This one is for the mothers of all nations and for the three Americans who were illegally arrested and jailed in Iran: Shane Bauer, Josh Fattal, and Sara Shourd. Glad you’re home safe and sound. Our children are not weapons of war or politics.
To the memory of John B. Maberry, who earned the Congressional Medal of Honor at the Battle of Gettysburg.
And, as always, for Sara Jo.
Acknowledgments
Thanks to Steve Yetiv; Philadelphia police officer Bob Clark; the men of the 1-111 Infantry Battalion, Recon Platoon, with 36th Brigade, Iraqi Army Recon; Michael Sicilia of California Homeland Security; Michael E. Witzgall; Ken Coluzzi, Chief of Lower Makefield Police Department in Pennsylvania; Ted Krimmel, SERT; folklorist Nancy Keim-Comley; Archaeological Museum of Aruba; social media consultant Don Lafferty; Javier Grillo-Marxuach; Emilia Filocamo; Victorya Chase; Danny Evarts of Shroud Publishing; and Father Joseph Bordonaro of the St. Joseph Roman Catholic Church in Warrington, Pennsylvania.
And, of course, my agents, Sara Crowe and Harvey Klinger; all the good folks at St. Martin’s Griffin, Michael Homler, Joe Goldschein, Matthew Shear, Rob Grom; M. J. Rose of AuthorBuzz; and Matt Snyder of Creative Artists Agency.
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Part One: Acts of War
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Part Two: By the Rivers Dark
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Interlude One
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven
Interlude Two
Chapter Forty-nine
Interlude Three
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-one
Interlude Four
Chapter Fifty-two
Chapter Fifty-three
Chapter Fifty-four
Chapter Fifty-five
Chapter Fifty-six
Interlude Five
Part Three: The Blood of Angels
Chapter Fifty-seven
Chapter Fifty-eight
Interlude Six
Chapter Fifty-nine
Interlude Seven
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-one
Chapter Sixty-two
Interlude Eight
Chapter Sixty-three
Chapter Sixty-four
Chapter Sixty-five
Chapter Sixty-six
Chapter Sixty-seven
Interlude Nine
Chapter Sixty-eight
Chapter Sixty-nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-one
Chapter Seventy-two
Chapter Seventy-three
Interlude Ten
Chapter Seventy-four
Chapter Seventy-five
Chapter Seventy-six
Chapter Seventy-seven
Chapter Seventy-eight
Chapter Seventy-nine
Chapter Eighty
Chapter Eighty-one
Chapter Eighty-two
Chapter Eighty-three
Chapter Eighty-four
Chapter Eighty-five
Chapter Eighty-six
Chapter Eighty-seven
Chapter Eighty-eight
Chapter Eighty-nine
Chapter Ninety
Chapter Ninety-one
Chapter Ninety-two
Chapter Ninety-three
Chapter Ninety-four
Chapter Ninety-five
Chapter Ninety-six
Chapter Ninety-seven
Chapter Ninety-eight
Chapter Ninety-nine
Chapter One Hundred
Chapter One Hundred One
Chapter One Hundred Two
Chapter One Hundred Three
Chapter One Hundred Four
Chapter One Hundred Five
Chapter One Hundred Six
Chapter One Hundred Seven
Chapter One Hundred Eight
Chapter One Hundred Nine
Chapter One Hundred Ten
Chapter One Hundred Eleven
Chapter One Hundred Twelve
Chapter One Hundred Thirteen
Chapter One Hundred Fourteen
Chapter One Hundred Fifteen
Chapter One Hundred Sixteen
Chapter One Hundred Seventeen
Chapter One Hundred Eighteen
Chapter One Hundred Nineteen
Chapter One Hundred Twenty
Chapter One Hundred Twenty-one
Chapter One Hundred Twenty-two
Chapter One Hundred Twenty-three
Chapter One Hundred Twenty-four
Chapter One Hundred Twenty-five
Epilogue
Also by Jonathan Maberry
About the Author
Copyright
Part One
Acts of War
Those who say religion has nothing to do with politics do not know what religion is.
—MOHANDAS GANDHI
Chapter One
Starbox Coffee
Tehran, Iran
June 15, 7:23 a.m.
She said, “Look down at your chest.”
I held the cell phone to my ear as I bent my head. Two red dots, quivering slightly, danced right over my heart.
“You are one second away from death,” said the caller.
Chapter Two
Starbox Coffee
Tehran, Iran
June 15, 7:25 a.m.
I didn’t know the voice. She was a stranger. I didn’t know her name. Didn’t know anything except that she had my cell number. Ten seconds ago I was about to go into Starbox—yes, they really call it that in Iran—for a cup of bold and a couple of pastries. The street outside was empty.
I looked up. The shooters had to be in the building across the street, maybe the fifth floor. Didn’t really matter, the range was a hundred yards and even a sloppy marksman could punch my ticket at that distance. I doubted these guys were sloppy. And there were two of them. I was also pretty sure I knew why they were after me.
“Okay,” I said.
“I need you to confirm your name,” she said in Persian. She had a very sexy voice for a psycho killer. Low and smoky.
“Why?”
“Because I have to be certain.”
“Geez, sister,” I said, “if this is how you ID your
targets then I don’t think you’re going to get that contract killer merit badge.”
The joke didn’t translate well but she made a sound. It might have been a laugh. Glad she was amused. Sweat was pouring down my spine. The two little laser sights gave me no chance at all to run.
“If this was simply a matter of killing you,” she said, “then we’d have done it and taken your wallet for identification.” She had a European accent but she was hiding it by trying to speak Persian like a native. Kind of weird. Not the weirdest thing going on at the moment.
“Um … thanks?” I said.
“Tell me your name,” she said again.
There had to be three of them. Two shooters and her. Was she the spotter? If not, there could have been one or two others, spotting for the gunmen. Or it might have been the three of them.
“Ebenezer Scrooge,” I said.
“No games,” she warned. “Your name.”
“Joe.”
“Full name.”
“Joseph.”
One of the laser sights drifted down from my chest and settled on my crotch.
“Once more?” she coaxed.
“Joseph Edwin Ledger.” No screwing around this time.
“Rank?”
“Why?”
“Rank?”
“Captain. Want my shoe size?”
There was a pause. “I was warned about you. You think you’re funny.”
“Everyone thinks I’m funny.”
“I doubt that’s true. How often do you make Mr. Church laugh out loud?”
“Never heard of him,” I lied.
Now I was confused. Up till now I thought she was part of a team looking to take me down for the little bit of nastiness I got into last night. Echo Team and I went into a high-security facility and liberated three twentysomethings who had been arrested a year ago while hiking in the mountains. The Iraqi mountains. An Iranian patrol crossed the border, nabbed the hikers, and started making noise in the media that the three hikers had illegally trespassed and therefore they were spies. They weren’t. One was a former Peace Corps team leader who was there with his animal behaviorist girlfriend who wanted to take photos of a kind of rare tiger to help her with her master’s thesis. Acinonyx jubatus venaticus. Asiatic cheetah. Also known as the Iranian cheetah. No, I’m not making this up.
The hikers had been used as pawns in Iran’s ongoing policy of stalling and disinformation regarding their nuclear program. Normally we’d let the State Department and world opinion exert pressure on the Iranian government … but the third member of the hiking party was the only son of one of America’s most important senators. The real twist is that the senator was a key player on several committees crucial to the U.S. war effort. Everyone with a spoonful of brains knew that the Iranians staged the whole thing to be able to turn dials on Senator McHale.
And it was starting to work. So the president asked Church to make the problem go away. We were Church’s response.
“So, who gets to slap the cuffs on me?” I asked.
This time she did laugh.
“No, Captain Ledger,” she said, “here’s how it’s going to work. As soon as I am done speaking you will turn off your cell phone and remove the battery and the SIM card. Put the SIM card and phone into different pockets. Walk to the curb and drop the battery into the culvert. Then I want you to go into the café. Order a coffee, sit in the corner. Do not reassemble your phone. Do not use the store’s phone. Write no notes to the staff or other customers. Sit and enjoy your coffee. Read the newspaper. Ahmadinejad is insisting that the dramatics at the prison last night were the result of a boiler explosion. You should find that amusing. Do not make any calls. Maybe have a second cup of coffee.”
“Do you work for Starbox? If so, I can’t say I dig your new marketing strategy.”
She ignored me. Her resistance to my wit was almost as disconcerting as the laser sights on my junk. Almost.
She said, “In a few minutes a person will enter the café. A man. He will recognize you and will join you. The two of you will have a conversation and then he will leave. Once he has left, you will wait another ten minutes before you reassemble your phone. You are on your own to find a new battery. You are supposed to be resourceful, so I imagine you will solve that problem without my advice.”
“Then what do I do?”
“Then,” she said, “you will do whatever you judge best.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“When do I meet you?”
“You don’t.”
“I’d like to.”
“No,” she said with another little laugh, “you would not.”
“Tell me something, miss, why go to these lengths? This could have been arranged with a lot less drama.”
“No it could not. If you are smarter than you appear, then you’ll understand why in a few minutes.”
“These laser sights going to be on me the whole time? It’s a lousy fashion statement and people will talk.”
There was a moment’s silence on the other end and then both sights vanished. I had to control myself from collapsing against the wall. I was pretty sure it would be two or three weeks before my nuts felt safe enough to climb down out of my chest cavity. My heart was beating like a jazz drum solo—loud, fast, and with no discernable rhythm.
“The clock is now ticking, Captain Ledger. Once I disconnect, please follow the instructions you have been given.”
“Wait—” I said, but the line went dead.
I held the phone in my hand and looked across the street to the office building. Even without the sights I knew they could take me anytime they wanted.
There were no real options left. Just because the laser sights weren’t on me didn’t mean that I was safe. I think they’d used them for effect. It was broad daylight; they certainly had scopes. So I did as I was told. I dismantled my phone and put the SIM card in my left coat pocket and the empty phone casing in my jeans. With great reluctance I walked to the edge of the pavement and stared for a moment down into the black hole of the culvert.
“Crap,” I said, and dropped the battery, which vanished without a trace. All I heard was a dull plop as it landed in the subterranean muck.
Before I turned to go into the store I scratched the tip of my nose with my forefinger. I was sure they’d see that, too.
Chapter Three
Starbox Coffee
Tehran, Iran
June 15, 7:39 a.m.
I went into the Starbox and ordered my coffee.
The waitress, a slim gal with a blue headscarf, glanced at my hands, which were visibly shaking. “Decaf?” she asked.
I screwed a smile into place and tried to make a joke. It fell flat. I repeated my drink order in a low mumble, paid for it and a French edition of the Tehran Daily News, and took them with me to a table where I could watch the street. It was pretty early, so the place was empty. There were two leather chairs in a corner and I took one, aware that there was no place in the café where a shooter with a good scope couldn’t find me.
Last year I’d been in a coffee shop when a strike team tried to take me out. You’d think I’d have learned by now. My best friend and shrink, Dr. Rudy Sanchez, constantly tells me that I drink too much coffee. He says, “Caffeine will kill you,” all the time. He’ll be delighted to hear me admit that he was very nearly right.
I crossed my legs as if that would offer my groin any real protection from a high-velocity sniper bullet and tried to read the paper.
Apparently America is still the Great Satan. What a surprise.
The main headline was about last week’s assassination attempt on the nation’s Rahbare Mo’azzame Enghelab—the Supreme Leader. A man dressed as a Shia cleric had attended a prayer session at Mashhad, which is the second largest city in Iran and one of the holiest cities in the Shia Muslim world, over five hundred miles east of Tehran, near the borders of Afghanistan and Turkmenistan. It’s the resting place of the Imam Rez
a, seventh descendant of the prophet Muhammad and the eighth of the Twelve Imams. I’ve been there. It’s a gorgeous city, and home to the most extensive collection of Iranian cultural and artistic treasures. Millions of Muslims make the pilgrimage to Mashhad every year, as do scholars and tourists like me; and that’s been going on since medieval times. The saying is “The rich go to Mecca but the poor journey to Mashhad.”
So, after a few introductory speeches, the Supreme Leader stepped up to lead the people in prayer and discuss matters of faith. Problem was, the fake cleric whipped off his coat to reveal a vest packed with Semtex. A group of young men grabbed the bomber and tried to drag him outside before the bombs went off. They only partly succeeded, and though the mosque was not destroyed, it was damaged. The Supreme Leader received minor injuries, but sixty-four people died, and the effect was like cutting a scar into the flesh of Islam.
I’m not a Muslim, and I’m not deeply religious even with my Methodist upbringing—not like my father and brother whose butts have worn grooves in the pews in our church back in Baltimore—but there is something that disgusts me on a deep level when someone makes a deliberate attack on the faith of another person, or in this case on an entire people. I don’t like it when it happens to Americans; and I certainly don’t like it when Americans do it to each other. Can’t say I’m much in favor of it anywhere in the world.
Who was to blame for this particular hate crime?
Hard to tell.
Lately there’s been a weirdly sharp rise in hate crimes throughout the Middle East. Five times as many suicide bombers, a 300 percent increase in political assassinations, plus car bombs, pipe bombs, and even a rash of people found murdered with their throats completely torn out.
At the best of times the Mideast was never known for its easygoing tolerance; lately it’s like everyone has gone just a little bit crazier. My boss, Mr. Church, has been monitoring the escalation of violence, and although he hasn’t come out and said so, I’m certain that he’s suspicious of the rising body count. My friend Bug, who runs the computer resources for the Department of Military Sciences, told me on the sly that Church wanted him to run a thorough background search on the victims, even the ones who appeared to be innocent bystanders.
“Why?” I asked.
“’Cause the boss thinks there’s a hidden agenda,” answered Bug.
“He always thinks there’s a hidden agenda,” I remarked.