“Yeah, this is too risky. Damn!”
They continued their surveillance at the new pace and noticed lights in a window facing the street came on at dusk. Later, during a pass a few minutes before eleven in the evening, the lights went out. This was a good indication that at least one of the apartments was occupied.
They saw the bearded man in the white dishdasha robe several times, always squatting and smoking in the same place. But aside from these sightings they noticed nothing unusual, nothing to give them a clue as to whether Yasmin Ghorbani was inside.
They decided to knock it off for the day and put a full press on tomorrow when they would have Kashmiri and his vehicle at their disposal and would be wearing their own dishdasha disguises.
They were up early the next day and grabbed a quick breakfast before meeting Kashmiri in the hotel parking lot. They hardly recognized him. He was leaning against a dark gray Nissan sedan and was dressed like a Shia cleric in a black robe and turban. His usually well-trimmed moustache and goatee were surrounded by two day’s worth of stubble.
MacMurphy did a double take and then approached him. “You look like a Mullah, Hadi.”
“I just hope I’m not asked to say any prayers. I’m a Coptic Christian. How do you like my dulband?”
“What’s a dulband?”
Kashmiri touched his head. “My hat, my turban.”
“I like it!” MacMurphy laughed and motioned in Santos’s direction. “Hadi, this is my partner, Culler Santos.”
They shook hands. Kashmiri looked thoughtful and then remarked, “Culler? That’s an unusual name . . .”
Santos started to reply but MacMurphy interrupted him. “It’s a nickname. He got it when he was a kid growing up in a rough neighborhood south of Boston. He enjoyed kicking the crap out of bullies. He used to say his goal in life was to cull the world of all the assholes. That’s still his goal: hence the name Culler. It just stuck.”
Kashmiri laughed, “Well, pleased to meet you, Culler. That’s an admirable goal and I’d like to help you achieve it.”
Grinning broadly, Santos said, “Well, you just might get your chance, Mr. Kashmiri. If we’re lucky, that is . . .”
“I’m feeling pretty lucky. So, what’s the plan, gentlemen?”
“I’ll brief you on the way over,” said MacMurphy. Then he turned to Santos and said, “Let’s change into our robes in the car. Hadi and I will follow you over. Let’s make one pass so I can point out the address to Hadi and then meet up at that gas station at the southern end of Lailake.”
It was a few minutes past seven o’clock in the morning and the roads were already beginning to fill with rush hour traffic. As planned, MacMurphy, Kashmiri, and Santos rendezvoused at the gas station and gathered between their two vehicles.
“Okay, here’s the plan,” said MacMurphy. “Hadi, take your car and find someplace to park in the area. Then walk around as if you’re shopping, but try to keep the target apartment in sight. If you see someone like that guy I told you about—the one we think may be a guard who smokes in front of the building—try to approach him. Ask him about the building or for directions. Something like that. The goal is to find out what he is doing there and what’s going on inside.”
Kashmiri nodded. “I understand.”
“Culler, I’ll drop you in the neighborhood. Walk up and down the street on the opposite side of the target for as long as you can. Try to coordinate with Hadi so that one of you has the target in sight at all times. I’ll try to do the same thing after I’ve found a place to park. We’ll coordinate with our cell phones.”
Santos nodded and said, “Let’s do it.”
The boredom of surveillance sets in fast. The hours tick by without anything happening. Annoyances stack up. Impatience builds. Then a single movement releases an avalanche of adrenaline.
The rush occurred three hours into their surveillance. Kashmiri was the first to notice a woman in a headscarf drive by the safe house in a dark Ford Focus. She squeezed into a tight parking place a few meters past it. Something about the way she slowed and looked at the building as she drove past made him notice.
He watched the woman exit the car, speak to a couple of young kids who ran up to greet her and then walk back to number 67. She hit the buzzer on the door jam, pushed open the door, and entered the building.
Four minutes later, a white Range Rover Evoque parked behind the woman’s Ford Focus. A young man in a white dishdasha man-dress stepped out of the SUV and removed a black duffle bag from the passenger seat. The street urchins swarmed him as he locked the car.
He had a strange smile on his face as he crouched down to speak to them. When he gestured to his bag, the children’s eyes grew wide and they backed away from him. Free to move again, he straightened and walked to number 67 without any further delay. Like the woman, he pressed the door-jam buzzer and stepped inside.
CHAPTER 35
Three days had passed since Pouri’s last visit, so Yasmin did not know what to expect when Pouri stepped into the room with trembling hands. She got up from the bed as Pouri closed the door behind her. “What is it?” Yasmin asked.
Pouri noticed Yasmin was wearing the clothes she had brought her, including one of the colorful hijabs. The sight of it almost made her cry. “I tried my best. I really did. But there was nothing I could do. Iran wanted a new interrogator, someone more effective. And Hezbollah offered one of their best. I’ve heard of him. He’s psychotic. And he’s broken every person he’s tortured.” The words poured out of Pouri, and her hands shook worse than ever.
Yasmin felt something colder than ice slide down her spine. “How much time do we have?”
“He’ll be here any minute,” Pouri said as she crossed the room to hold Yasmin’s hands. She ignored the tremors her hands sent up Yasmin’s arms. “You have to tell him everything. He will not hesitate to kill you and make it look like an accident to cover his ass with Iran.”
Tears welled up in Yasmin’s eyes. “I can’t. Too many people would die. And I can’t betray my country.”
Pouri realized her hands were no longer the source of Yasmin’s shaking. She had never seen the woman look so afraid.
The sound of a door opening and a chair scraping cut through the silence. Pouri immediately wiped the tears out of Yasmin’s eyes and backed herself into a corner. She crossed her arms to keep her hands from shaking as the door to the interrogation room opened. Panic leapt into Yasmin’s eyes as the man standing in the doorway smiled at her. He was younger and shorter than she imagined he would be, and his dark eyes did not blink.
“What are you doing here, Miss Hoseini?” the man asked, without taking his eyes off Yasmin.
“Supervising this interrogation, Bashir.” Pouri said.
“And Iran sanctioned your supervision?”
“My superiors will understand my precaution. It would be unwise to leave one of Iran’s most valuable assets alone with you for too long. Your reputation precedes you.”
He finally broke eye contact with Yasmin to flash Pouri a rack of perfect, white teeth. “It usually does.” He turned his attention back to Yasmin as he closed the door and latched it behind him. Then he dropped the duffle bag in his hand. The sound of metal hitting wood cried out as the bag landed on the floor.
An hour into the interrogation, Pouri felt like throwing up. Bashir was in no hurry to finish the job, which only made his actions more sickening. After a brief, half-hearted attempt to make Yasmin talk without force, he dove straight into intimidation tactics. When those failed to elicit a confession, the torture began.
It started slow and simple. If Yasmin remained silent after he asked a question, he would pull her hair or twist her arm behind her. That continued until Bashir looked bored. Then he switched tactics.
Pouri watched in horror as he stripped Yasmin naked, bound her wrists with rope, and zip-tied her ankles together. He punched a hole through the ceiling with a hammer and hung her by the wrists from a metal pipe close to the hol
e. Yasmin’s face twisted in agony as her entire body weight started to crush her wrists’ delicate joints.
Bashir paused to watch her tremble. He asked her a few questions about her contacts in Iran. When she whimpered in response, he removed two black boxes and a coil of wires from his bag. One of the boxes looked like a small car battery. The other was a modified inverter generator. He connected the boxes with wires and unraveled a coil of electrodes that he clipped to Yasmin’s toes. Tears slid down her cheeks when she noticed the electrodes were wired into the generator.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Pouri asked from her corner. Her voice was dangerously low.
“Nothing she can’t handle. Girls much younger than her have survived worse,” Bashir said as he walked back to the generator. Something like a chuckle skulked down his throat. “Well, for a while,” he said, before crouching down and flipping a switch on the generator.
Yasmin’s whole body convulsed and twitched as she screamed. The sound was mangled and inhuman. It matched the look on Bashir’s face.
He flipped the switch again, cutting the electrical current, but she still twisted wildly from the rope. Bashir straightened and felt an explosion of pain hammer his head and knock him over. Pouri stood over him, breathing hard. Her feet were planted apart and her fist still hung in mid-air. Incredulous, he looked up at her with a hand on his forehead where she had punched him.
“The fuck—”
“Get out. I don’t care who sent you.”
Livid, Bashir pushed himself up and strode over to Pouri until they stood face to face. “I finish what I start.”
“You can’t be trusted to extract information without killing our asset.” Pouri grabbed a fistful of his robe and rammed her face against his so that his neck bent back and his eyes were unnaturally close to hers. “So, you will not touch her again.” Her voice was indescribable.
Rattled by Pouri’s uncomfortable proximity and predatory grip, Bashir shoved her away. His eyes were wide yet menacing. He glared at her for what seemed like hours. Neither one of them broke eye contact. The only sound in the room was Yasmin’s uneven sobbing. Finally, he turned and started to pack his bag.
“Iran will send one of its own to replace you. Tell that to whomever you need to.” Pouri said as she crossed her arms and watched him unclip the electrodes from Yasmin’s toes. He shoved them in his bag, strode past Pouri, and slammed the door on his way out. As soon as she heard him leave the apartment, Pouri grabbed a chair and slid it under Yasmin’s feet, hoping to relieve some of the weight from Yasmin’s wrists while she looked for something to cut the rope with. The chair wasn’t quite tall enough to reach Yasmin’s feet, which was just as well. The entire lower half of her body was numb from the electric shock.
“I swear I will help you escape. I don’t know how. But I will never be complicit in this again,” Pouri said with a tremor in her voice as she continued her search.
CHAPTER 36
MacMurphy had found a place to park three blocks past the target address. He sat there with the windows up, engine and air conditioning running. He planned to stay there as long as possible before making another loop past the target apartment.
His phone rang. “Hadi here. I think we have something.”
“What’s up?” said MacMurphy.
“I’m directly in front of the target. A woman drove past very slowly and then parked a few meters down the road. She spoke to some kids when she got out of the car and then walked right past me. She went into the target. She’s attractive, probably mid-forties, and I’m pretty certain she’s Iranian.”
“How do you know that?”
“She’s dressed like an Iranian. And I heard her talk to the kids. She asked them to take good care of her car and to watch it carefully. Her accent is definitely Iranian.”
MacMurphy was excited. He was pretty sure he could guess who this woman was but wanted confirmation. “Who do you think she is?”
“If I were a betting man, I would say she’s the interrogator. She sounds educated, upper class. What other role would she have in there?” He reflected for a moment and then added, “Unless she’s going to one of the other apartments.”
“That’s a possibility, but we haven’t observed any activity in the other two apartments. No lights. Nothing. I think we’ve got something here.”
“There’s more. A young man, probably late twenties, parked behind her and also entered the target. He looked like a local, and he carried a duffle bag. He talked to the kids, but he spoke quietly and I didn’t catch what he said.”
“Maybe they are beefing up their security and need more supplies. He could be another guard.”
“That sounds possible.”
“Stick as close as you can. I’m going to call Culler.”
They hung up and MacMurphy quickly made his next call. Santos answered on the first ring.
“Did you get a look at the woman and man who just entered the building?” MacMurphy asked.
“Yes, but not too closely. I’m on the other side of the street. But the woman walked right past Hadi. She went in at exactly four minutes past ten.”
“Yes, Hadi got a very good look at her. We think she’s the interrogator. Hadi heard her speak. He says she’s upper-class Iranian. He didn’t hear the man talk, but Hadi thinks he’s a local. Probably another security guard.”
“Then they’re in there. So, let’s go get our gal. I’m ready if you are.”
“Hold on. Let me think.” MacMurphy’s mind was churning out options. If they went in now they would be going in blind. They had not learned very much from their surveillance. At the very least, she was guarded by the bearded guy at the main entrance, Abu Salah, the old woman, the interrogator, and the security guard. But what if there were others? If they waited to gather more information, she could be moved and they would miss this opportunity. He and Santos were carrying sidearms, but maybe more firepower would be needed.
Then it came to him. “What if we grabbed the interrogator? We could wait until she leaves and then grab her before she gets into her car. Just like Hezbollah. We could interrogate her about the security situation inside the building, and maybe we could even swap her for Yasmin Ghorbani. No, probably not. That would be too complicated. Take too long. But . . .”
“We can do that. We can grab her, get whatever information we need and then go in there tonight or tomorrow and get our gal. That’s brilliant.”
“Okay, I’ll give Hadi a call and then I’ll spin by and pick you up so we can work out the details. How long do you think she’ll be in there?”
“Beats me,” said Santos. “But I’ll head over to her car right now in case she decides to make it a quick visit. Those little kids are hanging out over there, probably watching the car, but they shouldn’t pose any problems.”
“Okay,” said MacMurphy, “I’m on my way.”
CHAPTER 37
Santos and MacMurphy decided to keep the plan as simple as possible—the KISS principle.
Kashmiri would hover near the target building with his eyes on the entrance and his phone at the ready. Santos would hang out near the interrogator’s car and MacMurphy would try to park the Land Cruiser as close to it as possible. When the interrogator exited the building, Kashmiri would call MacMurphy. When she reached her car, both Santos and MacMurphy would grab her, carry her to the Land Cruiser and beat it out of the area. Fast and simple.
Almost two hours passed before they saw any movement. The young man suddenly walked out of the building and made a beeline to his car. Kashmiri noticed that he still carried his duffle bag and that the children guarding the Iranian’s car moved further down the street when he approached. As soon as the Range Rover sped off, Kashmiri called MacMurphy and told him what had happened. It was difficult to make heads or tails of the young man’s actions. They eventually decided that there had been some sort of miscommunication about which supplies he was supposed to bring to the safe house. But that theory was debunked
when he never returned.
The hours dragged on and it was hot. On one of his passes, MacMurphy handed a bag of falafels and bottles of water to Kashmiri and Santos. They refused to take their eyes off the building even for a moment. But, they were beginning to attract attention in the neighborhood. Kashmiri did a better job of explaining his presence than Santos, who would simply growl at anyone who approached him.
The only routine movements they noticed were the smoke breaks the bearded guard took every hour. During those times, Kashmiri would move down the street to avoid contact with him. Then, a few minutes after four o’clock in the afternoon, a man replaced the bearded guard. The two men stood in front of the door for a few minutes, chatting and smoking. When they finished their cigarettes, the new guard entered the building while the old one walked to the adjacent auto-repair garage, mounted a moped, and departed the area.
Kashmiri noticed the new guard wore a white dishdasha robe, like the old guard. But he was larger and had less facial hair than his predecessor. Kashmiri reported this to MacMurphy.
The hours ticked by and the shadows grew longer. Eventually, MacMurphy found a suitable place to park the Land Cruiser. The spot was three or four car lengths in front of the interrogator’s car.
When he exited the vehicle to join Santos and Kashmiri on the street, one of the kids watching the interrogator’s car ran over to him, jabbering in Arabic. MacMurphy figured he wanted money for watching the car. Without saying a word, he pushed a fifty-pound Lebanese note in the little urchin’s hand and slapped the fender of the Land Cruiser to indicate he wanted his car watched. The kid got the message and yelped with glee in the direction of the other children. They all hurried over to the Land Cruiser to gawk at the money in their friend’s hand.
MacMurphy walked up the street toward Kashmiri, who was stationed at the front of the building. He whispered as he passed and motioned for Kashmiri to move to the other side of the street. Then he stationed himself near the far side of the adjacent electronics store. He glanced at his watch: 5:20 p.m. The interrogator had been inside for more than seven hours.
False Flag Page 13
