Kilo Option, page 21
“He’s not capable.”
“If he says he can do it, I believe him. He is a capable man. He’s been aboard all night. Plenty of time to prepare some nasty surprise for us.”
“An infidel!”
Zahedi turned and studied the submarine at the end of the quay. “Yes, an infidel.”
“Death to—”
“No,” Zahedi interrupted, turning back to the mullah. “There are other plans, Your Excellency. Let SAVAK deal with him and you may continue your excellent work administering to the needs of this installation.”
“Are you suggesting that we meet his demands, and contact the American Interests section in Tehran?”
“No need for it,” Zahedi replied. “He radioed his demands to you.”
“I don’t understand.”
“He didn’t use shore-link telephone. He used a radio frequency that his agency regularly monitors. They know by now where he is and what is happening here.”
The mullah looked stunned.
“This is my job now, Your Excellency. I’ll handle it.”
Earlier the periscope had raised two meters out of its shaft, and it was presumed that Lane was watching them. Zahedi grabbed a walkie-talkie, stepped away from the hastily erected sandbag barrier, and, keeping his hands in plain sight, walked alone down the dock.
Fifty meters from the submarine, the periscope turned toward him. He stopped and raised the walkie-talkie. “Bill Lane, can you hear me?”
“Yes,” Lane’s reply came immediately.
“I’m Colonel Amin Zahedi. I was sent from Tehran to bring you back to the airport where you and Lieutenant Commander Shipley and the others on the UN team are to be deported.”
“Come aboard. We’ll discuss it.”
“As you wish.”
Zahedi walked the rest of the way to the submarine, jumped aboard, and entered the boat through the conning tower hatch left slightly ajar.
“Lock it,” Lane instructed once Zahedi was inside.
He complied, then climbed down into the control room. Lane, dressed in a crewman’s coveralls, short boots on his feet, was seated at the chart table, a .45-caliber pistol from the boat’s weapons locker on the table within easy reach. A bandage covered the gash on his cheek.
“You gave us all a merry chase, Mr. Lane. One for which the base commander would like to see your head on a pike.”
“Who sent you?” Lane asked directly.
The identity of SAVAK’s director was a closely guarded secret in Iran. “General Sultaneh,” Zahedi said without hesitation. “He and Thomas Roswell spoke about you at some length. It was extraordinary.”
“You said the UN team is to be deported. Why?”
“They have been arrested and charged with espionage. May I sit down?”
“No.”
“It seems as if everyone knows that we have submarines, that we do not have nuclear missiles aboard them, and that Saddam Hussein ordered the attack on us to steal one of our boats and use it under cover of our flag to attack Israel. Fanciful, but deadly if his plan had succeeded.” Zahedi shrugged. “You’re a spy, but the secrets we were trying to guard are no longer secret. Detaining you, and the others, and putting you on trial would result in nothing but sanctions against us.”
“What else?”
“We want our submarine back, and you gone from Iran.”
Lane smiled tiredly. “I’m supposed to lay down my weapons and walk out of here with you, that right? Nothing will happen to me, except that I’ll get booted out of the country?”
“Something like that,” Zahedi answered.
“From the airport at Tehran?”
Zahedi looked at his watch. “A flight leaves at eight this morning. Gives us just enough time to chopper you up there.”
“No,” Lane said. “One of our aircraft from Kuwait City will be sent to Tehran within the hour to pick up the UN delegation.”
“Impossible.”
“When I have confirmation that they are safely out of Iran, a helicopter from the guided-missile cruiser Mississippi, which at this moment is less than one hundred miles from here, will come to pick me up.”
“Such incursions into our airspace will not be allowed.”
“I suggest you try for it, Colonel.” Lane motioned toward the bank of radio equipment on the forward bulkhead. One of the transmit lights glowed. “Everything we’ve said here has been transmitted. My people are monitoring this channel.”
Zahedi had to smile. The infidel was good. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“I’ll be here,” Lane said.
TEHRAN
Yernin watched from the second-floor window of his apartment off Nfl Lsht Street around the corner from the Russian embassy as Sorokin got out of his car and came in. There was something about the way the portly man moved, the set of his shoulders, his bowed head, that was bothersome.
Something had gone wrong, and the instant Sorokin appeared in the doorway Yernin knew that it was bad. He worked to control his temper.
“Lane isn’t coming back here,” he said. He took a miniature tape recorder from his jacket pocket and clicked it on.
“One of our aircraft from Kuwait City will be sent to Tehran within the hour to pick up the UN delegation.”
“Impossible.”
“When I have confirmation that they are safely out of Iran, a helicopter from the guided-missile cruiser Mississippi, which at this moment is less than one hundred miles from here, will come to pick me up.”
“Who is the man speaking with Lane?”
“Colonel Amin Zahedi. SAVAK. He’ll get what he wants. Lane is definitely leaving Iran this morning, but not through Tehran.”
“I will go to Kuwait City.”
“I have the shooters. Shall we go after Commander Shipley and the others?”
Yernin looked at him and shook his head. “Your excellent work on this mission is completed, Aleksandr Nikolaevich. We shall have no further contact.”
“Very well, Colonel,” Sorokin said with relief. “I am happy that I was able to be of some assistance.”
Yernin turned away, and after an awkward moment Sorokin let himself out.
28
BANDAR-É EMN
Lane stood braced against the periscope column as Colonel Zahedi came down the quay. The SAVAK colonel carried a walkie-talkie and a bundle of clothing.
The soldiers had been moved out of the submarine docking cavern ten minutes ago. Since then there’d been no activity until Zahedi’s radioed message that he was on his way back.
Forty-five minutes earlier, Lane had spoken briefly with Frances aboard a navy VC-10 Gulfstream jet which had just cleared Iranian airspace and was minutes away from touching down at Kuwait’s International Airport.
He heard the strain in her voice, but she assured him that all was well, and wished him good luck.
He turned away from the periscope and took a microphone down from the overhead. “Mississippi, this is Lane. Copy?”
“Lane, this is Navy zero-one-six-zero, inbound your position. What’s your situation?”
“I’m still aboard the sub. What’s your ETA and where will you set down?”
“We’re about twelve minutes out. We’re touching down right above you on the roof. We’re a LAMPS II Seasprite.”
“If I’m not in sight when you come in, don’t land. Turn around and get the hell out of there. Copy?”
“Yes, sir, we copy,” the navy helicopter pilot replied. He sounded young. “But we’ve been ordered to extract you at whatever costs. The Mississippi is standing by. Her weapons radars have your position illuminated.”
“Mr. Lane will be in position on time, and you will be unchallenged,” Zahedi’s voice broke in.
“Who’s on this frequency?” the pilot demanded.
“SAVAK,” Lane replied. “Do whatever you need to do.”
“Roger.”
Lane replaced the mike, then went up into the sail and undogged the hatch.
Zahedi came aboard and tossed the bundle of clothes on the weapons plot table. He was glaring.
“We’re not going to start a war over you, Mr. Lane. You’re not that important to us.”
“That’s nice to hear,” Lane said. “Put the radio down, turn around, put your hands above your head on the bulkhead, and spread your legs.”
Zahedi complied. Lane stuffed the pistol in the belt of his coveralls and quickly frisked the SAVAK colonel. The man was unarmed.
“I suggest you hurry if you want to make your rendezvous.”
“Stay there,” Lane said. He laid the gun on the weapons plot table, took off the boots and coveralls, and quickly got dressed in his own, dark clothing. His wallet and other personal things were there, as was the Beretta and spare magazine.
“Are you ready?” Zahedi asked.
“So far you’ve done everything right, Colonel. But you’re going to be a very dead man at the slightest hint of trouble.”
Zahedi looked Lane in the eye, and nodded. “Don’t come back to Iran. Next time the advantage will be mine.”
“You’re not a mullah, and unless I miss my guess you were educated outside of Iran. So how do you swallow all of this?”
“Is that what you want? To get into a religious debate with me?” Zahedi asked angrily.
“Next time,” Lane said.
Zahedi shook his head. “There won’t be a next time if I can help it.” He motioned toward the hatch above.
“After you.”
Zahedi climbed up the ladder and ducked through the hatch. He moved several feet away so that Lane wouldn’t feel crowded.
“We have seven minutes,” he said.
Lane remained in the protection of the submarine’s superstructure for a half-minute. The cavern was well lit, but there were deep shadows everywhere. A hundred marksmen could be hidden and he wouldn’t see them.
But like the man said, they weren’t going to war over him.
“Okay,” he said.
Zahedi jumped down to the finger pier first, and Lane came directly after him, narrowing the gap between them to an arm’s length before they reached the quay.
“We’ll take the weapons loading elevator to the ground floor, and then the stairs to the roof,” Zahedi said. “The route is being guarded but no one will interfere with us unless you make a stupid move.”
They headed down the quay and Lane thought he might have spotted one or two marksmen up in the catwalks, but he wasn’t sure. In any event it wouldn’t matter. If they wanted to stop him, there was nothing he could do.
The big freight elevator was open and waiting when they reached the end of the quay. At the top they took a broad corridor to the stairway, pairs of armed soldiers stationed at intervals of thirty or forty feet.
Two stories up, a steel door opened onto the roof of the administration building. The helicopter landing area was on the west side, away from the communications antennae. Lane took the walkie-talkie from the Iranian.
“Navy zero-one-six-zero, this is Lane. I’m on the roof.”
“Stand by, we’re two minutes out.”
“Roger.”
“Is it so important that we don’t have an atomic bomb?” Zahedi asked.
“Very,” Lane replied. It was tough to pick out the helicopter’s navlights against the rising sun and the backdrop of the oil platforms out to sea. But he spotted the red and white lights moving fast and low across the water.
“Doesn’t Iran have the same rights as other nations? France? China? Russia?” Zahedi demanded.
“Your government supports terrorists.”
“It is a means of defense—”
“Bullshit, pal. Terrorism against innocent people is no defense against anything. It’s plain and simply mindless violence.”
“Like Hiroshima or Nagasaki?”
Lane studied the man. “You’re better educated than that. You can come up with something a little more original. Or maybe I’ve misjudged you after all.”
“Heathen.”
“The word is infidel,” Lane shot back. “Are you aware that more people have been killed in the name of religion in the past two thousand years than for any other single principle? Or don’t you care? Don’t you people read your own Koran, which preaches nonviolence?”
“Don’t presume to teach me my faith.”
“Faith my ass. I’ll bet you a hundred to one that you’re a nonbeliever.”
They could hear the incoming helicopter now.
Zahedi glanced out to sea. “If I see you in Iran again I will kill you.” He looked at Lane as if to memorize his face, then turned and walked away.
“We have you spotted,” the chopper pilot radioed.
“Roger, Navy. You’re clear as far as I can tell,” Lane answered.
He watched Zahedi go back into the building. He had a feeling that he’d be seeing the SAVAK colonel again, sooner or later. Probably sooner.
A half-minute later the Kaman SH-2F LAMPS helicopter touched down with a tremendous roar in a flurry of dust. Lane scrambled aboard and the chopper lifted off with a sickening lurch, swooped to the right, and dove for the water, the pilot firewalling the throttle to make all possible speed.
FAILAKA ISLAND OFF THE COAST OF KUWAIT
The safe house was on the site of a fourth-century B.C. Greek garrison of Alexander the Great’s. The two-story building itself had housed the island’s administrator and his family before the first Gulf War. After the second war it had been abandoned, although the eight-mile-by-three-mile island was Kuwait’s most important archaeological site, and parts of it were still visited. Since the destruction of the second Gulf War was greater than that of the first, Kuwait was putting all of its rebuilding efforts into the necessities of here and now. The past would be taken care of later.
The emir, Sheikh Jabir al-Ahmad as-Sabah, and his family owed the United States a large debt of gratitude. So the island had been used as a forward listening post and radar site, as well as a small emergency air force base. Those facilities were closed now, but if trouble were to come again, they could be up and fully operational with units from nearby Saudi Arabia within six hours.
Security around the island was provided by patrol boats and surveillance units from the Mississippi or whatever other US cruisers, battleships, or aircraft carriers were on patrol in the northern Gulf. And there was always at least one major US flag vessel in the region.
The chopper that had come for Lane had flown weapons-light with extra fuel tanks to give the 445-nautical-mile machine an extra margin of safety. It touched down fifty yards from the safe house a few minutes before ten in the morning. Already the sun was heating up the desert island for what promised to be a beautiful, cloudless day.
“Thanks for the lift,” Lane shouted up to the pilot.
“Glad to oblige, sir,” the young man replied with a grin. He gave Lane the thumbs-up sign, lifted off, and headed back to his ship in the Gulf.
Lane watched, shading his eyes against the glare, until the chopper was out of sight. When he turned, Hughes was there, a lopsided grin on his pudgy face.
“Moira and the girls have been beside themselves with worry, William.”
Lane grinned tiredly. “Sharing state secrets with your family, Tommy?”
“Don’t have to. They’re mind readers. Are you all right?”
“I’ve been better, but I suspect I’ll live.”
“Good. It’ll save a lot of bothersome paperwork if you do.”
They headed up to the house, which sat on a low rise overlooking the open Gulf to the east. A fair wind was blowing, and whitecaps marched steadily into the bay below.
“Frances is here,” Hughes said.
“How is she?”
“Mad as hell, but she wanted to stick around to see you. We sent Captain Reilly back with the others.” Hughes eyed his friend shrewdly. “Is there something going on between Frances and Reilly, or was it just my imagination?”
“I think they’re friends. Why?”
“He wanted her to return with him. They got into a row over it, but the lady was adamant.”
“Has she contacted her own people yet?”
“No. She insisted on seeing you first. Something we should know about, William? Because we’ve got plenty for you to chew on.”
“Let’s wait so I only have to tell it once,” Lane said.
29
FAILAKA ISLAND SAFE HOUSE
Inside the front hall they were met by two security guards, one of them an American from the National Security Agency, but the other a Kuwaiti from the Special Palace Guard, which was the emirate’s secret police.
“Are you armed, Mr. Lane?” the tall, heavyset American asked politely.
“Two automatics. One the CIA supplied me with, and the other I lifted from an Iranian submarine.”
“If you’ll just leave them here, I’ll take care of them, sir.”
“Sure.” Lane turned over the weapons and the two men moved off. He glanced up to the head of the stairs.
Two other guards, one of them big and bulky, the other small and dark, probably another Kuwaiti, were watching. They were armed with Mac-10 compact submachine guns. Whatever was going on here was no mere debriefing.
Hughes followed his gaze. “Security’s tight. Roswell’s people insisted on it.”
“Did he come over with you?”
Hughes nodded. “He and Frances are waiting for us in the library. But we’ll get you something to eat first. They’ll understand.”
“Who else is here?” Lane asked.
“Just the guards.”
“Who else knows that Roswell came to talk to me?”
“Only the president and Bill Townsend.”
“Short list, Tommy.”
Hughes looked uncomfortable. “I’ll let him tell you about it.”
Lane studied his friend’s face. “No problem, kemo sabe. I’ll eat later.”
“Shit,” Hughes said.
Lane and Hughes went back to the huge, palatially appointed Arabic library where NSA Director Thomas Roswell and Frances waited.
“Hello, Bill,” Roswell said. “We’re happy to have you back in one piece. Are you all right?”
