by David Bruns
There was a soft knock at the door. A tall black man stood in the entrance, close-cropped hair with a touch of gray at the temples. He had a tentative smile on his face.
“Lieutenant McHugh?”
“Yes.” Brendan eyed the man. He had a lean build and was dressed in khakis and a blue dress shirt open at the neck. He extended his hand.
“Rick Baxter, Lieutenant.”
“Brendan, call me Brendan.”
“Brendan, then.” Baxter put his hand on a chair. “May I?”
Brendan shrugged. “Suit yourself, Rick. I’ve got nothing but time.” Even as he said it, Brendan could feel the bitterness in his own voice, like acid on his tongue.
Baxter lowered himself into the chair and scooted close to the bedside. “I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop by, Brendan. I run a small office over at ONI. We’ve got a few guys from your community in our group, all solid guys. I’m putting together a new team and your name came up as a candidate.”
Brendan sat up in bed. ONI was Office of Naval Intelligence. But there was more than that; Baxter’s voice seemed so familiar.
“Me? What kind of team, Rick?”
Baxter laughed. “All in good time, Lieutenant, all in good time. For now, I just wanted to stop by and say thank you.”
“I’m not following.”
Baxter’s eyes dropped to Brendan’s knee. “What you did out there, it paid off for us. It was worth it.”
Brendan scowled. Somehow, he knew that voice. His mind struggled to place it through all the pain meds he’d received over the past weeks.
Baxter stood up abruptly. “Well, I think maybe I’ve overstayed my welcome here, Brendan. Tell you what. You think about our conversation, and when you can walk on your own two feet, call me and we’ll have lunch.”
Baxter pulled a card from his breast pocket and laid it facedown on the bedside table. Then he shook Brendan’s hand, replaced the chair where he’d found it, and walked out the door. The whole visit had taken less than five minutes.
Where did he know that voice from? Brendan picked up the card. It was plain white stock with two lines of heavy black text: Rick Baxter and a phone number with a DC area code.
CHAPTER 26
Tehran, Iran
13 January 2014 – 1430 local
Hashem shifted in his seat. More than anything else in the world, he wanted a cigarette. The pack of Marlboros in the breast pocket of his jacket breathed up a little scent of tobacco every time he moved. He sniffed at it and closed his eyes.
The speaker at the front of the room changed again, but it was the same tired drone of bureaucracy they’d already heard ten times. Everyone felt the need to speak, but no one felt the need to listen. This was why Hashem stayed as far away from politics as possible, these never-ending meetings where everyone said the same thing and no one agreed with anyone else.
For a body called the Expediency Council, they were anything but. They were supposed to be the appointed group that arbitrated legislative disputes between the elected Majlis, the Iranian Parliament, and the appointed twelve-member Council of Guardians, which consisted of a mix of clerics and legal scholars.
Somehow, Aban managed to hold seats on both the Expediency Council and the Council of Guardians—a rare feat. And Aban had asked him to attend this meeting.
Their mutual problem was the bill recently passed by the Majlis, which cut funding to the Quds Force. Moreover, it cut funds in a very specific way that impacted Hashem’s off-the-books desert operation.
Under the Ahmadinejad administration, Hashem reflected, he’d really had an easy time of it. The cost to run his operation was surprisingly reasonable. He’d used the cash from Aban to construct their desert hideaway and most of the equipment was acquired via bureaucratic sleight of hand. The only real ongoing costs were operating expenses for food, fuel, and salaries. These he covered via a fictitious line item within the Quds budget called the “Department of Water Security,” a squad of special agents whose sole job was to protect the nation’s water reserves. What bureaucrat would argue with water security?
But they had. Since President Rouhani had entered office less than six months ago, sweeping legislative changes were on the move. The new Rouhani-backed budget made dramatic cuts to the Quds Force, some of them surprisingly specific in nature. The changes included dismantling a number of programs, among them the Department of Water Security. The specificity of the cuts made Hashem smell a rat.
It had taken him four weeks to find the rat himself. And he was sitting two rows ahead of Hashem right now.
He studied the back of the man’s head. The dossier in his briefcase told him the man’s name was Reza Sanjabi. The attached photos made him look entirely ordinary: medium height, medium build, tending toward softness in the middle, neatly trimmed dark hair, and a clean-shaven jaw. Not handsome, not ugly, just average.
The best ones always are, Hashem thought.
He knew Reza was a spy working for Rouhani, but where did he come from? The man seemed to have materialized out of thin air. Not from within Quds, that was clear; there was no possible way a secret organization could have established itself within Quds without his knowledge.
Then where? And why was he here now?
The Expediency Council had finished debate on the funding bill for the cuts to Quds. Aban wore a grim smile. Hashem knew that look well: his brother had won, but at a cost that was dear to him.
The double doors at the back of the room opened, letting the sounds from the hallway enter the meeting room. The cleric chairing the Expediency Council rose to his feet, but instead of calling for order, he raised his hands and clasped them together. He had a broad smile on his face.
“Welcome, Mr. President,” he called, his voice booming over the PA system. “Thank you for accepting my invitation.”
Hashem caught a glimpse of Aban before the crowd of incoming people—reporters, security detail, staffers—blocked his view of the front of the room. Aban’s face was slack with shock, and his fingers gripped the white cloth covering the table.
President Rouhani knew how to make a politician’s entrance, reaching around his security men to grasp the hands of well-wishers, taking his time to get to the front of the room. He made it to where the Council was seated in a semicircle, and his security team held back anyone from proceeding further.
Hashem watched Rouhani cross the open space and walk behind the raised dais, shaking hands with the Council members as he went, until he reached the center podium. The Chairman clasped Rouhani’s outstretched hand with both of his and beamed up at his new President.
“I object!”
Aban’s voice thundered through the hall, dampening the noise level as all eyes turned in his direction. Aban was on his feet and had pulled the microphone out of its stand on the table before him.
“I object,” he said again, with a little more control this time.
The Chairman leaned forward so he could look down the row of seated Council members. “On what grounds, sir, do you object?”
“Bringing an outside speaker to the Expediency Council meeting is highly irregular. The President was not on the agenda.”
“Point taken,” the Chairman replied. “The scheduled agenda for this meeting of the Expediency Council has been completed. I vote to conclude this meeting. Do I have a second?”
“Seconded,” Aban cried.
The Chairman rapped the podium with his gavel. “This meeting is adjourned. Any Council members who wish to leave are excused.” He turned to Rouhani. “Our President has agreed to hold an unscheduled press conference here today. Anyone who wishes to stay may do so.”
No one in the room moved.
Aban’s face had gone purple with rage, and his hands shook as he tried to replace the microphone in the table holder. He finally gave up and laid it on the white cloth.
Hashem leaned forward in his chair as Rouhani stepped up to the podium. This was actually the closest he’d ever been to the
new President of Iran.
Rouhani wore the full robes of a cleric over his stocky frame. The hands that gripped the sides of the podium were square, with fingers on the short side and manicured nails. A lick of gray hair peeked playfully out from under his snow-white turban, and his carefully trimmed beard lent a slightly western flair to his clerical garb. Behind his wire-rimmed glasses, his gray eyes crinkled with friendliness.
“Good morning,” he said, his even voice filling the quiet room. “And thank you, Mr. Chairman, for your kind invitation.
“When I was elected only a few short months ago, I promised to bring the great country of Iran back into the pantheon of world powers. The diplomatic effort my administration undertook has yielded a framework agreement—” Spontaneous applause broke out in the room, but Rouhani raised his hand. “Please. It is only a first step, merely an agreement to continue talking with the western powers about ending sanctions. An important first step, mind you, but still only the first step of a long journey.” He paused to take a drink of water before continuing.
“Now we enter the most difficult part of the negotiation. Our nuclear program is for peaceful purposes, but we face a skeptical world order, a group of nations that seek proof of our peaceful intentions. And we will provide these skeptics with the proof they desire.
“But let us face facts: the Western sanctions have devastated our economy and our efforts to satisfy the western powers will cost money. My administration has announced a series of cuts in government programs, and redirected those funds toward the nuclear negotiation effort. These cuts are necessary to allow the great nation of Iran to rejoin the world community. I thank the Chairman and the Council for their valuable assistance in reconciling this critical legislation.”
The applause filled the hall again and Rouhani allowed it to continue for a full minute before he waved them quiet. With his trademark grandfatherly smile, he offered to take questions from the reporters. Hashem saw Aban slip out the side entrance and hurried to join him.
His brother’s face was white, and he gnawed at his thumbnail. Aban scanned the hallway. “Do you have a cigarette?” he asked.
Hashem partially tapped out two Marlboros and extended the pack to Aban. His brother snatched a cigarette, sucking greedily as Hashem held out the flame. He held the smoke in his lungs for a long moment before he let it out in a fierce blue stream.
“Brother, we’re running out of time.”
CHAPTER 27
Minneapolis, Minnesota
14 February 2014 – 1100 local
Brendan hung up the phone and sat back in his chair. He crossed off the last line on his handwritten checklist.
He was free. Amy was out of his life.
It had taken him months, a lawyer he couldn’t afford, paid with money he didn’t have, to rid himself of that crazy bitch, but he’d done it. He’d gotten his identity back, shut down the false credit cards she’d opened in his name, and had his few remaining personal belongings shipped from San Diego back to Minneapolis, where they sat in his parents’ garage.
He closed his eyes. He was thirty-two years old, broke, and living in his parents’ basement. This was not how it was supposed to work out. He was a decorated Iraq war veteran—a Navy SEAL, for Christ’s sake—and he was living in his parents’ basement.
He could blame Amy, but deep down he knew he was just as much to blame. When he did something, he went all in. He’d been in love with Amy, so why not give her power of attorney over his affairs while he was overseas? Why not put her on the lease to his apartment and give her all the passwords to his financial accounts? Sure, they weren’t actually engaged, but he knew she loved him . . .
He looked down at the pages of scribbles and crossed out to-do lists on the yellow legal pad in his lap. That’s why, Brendan, you fucking idiot. You just spent the last three months unfucking your life because you didn’t think.
You blamed yourself when the Skype calls from Amy became more infrequent, and then stopped altogether. You ignored the emails from the bank and told yourself Amy would take care of it. You could have asked the CO’s wife to check up on Amy, maybe even stop her, but you didn’t want to cause any trouble. You were so sure you could work it out.
He threw the pad across the room, watching the pages flutter in a buzz of yellow. It slapped against the circa-1970s wood-paneled wall of the basement.
“Everything okay down there, Bren?” his mother called from the kitchen at the top of the stairs.
Brendan took a deep breath. “Fine, Mom.” He hoisted himself out of the chair. “I’m going for a walk.”
“Do you want some company, honey?”
“No, Mom, I’m fine.” He threw an old overcoat over his sweats and pulled a watch cap over his ears. He put some weight on his knee, flexing the joint. All in all, the knee had healed better than he’d expected. He had most of his previous range of motion, and maybe half the pre-injury strength. He could walk with only the slightest limp, and even run on it for a few hundred yards at a time.
He pushed open the sliding door on the walk-out basement and stepped out into the snow. It had been a brutal winter, the snowiest in something like 150 years. The path he’d shoveled from the back patio around to the front of the house was more like a tunnel, with three feet of packed snow on either side.
When he reached the driveway, his mother opened the front door. “Can Champ come with you?”
Brendan smiled. “Sure, send him out.” She opened the door wider to let the dog out. Champ, their ancient black Labrador retriever, huffed his way to Brendan, his leash folded in quarters and dangling from his mouth.
Brendan squatted to pet his friend, breathing through the pain of bending his knee. “Who’s walking who here, boy? Huh?” The leash trick was something Brendan had taught Champ in his younger days. He used to love to run around Lake Harriet with the dog, and the city had a leash law. Brendan thought letting Champ hold his own leash was pretty clever.
Their running days were over—for both man and dog. Today’s pace was a walk with occasional slow jogs, if they both felt up to it.
“Let’s go, boy,” he said, starting off.
It was one of those wonderful Minnesota winter days when the city experienced a midday “thaw.” While the nighttime temps stayed below zero, the days would warm up to high-thirties or so, enough for the running paths to stay clear of snow and ice. For the locals, used to near-zero conditions, the temporary reprieve from freezing—even for a few hours—inspired bursts of outdoor activity. Some brave souls even wore shorts when they ran around the lakes.
“What do you say, Champ, wanna scope some chicks around Lake Harriet?”
In their prime, the running loop around Lake Harriet had been a favorite haunt for both of them. Brendan, a senior in high school and already accepted to the Naval Academy, had become a workout fiend. He ran with his shirt off most of the time, with his faithful sidekick Champ, then just a year-old Lab. That was the year he’d taught Champ the leash trick. Brendan laughed out loud.
“Look at us now, buddy.” He reached down to scratch Champ’s ears. “Couple of broken-down old men, aren’t we?” Champ looked up at him and huffed noisily around the lead crammed in his jaws.
The sun was warm. By the time they reached the Harriet loop, Brendan had zipped open his overcoat. The sweat felt good, always a sure way to lift his spirits. It was lunchtime and the loop was crowded with runners. He watched one girl lope by in running tights that left nothing to the imagination, blond ponytail bouncing behind her. Brendan shook his head. In his younger days, he and Champ would have matched her stride for stride until she noticed his beautiful dog with the lead in his mouth and started a conversation.
Brendan tried to jog a few steps, but stopped when the pain spiked in his knee. His black mood closed in again. Those days were gone—long gone.
They neared the Lake Harriet Bandshell and Brendan got off the path. He guided Champ to the plaza behind the shell and found an open spot on the step
s. Champ stretched out on the warm cement beside him. Although they looked out over the snow-covered lake, the sun was warm and the spot sheltered from the wind. Brendan took off his jacket and balled it behind his head as a pillow, letting the warmth of the sun seep into his body.
He needed to make some decisions soon. Rear Admiral Wizniewski had given him a staff job in DC for “as long as he wanted it,” but Brendan knew Wiz was just being kind. He was finished as an operational SEAL, and there was no way he’d be able to handle being a desk jockey in the SEAL community. His pride wouldn’t take it.
He could get out of the Navy, that was one option. There would even be some sort of disability for his knee injury. And do what? The only thing he’d ever wanted to do was be a SEAL, and now that was gone.
And then there was the mysterious Rick Baxter and his intel job. Brendan had to admit it: when Baxter read him into the program a few weeks ago, he was impressed. But was it really for him?
At Baxter’s invitation, he’d taken the DC metro out to Suitland, Maryland. The Office of Naval Intelligence building was part of the National Maritime Intelligence Center complex, just another of the myriad of alphabet-soup agencies that Brendan knew nothing about.
He processed through the security center and waited for Baxter to meet him. It was Brendan’s first time back in uniform since his hospital stay. He was out of shape, and his service dress blues felt tight in all the wrong places. The knee brace he wore allowed him to walk, albeit slowly, but at least he didn’t need crutches.
Baxter arrived in civilian clothes, but he wore the navy blue suit like a uniform, with a white shirt and a muted pattern tie with a perfect double Windsor knot. When he shook Brendan’s hand, Baxter’s brown eyes searched his face. “Good to see you, Brendan. How’s the knee?”
