Larry Bond - The Enemy Within

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THE ENEMY WITHIN [154-066-4.9]

BY: LARRY BOND

Category: Fiction Thriller

Synopsis:

Shahin knelt, retrieved the spent shell casing from the road with one

gloved hand, and dropped it into his pocket. Neatness was a habit that

had saved him so many times over the past several years that he indulged

it without thought. There were many others in the HizbAllah who were

less careful, but none who could match his record of operational

success. He rose to his feet and turned away without giving the American

he'd murdered more than a single disinterested glance. Thus, starts a

war that leaves America fighting an unknown enemy on every front. That

is until a man by the name of Thorn figures out what is actually going

on.

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WARNER BOOKS

A Rme Warner Company

If you purchase this book without a cover you

should be aware that this book may have been

stolen property and reported as "unsold and

destroyed to the publisher. In such case neither

the author nor the publisher has received any

payment for this "stripped book."

WARNER BOOKS EDITION

Copyright 01996 by Larry Bond and Patrick

gherkin

Cover design and photo illustration by Tony

Creco

Warner Vision is a registered trademark of

Warner Books, Inc.

1271 Avenue of the Americas

New York, NY 10020

Visit our Web site at

http : //path f elder. corn /twep

459 A Tune Warner Company

Printed in the United States of America

Originally published-in hardcover by Warner

Boolean

First International Paperback Printing:

December, 1996

Oust U.S. Paperback Printing: March, 1997

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

To Jeanne and Mennette,

with all our love

Acknowledgments

We would like to thank Dwin Craig, Don Gilman, Dave Hood, Mennette

Masser Larkin, Don and Marilyn Larkin, Colin and Denise Larkin, Ian,

Duncan, and Chris Larkin, Erin Larkin-Foster, Kay Long Martin, Elaine

Meisenheimer, John Moser, Bill and Bridget Paley, Barbara Patrick, Tim

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Peckinpaugh and Pam McKinney-Peckinpaugh, Thomas T. Thomas, Tom

Thompson, and Brad Ware for their assistance, advice, and support.

Author's Note

After four books, you get to know a fellow pretty well. While there is

still much to learn about Pat Larkin, I can honestly say that in ten

years of working together he has always been a good friend and an

excellent writer. He is good at his craft, and I've got to work like

crazy to keep up with him.

Anyone who's read one of our other books knows that these are joint

efforts. If this is the first one you've picked up, know that these

truly are the work of two minds. This book is just as much Pat's as it

is mine, and he deserves as much credit as I do for its success.

We both hope you enjoy it.

PROLOGUE.

JANUARY 15 Benicia Industrial Park, California, Near San Francisco.

The accident scene looked real even to Shahin's skeptical eyes. A

crumpled Toyota Corolla sat sideways across the narrow on-ramp to

Highway 680, surrounded by fragments of smashed safety glass and puddled

oil. Four emergency flares cast a flickering red light across a

spiderweb of concrete pillars and rusting railroad bridge supports

rising above the freeway entrance. As a final touch of authenticity, the

sharp, sweet smell of leaking gasoline hung in the chilly night air.

The short, bearded man nodded to himself, satisfied that his deception

would hold for the brief time required. He moved off the road and into

the shadows beneath the overpass.

His cellular phone buzzed softly. He flipped it open. "Yes?"

The muffled voice of Haydar Zadi, his lookout, sounded in his ear.

"Two minutes."

"Understood." Shahinslid the phone back inside his windbreaker and

checked the pistol in his shoulder holster. Their first target, their

chosen weapon, was on the way.

Perched high in the cab of his big rig, Jack Briggs saw the flare-lit

wreck up ahead in plenty of time. He swore once and braked smoothly,

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coming to a complete stop near the foot of the ramp.

Like most independent truckers, he preferred making his runs at night

and in the early morning to avoid the Bay Area's god-awful traffic.. It

was a routine that worked well usually. But not tonight.

Still growling to himself, he peered through the windshield. At least

the Toyota's driver didn't seem hurt. The man had glanced around once

when the rig's headlights hit him, but then he'd gone right back to

staring down at his car's smashed front end. Might be drunk, Briggs

decided. It was near closing time. Hell, only a drunk would wander off

the main road into the little town of Benicia's deserted industrial park

at this time of the night.

He shook his head angrily. Well, tanked up or not, the clown was going

to have to help push that Japanese pile of junk off the ramp and out of

the way.

Pausing just long enough to square up his battered, oilstained

baseball cap and shut off the engine, the trucker yanked his cab door

open, jumped down, and started across the glass-strewn asphalt in long

strides. He was still several feet from the Toyota when the other man

suddenly turned to face him, bringing the pistol he'd been concealing on

target in one smooth, deadly, flowing motion.

Briggs stared at the weapon in shock. His mouth fell open. "What the "

A single 9mm bullet caught him under the chin, tore upward through his

brain, and exploded out the back of his skull.

* * *

Shahin knelt, retrieved the spent shell casing from the road with one

gloved hand, and dropped it into his pocket. Neatness was a habit that

had saved him so many times over the past several years that he indulged

it without thought. There were many others in the HizbAllah who were

less careful, but none who could match his record of operational

success. He rose to his feet and turned away without giving the American

he'd murdered more than a single disinterested glance.

Another pair of headlights swung across the scene and steadied as a

small car, an old blue Nissan Sentra, pulled up beside the dead man's

truck. Shahin stood motionless in the sudden dazzling brightness,

waiting for the two other men who made up his special action cell to

join him.

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Haydar Zadi was the first out of the car. The lookout grinned in clear

relief, showing a mouthful of yellowing, tobacco-stained teeth. "It went

perfect, eh? Like clockwork!"

"Yes." Shahin nodded curtly, biting down an urge to snap at the older

man. Didn't the fool know they had no time to waste? At most they had

only minutes to clear away all signs of this ambush and move their prize

under cover inside the warehouse they'd rented nearby. But Zadi was a

"casual" a fundamentalist radical recruited out of the local immigrant

community for this one mission. Snarling at him would only make him more

nervous, more prone to panic. Instead, the Iranian gestured toward the

dead truck driver. "Toss that thing in your truck, my friend. We'll

dispose of it later."

Zadi's smile vanished, wiped away by his first good look at the

murdered man. In the glare of the headlights, the blood pooling around

the American's shattered skull glistened black. He swallowed hard and

hurried to obey.

Shahin shook his head in disgust. He disliked being forced to rely on

a squeamish amateur, but he had no choice. The HizbAllah was one of the

Middle East's largest and deadliest terrorist organisations, but outside

of New York its network of covert operatives and sympathisers was still

too poorly organized to support and conceal a larger force. He swung

away and stalked over to the only other member of his small team.

Ibrahim Nadhir was the youngest of them all, barely twenty. Taller

than his superior, smooth-shaven, and slender, he stood staring up at

the giant vehicle they had captured.

Shahin clapped him on the shoulder. "You can drive this monster,

Ibrahim?"

"Oh, yes." Nadhir reached out a single hand and actually caressed the

side of the big rig. His eyes were dilated. "It is a beautiful machine.

A perfect machine."

Shahin suppressed a shiver. Tehran's revolutionary mullahs had refined

the brainwashing techniques originally taught them by North Korean and

Vietnamese instructors. He understood the value of what they had done to

Nadhir. But surely no man could be at ease in the presence of one remade

into the living hand of Allah.

He followed the younger man's fixed, adoring stare and smiled for the

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first time. The truck itself was nothing. Anyone with money could buy or

lease such a truck. No, the real prize for this night's work was the big

rig's cargo: a massive, cylindrical steel tank full of ten thousand

gallons of highgrade gasoline.

Highway 101, north of San Francisco The Marin County commuter tide was

in full flood shortly before the sun rose. Tens of thousands of cars

crept slowly south along Highway 101, inching through San Rafael, up the

lone incline above Sausalito, through the Waldo Tunnel, and downhill

toward San Francisco. Headlights glowed a ghostly yellow through the fog

still shrouding the approaches to the Golden Gate Bridge.

Two vehicles ground forward with the rest. Four cars behind the

lumbering gasoline tanker truck driven by Ibrahim Nadhir, Haydar Zadi

gripped the steering wheel of his old, battered Nissan, darting

occasional, frightened glances at the quiet, angry man seated beside

him.

Shahin scowled at their slow, snail-like pace. As their local contact,

Zadi had been responsible for scouting this section of their route. But

nothing in the older man's reports had fully prepared him for this

halting procession of luxury sedans, sports cars, and minivans. It was

grotesque an evil display of wasted wealth and power. Though a child on

foot would arrive in San Francisco sooner, not one of these decadent,

arrogant Americans could bear the thought of parting with his prized

automobile.

Inside the Iranian, contempt warred briefly with envy. His scowl grew

deeper. These people worshipped their creations of steel, chrome,

fiberglass, and rubber above all other things above even God Himself.

So be it, Shahin thought with grim finality. The HizbAllah would teach

these idolaters a harsh lesson a lesson scrawled in fire and blood. His

dark eyes settled on the gasoline tanker truck up ahead. "How much

further?"

"Two kilometers. Perhaps less," Zadi answered. He cleared his throat

nervously. "The last exit before the bridge is very near."

Shahin nodded, ignoring the fear in his companion's voice. The old man

would have to hold his cowardice at bay a while longer.

He leaned forward to get a better look at their surroundings. The

steep hillsides of the Marin Headlands rose to the west black masses

still more felt than seen through the last remnants of night and fog. To

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the east, the ground fell away into the dark waters of San Francisco

Bay. Distant lights twinkled along the eastern horizon, slowly fading as

the sky paled before the rising sun. Ahead to the south, the Golden Gate

Bridge's massive towers and suspension cables were already visible,

rising out of the mists CHP Unit 52

Inside a sleek black-and-white cruiser parked just off Highway 101,

California Highway Patrol Offficer Steve Dwyer sat sipping the last cup

of coffee from his thermos, studying the cars streaming past him through

bleary eyes. He yawned, trying to get some oxygen into his bloodstream.

After a long shift spent scouting for drunks, joyriders, and other

lowlifes, the steady crackle of voices over his radio and the lukewarm

coffee were just about the only things keeping him awake, Dwyer stifled

another jaw-cracking yawn and ran a hand over his scalp, frowning when

his fingers along skin where only months before there had been hair.

This god damned job was getting to him, he thought. Hell, he was only

thirty-two way too young to be going bald. Maybe he could put in a

stress claim and get the department health plan to cough up for some of

that Rogaine stuff before he started hearing Kojak jokes and finding

lollipops taped to his locker.

The sight of a gasoline tanker mixed in with the traffic streaming

past him brought the CHP officer fully awake. For safety reasons,

tankers and other carriers of hazardous materials were banned from the

bridge and its approaches during rush hour. Everybody knew that, didn't

they? For damned sure, every trucker who wanted to keep his license knew

that. Everybody except this idiot, obviously.

Dwyer plucked his radio mike off the dashboard. "Dispatch, this is

Five-Two. I have a HazMat rig trying to cross the Gate." He squinted

into the slowly growing dawn. "Plate number is Delta, Tango, Two, Nine,

Four, Five, Three. I'm making the stop now."

With its lights flashing, the CHP cruiser pulled onto the highway.

Highway 101

Shahin cursed as the American police car suddenly slid in right behind

Nadhir's truck. The Iranian bent down to tear open the gym bag between

his feet. He tugged a Czech-made Skorpion machine pistol out of the bag

and checked its twenty-round clip. Satisfied, he flipped the weapon's

folding wire stock into place and looked up. "firing that close to that

police car!"

When Zadi hesitated, the Iranian lifted the Skorpion's muzzle, aiming

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it casually at the older man's stomach. His eyes were cold. "Do it," he

said softly.

Horrified, Haydar Zadi swerved left into the next lane and

accelerated. Horns blared in outrage behind them.

Shahin ignored the noise, his eyes fixed on the patrol car still

trying to pull Nadhir off the road. He could hear the policeman using

his loudspeaker now. That was a wasted effort, he knew. The younger

Iranian didn't speak or understand any English.

Weaving slightly under Zadi's unsteady hands, the Nissan drifted up

alongside the black-and-white police cruiser. Still pinned by heavy

traffic, neither vehicle was moving more than twenty kilometers an hour.

Shahin held his breath, waiting for the right moment. Closer. Closer.

Now.

The two cars were less than two meters apart.

He poked the machine pistol above the door frame, took careful aim,

and squeezed the trigger.

The Skorpion stuttered wildly, bucking upward in Shahin's hands as he

emptied a full magazine into the other vehicle at point-blank range.

Sparks flew off torn metal, and glass shattered, smashed into a thousand

fragments by the hail of gunfire. Blood fountained across the police

car's dashboard. Still rolling forward, the black-and-white slowly

veered off the highway, spun around until it bounced into the hillside,

and came to rest with its lights still flashing.

Inside the Nissan, Zadi flinched, panicked by the sudden deafening

noise. He yanked the steering wheel left again and then back hard right,

narrowly missing another car. More horns sounded angrily behind and all

around them.

"Fool!" Shahin snarled. He glimpsed a road sign ahead and off to the

right. They were practically right on top of the last exit before the

bridge itself. They had done their part. They had brought Ibrahim Nadhir

safely to the brink of Paradise. Now it was time to pull away to live

and fight and on another day. He grabbed Zadi's shoulder and

pointed. "There! The exit! Go! Go!"

Pale and shaking harder than ever, the older man obeyed. He jammed his

foot down hard on the gas pedal. The Nissan sped off the freeway and

flashed into an intersection without stopping. But they were moving too

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fast to make the turn that would have taken them back onto 101 heading

north. Instead, Zadi skidded left, turning onto a small, two-lane road

that snaked around and up the Marin Headlands, climbing ever higher

along the sheer bluffs overlooking the Golden Gate and the Pacific

Ocean.

Shahin whirled in his seat, straining to look through the Nissan's

rear window. Behind them, the gasoline tanker continued straight on down

the highway. It roared steadily past the exit, driving toward San

Francisco.

On the Golden Gate Bridge Sitting tall behind the wheel of the tanker

truck, Ibrahim Nadhir paid little heed to the chaos and confusion

breaking out on the road behind him. Zadi and Shahin were there. They

would do whatever was necessary to safeguard his mission.

The young Iranian smiled gently. All the long months of his training

and religious instruction were close to fruition.

His full awareness, his very soul itself, was focused on one overriding

objective: the huge structure looming out of the fog in front of him.

Everything in his life had come down to this one moment. This one place.

This one act of faith.

He crossed onto the Golden Gate Bridge. The sound of the road beneath

the tanker's tires changed, becoming hollower and more metallic.

Taillights blazed a brighter red as the cars ahead slowed, preparing

to wend their way through the tollbooth plaza blocking the bridge's

southern end.

Still smiling, Nadhir brought the big rig to a stop right in the

middle of the span. The situation was perfect. Cars crowded with

Americans hemmed him in on all sides.

He lifted his gaze from the road before him and looked east. A bright

glow through the mist marked the rising sun and a new day. His eyes

alight with an inner fire, he murmured, "God is great."

Ibrahim Nadhir breathed in for the last time and reached for the

detonator on the seat beside him.

The tanker truck exploded, spewing jagged pieces of steel shrapnel and

ten thousand gallons of burning gasoline across the deck of the bridge.

Vehicles inside the blast radius were shredded, smashed, and then set

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ablaze. Other cars and vans further out were hit broadside by the shock

wave and blown completely off the span, plummeting into the icy waters

below. Everywhere the gasoline landed, fires erupted, fed by new fuel

from ruptured automobile gas tanks. Within seconds, the jammed center of

the Golden Gate Bridge was a roaring sea of flame.

The Marin Headlands, above the Golden Gate Half a mile away and five

hundred feet above the bridge, Shahin tightened his grip on the car door

handle, grimly holding on as Haydar Zadi took another hairpin turn too

fast. The speeding Nissan skidded wildly, sliding across the centerline

with its tires screeching.

The sky behind them caught fire, lit red and orange by an enormous

explosion.

Zadi screamed, half blinded by the sudden glare off his rearview

mirror. Still screaming, he spun the steering wheel around in a frantic

effort to stay on the road. He turned the wrong way.

Moving at more than fifty miles an hour, the Nissan Sentra flew over

the edge of the cliff, tumbling end over end down a sheer slope in an

avalanche of dirt, rock, torn brush, and shredded metal.

JANUARY 16 Building 405, Benicia Industrial Park.

Building 405 had started its life as part of the Benicia Army Arsenal.

Since the Army closed its base back in the early sixties, the warehouse

had changed hands more than a dozen times, moving from owner to owner

and landlord to landlord in a dizzying, confusing procession. All of

them had valued its sheer size and easy access to the freeway, railroad,

and waterfront. None of them had valued Building 405 enough to spend

much time or money on maintenance. From the outside, the place looked

more like a ruin than a going concern a heap of flaking, cracked

concrete walls covered by moss, rust stains from an old tin roof, and

spray-painted graffiti.

FBI Special Agent Michael Flynn stopped at the entrance to the

cavernous warehouse to watch his investigative team at work. More than a

dozen agents were scattered throughout the building, poking and prying

everywhere with gloved hands as they looked for evidence. Others were

busy stringing yellow police tape around areas marked for closer

inspection. Camera flashes went off in a rapid, uneven sequence as

photographers recorded every aspect of their search.

Flynn followed every move intently, fighting hard to control the fury

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Larry Bond - The Enemy Within

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