Callsign: Bishop (Erik Somers) (Chesspocalypse #5)

Just like always.

A soft beep sounded through the cabin and a pleasant female voice came over the intercom. “Ladies and gentlemen, we are beginning our descent into Tehran. We will be landing at Imam Khomeini International Airport in five minutes. Please fasten your seat belts and ensure that all electronic devices have been turned off.” The announcement repeated itself in Persian, Spanish and French.

Bishop checked his lap belt, making sure it was cinched tight, and relaxed. He’d be on the ground soon enough, and afterward he’d have to find transportation out into the Kavir Desert. He had the coordinates of the Manifold station, but getting there would be a problem. First, he’d have to get a charter flight to a small village on the edge of the Kavir, then hire a car to actually go into the desert itself. It would probably cost a pretty penny, but he was sure he could accomplish both.

Money talks, he thought. Even in Iran, money talks.

After his mission briefing, he’d been given over 10 million Iranian rials. Even though it only equaled about $1,000 in US currency, it should be more than enough to purchase anything he needed while in Iran, especially after he left Tehran. Should the need arise, he had access to more funds, but more likely he would simply acquire anything else he might need. His Delta training had included numerous techniques for gathering supplies, foraging, stealth and even hotwiring foreign and domestic cars. Iran was the twelfth largest manufacturer of automobiles in the world, even though few of the vehicles made in the country found their way to the US. Bishop was confident he could find a car that would get him to the Kavir Desert, even if he had to steal it.

He began to go through his checklist. First, he would need to get to the Manifold outpost and look for signs of occupation. If the site was occupied, he would try to infiltrate or identify the group. If the place was empty, he would need to go inside and see if the terrorist had left behind any clues. Most of the time, people couldn’t help but leave clues behind, especially jihadists, who wanted the world to know what they had done. Bishop’s next steps would be based on what he found at the site.

The plane touched down on the runway, and Bishop looked out the window. The sprawling metropolis of Tehran sat in the sun, waiting for him. Skyscrapers reached for the clouds with concrete fingers, reflecting the hot Iranian sun back from a million windows. He was too far away to hear the bustle of the city’s people as they went about their day, but he could imagine it well enough. Bicycles and mopeds threading their way through cars and pedestrians. The sound of thousands of horns and millions of voices rumbling through the city streets like a wall of sound. The thick haze of smog that hovered over the city.

First time visitors to Tehran were often surprised by its modern look and vast scale. Western tourists often pictured huge, spired mosques and horse driven carts in cobbled streets filled with men in turbans and women in long black habibs. Bishop had been here several times and knew what to expect. Tehran was a city on the hub of the world, more populous even than London or New York, and played home to a large and diverse gathering of people. It would be easy enough for him to blend in. He was born here, after all.

The plane taxied to a stop outside its assigned gate, and after a few minutes, Bishop and the other passengers began to disembark. He shuffled down the central aisle, a prop carry-on briefcase in hand, and tried not to think about Dawoud and Faiza Abbasi.

First things first, he reminded himself. Tend to business, then you can go to Shiraz and see what you need to see.

Easier said than done.

***

Inside the airport, two men stood by a souvenir shop and watched as the latest round of passengers exited the gate. A steady stream of people walked through the door, including several Americans, an Asian couple, and a group of Hispanics, all walking side by side with the Muslims who belonged here and those that did not. Ordinarily the two would be watching for freedom fighters, but today was different. Today their attention was focused on one visitor in particular: a large, burly man in a dark gray suit. He looked Iranian, as well he should, but he wasn’t. Not really. He was an American with an Iranian face. The two men spotted him right away.

“Is that him?” one of the men asked.

The other nodded. “It is.”

“Should we go now?”

“Not yet. It is too crowded here. Wait until he is outside.”

“I will call ahead and let them know we will be bringing him shortly.”

The man walked through the door and into the airport. He carried a black briefcase in his right hand and a map of the airport in the other. After consulting the map, he turned to his right and started to make his way to the exit.

The two men fell into step behind the foreigner and followed him to the exit.





4.