“Arab separatists blew up some banks, government buildings, a shopping center. Thirty or so people died.”
“Sounds serious.”
“There were some demonstrations and stone throwing, until the Iranians moved in and quashed it brutally. Naturally, they blamed us. Claimed the terrorists had been trained and armed by the CIA.”
“Were they?” Crocker asked.
Smith shrugged, which Crocker interpreted as an admission. That explained a couple of things, including why Smith wasn’t cleared to go into Iran. He was probably a marked man because of his participation in earlier operations.
He had one last question before he boarded the helicopter. “By any chance did this Ramin guy work with the Arabs who set off the bombs in 2006?”
“No,” Smith said. “Don’t worry. He’s a hundred percent Persian through and through.”
Persians are difficult people, Crocker said to himself as he strapped in and the bird lifted off. He’d worked with Iranians before, with mixed results. The ones he had dealt with were prideful in the extreme, suspicious of foreigners, and arrogant.
Their pilot was a Hispanic guy from San Antonio with a big smile and a bum right leg injured during a crash landing in southern Afghanistan. He warned them to expect turbulence due to warm wind blowing in from the east.
“Throw it at us,” Ritchie said. “We’re used to bumps.”
The copter skimmed in low over the desert. Outside all Crocker saw were hills of sand and rock. Banking slightly left, they passed over a patch of green and a small house with camels tied up to a post.
“Five minutes!” the pilot shouted over his shoulder.
They flew over more shacks, then a four-lane highway with a few headlights. Crocker felt adrenaline pumping into his bloodstream. He grabbed his pack and his Kashtan, held up two fingers, then slid the helicopter door open. Across from him Mancini and Akil nodded to signal their understanding.
Through the doorway he saw two tall smokestacks ahead. Below was a field of shipping containers, parked trucks, and piles of metal. The helicopter banked sharply right.
“Where the hell are you going?” Crocker shouted at the pilot.
“I’m trying to locate the green laser.”
The helo circled once, but they saw no green laser. The pilot shouted, “I’m going to circle one more time, then I’ve got to pull out.”
“Fuck that!” Crocker shouted back. “Let us out.”
“Here?”
“Here is fine. Hover so we can drop a rope.”
“But my orders say—”
“Fuck the orders. We’re getting out. You can blame it on me.”
Crocker threw out the rope. Ritchie slid down first, followed by Mancini, Akil, and himself. As he touched the ground he went into a crouch, his weapon cocked and ready. Seeing a large shipping container twenty feet away, he signaled to his men to seek cover behind it.
By the time he reached it, the helicopter had become a fading dark blot in the sky. He wiped the dust off his face, cleared his nostrils of sand.
“What now?” Ritchie asked.
“We wait for this Ramin guy.”
They hadn’t even started, and already things were wrong. Twenty minutes passed. Then Akil saw a pair of headlights flash twice in a parking lot near the back of the big steel plant.
“What’s that mean?” Ritchie asked.
“Don’t know,” Crocker answered. “You and Manny wait here. Akil, come with me.”
They ran in a wide circle around the edge of the yard to the side of the plant, then hugged the dirty brick wall to the back of an old BMW.
“The motor’s running,” Akil whispered. “I see three people inside. The driver’s-side window is open.”
“Stay here and cover me,” Crocker whispered back. With the Kashtan in his right hand, he ran to the dark garagelike building in front of them, went into a crouch, and scurried to the driver’s window.
Crocker heard Middle Eastern music and someone singing along to the bouncy melody. He took a quick breath, came up, and pressed the barrel of the Kashtan against the side of the driver’s head.
The man lurched forward so hard his chest hit the steering wheel.
Crocker said, “Shut your mouths and put your hands over your heads!”
The man in front and the man and woman in the backseat complied immediately. He saw what he thought was a high-powered military pointer pen on the brown leather passenger seat.
“Is one of you named Ramin Kian?” he asked.
“That’s me,” the driver said. His hair was short and gray. He had a square, bony face and looked older than Crocker had expected.
“I’m Mansfield,” Crocker said. “Behind me is my colleague Jerid. What happened to the green laser?”