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Ho’s Island, North Korea

“Did I hear that right?” Rafael Encizo asked.

David McCarter pushed to his feet.

“Yes. You heard it right. It sounds as if our friend Khariza has just gone nuclear.”

“Can we discuss this later?” Gary Manning suggested. “I have a feeling company is on the way.”

McCarter raised his head and listened, picking up the approaching sound. He heard voices, too, shouting orders back and forth.

“Back off,” he said.

Covering one another, they retreated, moving back toward their entry point.

Rafael Encizo helped himself to additional magazines for the Kalashnikovs they had acquired, handing out others to McCarter and Manning.

“Here they bloody well come,” McCarter announced.

The distant sound became movement, dark shapes flitting in between the packing cases and pallets of merchandise. Light glanced off weapons. The clatter of autofire sounded. Bullets thudded into boxes. Wood splinters sprayed the air. Some zipped dangerously close to the Phoenix Force.

McCarter paused to pull the pin on a grenade. He hurled the bomb in the general direction of the advancing hostiles. The explosion echoed within the confines of the building, the flash showing the men of Phoenix Force there were approximately eight armed pursuers. The grenade took out one man, who went down screaming, arms flailing as he fell.

Encizo moved into view, a rocket launcher, armed and ready, over his shoulder. He swung the muzzle of the weapon toward the advancing hostiles and pulled the trigger. The missile burst from the tube, trailing a tail of flame. It streaked across the interior and struck a heavy steel-support girder. The explosion sheered the girder, the blast deafening within the confines of the building. Metal creaked and groaned overhead as the girder fell away.

“Hit them again,” McCarter ordered.

Manning had lifted another launcher from its box. He swung it to his shoulder and fired, sending the missile in the same direction as Encizo’s. The explosion spread its deadly effect across a wide area, scattering the Korean hostiles in bloody heaps.

“We got any more of those?” McCarter asked.

“Here,” Encizo said.

“Lay one on those bloody M-1983s.”

Encizo followed through, the rocket launcher drilling the missile at the metal pallet holding the heavy machine guns. The damage left the 14.5 mm quads twisted and out of commission.

In the lull that followed, Phoenix Force backed away, still armed with the Kalashnikovs they had acquired from the weapons supply. They helped themselves to more of the grenades.

Manning opened the door and pushed it wide. From where he was standing he could see their plane. He checked out the immediate area and saw no one. The big Canadian knew how quickly that situation could change.

“Let’s go,” he said over his shoulder.

As the others followed, Manning turned and headed for the parked vehicles they had spotted on the way in. The closest was one of the Jeep-type utilities. Manning leaned in and scanned the layout. He dropped onto the driver’s seat and flicked the ignition switch. He jammed his foot on the floor starter. The engine turned over and caught. He pushed the gas pedal down and the engine roared. Manning felt the Jeep sway as McCarter and Encizo clambered in behind him.

The Brit clapped him on the shoulder. “Come on, mate, our plane’s waiting.”

Manning put the vehicle into first gear and released the handbrake. He stepped on the gas and let out the clutch. The Jeep lurched forward, picking up speed with surprising ease. The ride was hard. The vehicle wasn’t fitted with very sophisticated suspension, and every bump and dip in the ground was transmitted through to the passengers. That, plus the still rising wind, made for an uncomfortable ride.

Manning swung the Jeep in under the main wing, turning it so the vehicle stood sideways-on, providing a degree of cover.

Smoke was rising in thick columns from the holes in the weakened roof of the building they had just evacuated, and armed hardmen were starting to appear.

“Keep them busy,” McCarter yelled as he jumped from the Jeep and headed for the plane.

The side hatch of the Anatov An-26 was open and the Briton swung himself up into the body of the aircraft. He made his way along the aisle toward the cockpit and had almost reached it when the door swung open and the pilot charged through.

The Chinese was about McCarter’s height, broad and heavy. He slammed into the Briton, knocking himself back a couple of feet. The impact also sent McCarter crashing into the seats close to him. He fell back, losing his grip on the assault rifle as he sprawled across the seats. The pilot followed him, large hands reaching out to grab hold of his adversary’s throat. McCarter rolled off the seats, landing on his hands and knees. The pilot swung around and made another lunge at McCarter, bending over him. The Briton dropped, turned on his back and swung up his right foot. The sole of his boot caught the pilot under the chin, snapping his head back with enough force to break bone. The pilot let out a strangled yell.

McCarter, pushing upright and avoiding the pilot’s lunging blows, grabbed hold of the man’s thick black hair. He yanked the pilot off balance, then pulled the man’s head down, hard, onto his rising knee. The blow was brutal, caving in the front of the pilot’s face, shattering bone and splitting flesh. Dazed and in pain, blood streaming down his face, the pilot tried to hit back, but McCarter had neither the time nor the inclination to continue. He leaned in close, encircled the pilot’s neck with his right arm, and put on the pressure, twisting hard. He felt the neck snap. The Chinese went limp in his grip. The Phoenix Force leader let the man drop to the deck. Snatching up his rifle, McCarter pushed through the door into the cockpit. He dropped into the pilot’s seat and began the startup procedure.

MANNING HEARD the first of the plane’s twin turboprop engines start to turn, coughing as it spit out thick clouds of smoke from the exhaust vents.

“Doesn’t he love waiting till the last second,” the Canadian muttered.

“They don’t,” Encizo said.

He was watching the tight group of armed men moving in their direction. The North Koreans were carrying assault rifles, and they started to fire once they were in range. The first shots fell short. The following volley was closer, some of the slugs hitting the Jeep that Manning and Encizo were crouched behind.

As the plane’s second engine fired up, Manning fisted one of the grenades. He pulled the pin, exposed himself for a brief moment, and hurled the grenade in the direction of the advancing force. The moment it detonated, scattering the group, Encizo followed up with one of his own. The Phoenix Force pair went through their store of grenades, then dropped back behind the Jeep.

Four Koreans had been savaged by the grenade barrage, and another two were nursing wounds. As the sound of the final blast faded, the surviving Koreans began to regroup, opening fire again as they broke into a run.

McCarter slid open one of the cockpit windows and yelled over the rising roar of the engines, “Let’s move it, ladies!”

Manning and Encizo ran for the open hatch, hauling themselves inside. The An-26 was already moving, McCarter boosting the power with little regard to any strain he might be putting on the engines. It was to his advantage that the plane hadn’t been too long on the ground, the engines were still warm and less likely to stall. He worked the foot controls, using the rudder to swing the craft around in a circle so it was facing back the way it had come. Once the Briton had the plane set on the runway, he pushed the power up and felt the craft moving off. The entire airframe vibrated as the plane fought nature and the drag of the howling engines.

The Koreans opened up with their assault rifles, bullets peppering the fuselage, but none hitting anything vital to the performance of the aircraft.

Out the corner of his eye McCarter could see the heavy swell of the water bordering the edge of the runway. The wind was sending waves crashing against the craggy extremes of the rocky island. He could feel its grip on the aircraft as it picked up speed. Too slowly, he thought as it bounced and hopped its way along the makeshift strip. There was nothing he could do about the weather or the crude runway. It was all he had, that and the aircraft itself. McCarter coaxed and cursed and threatened the plane.

The end of the runway was coming so fast it was on McCarter almost before he knew it. He hauled back on the controls as the last few yards rushed toward him. The aircraft left the island behind, cruising only feet above the cold, dark waters of Korea Bay. McCarter’s arm muscles ached from his efforts to hold the controls back, fighting the drag of the air over the flaps. For a moment even the optimistic Briton imagined he was going to end up in the inhospitable waters.

The plane began to lift, gradually, seemingly with agonizing slowness. The black water started to sink below them and the straining engines settled to a steady beat. McCarter held the climb, then leveled off, letting the craft have its head.

“Close,” Manning said. “Too close.”

Standing behind McCarter during the takeoff, he had witnessed the near miss.

“That’s what you get for creeping up behind people,” the Phoenix Force leader said.

“Just to satisfy my curiosity, who is the guy back there?”

“The flight attendant. Pushy type.”

Manning dropped into the copilot’s seat, studying the bank of dials.

“Can you read these? Just asking because they’re all in Chinese.”

“Most of them.”

“How about this one?”

“Fuel. Why?”

“Because the gauge is in the three-quarters empty section.”

“Or a quarter full,” McCarter suggested.

“Where are we heading?”

“South Korea. Once we get over the border we should be on safe ground. When we land, I mean.”

Manning made a sound in his throat, stood and backed away. As he turned, he saw Encizo leaning against the bulkhead. The Cuban had a grin on his face that said he had heard the whole conversation.

“What did you make of that?”

“Nada,” Encizo said. “I am only a poor peasant, señor.”

“You’re as bad as he is.”

“Shouldn’t we try to contact someone on the South Korean side. Let them know who we are so they don’t shoot us down?”

“Good thinking, Rafe. Initiative like that could get you a field promotion.”

“Jesus, why don’t you two get married?”

“Out of the question,” McCarter said. “I’m British and he’s only a lowly peasant.”

“Sí, and I know my place.”

“And right now it’s working that radio, so get to it.”

Encizo took the copilot’s seat and pulled on a set of headphones. He picked up the hand mike and began to work his way through the frequencies on the radio.

Peering through the windshield, Manning checked out the coastline on their left.

“How the hell do we know when we’re over South Korean territory?”

“It’s the part that has electricity,” McCarter said cheerfully. “We’ll be able to see the lights.”

“Tell you what I can see,” the Canadian said.

“What?”

“That MiG-23 coming up starboard.”

McCarter checked it out. He watched as the drab-colored jet, showing North Korean markings, slid in alongside them, the pilot cutting his speed to match that of the turboprop An-26.

“You don’t figure he’s come to escort us to safety?”

Manning shook his head.

“I don’t think so. The way he’s wagging his thumb, I’d say he wants us to land.”

“Fat chance,” McCarter muttered. “I’d sooner square up to him.”

“What with?”

“I’ve got an autorifle.”

“He’s got a 23 mm cannon and probably heat-seeker missiles.”

“Did I miss that?”

Encizo raised a warning hand. He began to speak into his handset.

“You have? Good. What about our North Korean escort?”

“That better be the good guys he’s talking to.”

“David, don’t be so pessimistic.”

“The way things have been going recently, can you blame me?”

Encizo leaned across to tap McCarter on the arm.

“U.S. military command. They’ve had contact with Stony Man. Apparently they have been monitoring the airwaves for hours. The guy I’ve been talking to is a Major Yosarian. He’s making contact with a South Korean air patrol. They have a couple of jets close enough to be with us fairly quickly. They’ll have orders to escort us to friendly territory.”

Manning punched McCarter on the shoulder. “Told you.”

“Has anybody told that bloke out there?”

“They’re aware of his position,” Encizo said. “The patrol will warn him off.”

“Why aren’t I happy about that last remark?” McCarter said as he watched the North Korean MiG slide away.

The pilot rolled the jet and made a sweep that would bring him up on the An-26’s tail.

“That bugger isn’t going to wait,” the Briton chided. “A few bursts from his cannon and we’ll end up shredded.”

Manning turned and vanished from sight.

“Where’s he gone?” Encizo asked.

McCarter shrugged. He was too busy flying the plane to worry about Manning.

Curious or not, McCarter was alerted by the crackle of the internal com system. He picked up the handset.

“What?”

“This observation blister is quite handy,” Manning said.

McCarter had forgotten about the Perspex bubble built into the left side of the An-26’s fuselage just behind the cockpit.

“David, he’s coming around now. Lining up to hit our tail.”

McCarter glanced across at Encizo. The Cuban had a wide grin on his face.

“Always said Canadians had more in them than just the ability to chop down trees,” McCarter said.

“I can still hear you.”

“Tell me when that sod is steady. And stop moaning.”

“Wait…wait…now.”

McCarter worked the controls and the An-26 went into a steep dive, dropping away from the MiG a second before the pilot opened fire. McCarter increased power, the turboprop sweeping down in a long curve that ended only yards above the choppy waters. He leveled out and held the aircraft on the same course.

“Pretty good,” Manning said over the speaker. “But what about next time?”

“Bloody hell, you’re never satisfied. Where is he, anyway?”

“Can’t see him at the moment. No, wait a minute. Coming in from your side.”

McCarter turned to look out the cockpit window and spotted the dark shape of the MiG leveling out and coming in for the kill. He thought quickly, well aware that evasive action against the jet was not going to keep them out of trouble much longer.

“Okay, chum, try this,” the Briton muttered as he hauled back on the stick, kicking on the rudder and bringing the plane around in a turn that set it on a direct course for the hurtling jet. He hammered the throttles wide open and trimmed the controls to get the best speed he could.

“Oh, shit,” he heard Manning breathe through the speaker.

The Canadian’s exclamation brought a chuckle to McCarter’s lips.

“Exactly what I thought,” he said.

The seconds flashed by. McCarter held his course, aiming straight for the MiG. He knew that the North Korean pilot might decide to fire anyway. Might even loose off a missile. But at the close range the MiG might easily run into the spinning debris and bring himself down.

“Make your play, sunshine,” McCarter said evenly.

The MiG suddenly broke, flashing off to the side, vanishing from McCarter’s field of vision.

“That,” Manning said, “was daring.”

“Bloody mad.”

“You are loco,” Encizo said.

“That’s what it says in my job description. Right next to where it says I’m a clever bugger and prone to being inspired.”

“Inspire something else then,” Manning suggested.

“How about conjuring up a pair of South Korean F-16s?”

They all watched two F-16s burn the air as they streaked in to confront the MiG, which held out for a time before breaking away and heading back toward North Korean territory. The F-16s fell in alongside the An-26 and one of the pilots broke in on McCarter’s com set.

“Please stay with us, gentlemen, and we will escort you in.”

“Thanks, mate,” McCarter acknowledged. “I was running out of ideas.”

The South Korean pilot laughed.

“From what I saw, you were doing fine. I wasn’t sure whether you really needed us.”

“Oh, we needed you, pal. Your timing was spot-on. And don’t let anyone tell you different.”

Stony Man Farm, Virginia

“BEFORE YOU ASK, we don’t have a damn thing,” Aaron Kurtzman said.

“Phoenix has dropped off the map. If they’re in North Korean territory, we’re going to be hard-put getting any fix on them.”

“I’ll save my breath, then,” Hal Brognola said.

The big Fed crossed the Computer Room to stand in front of the main wall screen as if he were going to receive some kind of cerebral message that would answer his silent questions.

“All this damn technology and we can’t locate our own people.”

“How do you think it makes me feel?” Kurtzman growled.

Brognola turned to look at the man in the wheelchair. He knew Kurtzman had been at his station without a break since the China incident. He had refused to give in, relentlessly working at his keyboard and utilizing every sliver of his computer genius. This time it hadn’t worked. Kurtzman looked tired. It showed in his face, his movements and his responses. The man was only awake through sheer stubbornness.

“Okay, listen up,” Brognola announced to the entire room. “Being the big boss of this facility, as you are always telling me, gives me certain policy-making rights none of you can refuse to accept.” He waited as his words sank in. “At least you don’t disagree. So I’m making an executive decision here and now.

“You,” he said, pointing at Kurtzman, “are relieved of your position and won’t get it back until you’ve had at least twelve hours’ sleep. This is nonnegotiable and you aren’t allowed to protest. If you do, that coffeepot goes out the window and we get a new one.”

“That’s hitting below the belt,” Carmen Delahunt murmured as she glanced across at Barbara Price.

“I can do worse than that,” Brognola said, throwing a withering glance in Price’s direction, daring her to put up any kind of protest.

“Hate to think what that might be,” Akira Tokaido said.

Brognola lowered his eyes to the CD player Tokaido always carried with him.

“I’d keep quiet,” Huntington Wethers suggested.

“You still here?” Brognola snapped at Kurtzman.

Kurtzman held up his hands in surrender. “Just leaving.”

He spun his wheelchair and made for the door. No one spoke until he had gone.

“Okay, you know what to do,” Brognola said. “Do it. If Aaron shows his face before his twelve hours are up, call in Buck Greene and have him taken back to his room.”

“That wasn’t a joke, was it?” Wethers asked.

“No, I mean every word. Look, I understand how you might feel I’ve overreacted. Give me the benefit of the doubt. I’ve been watching Aaron, and the man is exhausted. If he wasn’t sitting in that chair, he’d fall down. If he works himself into the ground, he’s no good to me or the job.”

Brognola had attempted to make his decision one that had been based on his concern over Kurtzman’s work. He’d failed. The cyberteam looked beyond his tough words to Brognola’s genuine feelings for Kurtzman.

“We understand, Hal,” Delahunt said.

Without another word, the team turned back to their workstations.

Brognola and Price moved across the room.

“Military Command in South Korea is on alert for anything they can pick up from over the border,” Price told the big Fed. “The word has come down from the President that we have a team in the north. He’s told Military Command to cooperate with us all the way down the line. I have a contact there. Major Chuck Yosarian.”

“Let’s hope it’s enough. Anything from Able in Hong Kong?”

Price shook her head. “Nothing since their last call. It looks as if they’ve come up against hard times. They know as much as we do. David’s team was taken by Kim Yeo and went off the chart.”

“Damn.” Brognola ran a hand through his hair. “Nothing worse than no contact. Yeah, I know it’s happened before. That doesn’t make it any easier. I hate standing around with my di—” Brognola grinned self-consciously. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to…”

Price smiled. “Don’t go all coy on me, Hal. I know how you feel.”

“Any feedback from Gadgets and Jack?”

“They’re running traces on Gardener, Justin and the CIA guy, Rod McAdam. High-profile individuals like Gardener and Justin aren’t easy to get to without them being aware.”

“Call coming through for you, Barb,” Delahunt said, holding a phone in her hand.

Price crossed the room and took the handset. She listened for a moment, then smiled. “That’s great news, Major. We’ll wait for them to contact us. And thanks again.”

Price replaced the phone.

“Well?” Brognola asked.

“Phoenix is being escorted into South Korean territory as we speak. That was Yosarian. Apparently his communication team picked up a radio call coming from an unknown source. Turned out to be Phoenix asking for backup. They were airborne but being threatened by a North Korean MiG. There was a South Korean patrol already in the air on routine patrol. They rendezvoused within minutes and the North Korean backed off.”

“We need to talk to Phoenix once they’re on the ground,” Brognola said. “Debrief for both sides.”

“Major Yosarian is setting that up now. He’ll have a secure connection ready as soon as they touch down.”

“Apparently the South Korean pilots were singing the praises of the pilot in the plane they escorted. Just before they made contact they saw him evade the MiG’s attack. Twice.”

“David,” Brognola said without a trace of surprise in his voice.

“Our man McCarter.” Price smiled at the thought of the Briton facing off a well-armed jet fighter. “And I’ll bet he never even broke a sweat.”

MCCARTER’S CALL came just under two hours later. He didn’t waste time being polite. Just got down to the facts.

“Henry Lee is dead. But to even the score, so are Kim Yeo and the bloody North Korean who sold Khariza his weapons. The really bad news, and this is going to piss everyone off, is that Sun Yang Ho sent off Khariza’s main cargo just after we arrived. According to Kim Yeo we have three nuclear devices en route to Khariza. Just to add to the problem, we don’t have any ID on the plane or where it’s heading.”

Price took in a sharp breath, unsure how to respond.

The rest of the cyberteam paused in its tasks as McCarter’s pronouncement reached them over the speakers.

Hal Brognola felt in his pockets for a cigar. He didn’t find one.

“I’m bringing you back, and Able from Hong Kong. We need to get together on this, David. Airlift as soon as I can arrange it.”

“We’ll be ready. Right now I’m off for a meal and then I’m getting my head down. Talk to you later, mate.”

Brognola cut the connection and glanced across at Price. “Travel arrangements for both teams.”

She nodded and reached for a phone. The big Fed turned to face the rest of the team.

“You all heard that. Let’s see what we can pick up. Use all your contacts. Anything and everything. Let’s see if we can pinpoint that camp in Chechnya.”

“What about Gadgets and Jack?” Price asked, punching in phone numbers.

“Leave them. The more I think about it, the more I get a funny feeling about Gardener, Justin and this CIA guy. Let’s see what their muddying the waters brings up.”

Washington, D.C.

“THAT WENT WELL,” Jack Grimaldi said.

They were in the car that was parked on the street just beyond Senator Ralph Justin’s town house. Earlier in the day they had paid an unannounced visit to the senator’s office, doing a little probing and pushing with Justin’s staff. The senator had walked in during their visit and had reacted just as they’d expected. Showing up at his house later in the day was just putting additional pressure on the man.

Hermann “Gadgets” Schwarz loosened the tie he had been forced to wear along with his suit as part of his role as a Justice Department agent.

“I didn’t think that manservant was going to allow us inside. That guy was so stiff he was ready to fold in the middle.”

Grimaldi started the car and eased away from the curb. “You think Justin was fooled?”

“Hard to say, but I think we rattled him asking questions about his relationship with General Chase Gardener.”

“Just enough of a suggestion that concerns had been raised in certain quarters. Nothing specific. Hints and rumors, but enough to get him interested.”

“All we were doing was following up as protocol demanded,” Schwarz confirmed.

“He didn’t take it too kindly when you told him we couldn’t divulge any information Justice had on file.”

Schwarz took out his cell phone and contacted the Farm.

“Our friendly senator got a little frosty. I got the feeling he didn’t like being spoken to by a pair of lowly Justice agents,” he told Brognola. “My guess is he’ll be talking to Gardener as soon as he can get in touch. Which is just what we wanted.”

“What next?”

“We figure a little desert air is in order. A trip out to Arizona and Leverton.”

“The town near Gardener’s base?” the big Fed suggested.

“Fort Leverton, home to Gardener’s command. We’ll do a little prowling around. See if there’s anything to stir up.”

“Stay sharp,” Brognola warned. “If there is something going on, Gardener won’t be such a soft mark if he gets wind you’re checking him out.”

“What’s he going to do? Court-martial us?”

“Arizona. Big, lonely place. Lots of sand and desert. Easy to get lost out there. Accident or design.”

“Come on, Hal, stop dressing it up. Tell us what you really mean.”

“Call in when you get there,” Brognola directed.

“Will do.”

Grimaldi glanced at Schwarz as he put his phone away, noticing the faint smile edging his partner’s lips.

“Something funny?”

“Only Hal telling us to be careful.”

“He say that?”

“Not in so many words. That’s the funny part.”

Neither man spotted the plain, light-colored car that fell in line with the traffic and trailed them out of Washington. It followed them all the way to the commercial airstrip where a twin-engined Beechcraft sat waiting for them. The pilot was ready to go. He had his flight plan already filed, and the minute his passengers were settled, he spoke to the control tower and taxied out to the runway.

Razan Khariza’s Camp, Chechnya

RAZAN KHARIZA had completed his prayers and as he returned from the small, bare room he used for his devotions, he picked up excited sounds from outside the stone house. The door opened and Wafiq stood there.

They have a prisoner,” Abdul said. “Dushinov has a prisoner.”

Khariza followed Wafiq outside, pulling on his thick leather coat against the damp chill. He saw Zoltan Dushinov drag a bound figure from the rear of a battered pickup and throw it to the stony ground. When Dushinov looked up and saw Khariza, he raised a hand to beckon the Iraqi to join him, a satisfied smile on his bearded face.

“Didn’t I tell you they were looking for you?” Dushinov said. “Now you see I was right.”

“I believed you before, Zoltan. Why would I not?”

Dushinov dismissed the words with a shrug.

“This one was found trying to locate the camp. He had a guide. Some local from one of the villages. My men dealt with him. When the villagers find him and see what my men did, they will think twice before selling us out next time.”

Khariza reached the pickup and stood over the bloody, huddled figure on the ground. His clothing was torn and filthy. His feet were bare where someone had taken his boots and socks. His arms had been pulled behind him and tied high up his back with a length of rope taken around his neck.

“Who is he?”

Dushinov reached down and caught hold of the man’s hair, using it to pull him to his knees. The man’s face turned up, eyes meeting Khariza’s. He had already undergone a severe beating. His skin was heavily bruised and bloody. There was a deep gash across one cheek, bone gleaming white through the blood.

“He is an American,” Dushinov said loudly so that everyone could hear. “One of our enemies to be feared. Look at him, my brothers. Look at him and tremble. This is the great enemy who is going to conquer us all. Are you afraid?”

There was a raised yell of defiance from the gathered men. They moved to stare at the man on the ground, gesturing with their weapons and voicing their contempt.

“Here is your American, Razan. I give him to you as a gift. If you ask he may tell you why he is looking for you.”

“Take him inside,” Khariza ordered.

The American was dragged to his feet and taken to one of the buildings. Khariza followed slowly, his mind busy with questions he wanted to ask the prisoner. He wished he had Barak with him. The man had the skill to pull information from anyone. He was patient, thorough and dedicated to his work. And he was extremely loyal to Khariza. But now he was on Zehlivic’s motor vessel, Petra, somewhere off the North African coast where he was dealing with a matter allied to a Mossad agent named Sharon. The Israeli had been part of the group that had intercepted the team inserted into Israel as part of the strike against the nuclear plant at Dimona. The advance team had been killed, the plane on its way to carry out the attack intercepted and brought down.

The mission to destroy Dimona had been important—planned to demoralize the Israelis—and its loss was a definite blow. Khariza had taken the news badly at first but had pushed aside his disappointment, especially in front of his people. He had to remain strong and to show that defeats had to be borne with strength. Later, alone, he had reviewed the way his plans were going. The strike at Bucklow had achieved its purpose: a significant blow against the Americans. An added disappointment had come with the news that the second MOAB had been retaken by an American strike team and Khariza’s men defeated.

Khariza, in his solitary room, had sat facing the blank wall. His mind alive with thought. So many things he was dealing with; ongoing plans, logistics, financial matters. The dealing and bargaining to obtain the Massive Ordnance Air Burst and allied equipment he needed. The endless conversations with his people who were located in many different places. There was a great deal to maintain. So many people to keep updated and at one with their faith. For some, the smallest loss became almost total defeat. Khariza had had to employ his skills as an orator to allay their fears. Persuading, promising, soothing, he became all things to all men, and it was only when he was alone that he found himself questioning and calming his own deep, inner fears.

It wasn’t that he was ready to surrender, to call off the campaign that stretched across the Middle East and all the way to the American mainland. Khariza was, if nothing, a man at ease with himself and his objectives. His cause was just. He was doing it for God and for Iraq. Secretly, almost with a little embarrassment, he admitted that he was also doing it in part for himself. Since the capture of Iraq’s ex-president, Saddam Hussein, there had been a leadership vacuum. The current structure wasn’t proving fully successful. The diversity of tribal culture, of in-fighting and mistrust between interested groups, had led to a continual atmosphere of hostility. The random acts of violence perpetrated by insurgent groups, the destruction and killing, went on. Khariza had seen all this and the opportunity for someone to step in a take the country back—by force if necessary. He saw himself as that man. The prize was worth the risk.

Stakes were high, of course, so the need for grand gestures and hard action had become the only way. Khariza had no problems with that. The danger held no fear for him. He had lived most of his adult life on the edge, using his power and influence as tools to further his position. He knew and accepted the risks. There was a part of him that kept urging him to accept his fate. To acknowledge that he, Razan Khariza, was the man to step into the void left by Hussein. The former president of Iraq wasn’t going to return. His time was over and if the country was to have a new leader it needed someone with the strength of purpose and the will to do whatever became necessary, no matter how drastic.

Khariza believed he had those qualities. He also had the means to boost his credibility, namely the vast amounts of money that had been banked during the Hussein regime. Those funds were now under his control, and they gave him the buying power to gather what he wanted. He already had his three nuclear devices, and as long as they remained in his hands his bargaining was unbeatable. The nuclear gamble, if it paid off, could push him to the top. If it failed and he was pressured into actually using the bombs, Khariza was prepared to take that final extra step. He would deny the country to the enemy, even if it did exact his life as the ultimate price. He was aware of the obstacles in his way. The struggle that lay ahead made him pause, but only for a short time. If he lacked faith in himself, how could he expect others to follow and stay the course? He pushed aside thoughts of defeat and concentrated on the matters at hand.

Entering the building where the American had been taken, Khariza made his way to the room used as a cell and closed the door. The prisoner had been pushed against the far wall. He held himself as straight as was possible, restricted by the ropes binding his arms. Khariza crossed the room to stand in front of the man.

“What agency do you work for?”

The man remained silent.

“CIA? One of the other American agencies? Perhaps you are military? On a covert assignment for the Pentagon? We both know you have to be working for someone. You did not come here on a vacation. So why not tell me and let us get this over with. Cooperate, and I may even let you live. Force me to kill you and we will never know if I might have spared you. As admirable as your resistance is, how would your death profit me?”

“I guess we’ll have to find out,” the prisoner said.

Khariza gave a slight nod of his head, turning aside so that the two Chechens had room to confront the captive. They used their fists and feet, beating the prisoner until he was unable to stand, then continued when he lay on the floor. Finally they stepped back and allowed Khariza to resume his questioning. The American lay in a pool of his own blood, barely able to raise his head when Khariza squatted in front of him.

“It only begins here,” he said. “If you persist, I will allow these men to continue and in the end you will tell me everything I want to know. No man can resist torture forever. I know this because I have conducted such sessions many times. In the end you will tell your most secret things. You will betray all your friends and your country because it will be the only way to end your suffering. If I ask, you will even betray your mother and offer me your wife just so it stops. Think about this, because the next time I turn these men on you there will be no end to it.”

The American focused his gaze on Khariza’s face. He worked his jaw painfully, finding it difficult to speak because it had been pushed out of its sockets.

“I know…about the bombs…we’ll stop you…I passed on the details…people know…”

Khariza barely managed to hold himself back from striking the American. He stared at the beaten figure on the dirty floor, lying in his own blood, and felt anger rage through him. He exhaled forcibly, pushing himself upright. He pointed at the iron ring set in the wall.

“Bind him to that ring. I want him on his feet. Keep him alive but make certain he is uncomfortable. Do what you need to make him speak. I will come back later.”

Khariza turned to leave the room. Behind him he could hear the American moan as he was dragged to his feet. The Iraqi stepped outside, turned his face to the sky and breathed in cold air.

Was it true? Had the agent found out about the nuclear devices? If so, where had his information come from? Someone within Khariza’s own organization perhaps?

More problems to add to those already plaguing him. Khariza shook his head.

What had he done to deserve such punishment? Was this God’s way of testing his faith?

He though about his final strike. The single, most powerful statement Khariza could make. It was to be the make-or-break operation in his bid to regain control over Iraq. If it failed—if he failed—then what followed wouldn’t only resolve many matters, but would reduce Baghdad and areas of Iraq to a wasteland.

It was to be the final word.

If he, Razan Khariza, was pushed to the limit, his retaliation would echo throughout the region. No, it would be heard all around the world, and America would be left with the bloody destruction of a nation on its hands.

DUSHINOV GLANCED up as Khariza entered the stone house being used as their headquarters. The Chechen rebel watched as Khariza crossed to join him by the log fire burning in the open hearth.

“Drink?” Dushinov asked.

He raised the bottle of locally brewed alcohol. Khariza helped himself to a mug of the dark tea brewing in a smoke-blackened pot. Dushinov, grinning, added some of the alcohol.

“So?”

Khariza drank before he spoke. “He hasn’t said anything yet except for…”

“Except for?”

“He claims to know about the nuclear devices.”

Dushinov grunted. He took a long swallow from the bottle. “Interesting. If he does, you need to consider who led him to this information.”

“That has already crossed my mind. I will contact my people and have them do some checking. Maybe we have a traitor in our ranks.”

“Do you think this American knows what you intend to do with the bombs?”

Khariza shrugged. “I do not know. But we will find out.”

“It will help to pass the time.”

The Iraqi stared into the flames, his attention wandering for a time. Dushinov sat, drinking, watching the man and wondering what was going through Khariza’s mind.

“You have one irritating fault, my friend,” he finally said.

“That is?”

“You think too much. It’s a mistake to keep going over everything. Create your plan, decide how to make it work, carry it through. Simple. It works for me. Once I make my decision, I send it off and sit down to have a drink. You should try it.”

The door opened and Abdul Wafiq entered. He spotted Khariza and went to stand beside him.

“We have had a communication from our people back home. They are asking when the next shipment of weapons is going to arrive.”

“Tell them to contact the Syrian base. I had confirmation the weapons were delivered two days ago. We have to be careful. The Americans are concentrating on the border area heavily now. There are patrols. Air surveillance. We have to alter the routes and will only be able to move small consignments for the present.”

“They have asked about air-drops. I told them that would be difficult with the Americans and British maintaining patrols.”

“I understand their frustration, Abdul, but we have to proceed with caution. We are not in a position to mount a large-scale assault. Our brothers must understand this. Impatience will not serve us in the long run. As long as we continue our isolated attacks, we will still achieve results. Over time, even the Americans will begin to feel the pain we cause. With all their might and their superior firepower they cannot defeat a mobile hit-and-run force. We can deliver telling punishment and be gone before they can find us. Remember this. We are fighting on our own ground. We know the country well, better than they ever will. We have a thousand places to hide. We have support. And we have the will to continue as long as it takes.”

Wafiq turned to leave.

“Wait. One more thing. We may have an informer in our group. This American appears to have some knowledge about the nuclear devices. Have an investigation carried out, but make certain it is done carefully. Use only those people you can trust fully. If there is a traitor, it will do no good to alert him. You understand?”

Wafiq nodded and left.

“I must go to the training area to see how the volunteers are coming along,” Khariza said, voicing his thoughts.

“It won’t do any harm,” Dushinov agreed. “Tell them they are important to the cause. That they are going to make a valuable contribution.”

“They are helping to shape Iraq’s future.”

“That sounds a little cynical considering your final solution. It’s not as if they know about that.” Dushinov raised his bottle, teeth showing in a wide smile. “But tell them how important they are anyway.”

“Be honest, Zoltan. Am I being rash? Going too far with this nuclear blackmail? Will it even work?”

“My mistake was not putting enough of this in your tea,” Dushinov said, waving the bottle in Khariza’s face. “Here, have some more.” The rebel leader topped up Khariza’s mug.

“We live in changing times,” he continued. “To achieve what we desire means taking chances. Ignoring all the rules and challenging the way things are. We can’t do that without drastic measures. If we sit around and bleat like mangy goats, nothing will change. Only we can do that. If it takes a nuclear bomb to make the Americans realize they will never be masters of Iraq, then so be it, my friend.”

“Would you do such a thing?”

“If it was guaranteed to piss off the Russians, I would press the button myself. Ah, listen to me, Razan. In the end you have only yourself to satisfy. I love my country as you love Iraq. The last thing I would want would be the Americans tramping all over it. Telling me what to do. All they want is to get their hands on the oilfields. Under their control. To put Iraq under their boots and bleed the country dry. They don’t care about Iraqi freedom, only U.S. wealth and power. Deny them their oil and see how long they stay then.”

KHARIZA’S INSTRUCTOR was a broad, giant of a man called Bertran. He was a mercenary. French-born, he had served in Algeria, but now sold his expertise for a price. A high price because he was good. Khariza had used the man before, in Iraq, to train his own combat squads. Bertran didn’t care about religion or politics. He liked his work and the rewards it brought.

He was putting the group through their paces when Khariza arrived. When he recognized his visitor, Bertran put one of the men in charge and made his way over to where Khariza was climbing from the battered Toyota pickup.

“How are they doing?”

Bertran glanced back at the group. “When they leave here they will know everything there is to know about the AK-47, how to set explosives, the best way to kill a man without making a noise. What I can’t give them is experience.”

“We all have to go through our first taste of combat. Didn’t you?”

“I was born ready for it,” Bertran said, smiling. “Razan, this is not going to be an easy campaign. You understand what you are going to be facing?”

“And what is that?”

“The most powerful military machine the world has ever known. From a country with so much wealth and material it can sustain this for years.”

“And yet they are unable to defeat my people. We use small strikes. Here and there. We worry at them like a small dog nipping their heels and running away before they can respond. Bertran, my friend, what good are a hundred battle tanks and an electronic airforce against a car packed with explosives driven into a building? Or an innocent-looking young woman walking into a crowd with explosives beneath her clothing?”

“You make it sound so easy.”

Khariza shook his head. “Nothing of worth comes easily. This is a war that cannot be won by usual tactics. It is intended to wear down the Americans. I will hit them in Iraq. Anywhere around the world American interests are vulnerable. They are easy targets. And most of all, I will hit them on their own soil. These warriors you are training will be my army. I will send them wherever they are needed to carry out the struggle. Here and at home, the American government is going to have to live with the bitter taste left by its foul actions against us. We will see how long the American people and their allies are prepared to suffer as we have suffered.”

A chill wind blew in from the north, coming off the timbered peaks and sweeping in over the high cliffs and down into the isolated valley. It brought with it the smell of rain. Khariza huddled into his thick coat.

“We need to step up our attacks. When can you have people ready?”

“Give me two more days with this group and you can ship them out. Razan, are you all right?”

“Why do you ask?”

“You look tired. Take time to rest or you’ll not be able to think straight.”

“It would be pleasant. But there is so much to do, and I need to be in Syria now that my delivery from North Korea has arrived.”

“Your special cargo? Do I get to know what it is? Or should I keep my nose out?”

“When the time comes, Bertran, you will be told. I promise.”

“Good enough. Now, let me get back to see if they have remembered everything I’ve told them.”

“I will talk to them before I leave.”

Khariza stood and watched Bertran return to the group, taking back his command. His raised voice drifted across the rocky landscape. The wind was increasing, tugging at the canvas of the tents where the group was housed when they were not training. It pulled at Khariza’s coat. The first cold drops of rain stung his face and he raised it to the sky. The clouds, heavy and dark, were moving in across the valley.

Razan Khariza saw them as a warning.

There was a storm coming and when it arrived they would all feel its destructive power.