Primary Target (1999) (7 page)

An hour and a half ahead of them in another Air Force VIP jet, Hartwell Prost and Greg O'Donnell were going over the details of the rescue mission. They would be back in Washington, D
. C
., before Scott and Jackie arrived at Dallas--Fort Worth International.

Scott was finishing the report Jackie had written about Maritza Gunzelman's surveillance activities. Setting the confidential report aside, he reached for Maritza's dossier. From the variety of photographs of Gunzelman wearing different disguises in different settings, it was easy to see how she could blend into almost any environment.

Maritza could pass for Spanish, Mexican, Portuguese, Egyptian, Indian, Italian, or a native of the Gulf region. Dressed in a solid black chador with her arms and legs hidden, hair and forehead concealed by scarves, she looked amazingly like the archetypal Islamic woman.

She was well versed in the Muslim religion and spok
e
several Persian dialects, including Farsi. Covered in traditional Islamic garb and espousing fierce opposition to the Israeli occupation of southern Lebanon, Maritza had methodically worked her way close to the senior Hezbollah activists operating in the Bekaa Valley.

Scott read a little further, then paused and leaned closer to Jackie. "How did she manage to break through--to actually become a member of the Islamic Jihad?"

"It wasn't easy," Jackie answered with considerable satisfaction. "She gained the attention of the militants by preaching day and night about exterminating the infidels and making Islam the sole religion on earth. She even spent entire days chanting outside the compound about the fury and breadth of Islam's revenge."

Scott shook his head. "Incredible."

Jackie smiled to herself. "Slowly they began to trust her, including Bassam Shakhar. After she was invited to join the terrorist group, Shakhar personally challenged Maritza to prove her loyalty by murdering a man charged with being a heretic."

"That sounds like Shakhar," Dalton quietly commented, his expression unchanged. "Welcome to the psycho ward." Jackie paused and made eye contact with Scott. "She carried out the execution flawlessly."

Scott avoided stating an opinion.

"That solidified her acceptance by the group, and Shakhar invited her to move into the compound."

Scott was about to reply when the aircraft commander stepped out of the cockpit to give them an update on the weather situation in the Dallas-Fort Worth area. The present conditions were reasonable, but the weather was expected to deteriorate as a powerful line of thunderstorms neared the metroplex. The pilot explained that they would be descending soon, then excused himself and turned to speak with the pilots who had flown the leg from Andrews Air Force Base to Elmendorf AFB.

"Interesting," Scott said as he handed the report and dossier back to Jackie. "She's a gutsy woman."

"She's one of the best," Sullivan said as the command pilot returned to the cockpit. "Like any good actress, she thoroughly prepares for the part she's going to play."

"Tell me again," Scott inquired with idle curiosity, "what caused them to become suspicious of her?"

"It's only a guess, but I think someone may have heard Maritza speaking English when she was ostensibly being interviewed by Ed Hockaday. That's the only logical thing I can think of."

"They probably bugged the room."

"Well, that may be the case, but it's academic now. The day after Eddy visited with Maritza, Shakhar told her that she wouldn't be allowed to leave the compound until certain issues were resolved. He said it was for her own safety and protection."

"What issues?"

"He didn't say--still hasn't, as far as we've heard." Scott searched Jackie's face. "What about Hockaday?', "What about him?"

"He could be a double agent."

Surprised by the blunt statement, she gave him a look of skepticism. "If he is--which I don't believe is the case--he has more guts than brains." She gave Scott a hard look. "Before you start tossing out insinuations or accusations, you should do your homework."

"That's good advice," Scott said evenly, and changed the subject. "How do you communicate with Maritza?" "Satellite-phone."

"You're kidding," he protested in mild disbelief. "She just whips out her sat-phone and calls you from a Hezbollah stronghold."

"Not exactly. Maritza has a matchbook-size experimental phone. It slips into a recess in her clothes and rests on her right shoulder. If she's outside, or near a window, she can push a small button, then turn her head and speak softly into the microphone."

"Can you contact her?"

"Yes, but obviously the phone doesn't ring." Jackie smiled.

"Yeah, that could cause some problems."

"It vibrates."

"How often does she contact you?"

"Before they became suspicious of her, she would send us very short messages once or twice a week. She called a
t
random times and left brief messages on a designated line in our office. We have some basic info about Shakhar's plans, but the details of his assault on us were just beginning to gel a few days before Eddy's interview with Shakhar."

Scott's uneasiness grew as he considered Maritza's predicament. "If they catch her or even suspect ..."

"I know," she said with a dismissive shrug. "Since Shakhar and his followers have become suspicious, she's only been able to contact us twice in the past three weeks. The last message--less than seven seconds long--was a clear plea for help. She has a lot of crucial information and wants out of there as quickly as possible."

Scott didn't underestimate the odds of rescuing Maritza. "Will you risk contacting her by voice to let her know when we're coming to get her?"

"You bet," she said firmly. "Once we commit ourselves, all of us have to know exactly what's happening. We'll make contact with Maritza twenty-four hours before we go in to get her. I'll brief her on exactly what we're going to be doing."

Scott fell silent for a moment, then spoke quietly. "You realize this extraction is going to be next to impossible." "Well," she said under her breath, "that depends on how you define impossible. I wouldn't be here, and you wouldn't either, if you didn't think it was possible."

Scott nodded, then changed course. "What do you know about the compound? How well is it guarded?"

"Ed Hockaday can give you more detail than I can, but the place is surrounded by a high steel fence, and it's heavily guarded on all sides. The buildings are constructed of low-grade concrete blocks, and very crude by our standards. There isn't any way to gain access to the compound, except from the air."

Jackie hesitated as her mouth curved in a warm smile. "That's--of course--why I asked for your help."

Scott gazed at the clouds, then turned to Jackie. "I suppose Hartwell gave you my bio?"

"Yes." She smiled. "And I'm not into parachuting into confined areas in the middle of the night."

He studied her expression, sensing a bond of trust developing between them. "That's good, because I'm not into flying helicopters."

"That's probably a wise decision," Jackie said matter-of-factly, and raised an eyebrow. "How did you manage to get permission to go through the Army's HALO School?"

The High Altitude, Low Opening School is designed to train Special Operations forces to infiltrate enemy lines by air without being detected.

"The Agency arranged it." Scott chuckled. "You know, one of those 'career enhancement' opportunities."

"Does O'Donnell fly all your drops?"

"Every one," Scott declared with obvious pride in his voice. "When I was shot down during Desert Storm, Greg kept the Iraqis off me until a rescue helo arrived."

"Yes, I've read about your exploits together."

The look in his eyes was both serious and sincere. "He's one of the best pilots--maybe the best--I've ever seen." "Second to you, of course," Jackie suggested in a faint taunt.

Scott managed to keep his ego just below the surface. "Actually, you're right." He smiled broadly.

"I thought so," she said, then turned toward the window to keep the smirk from showing.

With a slight reduction of power from the twin Rolls-Royce fanjets, the C-37A began a shallow descent toward DFW.

Turning back, she leaned close to Scott's ear and spoke in a low, cultured voice. "Have you done much sailing lately?" For a stunned second Scott was speechless while he tried in vain to hide his embarrassment. "I was hoping you'd forgotten about that," he said with a sheepish grin.

"No," she replied, smiling sweetly. "In fact, I remember every detail about the evening, and the invitation."

Scott took in a slow breath. "Look, Jackie, I apologize for not calling you, but I was in the mid--"

"Let me guess," she interrupted with a cool smile. "You lost my name and phone number, right?"

"It's the truth," Scott said with a straight face that involuntarily turned into a smile. "How can I convince you it's true?"

"You can't, so don't even try," she said with conviction
,
then abruptly changed the subject. "Do you think you can pull this off?"

"I thought this was a dual effort," Scott challenged.

"It is," she murmured with strained politeness. "But you're the mission commander."

In mock seriousness, Scott turned to Jackie. "Are you one of those 'I have to be equal to men' types?"

"Not even close," Jackie said evenly. "It's been my observation that women who aspire to be equal to men," she said with a touch of sarcasm, "lack ambition."

"Touche."

Chapter
7

Coral Gables, Florida
.

Massoud Ramazani finished his short conversation with Khaliq Farkas and placed the portable phone on hi
s
kitchen table. The reception from the Cessna Citation's newly installed Flitefone had been exceptionally clear. Farkas was ahead of schedule and the next step in their ambitious plan to assassinate the president and bring down U
. S
. airliners was unfolding nicely.

The deadline for the Americans to start their military withdrawal had just expired without any movement on behalf of the United States. Now the foolish president and his naive countrymen were about to receive a message they weren't likely to forget. The stage was set for Shakhar's rebellion against the tahajom-e farangi, America's cultural aggression. Outwardly a mild-mannered college professor with no strong views on the trouble spot known as the Middle East, Massoud Ramazani was leading a double life. In his heart, he lived for the day when the complete destruction of the state of Israel, the "Little Satan" as he referred to the close ally of the Americans, would be complete.

When not on campus, Ramazani spent most of his spare time educating himself on the weaknesses in the capability of the U
. S
. to deal with international terrorism. In addition to his surveillance activities, he and Farkas had establishe
d
several terrorist footholds within ethnic communities in Atlanta, Dallas, Kansas City, Houston, Los Angeles, New York City, San Diego, Seattle, and Chicago.

After organizing the new "religious charity" arms of Islamic Jihad, Ramazani and Farkas had used a war chest of over $24 million to establish a base of operations to support terrorist attacks throughout America, including Alaska and the Hawaiian Islands. Bassam Shakhar had spared no expense in his efforts to build the foundation for an all-out assault on the "capital of global arrogance," and the arrogant U
. S
. president. Ramazani and Farkas would play key roles in the attacks. The first step in the aggressive scheme would be to change America's course from the new world order to complete disorder.

After five years of teaching economics at the University of Miami, the undeclared war between the U
. S
. and Iran had spelled the end of Ramazani's facade. At the behest of Bassam Shakhar, the soft-spoken, thirty-four-year-old, Oxford-and Yale-trained Ph
. D
. would be resigning from his teaching post to devote his full efforts to the goals of Islamic Jihad. The time had arrived for Ramazani to exploit the weaknesses he had so carefully and patiently studied.

Well traveled and sophisticated in the ways of the Western world, Ramazani would assume his new duties as the number-two man in the expanding terrorist organization. Working in conjunction with Khaliq Farkas, Ramazani would concentrate on wreaking havoc on American citizens and assassinating their president.

In addition to his primary objectives, Ramazani would be in charge of sixty-three special action cells that had been filtering into the U
. S
. during the previous five months. The nearly bald economist would be trading his conservative coat and tie for the expensive business suits favored by the sheikhs from Saudi Arabia. Ramazani's new persona would be that of a wealthy prince who enjoyed socializing with his American friends.

He would be relocating to his new base of operations in the Florida Keys. Complete with a helicopter and a refurbished 126-foot motoryacht, the luxurious estate on a private island reflected the type of accommodations a young sheikh would expect. If he handled his role carefully, no one woul
d
suspect that the friendly man from the oil sheikhdom of Saudi Arabia was in fact a highly educated Iranian terrorist--a terrorist with a deep feeling of resentment toward the United States. Ramazani's father had been a passenger on Iranian Air Flight 655 when the U
. S
. Navy mistakenly shot down the airliner.