TRIAL BY TERRORISM A novel By David A. Chodack CHAPTER ONE WASHINGTON DC NOVEMBER 21, 1998 2:30 PM A light snow had started, so Jake Steiner turned on his windshield wipers and then looked in his rearview mirror again. There she was, the young woman in the blue Mazda, three cars back. Not very good at surveillance, not bad looking, but a few years too old to be really interesting, just annoying and persistent, always there over the last three days even though he had nothing going on that anyone would be interested in. Unless she was the sister or mother of some girl he had slept with ….. The light changed and Jake already had his foot off the brake and ready to hit the gas when a man darted across the street at the last second, almost as if he had deliberately waited for the light to change before stepping off the curb. Jake hit the brakes. "Stupid son of a bit ----- Christie!!" It was him, the hair color and the mustache were new, but the walk, the presence, it  was Christie ……. Here in Washington on Jake's home turf. Jake pulled over to the curb, shut the engine and grabbed his gun, but by the time he was out of the car, Christie -- if it was really him - was already across the street and had disappeared, probably into Rock Creek Park. Jake ran across the street, dodging cars and then ran into the park but there was still no sign of Christie -- or anyone else - on the paths and finally he gave up and went back to the car. To his pleasant surprise, it was still there and so was the Mazda, parked a few spaces up the street. Jake decided to go home and think before he took any further action. ROCK CREEK PARK NOVEMBER 21, 1998 2:45 PM Christie kept going across country, without taking to the trails until he was satisfied that there was no one behind him and then, when he had gotten to the place he had locked in his memory, he reached inside his coat and took out the nine milimeter and checked it once again, then the .357 in the back of his waistband. He added the silencer to the nine milimeter and put it in his outside pocket. Then he entered the trail and began walking like any other casual stroller. In a minute or so, he heard footsteps, echoing in the still, cold air. When Christie turned the corner, there was a man coming towards him, favoring his left leg ever so slightly. He was an older man, at least in his 60's, with a neatly trimmed mustache and goatee. He was dressed in  an expensively tailored suit and  dark topcoat, with American style wing tip shoes and leather gloves to match. He strolled along casually, moving with an air of relaxed confidence, barely using his silver headed walking stick, in spite of the obvious stiffness in his left leg. All Christie's senses were alert now. There was  no sign of anything out of the ordinary, but Christie just waited and watched. He watched carefully as the man with the limp   stopped walking for a moment, and put down the expensive-looking  leather attache case he carried in his right hand. The man took  a cigarette  from a gold case and lit it with a matching lighter.  2:47 exactly, according to Christie's watch. When at last he was satisfied that the man with the limp was alone,  Christie started walking slowly, his free hand in his pocket, comfortingly close to the gun. In the Winter stillness, he could hear his own footsteps echoing. "Excuse me ... have you a light you can spare?" Christie let the unlit cigarette dangle between his lips. "A thousand points of light to banish the darkness."  The gold lighter flared in Christie's face, making him step back a pace. "Well then,"  Christie said as he let the smoke out in a dense cloud, "I imagine we'll be lighting up the darkness -- and the telly screens hereabouts  -- soon enough." His accent was  South African, reflecting his homeland for the last several years. "Then I take it everything is arranged and in place." The man with the limp stated it as a fact, not a question. "Of course, Mr. Roland....all except the final cash installments." "As for the final installments, Mister Jorgensen, the man who called himself Roland went on as though he had never been interrupted, "they will be deposited as agreed upon, in Geneva and  Montserrat. "Five million dollars U.S. at the completion of Stage One and another ten million U.S. dollars U.S. at the successful completion of Stage Two. In addition, of course, to the Five million  dollars, plus another five million for expenses you have received already..." "Of course, Monsieur Roland. If I hadn't, there would be no further arrangements to discuss." "There are not Mister Jorgensen. You are supposed to be a professional, someone who can be counted on to do the job. How you do it is not my concern. You have your instructions and you will have all your money as soon as Phase Two is complete, so there should be no further need for us to meet at all. If there should be any reason in the future, I assume that I can reach you in the usual way....?" "Whatever you say ..... Mr. Roland." Christie shrugged. "She'll know how to reach me. If you change your mind." "Yes. I'm sure she will know how to reach you. So I bid you good day. And," the man with the limp smiled as he looked Christie up and down, "May I advise you to be careful making your way through the park. It can be a very dangerous place. Even in the day time like this. "In fact, perhaps you had better take these with you." He held out a book of matches, and pressed them into Christie's hand. "The next stranger you stop to ask for a light may not be just a harmless old man. And those guns  you're carrying may not be enough to protect you." Then the man with the limp picked up his attache case and resumed walking in the same direction he had been going. Christie waited until he was sure that the  man with the limp was  gone, that he was really alone again. When he was satisfied, he turned and then went back the way he had come. He stopped  along the way to bury the blonde wig and blue contact lenses in a small hole he dug in the dirt, under a bush. The ground was frozen and hard, so he did not bother digging very deeply, just enough to cover them up and make them hard to find. His hair and eyes were darker now without them and he looked younger. His walk was different too, a little stiffer and less relaxed. He retraced his steps through the park, back to the same entrance where he had come in and then turned right. Halfway down the block, a green Jaguar was waiting at the curb with the motor running. He opened the door and slipped into the passenger seat as the car pulled out into traffic. .  The driver was an attractive brunette in her late 20's with long silky hair and longer legs. "Well?" the driver asked "How did it go? Did you meet Mr. Roland?" Christie looked at her and nodded. "Well?" She demanded anxiously. He did not answer right away, but instead sat there blowing on his hands as he soaked up the warmth of the car. There was a time  when cold didn't bother him; especially since he'd grown up with it, the cold and the damp. But he had spent  too many bloody years in the sun of Africa and the Middle and Far East before that. It had changed him, thinned his blood out and made him a damned old woman  when it came to the cold. M. Roland's proposal had come just at the right time. And whoever the hell he was, Roland  knew how to get a gentleman's attention. An anonymous phone call -- to her -- telling her that $1 Million U.S.  had been deposited in a Swiss account. Then the phone call to him, only after he had given her Permission to give out his phone number, giving him the account number and the name of the bank. And there was more to come as various stages of his assignment were completed. $19 million  U.S. more. .........  . "Well, the one thing he's not, is one of you damned bloody Yanks." Christie finally answered. His accent had subtly changed, from South Africa to Southern London. "Tried to Make me believe he was a Yank and nearly pulled it off, but something, a couple of little things, were wrong. "His accent was almost perfect, but not quite, and his eyes were trying too hard not to give anything away. He could be an Arab or an Iranian,  but the chances are he's a Frog," "Well, how did he find out about us? How did he know enough to contact me, to get to you?" "You damned well gave it all away and made it rather easy for him, didn't you Old Love, by letting on you knew me." he said sharply. "Michael......" Her voice was hurt, little girlish. "As for how he found you in the first place...." He ignored the interruption, " Whoever he works for has big plans and access to big money. At least 2 million dollars anyway, so who knows? "It could have been you,  Old Love, that they were watching right from the start, way back in Berlin. But don't worry. It won't matter anyway, once we disappear." "With $2 Million?" She turned her face towards him and her eyes were glowing. She took her right hand off the steering wheel and ran it up and down his cheek. "just you and me .....?" "With $2 million and the rest of our lives to spend together." he said. He slipped a cigarette out of the pack and then lit it with the matches the man who called himself Roland had given him. Carefully, his fingers played with the matchbook until he extracted a tiny slip of paper. "What's that?" she asked as he began to study the paper intently. "Everything we need to collect that $2 million." He answered. "It's all over now, except  the shouting. Frog or not, our friend Roland came through just like he said he would." She took her hand from his cheek and put it back on the steering wheel. She turned away for a second to make sure all was well with the traffic around her and then turned back to look at him again. "It still gives me the creeps that he knew about us." she said, "That he knew about me....about you." She was on the Beltway, now, weaving her way through the traffic as they circled Washington D.C. "Then don't think about it." he said casually. "How can I not think about it?" She was driving more aggressively as she became agitated. "Think about $2 million." Christie said "and beautiful beaches." He began folding his empty cigarette pack into an elaborate pattern of squares and triangles as he spoke "And then, once you're sure it's clear and we're not being followed by Roland or any of his friends, head back to your apartment." He dropped the folded cigarette pack and slipped his hand inside her skirt. "We've got a few hours yet until the fun starts. More than enough time. And after all, who knows Old Love, one never likes to think about things going wrong, but if they do, it could always be our last chance to be together........." He watched her hands stiffen on the steering wheel, felt her body stiffen under his touch. "Just kidding, old love. It's a very routine, simple assignment." His own hand worked inside her skirt again. "One week and it will all be over. Now be a dear and  get us to the apartment safely." The Man Who Called Himself Roland made his way slowly and limpingly out of the park and then walked a couple of blocks in the cold - just long enough to assure himself that he did indeed have a tail - two young men - and to give them adequate time to follow him. Then he dragged his bad leg into a cab and rode to Capitol Hill. He limped through the warmth of the Library of Congress and the House of Representatives office buiklding, where he went up to the second floor, all the way across the building and back down the other side and then down into the Metro station. Once on the Metro he changed trains  -- and  tails - a couple of  times and then exited at Union Station. He walked through the art exhibits for a while, then darted into the Men's room without warning. He urinated and then washed his hands until he was alone in the Men's room and then went into a stall. He set the cover behind the bowl down carefully, then stuck his briefcase behind the toilet where the lid had been and climbed up and crouched on the covered bowl with his knees bunched up and his arms by his sides. His hands were poised and ready and he waited. In less than five minutes, a young man came charging into the Men's room and began kicking in the doors of all the stalls. The Man Who Called Himself Roland Put up his foot to block the kick and keep the door closed. This evidently infuriated the young man, who charged at the door full force with his whole body. He met no resistance this time until he was inside the stall and then the Man Who Called Himself Roland grabbed him by the collar and unleashed his right knee into the young man's face. After that, the Man Who Called Himself Roland mercifully put the young man to sleep for a while and began to change his clothes. Everything he was wearing, from his flamboyant bold blue and gold tie, to his American styled suit and shoes came off and went into the brief case. Replace them, he put on an Italian made shirt and red power tie and an English tailored suit with traditional pin stripes and good quality English shoes. He took off the mustache and goatee and now he looked like any of thousands of faceless bureaucrats and businessmen passing through the station every day. He closed the brief case again and then took the comatose young man's hand and wrapped it firmly around the handle. Then he stepped cautiously out of the stall and walked over to the wash basins. He was no longer limping or favoring  his left leg and he looked at least 10 years younger. He walked confidently to a spot where another young man was standing impatiently, casting frequent glances at the Men's room. He waited until the young man looked away and thedn he slipped up behind him and grabbed him at the back of the neck. The young man stiffened for a moment and then went limp, slumping against the Man Who Called Himself Roland as though he were drunk. A young woman materialized from the crowd and helped prop the young man up from the other  side. "Juan won't be happy about this, Mr. Roland." She said as they duck walked the young man to one of the near by benches where they let him sprawl out as if he were sleeping. "He's not supposed to like it." The Man Who Called Himself Roland did not bother to look at her as he spoke. "It's supposed to teach him a lesson, to mind his own business and his own end of the operation. At least they're still alive and he can use them later if the Police let them go." "But I'll have a lot of explaining to do ….." "You'll handle it. That's what you're well paid for …… to keep our friend Senor Manchito satisfied." The Man Who Called Himself Roland walked away swiftly and boarded the next Metro train. This time he made sure he was not followed and changed trains twice before getting off in suburban Virginia and then getting into a Chevy Cavalier which was waiting in the parking lot. Washington D.C. Saturday November 21, 1998 8:30 PM Christie got up from Ilsa's bed and looked out the window as he got dressed. Her high-rise apartment gave a panoramic view of the skyline and he enjoyed it as he pulled on his clothes. Ilsa lay sleeping peacefully and let her rest, taking not to disturb her as he slipped out the door and made sure that it locked behind him. He walked to his car a couple of blocks away and then drove across town to a quiet street where he parked and then changed cars. He drove the second car to a block of small neat apartment buildings, where he had rented an apartment in the name of Michael Grabowski, an engineer from Poland, here on temporary assignment. He got out of the car and walked to his building and then up to his apartment on the second floor. It was a neat, sparsely furnished one bed room place which no one else knew about, not Elsa, not Monsieur Roland, no one. It was his ultimate hideaway, his alone. He set the alarm and then climbed into bed for a nap, since his experience with Elsa had left him exhausted and he had no idea when he might get a chance to sleep again. At  10 PM precisely, her got up, shut off the alarm and showered, then inspected himself in the mirror. This time he put in dark brown contact lenses and added a dark brown mustache and a pair of wire rim glasses which gave him the look of a Latin American intellectual. He removed the mustache and glasses and put them in his pocket, then he put on an unfashionable cloth overcoat and hat and went outside again. He drove for a few blocks again and when he was satisfied that no one was following him, he parked the car and walked across the street to another one, not the one he had used before, but a black government-issue-type Ford sedan. Retrieved the keys from under a mat beneath the steering wheel and then opened the trunk. He put his cloth coat and hat inside and took out a leather jacket which he put on instead. Then he got back in the car and used the mirror and the interior light to adjust the mustache and the glasses again and when he was satisfied, he drove off. He was stopped at a red light a couple of miles away when Barbara got in the car. She slipped in through the passenger door in front and said nothing as she fastened the seat belt and sat back, her body expanding as she absorbed the warm air of the car and let off the cold of the outside which had made her unconsciously shrivel up and hunch over. Her blonde hair was covered with a dark wig and she was dressed conservatively in a business suit and medium heels with a dark wool overcoat. "What happened to Randy and Brian?" Christie spoke with a Hispanic accent now. To her and the others, he was Juan Manchito, a Latin American revolutionary "Where are they? What happened to them?" "There was …..  an accident. At the railroad station, Juan. Union Station. The old man, he spotted them and ambushed them somehow. Brian followed him into the Men's room and somehow he ambushed Randy while he was waiting outside. I …. I saw it, but there was nothing I could do to help." "You mean you all got sloppy." Christie said angrily. "They are still alive? Where   they are?" "Brian was pretty banged up. Too easily recognizable and Randy was still groggy, but I got them out of there and they're safe from the Police." "But not from me." Christie growled, "I deal with them later." They drove in silence after that until they came to another red light and  two well dressed young men in identical dark suits climbed into the back seat. "We two men short." Christie said as soon as they were inside. Brian and Randy run into trouble with the old man I send them to follow, even though I warn you all he dangerous, so we handle it just the four of us." When they came to the quiet street of big homes and well manicured lawns, he turned into the driveway naturally, without hesitation. He shut the engine off and got out first, accompanied by the two young men. They quickly arranged themselves in the bushes next to the front door as Barbara got slowly out of the car and walked up to the door. She rang the bell and then stood there patiently waiting for the door to open. When it did, a black woman in her 50's was standing there in a maid's uniform, asking what she could do for her at this hour of the night. "I need to speak with Mrs. Marston." She said in an Italian accent. It isa very important. I bringa her a message froma Mrs,. Wheatley." "It's very late." The maid said and Mrs. Marston is not seeing visitors." She started to shut the door, but the young woman was politely insistent. "Mrs. Wheatley shea say it isa urgent." "Well, all right, I'll tell her, but I doubt she'll see you. You just wait here, while I ask her." The maid closed the door and Barbara stood there and waited patiently, while the three men huddled in the bushes. After what seemed an eternity, the door finally opened again and there was Mrs. Marston herself, looking concerned and matronly, but friendly at the same time as she said, "Can I help you? I understand you have a message for me from Margaret Wheatley?" Arlington Virginia Sunday November 22, 1998 12:20 AM Tommy Harlins lit another cigarette and looked at his watch in the flame from the match. Less than five minutes now. He picked up the portable radio to check with the other members of his team. "Comma One to Comma Two" he called out softly. "Less than five minutes to Zero. Please acknowledge." "Comma Two to Comma One." Billy answered from a few cars behind him. Acknowledge less than five minutes to Zero." "Comma One to Comma Three. Less than five minutes to Zero. Please acknowledge." "Comma Three acknowledges less than five minutes to Zero." Joseph's voice rang clear and strong from the other end of the block and Tommy smiled. Now it was time to make final contact with the lead team and then just settle down to wait. "Comma One to Alpha One. Acknowledge please." Shit! Nothing but static! They were on their own. They would just have to go ahead and do their jobs and hope for the best with the other teams. Timing was everything, more important than ever now.  Come on now, Senator …. Any minute now he and his wife should get the phone call …. Their daughter is in trouble … they rush out to their car. It was getting late, what were they waiting for? Tommy sat in the green van by himself, the engine idling while his mind raced. One eye was on his watch and the other one on the rearview mirror. There they fucking were! Walking out of the house to their car parked in the driveway. Yeah come on Senator. "Comma One to Comma Two and Comma Three." Tommy threw the van in gear, but pulled out of his parking space slowly. "Zero!" Behind him in his mirror he could see Billy pull out. He saw the Senator's Buick pull out of the driveway  and fall into line right after Billy and knew that the third car would wait a few seconds, then pull out of his parking space and follow the Senator's car at a discreet  distance. Tommy held his speed, nice and steady, keeping Billy in sight in his rearview mirror, confident that both Billy and  the third car were keeping the Senator in sight. Then suddenly, at the pre-arranged spot, he  threw the van into a spin, forcing Billy into a skid, blocking the Senator's car from the front and forcing it to stop. Then Billy and the others all jumped out of the car, dressed like American Indians, with long braids and war paint and they were blasting away at the Senator's car with automatic rifles and then the guys from the third car - also dressed like Indians - were running and firing at the Senator's car from behind. The weapons were all silenced and so Tommy couldn't really hear it and in the darkness he couldn't see much, but he could picture it all clearly in his mind as he sat there, steady as a rock, with the transmission in drive and the engine running, his foot unmoving on the brake. "You vote against Indian casinos, Senator, you lose the bet! Blam! Blam! His insides were doing flip flops and every nerve in his body was alive, on fire, ready for action as he pictured the Senator slumped across the steering wheel, while his wife sat there next to him, unhurt, but screaming and covered with blood. Then it was over and they were all piling into the van, shedding their braids, wiping the war paint off. Tommy waited until the last man was inside and someone yelled "Let's go!" then he took off, driving steadily, not too fast and not too slow,  trying not to attract anyone's attention. In a few minutes, they came to a commercial garage. It was closed up and dark, but Tommy quickly jumped out, opened the big door and then drove inside, got out again and shut the door behind him. He and the other men quickly shed  their clothes and put on Army uniforms which were piled up waiting for them. Then Tommy opened the door once again and this time, they all drove out in an olive green Army truck with camouflage paint, with Tommy driving and Leon, in Sergeant's stripes, sitting next to him in front. Tommy drove for exactly 10 minutes and then made a right turn into an alley off the main street. When he was half way up the alley he stopped the truck and pulled to the curb. Then he honked the horn. Three times. Four times. Three more times. The men jumped out of the back and deployed around one particular doorway. Billy opened the door and the others followed him down the stairs, guns at the ready. Tommy and Leon drove off and three blocks and two turns later, they turned into another closed and dark commercial garage. Here  they exchanged their uniforms for civilian clothes again and the army truck for a Ford Bronco which they drove back to the alleyway. They got out let themselves in the door with the key and went downstairs to join the others. Tommy Looked at his watch. It was five minutes after One. Jake got back into the warmth of his car and checked the rearview mirror. The blue Mazda was all too real. It was sitting about a half block behind him, just waiting for him to pull out and it followed him as he pulled away from the curb. Jake  tried to get through the rest of the day without thinking about the morning.  He tried to put the Mazda and Christie out of his mind. Jake tried to go about his normal business, but he found that he couldn't concentrate, so he went home. He tried watching TV and when there was nothing on but the usual garbage, he went upstairs to work on one of his model airplanes. He sat there for a couple of hours, lost in sanding and painting, but then he got restless and  went back down to the den to read for a little while. This was one of those times when he was glad he had a large house, even though he supposedly didn't need one. After his divorce almost eight years before, Jake had done the opposite of most divorced men. Instead of moving from a large house to small bachelor quarters, he had moved from the two bedroom condo where he had lived with Susan, to this large, rambling, family-style house where he lived all by himself.  It was his silent acknowledgment that he would never have a family, because he was not the type. And he was also not the type for condos. Or for Susan. Therefore, there was no reason to wait to get the big house he wanted. The house gave him room to roam around in. He filled it with heavy oak and stuffed plush furniture, good, comfortable, man's furniture; the kind he liked, instead of the modern glass and chrome works of art that Susan favored. There was  a room for his books and another one for his model airplanes. Not little plastic models from a kit, like Susan thought they were when he had first told her about his hobby. They weren't mass-produced and designed to sit on a shelf when they were completed. These were  custom built beauties, with wingspans up to seven feet across, powered by gasoline engines and  designed to fly by remote control. He never had time  for them before. Now, he had more than enough time. Normally, he could get engrossed in working on them for hours, sometimes forgetting to eat or sleep when one was going particularly well. But not tonight Yes, it was Jake's house and  everything in it fit him and his personality, but not tonight. No matter what he did, he couldn't feel comfortable, couldn't get his mind clear. He gave up on reading too and just let his mind go, twisting and turning all the possibilities endlessly, over and over again. When he realized that this was getting him nowhere, he decided he would deal with it in the morning. For now, it was time to go out and get laid and Jake knew where that one got him and he was back in the room with his gun on Richard Farley. Jake looked down at the envelope trembling in his hand. "If this is real, then I owe you one, Richard. A big one. But, if it turns out to be a set up, then I will track you down and kill you if it's the last thing I ever do. And, if I don't live long enough, then I'll make sure someone else finds you, sooner or later." Richard Farley nodded to show that he understood. "It's real Jake and  one way or another, you're going to need all the friends you can get." "Either way Richard, I'll be in touch. You can bet on that." Jake said. ISLAMIC REPUBLIC OF IRAN MARCH 1989 Everything  was deathly quiet except for the grunting  of the  pack animals and the normal sounds of the night as  the smuggler's  caravan  slipped across the Turkish  border  and made its way cautiously forward. They had come this far without incident, but everyone was tense  and  alert, with their weapons ready. No  one  spoke, even  after  they reached the pre-arranged rendezvous  point. Instead,  they sat silently and waited, listening  carefully to  the sounds of the night all around them. They heard a soft, warbling sound, like the call of a night  bird and  they stopped and waited. Soon, two men emerged from the shadows and after a few whispered greetings in Turkish,  led them to a house on the outskirts of a nearby village. They quickly unloaded the cargo they had brought and took it  inside,  while  the pack animals were  led  away  to  be watered   and  fed.    The  house  was  bare  of  furniture, decorations,  or  any other sign of habitation,  except  for some carpets on the floor and large pillows scattered around the room for people to lie on. Aside from Irina Kermal, who had insisted on coming  with them  from  Turkey, there were no women or  children  to  be seen,   only a dozen or so heavily armed and serious-looking men,  who  greeted them respectfully and  offered them  food and  drink  after their long journey. Then,  when  they  had finished the ritual of hospitality and had made their guests welcome,  the  men  wasted no more time, but  got  right  to business. Jake  Steiner watched as they worked the radio  equipment and  the automatic weapons, like children enthusing over  the new  toys  they  had  received for Chanukah  or  Christmas, pointing  and jabbering excitedly in Turkish as they  opened the boxes and fingered the weapons lovingly. "They  are  easily  pleased."   Sergei  Dziguli  said  in English. "The weapons excite them." "Yes." Michael Christie observed dryly. "They certainly do seem to enjoy them, as outdated as they are. Deadly toys for even  more  deadly children. Ah, the things one must  do  in  this world to please one's friends and harass one's enemies. As  long  as  they use them only to harass the Iranians  and don't  turn  them  on  us  in  the  future,  it  will  be  a worthwhile, inexpensive investment, I suppose." "To  you,  is  all  a  game. But  here,   weapons   are  the difference between life and  death." Irina Kermal,  the  one woman  among them, said sharply. She was speaking in English as  they did,  her   olive   skin turning red with passion.  "Without the guns,   our   people  cannot protect  themselves  and  their livelihood. For you, it is all what do you call  it  The  Big Game, so you do for us what you do for the Kurds. "You come  here, stir  up the people against the Persians now,  because  that is in  your interests  today.  Tomorrow, you  make friends with them again and then you leave to   go cause  your trouble elsewhere when your leaders decide  they are  mad  at someone else." she  looked at Jake Steiner  and then at Sergei Dziguli and finally at Michael Christie while she spoke, her dark, beautiful eyes flashing hot and bright.. "But for us, this is our life, our land,  our people.  On both sides of the border. And when you leave, the fight will go  on for us, just like always and the weapons will be  all we have." As Jake listened to her,  a  feeling of sadness, guilt and even shame, came over him. He looked  away  from  her and he caught    Dziguli  looking  away  too,   as    they     each acknowledged  silently that she was speaking  the  truth,  a truth  neither of them was proud of. Irina Kermal was right. She and her people were just pawns in  a  larger  game  of global politics. The  Cold  War  was slowly,   if  unofficially,  fading  as  the  major   powers reluctantly  began  to acknowledge what  many  professionals like  Jake had felt for a long time, that some of the  newly emerging Third World countries were the real threat to world  peace.  And so, the  Russians, the Americans and  the British   all  recognized the danger that   Iran  posed   to their  interests and so they were even willing to put  aside their  own  differences and work together -- on  a  strictly temporary basis -- for as long as it suited them. The Russians knew they could not afford to let the Islamic fanatics  just  across their borders  grow  too  strong  and confident,  or they would soon start stirring up the  Muslim populations on the Soviet side of the border. That  was  the only real reason the Russians had gone into Afghanistan with such disastrous results. For  the British, it was just a matter of business.  They were  used  to  controlling events in the  Middle  East  and vying  with  the  Russians  for influence  since   the  19th Century, so there was  no  reason to stop The  Grand  Game  now, especially  if  both  the Russians and  the  Americans  were involved. And  of  course, for the Americans, there  was  still  an embassy to avenge. The  local people were useful, because they did not  like any government and they considered Khomeini and  his Islamic Republicans  especially  bad. The  people  here  had  little respect  for  borders.  For  centuries,  people  and  goods, whatever  was  in  demand,  had moved  freely  across  them, without  benefit of Customs stamps or passports,  no  matter which governments were nominally in charge. Smuggling was not just a business here, but a way of life. The government of the Islamic Republic had tried to seal the border  and  crack down on the smugglers but by doing  that, had  only   turned  them into determined  enemies.   "If  we didn't  have  Cetput's approval, we wouldn't be here."  Jake Steiner  said  finally,  for the  benefit  of  both  Michael Christie  and  Irina Kermal. "And as long  as  we  have  his support, things will be okay." Cetput Ozul was the local Padrone and in this remote area where  people  took  neither the authority  of  Ankara,  nor Tehran  seriously,  his word was law on both  sides  of  the border. Moe Steiner, Jake's father and  Ahmet Ozul, Cetput's father,  had  started doing business together more  than  60 years before, while Sergei Dziguli, Jake knew, was from  the Caucasus  region  in  the Southwestern part  of  the  Soviet Union, where the people had been trading with the Turks  forcenturies. Michael Christie had operated here before as well, so none of  them  were really strangers to the area or  the  people, which   is  why  they  had  all  been  hand picked  by  their governments for this assignment, but on the other hand, none of them made policy for their governments either and so they were little more than pawns themselves. No one answered Jake's statement and they all lapsed into silence  as  they watched the men continue  to  inspect  and admire  the  supplies  they had brought.  The  weapons  were finally  packed back in their boxes and then lowered through a trap door in the floor to be stored elsewhere. They all went to sleep right there in the main room,  but they  had  barely settled in, when  suddenly, there  was  an ugly  stillness  in  the  air and then  a  shrill,  piercing whistle,  followed by three more. No one said anything,  but they  all knew what the signal meant. Somehow they had  been betrayed. No one panicked. They remained calm and businesslike, while they opened the trap door again and made sure the house  was as  secure as possible. Betrayal was a fact of life  and  one they  had prepared for.   Death was something they  did  not actively  seek, but would not run from either.  Later,  they would  find out who the traitor was and deal with  him,  but for now, they must salvage what they could. One by one, they dropped down through the trap door in the floor and into a  series of tunnels, Jake and Dziguli  and Christie  first  and  then  Irina  and  Cetput  Ozul's   men following.  There  were tunnels running  in  at  least  four different directions,  just barely big enough for Jake   and Dziguli to crawl through on their hands and knees. "Which way, Steiner?" Sergei Dziguli asked. "Try right." Jake Steiner said. "Going left has never done you guys much good." "Always the wise one, Steiner, even now?" "Maybe it will take us towards the edge of the village away from the fighting." They followed one of the tunnels off to the right for what seemed like forever, the dark and the dust and the stale air making  Jake disoriented until finally they came to  the  end and found a makeshift ladder leading back to the surface. They began to climb warily, until they found themselves in another house similar to the one they had just left. It  was empty  except for one man who stood guard inside and another who watched the front door to make sure the area outside was clear.  The guard looked at Jake and without saying a  word, he nodded his head. Then he nodded at Dziguli. Jake  slipped  past him and  out the door,  watching  the shadows,  listening for any sound of movement on  the  still night air, quickly sliding into the shadows himself. Dziguli followed a few seconds later. Suddenly, shouts of  "God is Great", rang out all  around them  in  Farsi,  the  language of  the  Iranians,  followed quickly  by the sound of automatic weapons and suddenly  the night seemed to light up with the flash of explosives as allhell broke loose . Iranian soldiers and Revolutionary Guards were coming from every  direction at once, charging the first house, the  one Jake,  Dziguli and the others had been in just a few minutes before,  screaming their heads off, with  their  guns  going full blast. Quickly but cautiously, Jake began moving in the opposite direction   but  then  out  of  nowhere,  there   were   two Revolutionary  Guards  coming  right  towards  him.  He  was dressed  just  like the local people, in heavy boots,  baggy pants,  and  rough woolen coat and cap, but Jake  knew  that neither  his Turkish nor his Farsi were good enough to  help him pass for a native, so he had only one choice. He leveled his gun and blew them away with a quick burst, but  the  next  thing Jake knew, he felt  a  severe  burning sensation  in his left side, just below his ribs.  He  could feel  the warm ooze of his own blood, so he screamed  loudly and then dropped to the ground and played dead. When  the third Revolutionary Guardsman stepped from  his hiding place and came to check on Jake and strip his body of any  valuables, Jake lay there motionless, waiting until  he could  feel  the man's hot, foul breath right on  his  face. Then, suddenly, Jake reached up, grabbed the Iranian by  the hair  and yanked backwards until the man was bent over  with his neck exposed. He  crushed the man's Adam's apple with a sharp blow  from his  other  hand, killing him instantly, then he pushed  the body off himself and tore at the dead man's clothing to make a  bandage. His side was bleeding fairly steadily and burned like  hell,  but at least the blood was not gushing  out  in spurts, so he knew he had not severed an artery, so he would probably survive. He  was not having too much trouble breathing, so he  was pretty sure that the bullets had passed through cleanly  and that none of his ribs were broken, either. Those  were both good signs, but he was afraid  that  the noise  from  the shots would attract  the attention  of  any other Iranians left to guard the rear, so Jake bandaged  his wound  quickly and began running as though his life depended on  it.  His side felt  as though it was tearing  apart  and burning up all at once,  but Jake stopped only when he  came to the edge of the houses,  where he would pause long enough to make sure the coast was clear before proceeding on. Behind him, the shouts of "God is great!" were louder than ever  and he turned to watch the Iranians charging the house he  had  been sleeping in just a little while before, massed together  now  and  attacking in a human  wave,  their  guns blazing as the bullets bounced off the walls. There  was  no return fire, since Cetput's  men  had  all followed  Jake and the others into the tunnels  and  finally the  Iranians  battered  down the  front  door  and  charged inside. They  were met by a deafening explosion which lit up  the sky  and  shook the ground and Jake knew that Mehdi and  the others had wired the house for explosives and then set  them off by remote control as soon as the Iranians got inside. The  blast  leveled the house and shook  the  ground  all around  it.  As the sound died down and the ringing  in  his ears  subsided, Jake could hear the screams of  the  wounded and  dying and he could see the survivors staggering  around in a daze.  Now he knew why he had seen no women or children in the house. The  smugglers  had  anticipated the  possibility  of  an attack  like this -- possibly they had even been  warned  in advance  --  and  so  the house had been abandoned.  By  the morning, the Iranians would be there in force and they would destroy it anyway. That would be their revenge. But  in  the meantime, this was Cetput Ozman's revenge. Ten Revolutionary Guards for each man he lost. Jake  knew  too, that there was no time to waste  and  he hurried as fast as his side would permit, towards the  place they  had  agreed to meet in case they ran into any trouble. It  was  a  well  hidden spot, naturally  fortified  by  the surrounding  rocks,  where they could  hold  off  an  attack indefinitely if need be, but Jake had not gotten  very  far, when he heard yelling and the sound of automatic weapons and found himself facing a whole group of  Revolutionary Guards. Suddenly, before he could aim his own weapon, he heard  a sound  behind him and then an arm propping him up and a  gun firing  right  next  to him as the Iranians  began  to  fall almost all at once. "You  have the smell of death about you Steiner."  Sergei Dziguli  yelled in his ear above the sound of the  gunfire. "On  your  own you would never make it."   Jake  nodded  his head and sunk to the ground. His side made it too painful to answer.  The sound of gunfire and screams continued to  come from the direction of the village and they knew it would not be long  before the Iranians brought in reinforcements. If they were going to escape, they would have to  slip away in small groups, rather than all together and they would have  to  do it soon. Mehdi  and  three  of  the other  smugglers  left  first, slipping  quietly  away into the night.  The  rest  of  them waited  a  few  more minutes, while Jake  and  Dziguli  both rested and tried to patch up their wounds. A few more of the smugglers straggled in, including the guards from the  house where Jake had emerged from the tunnel, but still there  was no  sign  of Christie. Mehdi, Cetput's local lieutenant  and the leader of the group, said he would send  two men back to look  for  him, but that they could not afford to  wait  too much longer. They had to make it back across the Turkish border before daylight,  or  else  they would be  sitting  ducks  for  the Iranians, who would come after them with fighter planes  and helicopters as soon as it was light. Dziguli told the others to  go  ahead, that they would wait for the two men to  come back with word of Christie. It would give Jake more time  to rest. Finally,  the  two smugglers returned and said  they  had found no sign of Christie, but the Revolutionary Guards were getting closer. Jake Steiner and Sergei Dziguli insisted  on waiting just a little bit longer, but finally, they gave  up hope for Christie and decided they had to leave without him. At  least they were able to travel light this time,  but the  journey still took most of the night. It was  only  the knowledge  that  they had no other choice,  that  kept  them going.  When  they  finally got back to their  base  on  the Turkish  side  of the border just before the sunrise,  Mehdi and  some  of the others were already there and in spite  of their  exhaustion, they were awake and seemed  to  be  in  a state of great agitation. Jake Steiner and Sergei Dziguli were half dead. They were both  given food and drink and then went to bed. It was  two days  later when Jake woke up and found out what  was  going on.  Sergei Dziguli had been up for hours, sitting as if  he was in a trance. "The  people  here  have suffer heavy  losses."   Sergei Dziguli's  voice  sounded  flat and  lifeless  to  Jake.  He wondered  at  first,  if  it was Dziguli  or  him.  "It  was Christie, the English bastard, who sell us out. He come back here two days ago. He tell Mehdi and the others the Iranians have us trapped. They go to rescue us, get caught in ambush. As  it  sunk in, Jake felt like someone had blown a  hole right  through  him, tearing his insides out and  his  heart along with them and looking at Dziguli, he could see that he was not the only one. "Irina  go  with them. She and Christie both  disappear." Sergei Dziguli said. BACK TO FICTION PAGE HOME PAGE