the line," he agreed, "there should definitely be consequences."

* * *

"I just spoke with Roland Carruthers's wife in Tucson," Carmen Delahunt told Hal Brognola. "She's not a happy camper at the moment."

"No," Delahunt said. "Apparently the plan was for him to make it look like he'd be there for the weekend, but that was never his intent."

Delahunt nodded. "No details other than the fact his wife hopes his plane crashed on the way."

Barbara Price had just entered the Computer Room and handed the big Fed a box of cheap cigars.

"I figured we needed you here on the floor instead of climbing the walls," she told him. "I had one of the guys run into town."

"Not to take you away from your fix," Aaron Kurtzman called from his computer station, "but I've been running through security cam footage from the baggage claim areas at all the airports in L.A. Got us a couple hits."

"Michelle Renais and Bip Hartson for starters," Kurtzman said. "They were at the airport in Burbank. So was Jude Cartier."

"That's the one," Kurtzman said. "He wasn't on our list, but I'm guessing he's part of this Frazier Group, too. I don't have confirmation yet, but if he put out word he's somewhere else like Renais and Hartson did, I'd say it's a lock."

"Not yet," Kurtzman replied. "I'm tapping into the security footage from the pickup curb, though. Hopefully they got into a cab or limousine we can run a trace on. Dispatch logs should have their destination."

"I just downloaded the shots Calvin took at the nuke site in Karaj," Huntington Wethers reported. "The photos are clear enough to show contraband being loaded onto a tanker truck like the one the Hezbollah prisoners described."

"They got away from the site without being caught," Wethers said. "They're with one of Ferris's contacts right now. There's a plan to get Phoenix out of the country later tonight."

"Gary's en route to L.A.," Delahunt reported. "He feels a little weird about winding up with Able Team instead of his homeys, but he understands the need."

"Good," Brognola said. "It's not like there was anything to be gained by sending him back to the Middle East at this point."

"Jack and Cowboy will be detouring to California, too," Tokaido said. "Kassem's estate is a crime scene now and there's already enough to hold Nasrallah's daughter on a handful of charges, so they left her with the locals in Georgetown."

"It's more like she's negotiating," Tokaido said. "She says she's willing to cut a deal. What she knows about Yarad and the others in exchange for having some charges dropped and getting a bail waiver so she can tend to her father's funeral."

"Well done, everyone." Brognola had unwrapped the first of his cigars and he put it to work, twirling it between his fingers as he stared at the monitors on the far wall. "There's still a lot to be answered, but the questioning's pretty much out of our hands for the moment. For us, it's all come down to Los Angeles."

* * *

Kouri Ahmet's dwindled band of conspirators had taken up lodging for the night inside a well-secluded, five-thousand-square-foot designer home located just off Mullholland Drive less than a half mile from where they would be carrying out their planned attack on the Frazier Group. The home belonged to one of Zeba Moussallem's close friends whose Muslim Educational Alliance had raised tens of millions of dollars in charitable donations that had been largely diverted to terrorist organizations rather than the philanthropic cause mandated by its charter. Down the road, two-man teams had maintained continual surveillance of the Vista Summit Hotel through the night, each team putting in three-hour shifts before being spelled by replacements.

Now, twelve hours into the stakeout, it was Ahmet's turn to take over vigil of the target sight. Dressed in a loose-fitting sweatsuit, the Lebanese jogged along the shoulder of the winding mountain road with one of Kruzan Shiv's Kashmir separatists, who was similarly dressed. It was early morning and there was little traffic. They reached the lookout post in less than five minutes and found Shiv and another of his cohorts diligently staring down at the resort through their binoculars.

"Four more arrivals in the past hour," Shiv reported. "Two in just the last fifteen minutes."

"I spoke with Nekehf and he says the first meeting is scheduled for noon," Ahmet said, "so there should be more people arriving in the next hour."

"A few minutes after that," Ahmet said. "There will likely be stragglers. We want to take out as many as possible. But I've already arranged for everyone to be back here by 11:50 a.m. so that we'll have time to synchronize watches and take up our positions."

Ahmet nodded, staring down at the gleaming facade of the hotel. "In two hours, the Frazier Group's meeting will be adjourned. Permanently."

* * *

"They call themselves New Dawn Rising," Aaron Kurtzman said, briefing the Stony Man braintrust on the confession Sana Kassem had just made as part of a plea bargain with authorities in the Cayman Islands. "Like we figured, they set themselves up to be the antithesis of the Frazier Group, looking to bring down Western powers and put themselves in the global driver's seat."

"Certainly has a better ring to it than Terrorists 'R' Us," Carmen Delahunt wise-cracked.

"Sana's father was one of the founders, along with Pasha Yarad and Waiz Buday," Kurtzman went on. "Most of the members are Islamic radicals, but they widened things to include countries like China and North Korea. Probably not the smartest move."

"Since Kassem was killed by their China guy, I'd say you're probably right," Brognola said.

"The bottom line is we've probably got enough on NDR to shut them down without any help from Yarad or the other people on hold in Japan. They can refuse to talk, but with Sana pointing fingers, there will be charges filed and plenty of evidence on the table when they're brought to court."

"As far as Yarad goes, definitely," Kurtzman agreed. "But before we start with the high-fives, it's not all good news."

Kurtzman nodded. "He has the rocket launchers he was looking for. He got them from the guy involved in that shootout at Kassem's estate. His name's Jorge Holmas."

"Yep. He was with the Yucatan cartel," Kurtzman explained. "He's also the guy who sent that snuff e-mail to Sana. He killed Ahmet's informant as part of some deal that also involved the rocket launchers. He flew to the Caymans after airlifting the launchers to Ahmet, looking to get paid in person."

"She didn't have the money because it was tied up in that whole media takeover hoopla," Kurtzman said. "Turns out NDR wanted Media Francois so they could have a Western-based communications forum to peddle their ideology. Sana was going after the same thing with Ars Gratia."

"I'm sorry, everyone, but if I could interrupt," Huntington Wethers said, "we've found what we're looking for in Los Angeles."

Wethers nodded. "We went off the curbside security camera footage at the airport in Burbank. Bip Hartson and Michelle Renais took a Towncar to a new hotel called Vista Summit. It's just east off the 405 freeway before you get to the Hollywood Hills."

"Yes. And given his right-wing track record, my guess is Worrell's a card-carrying Frazier member himself."

Price asked Kurtzman, "Was there anything in Kassem's confession about when the conference was scheduled for?"

* * *

Able Team had just left Santa Monica Airport with verification that Roland Carruthers had arrived there the previous evening when they received word as to the secretary of state's likely whereabouts. They'd just gotten on the 405 Freeway and were therefore poised to be among the first to reach the Vista Summit Hotel in hopes of thwarting Kouri Ahmet's attempt to take out the assembled membership of the Frazier Group.

"For once we're at the right place at the right time," Gadgets Schwarz said as he revved the team's rental car up to seventy miles an hour. Traffic was light on the freeway and everyone else was speeding, as well, reducing the likelihood they would be stopped en route to their destination.

"I'd be more inclined to say that if we were already there," Carl Lyons countered, slamming a fresh cartridge into his M-16.

"Didn't ask," Lyons replied tersely. "All I know is they've got them and plan to use them."

"Maybe it's just me, but this Frazier Group doesn't sound like a batch of folks all that worth saving," Schwarz said between lane changes. He'd just passed the Getty Center and was starting up the Sepulveda Pass grade. The exit they wanted was less than three miles away. "We've gone up against white supremacists before with the same agenda."

"Yeah, but they were usually isolated wannabes," Lyons said. "Guys like Carruthers are already inside the candy store. They pull a lot of clout, and if they go down, we're talking major fallout. Last thing we need is the terror networks thinking they've got the green light to turn the States into a shooting gallery."

Chapter Forty

On schedule, Kruzan Shiv pulled off Mullholland Drive and drove up the gravel driveway leading to the vacant lot where Kouri Ahmet and Shiv's underling stood waiting. The utility van had barely come to a stop when all its doors swung open. Zeba Moussallem climbed out along with his four-man Palestinian crew and the third Kashmiri. Each of them carried one of the RPG-18 rocket launchers. One of the Palestinians also had with him a French-made PGM Ultima Ratio sniper rifle fitted with a seven-round, .50 BMG magazine. He handed the latter weapon to Ahmet.

"Another ten arrivals over the past hour and a half," Ahmet told Moussallem as he took hold of the sniper rifle. "I can't see into the meeting hall, but most of them have to be up there by now."

"Then it's time," the Palestinian replied. "We all set our watches before we left."

"You all know your instructions," he told them. "Take your positions and stay low but be ready to fire at 12:10 p.m. exactly. Don't wait around afterward. Get back to the truck as fast as you can. I'll be ready with the rifle to provide cover if anyone down there spots us. Understood?"

When the others nodded, Ahmet sent them on their way. Moussallem lingered behind a moment for a private word with the Lebanese renegade. "We've waited a long time for this moment," the Palestinian said. "It will be a glorious..."

Moussallem's voice trailed off suddenly. Looking past Ahmet, he saw a California Highway Patrol car pull to a stop behind the utility van. Ahmet had heard the car, as well. He whirled, cursing, and set down the sniper rifle. In the same motion, he unzipped his sweat shirt and yanked out the 9 mm Colt pistol he'd taken from the Air Marshal he'd killed in the skies over San Diego several days earlier.

There was no time to deliberate. With deadly calm he thumbed off the safety and raised the Colt into firing position as he advanced on the patrol car. The two officers were getting out of their vehicle when Ahmet fired. His first three shots brought down the driver before he had a chance to draw his own gun. The other patrolman managed to unholster his pistol, but Ahmet turned on him next and emptied the Colt's magazine, perforating his target's chest. The officer sagged against his opened door, then fell to the ground.

Ahmet took a few more steps forward to make sure the men were dead, then turned and called out to Moussallem, "This changes only our timing. Tell the others to fire the moment they reach their positions. We won't be stopped!"

* * *

Michelle Renais took her place at the raised podium overlooking the tables where her fellow members of the Frazier Group had gathered. Staring past them out the windows, she could see the surrounding hilltops and the blue sky overhead. It was a beautiful day, and the Frenchwoman was in grand spirits. Her company had officially staved off its takeover attempt, and even though she'd learned that Roland Carruthers hadn't been involved in the machinations, she'd still put the man soundly in his place. And by ingratiating herself with Bip Hartson, she'd thwarted Jude Cartier and taught him a lesson, as well. Life was good.

A few members had just gotten off the elevator and were still seeking out their seats, but Renais was ready to begin the proceedings. She was feeling on top of her game and in charge of the situation.

"Good morning, everyone," she began, speaking in English with barely a trace of her native accent. "I want to thank you all for taking the time to come, and apologize for any inconvenience that may have arisen out of the need for discretion. Your attendance is..."

"Madam Chairperson, if I may interrupt..." a sonorous voice called from the floor, cutting her off in midsentence. Renais recognized the voice and glared at Roland Carruthers as he stood from behind the table he shared with Jude Cartier and a Frazier Group representative from Antwerp.

"I have the floor," Renais responded coolly, refusing to address Carruthers by name. "You have not been recognized."

"I'm sure everyone here recognizes me," Carruthers replied with equal calm. No one laughed, but there were suppressed smiles across the room. Renais was taken aback, and the secretary of state took advantage of her silence, forging on. "I'll get straight to the point."

Carruthers ignored the woman and addressed his remarks directly to those around him. "I have reason to doubt the chairwoman's ability to effectively preside not only over this conference, but also the Frazier Group as a whole. I make a motion for a no-confidence vote by the present membership, to be taken immediately."

Renais was aghast. As a murmur went up through the room, she trembled faintly, rendered mute with rage. Such insolence! How dare he use the conference to carry out a personal vendetta! The Frenchwoman realized, belatedly, that she should have expected such treachery from Carruthers, and it galled her that she hadn't better anticipated such an act of cowardly arrogance. Clenching the podium's note stand with both hands, Renais steeled herself, shaking off her surprise and bracing for the challenge of nipping the secretary of state's mutiny in the bud.

Renais knew her assertion might not be enough to blunt Carruthers's effrontery, but she knew she had allies among those seated at the tables before her, and she took heart when Bip Hartson rose from his chair, a determined look on his face. Renais knew the inspector would lead the charge to restore order and assure that she remained in control of the proceedings.

It was only when Hartson glanced away from the other members and leveled Renais with a look of unbridled loathing that she realized she'd been betrayed. She'd seduced Hartson into her bed that she might use him, but now, it seemed, she was the one who'd been used.

* * *

Less than a quarter mile after they'd exited the 405 Freeway, Able Team came upon the Vista Summit Hotel's Mullholland Drive entrance. The freshly paved driveway sloped downhill for nearly two hundred yards before leveling off on the valley floor. As Grimaldi prepared to head down the incline, Lyons glanced around at the chaparral-snarled ridgeline of the mountains surrounding the hotel. His gut instincts were screaming at him. He listened.

"Think about it," Lyons said. "They're using rocket launchers, right? What good are they at ground zero? They'd be spotted before they could be put to use."

"You think they'll be firing from up here," Blancanales said, leaning forward in the back seat.

"It's sure as hell what I'd do." Lyons grabbed his carbine and flung his door open.

He told Schwarz, "Go ahead and head down, but keep your eyes peeled. Pol, let's split up and cover the ridgeline. You go left."

Blancanales slid over and got out on the left side of the car. Once his teammates were clear, Schwarz proceeded slowly down the hill. Blancanales had barely made it off the asphalt when he suddenly stopped and raised his M-16 into firing position.

"I've got two of them over here!" he shouted to Lyons before drowning out his own voice with the chatter of his carbine. Powered rounds chewed through the chaparral, striking one of the Kashmir separatists who'd been drawing aim on the hotel conference room. The man went down without firing. Farther down the ridgeline, Zeba Moussallem, alerted by the gunfire, lowered his launcher and dropped from view behind the dense foliage.

Lyons, meanwhile, had spotted one of the Pakistanis crouched behind a brush thirty yards to his right, RPG-18 nestled on his shoulder, finger on the trigger. There was no time for Lyons to take careful aim. He let fly with his M-16 on full automatic, hoping the deadly strafing would make up for any lack in pinpoint accuracy. The Pakistani caught enough rounds to take him out of the fight, but not before he'd squeezed off a shot. His aim had been thrown off, however, and the 64 mm HEAT shell grazed the roof of the raised meeting hall instead of hitting it squarely. There was an explosion and the rooftop quickly plumed with smoke, but the damage had been minimal.

As Lyons forged his way into the brush, heading for the downed assailant, he detected movement farther down the ridgeline. There were at least two other terrorists taking up position from a vantage point that would allow them to succeed where their colleague had failed. Lyons stopped running and managed to bring down one of the shooters, but he was beginning to sense the odds were still woefully on the terrorists' side. There was no way he and Blancanales alone could stop Kouri Ahmet's mission from being carried out.

* * *

Gadgets Schwarz was halfway down the driveway when he saw the first warhead take a bite from the roof of the elevated meeting hall. He quickly pulled over and slammed on the brakes, then grabbed his carbine from the back seat before bolting out onto the asphalt. Given where the explosion had taken place, Schwarz figured Lyons had been right about the attack coming from the ridgeline and his gaze went immediately to the mountains to his left. He spotted Blancanales fighting his way through the chaparral, trying to reach two men readying launchers far down the ridgeline from him. They both seemed too far out of range for Schwarz, but he felt he had to do something, even if was only to cause a distraction.

Lofting his carbine, Gadgets peppered the mountainside near where the assailants were standing. The shots fell short, however, and Schwarz was forced to drop to the ground when someone firing at him from behind punched a hole through the roof of the rental car, stinging his shoulder with shrapnel.

"They've got snipers, too?" Schwarz muttered to himself. Like Lyons, he was beginning to wonder if this time around they'd been outmatched.

As he lay pressed against the asphalt, Schwarz heard another explosion coming from the vicinity of the hotel. He twisted slightly and looked over his shoulder. A rocket shell had penetrated the far end of the raised conference hall, shattering glass and generating yet another dark, ominous cloud. Schwarz was dreading the implications when an equally dark shape drifted past him and stretched across the manicured grass flanking the driveway. Between the gunshots and explosions, he hadn't heard the approach of a helicopter, but when he glanced up he saw a four-seat Robinson R44 news chopper with the call letters for a prominent local television station emblazoned on the side.

When Schwarz took a closer look, he realized the copter hadn't been diverted from its routine of supplying traffic updates on the local freeways. At the controls was Jack Grimaldi. Riding beside him, aiming his assault rifle at the nearby ridgeline was John Kissinger. One of the rear windows had been thrown open, allowing Gary Manning to assist the armorer in pouring lead down at the scattered terrorists who were still intent on adding to the death toll at the twice-struck conference hall.

"I don't know how the hell you guys did it, but thanks," Schwarz muttered under his breath as he bounded back to his feet with a renewed sense of hope. Maybe they had a chance to limit the carnage after all.

* * *

It'd taken a few in-flight communications and a hastened itinerary on the part of the flight bringing Gary Manning to Los Angeles, but he'd managed to arrive at LAX within minutes after Grimaldi had landed with Kissinger near a remote hangar where they'd received the necessary clearance to forgo customs inspection of their sizeable weapons cache. When word had been relayed from Stony Man Farm as to the target destination of the Frazier Group, the three commandos had strong-armed access to the air traffic chopper fortuitously grounded for refueling near the same hangar. While a gunship would have been preferable, the men were grateful for any means by which they could speed their way to the Vista Summit Hotel. And now, as they contended with the terrorists heaping ruin on the Frazier conference, they were glad to have arrived as quickly as they had.

"I got one," Kissinger noted as he watched Zeba Moussallem reel into the ridgeline chaparral, dropping the RPG-18 with which he'd just nicked the outer wall of the Vista Summit conference chamber.

"I've got a bead on the sniper," Manning said, staring out to the east some eighty yards from where Carl Lyons was trailblazing his way through a particularly clotted stand of manzanita. He fired down at Kouri Ahmet, missing the conspirator but deterring him from getting another shot off at Schwarz, who was busy trying to provide cover for Blancanales.

As he held the chopper steady, Grimaldi glanced back at the hotel, where flames could be seen licking their way along the roof and out through the opening Moussallem's HEAT round had put in the meeting hall.

"It's gotta be a mess up there," he told the others, "but it'd be a hell of a lot worse if either of those had been on the money."

"I'll save the sigh of relief for when we've taken out all these bastards," Kissinger said, scanning the mountains for his next target. "I don't think we're out of the woods yet."

* * *

Inside the rooftop convention hall, it was all chaos. While the majority of the attendees were thus far unharmed, six delegates seated toward the rear of the room had died in the seconds after Moussallem's HEAT round had exploded in their midst. Another four were wounded by shrapnel. The survivors, terrified, had all dropped to the carpeted floor. There were frantic shouts and cries as some tended to the wounded while others crawled their way toward the elevator, hoping to flee downstairs before the situation got worse. Ceiling-mounted sprinklers had been activated and drenched the large room with a steady spray, retarding the spread of flames.

Michelle Renais had been knocked off her feet by the initial blast and the concussive force of the follow-up round had brought the podium crashing down on her, glancing off her skull. Dazed, blood seeping from her scalp, she lay still in the drizzle of the sprinklers, trying to will herself to move. Her arms and legs refused to respond. The best she could do was crane her neck slightly, just enough to see the others making their way past her, on all fours like animals.

She tried to cry out for help, but the paralysis had gripped her vocal cords and all that came out was a hoarse, garbled squeak.

Roland Carruthers had reached the elevators before he looked back at his nemesis. He eyed the woman with contempt, then rose to his feet. The elevator doors had just opened and the car quickly filled, leaving no room for him. He pulled open the door to the stairwell and motioned for a few other members to move out ahead of him. Bip Hartson and Jude Cartier were the last to approach the door. Like Carruthers, they paused to glance back at Renais, who was still immobilized near the fallen podium.

"The sprinklers will put out the flames before they get to her," Hartson told the other men. "Let someone else go to her rescue."

Carruthers nodded, letting the other two men enter the stairwell ahead of him. He glanced back at Renais one final time and called out to her, "You know what they say, my dear. Turnaround is fair play."

Michelle Renais, who often boasted there would come a day when she was the most powerful woman on the planet, was left alone to face the encroaching flames.

* * *

Kouri Ahmet was bleeding from a thigh wound as he burrowed his way deeper into the chaparral, hoping to conceal himself from the helicopter gunner who had wounded him. His mind raced, blotting out the distraction of sirens and gunfire around him.

Things had not gone well with the plan. Most, if not all, of his remaining conspirators were likely dead or dying, and he knew that the two rockets that had managed to hit the conventional hall had been off the mark. He'd hoped to deal a death blow to the Frazier Group, but more likely his men had merely thinned the other organization's ranks. Still, it was something. They'd shown that America was still vulnerable. And once the press had their field day with the incident, the Frazier Group would be outed, their clandestine influence irreparably compromised. Sometimes, he reasoned, it was enough to have made a statement. What he had to do now was to stay alive, to once more find his way to freedom so that he might plan for the day when he could strike again.

Ahmet continued to downplay the turn of events as he wormed through the brush, using his drawn pistol to chop at the thicker branches in his way. When he heard the chopper drift away, he felt a surge of hope. Bouyed, he redoubled his efforts, inching through a last few stinging clusters of manzanita. Finally he reached the clearing where the utility van was parked. He'd already pulled the CHP patrol car up past the van, leaving the gravel driveway cleared for escape. All he had to do was to get behind the wheel and make it out onto Mullholland Drive. He could race back to their hideout down the road and treat his wound, then...

Ahmet's stream of consciousness dammed up suddenly when he struggled to his feet and found a blond-haired man standing between him and the van. The man was carrying an M-16 and the barrel was pointed directly at the Lebanese renegade.

"It ends here," Carl Lyons said coldly, his eyes on Ahmet's Colt pistol. "Put it down or go ahead and give me your best shot. It doesn't matter to me."

Ahmet resorted to a desperate ploy, glancing over Lyons's shoulder as if he'd just spotted one of his men coming up on the Stony Man commando from behind. Lyons made as if to turn, but the moment Ahmet raised his gun to fire, Lyons glanced back at the fugitive and squeezed the trigger of his carbine. Three rounds charged out at Ahmet, thumping into his chest with enough force to knock him to the ground.

"You really didn't think I was going to fall for that, did you?" Lyons told Ahmet. His words fell on deaf ears. The Lebanese mastermind's luck had finally run out.

Moments later, someone did make his way through the foliage to the clearing. It was Blancanales.

"I think we got them all," he told Lyons. "Not soon enough, but they could've done a lot worse."

Lyons nodded, standing over Ahmet. Blancanales came up alongside him and stared down at the body, recognizing their long-sought nemesis.

Epilogue

"And so, everything's out in the open about the Frazier Group and New Dawn Rising," Gary Manning told his fellow Phoenix Force commandos. "The days of them raising hell under the radar are over."

Manning had been at Dulles International to meet the others upon their return to the States following their mission in Iran. Walter Ferris had remained behind in the Middle East, determined to make a last-minute deadline so that his exclusive on Iran's covert nuclear operations could make the next day's edition of U.S. Global News.

The men were seated in a private jet carrying them back to Stony Man Farm. They'd begun their descent and had just passed below the cloud line. There was snow in the air; large flakes destined to join the white carpet draping the mountains below. The men fell silent a moment, then Manning spoke up again.

"Well, actually, we sorta replaced you," Hawkins said. In his lap he was holding Kissinger's TCD-100 Gopher Snake. He patted it as if comforting a well-loved pet. "But just so you don't feel bad, we're thinking of calling him 'Gary.'"

As the jet made its way into Shenandoah Valley and approached the Farm's landing strip, Rafael Encizo glanced out the window and saw nearly a dozen people gathered near the heap of snow that had just been cleared from the tarmac. Able Team was there, along with Hal Brognola, Barbara Price, John Kissinger and Aaron Kurtzman and his cybercrew. Behind them, a string of Christmas lights had been stretched across the facade of the main house.

"What do you know — we rate a welcome party this time around," Encizo observed.

McCarter summed it up, speaking on behalf of everyone inside the passenger cabin. "It'll be nice to be home for the holidays."

Don Pendleton'sHostile Dawn

Table of contents

Chapter One

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Chapter Two

Chapter Three

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Chapter Four

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Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

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Chapter Eight

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Chapter Nine

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Chapter Ten

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Chapter Eleven

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Chapter Twelve

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Chapter Thirteen

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Chapter Fourteen

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Chapter Fifteen

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Chapter Sixteen

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Chapter Seventeen

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Chapter Eighteen

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Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

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Chapter Twenty-One

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Chapter Twenty-Two

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Chapter Twenty-Three

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Chapter Twenty-Four

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Chapter Twenty-Five

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Chapter Twenty-Six

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Chapter Twenty-Seven

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Chapter Twenty-Eight

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Chapter Twenty-Nine

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Chapter Thirty

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Chapter Thirty-One

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Don Pendleton's
Hostile Dawn