with one hand, holding his M-16 with the other. He took a final look at each of his men, then suddenly ripped the curtain off the front of the baptistry so hard it came completely off the rings that had held it in place along the top of the window.
H AL B ROGNOLA was a well-known face to the Secret Service agents stationed at the White House. So when he walked purposefully through the final metal detector and sent a loud buzzing down the hall, all he got from the men in the dark suits were nods of acknowledgment.
Brognola nodded back as he strode toward the open door to the Oval Office. Stepping inside, he saw that the chair behind the huge desk was empty. But that wasn’t unusual.
So he turned to his left.
Few Americans knew it, but the Oval Office was used primarily for news briefings and meetings with foreign dignitaries. It was a show office. Most of the papers the President reviewed and signed, as well as the rest of the actual work he did, was conducted in a much smaller, more businesslike room next door. And it was from this door that Brognola heard the familiar voice say, “In here, Hal.”
Brognola crossed the freshly vacuumed carpet and entered the work office. The Man was seated at one end of a long leather couch with stacks of paper arranged next to him.
When the President pointed toward the other end of the couch, Brognola dropped down beside the stacked papers. He wore two hats in the U.S. government. To the public, he was a high-ranking official within the U.S. Department of Justice. But behind the scenes, he was also the Director of Sensitive Operations for Stony Man Farm.
Today, however, he had no doubt which role the President would be expecting him to assume. Had the Man simply had Justice Department business on his mind, he’d have conducted it over the phone.
“I guess I don’t have to tell you about the situation at the Iraq-Iran border,” the President began.
Brognola shook his head. “I haven’t seen a news tape replayed so many times since Rodney King,” he said.
“You realize what the Iranian president is trying to do, I’m sure,” the Man said.
“Sure,” Brognola said. “They’re trying to suck us into another Iraq. Crossing the border and killing and kidnapping American noncombatants was an act of war. Clean and simple. They’re daring us to invade Iran.”
The President nodded. “Exactly,” he affirmed. “Right now, the sympathy of the rest of the world is with us.”
Brognola grunted sarcastically. “That won’t last. Particularly if we start bombing Tehran.”
“You know, I know and Iran knows that we can kick their butts nine ways to Sunday if we want to,” the President said. “But unless we nuke them out of existence, we’ll have to send in more troops to keep order, and it won’t work any better there than it has in Iraq.”
“Or Vietnam or Korea,” Brognola agreed.
“Right,” the Man said. “It’s pretty much all or nothing. We’d have to just forget about civilian casualties altogether and wipe them out. Or sit back and do nothing for years like we did when the Shah went down.” He paused a moment, then said, “But there is a third possibility. A surgical strike that frees the hostages but doesn’t do much, if any, collateral damage. It’s slim, but at least it has a chance.”
Brognola knew what was coming and remained silent.
“Where’s Bolan at the moment?” the Man asked.
“Haven’t heard from him in several days,” Brognola said. “He’s tied up with some things in Bosnia right now.”
“Able Team and Phoenix Force?” the President asked.
“Able Team’s in Oklahoma,” Brognola said.
“Ah, yes.” The President nodded. “The church situation. I understand it’s Iranian-backed terrorists there, too?”
“Maybe yes, maybe no,” Brognola said seriously. “There’s a rumor going around the intel agencies that the men who took over the church are Iranian Revolutionary Guardsmen. Pasdarans, complete with their red neckerchiefs.”
“And Phoenix Force?” the President asked.
“McCarter and his boys are catching a few hours of well-deserved sleep after that affair in South Africa. But I can have them up and ready within the hour.”
The phone on the desk suddenly rang.
“Get that, will you, Hal?” the President said. “Put it on speakerphone.”
“Certainly, sir.” Brognola rose to his feet, took two steps to the desk and pressed the intercom button on the phone.
“Nan, I told you to hold all of my calls while Mr. Brognola was here,” the President said somewhat testily.
His tone didn’t seem to have any effect on his receptionist. “I know,” the voice on the other end of the line said confidently. “But you’ll want this one.”
“Who is it?” the Man asked.
“Javid Azria,” Nan answered.
The President looked at Brognola.
Brognola looked back.
“Put him on,” the Man directed.
A click sounded over the speakerphone and a moment later an Iranian-accented voice said, “Mr. President?”
“Yes, Mr. President?” the Man said back.
Brognola stood where he was, waiting.
“In addition to the church in that cowboy state of yours,” the voice said pompously over the speakerphone, “the third suicide bomber I sent to Israel has just eliminated close to four hundred infidels by detonating himself in one of the decadent Western-inspired night clubs in Tel Aviv.”
The President remained cool. “I hadn’t even heard of the first two yet,” he said, glancing at Brognola. “They must not have been very big.”
The voice that responded turned angry. “They were big enough,” it growled. “Exactly the size I wanted them to be.”
Brognola sat silently. He was listening to one of the biggest egos he’d ever encountered in his long career.
“And, Allah willing, there are far bigger things to come,” said the Iranian president.
“Are you declaring war on the United States, Mr. Azria?” the Man asked, using the Iranian president’s name for the first time.
But the leader of the free world got no response.
All he and Hal Brognola heard was a click as the line went dead.
T HE BAPTISTRY WINDOW was only wide enough to allow three men at a time to crawl through it. And as Hooks, Langford and Schwarz launched themselves upward out of the water, Lyons and Blancanales helped shove them onto the stage.
Counting
