Desert Falcons. Don Pendleton
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in the United States. But after twenty years it had grown both tiresome and tedious, like his current, deep cover assignment, which was why he’d begun laying the secret groundwork to walk away from it all. When the Arabs had covertly approached him, the decision had been easy, almost preordained.
As much as he disliked going by his American alias, Frank Andrews, he had to admit the name had served him well. And soon, he would be rich. He could choose another name in a short time. Any one he wanted. Perhaps he would go with one with a little more European flair. He was tired of masquerading as an American.
“There they are,” Red Stevens said. His real name was actually Rudolph Strogoff, and he, too, was a product of the highly secret American Assimilation School in Gdansk, only a generation later. As a result, his American accent was as flawless as Androkovich’s. His auburn hair had earned him the appropriate nickname, “Red.” He was fifteen years younger than Fedor, and consequently less experienced at staying deep within their established cover here in the United States. But just the same, during the past year Strogoff had all but vanished, and the advantage was obvious. He had become Red, but he followed Androkovich’s directions without question.
“Do you see them?” Strogoff asked, pointing to two sets of headlights parked about a hundred yards away on the highway.
“I hope their lights didn’t attract too much attention,” his partner replied. “Stop here and I’ll get the gate.”
Androkovich jumped out of the Jeep and jogged toward the seven-foot-high chain-link fence that surrounded the perimeter of Camp Freedom and secured the access to the compound via this back road. He unlocked the gate and swung it open, pausing to peer around at the desert terrain. A hot wind blew across the plains, capturing wisps of sand and adding a hint of grit to the air. Nothing seemed to be moving, but the Russian brought the night-vision goggles up to his eyes and did another quick scan. Nothing stirred except for an occasional tumbleweed. The timing couldn’t be better. All he had to worry about now was the possibility of some random patrol or the possibility of an over-inquisitive reporter or motorist happening upon them.
Thus, it was best to proceed with all due speed. He turned and motioned for Strogoff to pull forward on to the highway. Androkovich hopped into the open Jeep as it was going by him. They bounced over the juncture between the macadamized road and the asphalt and sped toward the two parked vehicles farther down. As they drove past the two cars, Androkovich perused them. The first was a dark limousine, the second the ambulance that they had purchased from a surplus municipality sale in neighboring Arizona. It was perfect for their purposes.
A limo in the desert, Androkovich thought. Leave it to the Arabs to be stupid as well as ostentatious. He wondered if their Bedouin ancestors were turning over in their sandy graves.
“Pull behind them and wait,” he said.
Strogoff slowed down again and then swung the Jeep in a wide circle, dipping on to the shoulder and coming to a stop behind the ambulance.
“Wait here,” Androkovich said as he got out. “I’ll go talk to them.”
His companion nodded, his black baseball cap riding low on his forehead.
Androkovich crossed in front of the Jeep and walked on the right side of the ambulance. He glanced inside as he passed, seeing the waspish face of George Duncan behind the wheel. He nodded as he passed, and Duncan responded with a halfhearted salute. The Russian kept walking and heard the sound of the locks being popped as he got close to the rear door of the limo. He reached for the handle and pulled the door open.
“Good evening,” he said as he slid inside.
Two men, both Saudis, stared at him. Androkovich knew the younger of the two well: Masoud, the youngest son of Mustapha Rahman. Masoud was slender and looked quite dapper in his cream-colored suit. His hair was stylishly cut and the hair on his face was trimmed to a neat mustache and goatee.
“You have seen the vehicle,” Masoud said. “Is it what you wanted?”
“It is,” the Russian replied. “You purchased it in Arizona, as I instructed?”
“Yes.”
Androkovich nodded. He waited a few seconds, not wanting to seem too presumptuous so as to upset the Arab, then asked, “Did you initiate the transfer of my money?”
The Arab nodded. “Of course. It was done earlier today, as you instructed.”
The Russian smiled. “And as soon as I have verified the deposit, I will proceed with the next phase.” He let his smile fade for the moment. “And I assume you brought my expense money tonight?”
Masoud snapped his fingers, and his associate removed a leather bag from the floor area and set it on the seat between them. The associate began unzipping it, but Masoud placed his hand on top of the other man’s. His dark eyes stared at Androkovich.
“Do you have the…how do you say it?”
“The English term is scapegoats. And, yes, they have been recruited, as your father instructed.”
“Your English is excellent, for a Russian,” Masoud said. “They are Saudi Shi’ites?”
“Yes. Also as your father instructed.”
Masoud lifted his hand, and the other man finished unzipping the case. Androkovich could see the bundles of currency. “As you requested, in various denominations of U.S. currency.” His lips curled back over his teeth in a mirthless grin. “You may count it if you wish.”
The Russian shook his head as he closed the case. “There is no need. Our relationship has been built on trust, has it not?”
Masoud uttered a short, harsh-sounding laugh. “Trust. Do you know that two of my father’s uncles were killed fighting the Russians with the Mujahideen in Afghanistan many years ago?”
“And now their sons fight the Americans.”
Masoud was about to speak when the driver lowered the shield behind the front seat and said something in Arabic.
“What did he say?” Androkovich asked.
The other man’s eyes flashed. “A vehicle is approaching from the rear.”
Androkovich took a small, handheld radio from his pistol belt and brought it to his lips. “Do you see a car approaching?”
“Yes,” came the reply. “From our rear.” A few seconds went by, then, “It looks like it’s pulling up behind me. Red police light on the dashboard.”
“Police.” Masoud leaned forward and grasped the Russian’s forearm. “We must not be discovered. This transaction must not be traced to us.”
Androkovich glared into the Arab’s dark eyes until the man removed his hand. “It will not be.” He slid toward the door. “Stay here until I return.”
He jerked the door handle and moved out of the limo with a smooth, fluid grace. He stepped quickly across the dusty shoulder of the road and into the darkened area approximately three yards to the side. The car behind the Jeep appeared to be a black vehicle with no overt police insignias. The passenger door opened and a man in a light-colored uniform got out holding a flashlight. Its bright light shone over the Jeep and then the ambulance. The fingers of Androkovich’s right hand closed over the handle of his pistol, drawing it slowly out of the tactical holster. His other hand withdrew the cylindrical sound suppressor from the pouch on his belt. He matched up the threads and screwed it in place on the end of the barrel as he listened.
“Federal agents,” the man on the driver’s side said in a loud voice.
Feds…FBI? But they didn’t wear uniforms or make traffic stops. Most likely these two were BLM bird dogs assigned to patrol the perimeter of the disputed territory, which most likely meant they weren’t in radio contact with any of the police dispatch centers.
The guy stood on the passenger side of the Jeep, shining the beam of his flashlight over Strogoff.
“What’s