The noncom spotted him. "What took you so long? Go in there and take another box."

Akbar saluted. "Sir! My lieutenant ordered me up to the street. To stand guard."

Squinting his sun-weathered eyes, the noncom sneered. "You deserve it, you lazy creature. Go up there! Freeze! Let the Israelis blow you up! Go!"

Akbar ran up the steel stairs.

16

Akbar translated the transmitted voices. "He's talking about 'the signal strength' and 'the terminal-guidance machines.' This is all very technical... He's telling them not to worry about the transmitters, the transmitters are not their, concern, he is sure the transmitters will be in place before the launch of the rockets... 'The multiple transmissions will not cancel the signals...' He's telling them thanks for their work, they will never receive the recognition they deserve, but they will learn of their success if they watch television in January, then they can rejoice."

In a corner of the abandoned workshop, Gadgets listened to the running translation of the Syrian's farewell address to his group of engineers. His partners watched the doors: Lyons the corridor doorway, Blancanales the door outside. After a few minutes, Akbar shook his head.

"He has moved away from the table. I can only hear noise from the others now. The scientists are gone."

Gadgets checked through a mental list of details. "He said, 'miniature units'?" Akbar nodded. "And 'terminal guidance'? And 'multiple transmitters'? And 'independent agents'?"

Akbar nodded to each question. Gadgets considered the information as his partners maintained their watch. Outside, the distant thunder of artillery strikes came infrequently. No shells had struck near the base for the previous half-hour. Only the snowstorm continued, gusts of wind blowing subzero air under the street door.

"What's your opinion, Mr. Wizard?" Lyons whispered.

"These crazies have got what the Iranians thought they had. What I mean is, the Iranians thought they had ninety-six Soviet 240mm rockets. Complete with some kind of custom terminal-guidance system. That is, after someone at the approximate target area activates a homing signal, they launch the rockets, then the homing signal gives the rockets something to zero in on. Turned out the Iranians had real rockets with dummy guidance units and phony transmitters. These Syrians have actually got the real thing."

"Why did the Iranians have the dummies?" Blancanales asked.

"A decoy, just like George told us on the plane. The Syrians let the Iranians go in with the phony stuff, they get hit, we think we've closed it down, and then they come in with the big surprise. That's what I think they're thinking. Fooled us. Except the Agency untangled all the phony equipment and compared it to what the Iranians thought they had. Now it's for sure."

"Deception," Lyons commented. "Run us around chasing real crazies with phony rockets..."

A buzz came from their hand-radios. Gadgets answered. "Talk to the Wizard."

"We got another limo coming," Powell reported.

"A limousine?"

"One. No trucks. No escort vehicles. Just a limo. Want us to zap them?"

"Hold on, we'll take a vote." Gadgets turned to his partners. "Can't question dead ones. I got another minimike back in the truck. How about Mr. Marine puts it on them and listens in?"

Lyons and Blancanales nodded agreement. Gadgets spoke to Powell again, directing him to take the miniature transmitter and receiver from his equipment and place the microphone in the limousine.

"Will do, specialist. You'll know when it's transmitting."

"No, I won't. It's on another frequency than the ones I have here. You've got to monitor. So go, get to it."

The voice of Dastgerdi came from the receiver's tiny speaker. Akbar summarized what he heard. "He is at the car. He's talking to his driver. He tells him they will go to the Iranian embassy in Damascus. The loyal army units have defeated the gang of deserters and Brotherhood fanatics who had the artillery battery. So be ready to go..."

"That's why the shellings quit," Gadgets commented.

" 'Are the electronics in the back?' 'Yes, sir.' He's not talking now; it sounds like he's opening the trunk... closing the trunk. He checked the electronics. His footsteps come to the seat, he sits down... A man comes to talk to him, they talk about the rockets going through Tripoli and meeting the ship from Nicaragua, they're talking weather and travel time..."

Their hand-radios buzzed again. Gadgets pointed to Blancanales; Blancanales nodded. As Gadgets listened to Akbar's whispered monologue and translation, Blancanales took Powell's report.

"It's a French diplomat. Some special representative from the Education Office."

"You planted the bug?"

"Most definitely, Pol. I'm listening to the French dipshit complaining to his driver about undisciplined Syrian soldiers. Didn't like us stopping them. Seems... says he'll complain to Colonel Dastgerdi himself. Is that interesting?"

"Continue monitoring," Blancanales told him. "We're monitoring a situation on this end. Radio us fast if something comes up."

"Will do."

Akbar looked at Gadgets. "He has left the car to go to the maps. I hear only noise now."

"That's all right." Gadgets concentrated, staring at a poster of the Ayatollah. "Oh, you old lunatic, I got a surprise for you. Oh, yeah!" Gadgets turned to his partners. "Time to go, dudes. We got a rude move to make!"

Long lines of military and civilian vehicles followed the curves of the highway through the mountains. Land Rovers, Japanese scout cars and Mercedes sedans risked head-on oblivion to pass the slow trucks and troop transports.

The Syrian army and air force had exterminated the last strongholds of the rebellion in the Shael mountains. With the end of the artillery and rocket barrages, the soldiers manning the checkpoints had finally released the hundreds of vehicles stalled by the war.

The document checks had not found the Americans. Via radio, Zhgenti had checked with the Syrian central command in the Bekaa. None of the officers at the major checkpoints reported the group of Americans. The Americans and their Shia militia allies had not stopped at a checkpoint or encountered a Syrian patrol. If Desmarais had told the truth, they remained somewhere in the Bekaa Valley, concealed by the storm and the chaos of the war.

Now Zhgenti raced east to Damascus. His unit, reinforced by Syrian soldiers and men from the Syrian intelligence service when political and military conditions allowed their reassignment, would take positions around the Iranian embassy, and there wait for the Americans to appear.

Despite his doubts, Zhgenti had finally agreed with Desmarais. The situation left him no choice. The Americans had outmaneuvered all the forces at his disposal — Soviet, Palestinian and Lebanese. Somewhere in the Bekaa, the Americans and their Shia allies attacked an Iranian target. Logically, after the strike, they would retreat to the west, where the coast allowed for transportation to Cyprus and their return to the United States.

But logic did not guide the Americans, not the usual logic of military planners. The American terror team slipped past expected targets, where prepared defenses awaited, to hit where no one had expected. Where concentric lines of defense ensured complete security from attack, they seemed to rise from the earth to kill and destroy.

This had been their technique throughout the two years of operations. Zhgenti knew their record of successes. When the Egyptian wing of the fanatical Muslim Brotherhood, Soviet financed and armed, struck at a secret U.S. Air Force installation in Cairo, the American team had slashed through the cells of Islamic terror gangs. But they, did not pursue the scattered individuals. Instead, they raced far into the Egyptian desert to martyr an entire garrison of Islamic warriors. In another campaign, they had parachuted into the mountains of Nicaragua and devastated a terror training camp. Then, only a day or two later, they had reappeared in Los Angeles to exterminate a terror unit preparing a binary nerve gas attack on the city.