Power Grab. Don Pendleton

most you can expect to carry without raising suspicions.”

      McCarter was inclined to agree. The 5.45x39 millimeter Krinkov rifles had short barrels and were designed to be compact; they would fit into a small bag easily enough. That would be more or less the limit of what they could display openly. If the Phoenix Force veterans were trooping all over Iran’s largest city carrying bags large enough to house assault rifles for all of them, it would look out of place. One man with a duffel bag was a man with a duffel bag. Five were suspicious.

      “So where do we begin, Ghaem?”

      “First, I have one last item for you all,” the Iranian said. He reached into the pocket behind his seat and pulled out a small cloth bag. He handed it to McCarter, who looked inside and discovered five personal radios. The radios had wireless headsets. They weren’t as small as the self-contained transceivers Phoenix Force often used, but there had been no way to smuggle those into Iran without risking giving themselves away. The team did have their secure satellite phones, which provided them with a very important data link to Stony Man. The encrypted units could pass for ordinary Iridium satellite phones, and only the access codes known to Phoenix Force would enable an operator to use the phones at all.

      “What’s the range of these?” McCarter asked.

      “A few city blocks,” Ahmadi said. “No more. These are scrambled. They are reasonably secure unless someone with similar hardware chooses to make it his business to listen.”

      “Someone…like whom?” McCarter asked.

      “One of my good friends from the CIA, for example.” Ahmadi waved one hand. “It is unlikely to be a problem. I do not foresee anyone going out of the way to help us.”

      “So, mate,” McCarter asked again, “you’re our guide. To where can you guide us?”

      “There is a safehouse,” Ahmadi said. “We have traced its rental to a holding company that we believe is ultimately owned by agents of Ovan’s government. Now is a very good time to strike that safehouse.”

      “Why is that?”

      “There are three rallies scheduled for supporters of Magham today. The safehouse, which is being used by Ovan’s terror network, is the logical place for them to prepare for their attacks. We can intercept them and perhaps deal a very telling blow to the entire network in a single day. Without your operatives such a move would not have been possible before. There was thought in Washington that the situation here in Iran was best dealt with…quietly. I imagine there are those within the agency who think your intervention is akin to using a hammer to kill ants. You may get some of the ants, they will say, but you will miss many more, and you will anger the colony.”

      “Do you feel the same way?”

      “I do not,” Ahmadi said. “I have fought long and hard to help bring about, in whatever small way I can, a free and democratic Iran. I was a young man when I became a traitor to my country and allowed myself to be recruited by the CIA. But the slow approach is…slow. We have seen so little real change, and every time my people shout for democracy, for freedom, they are crushed under boot heels with greater force. The beginning of the IIS was the beginning of the worst wave of terror and oppression we have seen. It is time for more direct methods. I welcome them.”

      “Fair enough,” McCarter said.

      “Do your men require rest before we can go?” Ahmadi asked. “We could spare perhaps an hour or two and still have enough time before the first of the rallies.”

      McCarter glanced back at his teammates, who shook their heads or otherwise silently indicated no. He did the same. “We’re ready,” he said.

      “Then so am I.”

      Ahmadi drove them through ever-narrowing streets, and McCarter was struck by the age of Tehran, by its mixture of architectures, by the weight of its past pressing in from all sides. He laughed at himself, wondering why he was doing so much bloody woolgathering, and reminded himself to focus on the task at hand.

      “Comm check,” McCarter whispered. He listened as each of his men responded in kind, their whispers amplified in the wireless earpiece he wore. “All right,” he said as Ahmadi continued to delve deeper into the city, squeezing down alleyways that McCarter thought for certain would rip the side mirrors from the microbus. He finally stopped in a dimly lighted corridor between two recently built concrete buildings. He pointed through the front windshield.

      “There,” he said. “The safehouse is there, accessible only through the front door, on the street opposite, and by this metal door at the rear.”

      “How secure is that door?” McCarter asked.

      “Not at all,” Ahmadi said. “The lock is…damaged. It will give with enough pressure.”

      “Damaged, eh?” McCarter asked. “I wonder who might have damaged it for us?”

      “I would not know.” Ahmadi looked up and in any direction but at McCarter. “Perhaps a man with a small, quiet cordless drill could damage the lock in the night. Who is to say? The ways of vandals are mysterious.”

      “Indeed they are,” McCarter said.

      “It’s a bottleneck,” Rafael Encizo said.

      “Unfortunately,” Ahmadi agreed. “But works against us also works for us.”

      “Works for us,” McCarter agreed. “You stay here, Ghaem. We need you at the wheel for a fast getaway, mate.”

      “This I understand,” Ahmadi said, although he looked somewhat disappointed. “I shall keep the engine running.”

      McCarter nodded. “Let’s go, then, lads.”

      The only concealment for the operation was provided by the alley itself. Under other circumstances McCarter would have detailed at least two men to take the front while the remaining three breached the rear. As it was, he had to hope they could overcome the enemy within using only surprise and ruthlessness.

      “Rafe, T.J., take the rifles,” McCarter directed. “You’re the exterminators, lads. Go in first, spray the bugs out. We’ll follow and mop up.”

      The men of Phoenix Force hit the pavement and arrayed themselves on either side of the door.

      “Gary.” McCarter pointed. The big Canadian’s tree-trunk legs were just what the situation called for. Manning moved into position and, with his Glock drawn, planted one foot solidly against the door.

      The metal door sprang inward as something gave. Encizo and Hawkins were immediately through the opening, their Krinkov assault rifles chattering.

      McCarter came through the doorway with his Hi-Power ready. There were several tables, each really a tall counter, and on these tables were arrayed a variety of weapons. Most were AKs, some of them stripped. There were a few pistols, some of them exotic or obscure enough that even McCarter would have had to pause to identify them. There were boxes of ammunition, maps, and on the wall, he caught a glimpse of a map of Tehran with certain targets marked in red felt pen.

      A burst of gunfire nearly took his head off.

      He ducked behind the cover of one of the tall counters. These were solid, not standing on individual legs, but they couldn’t be more than studs and drywall, because bullets were passing right through them. At the opposite end of the room, several gunmen were blazing away, and midway between McCarter’s position and theirs, Encizo and Hawkins were holding their own.

      McCarter bided his time. He waited, sensing the rhythm of the gunfight. A burst from the enemy…an answering burst from his men…a few shots from the Glocks held by James and Manning. They were firing from the rearmost position, from outside the doorway, covering the exit. From where he crouched McCarter could see the front door, and he could see that their opposition was pinned down. Going for the front door would expose the enemy and allow Phoenix Force to take them down.

      Stalemate.

      Not