‘Two kilometres in that direction, I believe.’
Strelkov balled his fists, his knuckles turning white. ‘Where is the nearest landline?’
‘Back there, in my office.’
‘Is it secure?’
‘It is a telephone in my secure office.’
‘That is not what I meant!’ Strelkov snapped, turned on his heels, and went back inside. He picked up the desk phone and was about to make a call when he noticed that Kishiev was still in the room, standing between the two guards. ‘Take that outside and wait.’
The room empty, Strelkov lifted the handset to make a call to Moscow but then hesitated. Moscow was almost sixteen hundred kilometres away and two hours behind Sol-Iletsk. He checked his wristwatch; it was almost a quarter to seven, which meant it would be a quarter to five in the morning in his Director’s Moscow mansion. Strelkov sighed, shook his head, and called his chief, Director Nevsky, on his mobile phone. It rang out to voicemail. Strelkov ended the call and immediately redialled. This time it was answered on the fourth ring by a slumber-thickened voice. Strelkov took a breath and explained what he had been told by the Chechen.
Several more time zones away at the headquarters of the NSA in Fort Meade, an analyst grabbed hold of his desk to stop himself falling from his chair. The Echelon system had picked up a phone call to a flagged and secure number, but, unusually, the caller was using an unsecured landline. This was surprising, but what was explosive were the keywords it had picked up on: Al-Qaeda… nuclear device… detonate… Western city… Hand of Allah…
Mashhad, Iran
At the town of Herat, the group of six Holy Warriors were met without incident by their Iranian smuggler. A man well known to the guards on both sides of the border, he received his orders from an Egyptian, who since October 2001 had lived in Iran, immune to US attacks, and continued to serve as head of Al-Qaeda’s security committee. The truck was used officially for cross-border trade, and unofficially to funnel foreign fighters through Iran. The relationship between Al-Qaeda and Iran was a complicated one, but one that for the moment favoured Mohammed Tariq and his team. At the Iranian border they were waved through after a perfunctory check while other potential Afghani migrants were hauled from trucks and beaten. Those who attempted to make a run for it were shot. Unlike the ‘soft’ borders of the EU, the Iranian guards were authorised to use lethal force to protect their beloved country from any undesirable visitors.
Tariq tried to settle his mind. In the semi-darkness of the truck he peered at his five men, all of whom had taken his advice and succumbed to sleep. He, however, could not. Although their route into, through, and out of Iran had been specifically selected by the late Sheik and the management council, Tariq couldn’t get rid of the feeling that at any moment they might be ambushed by the Iranian Revolutionary Guard. However, he didn’t let his fears show when his men were conscious; he was the leader of a holy mission and, as such, had to remain resolute about their chances of success. He stroked the case as though it were a pet, oblivious to the potential oblivion its contents could bring. Eventually, fatigue triumphed over fear and he fell into a fitful sleep only to be awoken what felt like minutes later by the truck’s tyres crunching loudly on gravel.
In front of him, Reza Khan was the first to react; he sat up with a start and reached for his knife. By the time the back of the truck had been opened all six men were awake and alert. The driver informed them that they had arrived in the holy town of Mashhad. They hopped down to find themselves in the courtyard of a large villa. Above, the sky was a piercing blue and a slight breeze lightened the midday heat. This was the residence of Yassin al-Suri, the Al-Qaeda facilitator who, granted some leeway by Tehran, was permitted to operate discreetly within the country. This included collecting money from donors, to be transferred to Al-Qaeda’s leadership in Pakistan, and facilitating the travel of recruits from the Gulf States to Pakistan and Afghanistan. Dressed in a grey, tailored suit, with neatly cropped hair that, if longer, would be curly, al-Suri resembled a banker not a terrorist. Yet he was both. He was one of only three men to know the true nature of the case Tariq carried. Any more would lead to security leaks and the mission being compromised. He was on hand to personally oversee their operation and grease palms. This was the highest-risk Al-Qaeda operation in history, surpassing even the New York attacks, for not only the infidels but the Iranians, too, would give anything to possess the device Tariq carried. ‘Welcome, brothers!’ Al-Suri held his arms wide to encompass the villa behind as he greeted them.
Tariq kissed al-Suri on both cheeks and introduced his team: Reza Khan, Sharib Quyeum, Ashgollah Ahmadi, Lall Mohammad, and Abdul Shinare. All of them were proven fighters, devotees to the cause, and resourceful. ‘Is everything in place?’
The edges of al-Suri’s mouth curled up. ‘Everything. Now let us eat. Tomorrow you shall continue on your path to martyrdom.’
‘Insha’Allah.’
‘Yes, my brother, Insha’Allah.’ Al-Suri’s eyes wandered to the case. ‘Is that it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can I hold it?’
‘No.’
‘Good. Do not let it out of your sight and do not let anyone take it from you. Now let us all go inside. You must wash and then eat.’
Tariq beckoned to his men. ‘Come.’
New York, USA
‘This is most irregular.’ Dr Litvin glared at Needham and Beck, arms folded defiantly.
Needham shrugged as though he had no choice in the matter. ‘I understand, Doctor, but it’s in the best interests of national security that Mr East be moved to a secure facility.’
‘This is against my medical opinion. There are further tests that need to be carried out.’
‘Rest assured they will be, Doctor. Our medical staff consists entirely of experienced specialists.’
‘Really?’ His nose had been put out of joint. ‘What is the name of the medical institution he’s being transferred to?’
‘I can’t reveal that, for reasons of national security, but he’ll be well cared for.’
‘Mr East, what is it that you want? Do you agree to be transferred?’
Gorodetski looked from one man to the other. ‘I think it is best that I do go with them. Yes.’
Litvin shook his head slowly. ‘Very well. Mr East, you have made a swift recovery thus far, but I warn you, head injuries are a very delicate area. Certain symptoms may be delayed in their onset for days after the time of injury. You may start to experience problems concentrating, have memory lapses, become irritable, unable to sleep, or be hypersensitive to light and noise. You mustn’t overexert yourself, and if you start to suffer from any of these symptoms you must immediately report this. Do I make myself clear?’
Gorodetski nodded and was rewarded with a jolt of pain behind his eyes.
‘Goodbye then, or as we say in Russian: Dasvidaniya.’ Litvin held out his hand.
Gorodetski
