They walked for a while in silence. The brutal cold from a few days before had abated, but the wind was still strong and out of the north, traveling the full length of the lake and driving tall waves into the breakwater along the edge of the path so that a cold spray flew into their faces. It was uncomfortable, but except for one solitary runner who had passed a few minutes earlier, it meant they were alone. And with the wind and spray there could be no audio surveillance.

“Recent events require postponing the final phase of the New Mexico project anyway,” said Javadi. “Stein’s death was meant to ensure the safe sale of a shipment of diamonds that were to recoup for us what we have spent funding this operation. Once we had the diamonds, we were going to arrange their liquidation in circles monitored by Mossad, circles with established ties to our Al Qaeda friends. The funds from that transaction would replenish the accounts out of which Heinz was paid, accounts we have always maintained through contacts with ties to Al Qaeda. Al Qaeda assets on our payroll then would release the appropriate celebratory videos to Al Jazeera.”

“So you wish to give Al Qaeda credit for an Iranian operation?”

Javadi nodded. “The act itself is immaterial. It is the credit for the act that matters. Historically, the Americans are not a patient people. That they have spent more than a decade in Iraq and Afghanistan is a testament to how violently they can react if properly motivated. But now they intend to take their troops and go home. They have already left Iraq, and have a deadline for leaving Afghanistan. Even the American puppet Karzai is calling for them to leave. But leaving will free up both their political and military resources to focus on Iran. This is not attention we desire. Every piece of evidence associated with the New Mexico project will point to Al Qaeda and to Waziristan. After this act, the Americans will not only stay in Afghanistan, but they will double or triple their presence. They will force Pakistan to invade the tribal areas, may even invade them themselves. That will either topple the American puppet regime in Islamabad or force the Americans to send even more troops to prop it up. India, of course, will take advantage of Pakistan’s troubles to press their interests in the region. America will have to spend billions, and will be so busy with Kabul, Islamabad, and Delhi that they will have no time for Tehran. Meanwhile, in two years, perhaps less, we will be ready to strike at Israel. The Americans know we have no weapons that can reach them at home. But if we can keep a few hundred thousand American troops in Afghanistan, the Americans will also know that if they strike back for the Jews, those troops will be consumed in Allah’s fire.”

Al Din said nothing for a moment, digesting this information. “Such grand designs,” he said finally, “and you cannot pay this poor workman his wages?”

Javadi waved his hand as if al Din’s comments were without consequence. “This business with the diamonds, it should already have been completed. Your payment, being part of the New Mexico project, was to come from those funds. Alas, it seems that Stein and his Mossad compatriots are not the only ones with a taste for Al Qaeda’s diamonds. The fools in Sierra Leone allowed the entire shipment to be stolen. By this man.” Javadi pulled a picture and an envelope from his pocket and handed them to al Din.

Al Din looked at the picture of Hardin. “He was with Stein, the night I killed him.”

“Trying to sell the diamonds, no doubt,” said Javadi. “His name is Nicholas Hardin. His dossier is in the envelope. He needs a new buyer. Find this Hardin, retrieve the diamonds, and kill him.”

“Yet another mission, but you still have not paid me for the last two.”

“The diamonds are valued at more than 150 million US dollars. Tehran feels a finder’s fee of five percent would be appropriate.”

“Al Din feels a finder’s fee of ten percent would be more appropriate.”

“Which is exactly what I told our masters,” agreed Javadi.

“In addition, of course, to what I am already owed.”

“Of course.”

They turned back toward the campus, the wind now at their backs, walking in silence for a time.

It had never been al Din’s goal to serve Allah, or, for that matter, Tehran. It was his goal to serve al Din. This new assignment – Tehran expected him to retrieve a huge fortune and return it to them in exchange for a small one. Yet even that small fortune, added to the accounts al Din already had secreted around the world, would mean that he would no longer have to serve the ridiculous whims of his Islamic masters. Instead, he could serve his own appetites.

But he would be serving them in a dangerous world. On 9/11, the Americans were enraged by an attack that, in truth, destroyed more real estate than human life. A mere three thousand dead, and yet one could measure America’s rage in a decade of governments overthrown, countries occupied, hundreds of thousands killed. How would America’s rage be measured when the streets of Chicago were littered with ten times as many dead?

Tehran intended to pay al Din from the Al Qaeda accounts. That meant that the money trail from the New Mexico project would end with al Din, not with Tehran. Al Din’s methods for receiving payment were carefully structured to protect his anonymity, but only a fool considered any method perfect. If there was one thing the Americans understood better than anyone else in the world, it was money.

Al Din decided. He would proceed, but he would maintain control. He would deploy the devices, but only he could decide when or if to set them off. He would secure these diamonds, and then he would decide when and to whom he would sell them. Options and leverage. That is not what he would say to Javadi, of course.

“Agreed,” al Din said.

As they neared the campus, Javadi spoke.

“I understand that you killed the good Dr Heinz with a stone?”

“Yes.”

“How fitting. Like Goliath, seemingly invincible, yet felled with a simple stone. As soon will be these Americans, who imagine they can impose their will on Allah’s people. When all is in place our devices will kill them in their tens of thousands, and with weapons almost as simple as a stone.”

Al Din left Javari to wax poetic about his vengeful religious visions. Instead, he took one more look at the picture before pushing it back into the envelope.

Paradise awaited. Not in the next life, but in this. First, however, this Nick Hardin must die.

CHAPTER 14

Hardin had just walked into the garage, popped the trunk to the rental, and dropped his duffle inside when he heard a car stop behind him. He slammed the trunk shut and turned around. A skinny guy in a blue Adidas tracksuit got out of the back seat of a black Grand Marquis holding a 9mm Glock down along his right leg.

“Take your coat off a second, Hardin.”

They knew his name. Great. Hardin had no play. He slipped off the jacket.

“Turn around once for me.”

Hardin did a slow circle.

“You ain’t packing some little sissy gun somewhere, are you?”

“No,” said Hardin.

The guy moved away from the door and nodded his head at the back seat. “Get in and slide over. Somebody wants to have a chat.”

Hardin got in, scooting over behind the driver. The driver was a hugely fat man wearing some kind of velour pullover. The skinny guy got in on the passenger side and shut the door, staying away from Hardin, holding the gun on him across his lap.

“Let’s go, Beans,” he said.

The fat man drove the car out the Madison Street entrance, took a left down to Lake Shore Drive, and then headed south. As he cleared the garage, he pulled his cell phone, hit one button. “We’re clear, you can turn ’em back on,” he said, and put the phone away.