False Flag

by F. W. Rustmann Jr.

  It was a good lead, well worth exploring further.

  It was dark by the time Abu Salah arrived at Nabil’s apartment building. He hit the intercom by the entrance door and Nabil answered. Abu Salah identified himself by name and said he was Walid’s colleague.

  “Yes, of course, I know who you are. Please come up.” Nabil hit the buzzer.

  Nabil was sitting in his wheelchair in the doorway when Abu Salah opened the door. They shook hands and Abu Salah followed Nabil into the apartment.

  “Will you join me in a cup of tea? The water is hot. I was just fixing some for myself.”

  “I will join you,” said Abu Salah, sitting in a chair. “I am sorry I came so late. I wanted to pay my respects but I did not have your address until now. You have heard, haven’t you?”

  Nabil raised his eyes toward the sky and brought his hands up to his face. “Praise be to Allah, I received the news yesterday. Only yesterday. His family did not contact me. I am, well . . . It was in the press, but . . .”

  “I understand. Not everyone believes in what we do. I just wanted to say how very sorry I am. Walid was my driver for many years and . . .”

  “He spoke of you often. Thank you for coming. You are very kind.”

  Nabil served them tea from a large aluminum pot. Abu Salah looked up from his cup and studied Nabil before speaking. “What were you told about his death?”

  Nabil sensed something in Abu Salah’s tone. “I was told he died in an automobile accident. Is this not true?”

  “Maybe,” said Abu Salah. “It is possible, but . . .”

  “Is that why you are here? To tell me Walid’s death was not an accident?”

  “No, I came to ask if you had any reason to believe it was not an accident, if you knew of anyone who would want him dead . . .”

  Nabil gently put down his teacup on a table in front of them and looked up into Abu Salah’s cold eyes. He could see why Walid had hated this man so much. “What are you getting at? Walid had no enemies other than the enemies of Hezbollah.”

  Abu Salah decided to take a stab. “What about Iran? Would Iran want him dead?”

  “Of course not. The Ayatollah . . . I mean Iran . . . They . . .”

  “Tell me about Iran. He was talking to them, wasn’t he?”

  Nabil felt a sense of anguish. Had he been trapped? Did Abu Salah know? He did not know how to respond. Finally, he said, “I know nothing about Iran other than that they are our benefactors and allies in the cause.”

  Abu Salah’s eyes drilled into Nabil’s. “Yes, they are, especially in this cause. They own the hostage and we just do their dirty work. Isn’t that true?”

  “Yes . . . I mean . . .”

  “So, you know about the hostage. Walid told you, didn’t he? What else do you know? What did Walid tell you about the hostage and Iran?”

  Nabil hesitated before replying. “He told me you were guarding an American CIA hostage. He said Hezbollah had captured the hostage . . .”

  “For Iran. He told you that, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, but . . .”

  “So, tell me why Iran would want to kill Walid.”

  “They wouldn’t. Iran . . .”

  “I see. He was talking to Iran. He was talking to Iran behind our backs, wasn’t he?”

  “No! I don’t know . . .” Suddenly it dawned on him. “It was you, wasn’t it? It was Hezbollah. You wanted him killed because you thought he was talking to Iran . . .”

  Abu Salah stood up and walked to the window. He looked out on the street for a moment and then turned back to face Nabil with his .38 revolver in his hand. “He was talking to Iran and you were his link.”

  Nabil was trembling with rage. “Get out! Get out now. Walid said you were a thug and he was right. Get out of my house right now.”

  Abu Salah calmly walked over to Nabil and placed the barrel of his gun in the middle of Nabil’s forehead. “I have one last question, you traitorous sonofabitch. And if you don’t answer truthfully, I’m going to blow your fucking brains out.”

  Nabil’s mind raced. Something was wrong here. Iran was an ally, a friend, a benefactor. Neither he nor Walid would ever betray Hezbollah or Iran. They were Shiite brothers, united in a just cause. And yet, here was this out-of-control man accusing them both of betrayal.

  He looked up at Abu Salah and said, “It was you. You killed Walid and pushed his car off the cliff to make it look like an accident.”

  “Yes, and I’m going to put a bullet in your brain if you don’t tell me who you were passing information to.”

  Nabil decided to make one last attempt to reason with the monster. “We were passing information about the treatment of the hostage to the Ayatollah in Iran. He was concerned that you thugs were mistreating her and that you would try to sell her for ransom. It appears the Ayatollah had every right to be concerned.”

  “And who was your contact? Who was your intermediary with the Ayatollah?”

  “His name is Hadi Kashmiri, an Iranian.”

  At that moment, Nabil took advantage of Abu Salah’s proximity and slapped the gun away from his head. In the same motion, he reached up with a powerful right arm and pulled Abu Salah down toward him. His left hand held Abu Salah’s right wrist in an iron grip that twisted Abu Salah’s hand until the gun dropped from it. When the gun hit the floor, he released the wrist and slammed his fist into Abu Salah’s ear with a vicious left hook.

  Abu Salah tried to pull back but succeeded only in pulling Nabil out of his wheelchair and onto the floor on top of him. Nabil took advantage of his position and landed several blows on Abu Salah’s head in a ferocious ground-and-pound attack. Abu Salah tried to shield himself, but the fists and elbows mercilessly rained down on him. He needed to get free. Nabil’s legs might be useless, but his upper body strength was enormous. Abu Salah twisted and bucked until he was finally able to roll free.

  Dazed, Abu Salah continued to roll frantically away from Nabil. Nabil crawled toward him, using his powerful arms and dragging his legs behind him. But he was too slow. Abu Salah reached the revolver, rolled again, and exploded into a kneeling crouch with the gun pointing directly at Nabil.

  Nabil made one last desperate attempt to lunge at Abu Salah, but the gun barked and a devastating hollow-point, Hydra-Shok bullet smashed into Nabil’s left shoulder, expanding and penetrating and knocking him backwards.

  The two men froze. Nabil lay prone on the floor with his good arm in the push-up position and his head raised. Abu Salah crouched with his gun hand extended. They stared at each other without speaking for what seemed like an eternity. And then the gun barked again. The hollow-tip bullet caught Nabil just under the right eye, and the back of his head erupted. Blood and brains splattered on the clean wall behind him and on the white robe of his murderer.

  CHAPTER 61

  Abu Salah dropped his gun, charged into Nabil’s bedroom, and ripped open his closet. He tore off his ruined dishdasha man-dress and used a relatively dry swath near the hem to wipe his face, hair, and hands. Then he quickly folded it in half and used the sleeves to tie it around his waist. It hung in loose folds as he grabbed a low-hanging dishdasha from the closet and threw it over himself. He ran to a bathroom he had passed on his way to the bedroom and looked in the mirror.

  Faded scarlet streaks marbled and warped his face. He rubbed it clean with wads of toilet paper and flushed them down the toilet. Then he bolted out of the bathroom, snatched his gun from the floor, and bounded down the apartment stairs to the street. He stuffed the .38 snub-nosed revolver into his pocket and took a deep, calming breath and started walking up the street at a leisurely pace. Nabil’s dishdasha was too loose in the shoulders, but the rest of it had looked convincing enough in the mirror.

  He noticed people on the street craning their necks in the direction of Nabil’s apartment. In an effort to blend in, he stopped and looked up in that direction as well. Several people glanced at him suspiciously, but he moved on without making eye contact. He hailed
a cab a couple of blocks away. Eighteen minutes later, he was home.

  The following morning, he called Nasrallah’s office to schedule an appointment. When Nasrallah’s secretary informed her boss that Abu Salah was on the line, he took the call.

  The first words out of Nasrallah’s mouth were “Where were you last night?”

  Abu Salah did not like the tone in Nasrallah’s voice. “I . . . sir . . . I would like to report to you. I . . . you will be pleased, sir.”

  “Have you seen a newspaper this morning? Was that you?”

  “No . . . I . . .”

  “Then get one, you idiot. The police are looking for a man matching your description who was seen in the vicinity of a murder last night. And judging from the identity of the victim, I’m pretty sure that would be you, Abu Salah.”

  “But I . . . I need to talk to you. I have important information for you, sir. The Iranians are behind it. The Nassars were both reporting to Iran. The intermediary is an Iranian named Hadi Kashmiri.”

  After a long silence, a calmer Nasrallah said, “Iran is not behind it. The American CIA is behind it because they have our hostage. It is a fact. Get that into your head. They may have been using this Hadi Kashmiri as an intermediary, and the Nassars may have believed they were helping Iran, but this is a CIA operation. Kashmiri is quite well known in Beirut and Iran. He is the dog you need to kill. He is working for the CIA. He is the connection.”

  Abu Salah breathed a sigh of relief. From the tone of Nasrallah’s instructions, he could tell he was still in the game. “Where can I find this Hadi Kashmiri, sir?”

  “He is an Iranian businessman. He travels frequently between Beirut and Tehran and Europe, but his main residence is in Cyprus. I suspect he is there right now. He will not show up in Beirut or Tehran anytime soon. Not with this mess blowing up in his face.”

  “Then I will go to Cyprus.”

  “Yes, the authorities are looking for someone matching your description anyway. It is just a matter of time before they find you. I suspect your fingerprints are all over the crime scene. It is best that you leave here immediately.”

  Abu Salah gasped. Other than his bloody dishdasha, he had taken no precautions to erase evidence from Nabil’s apartment. He had to leave the country quickly. “Thank you, sir. I will not let you down this time. I promise . . .”

  CHAPTER 62

  MacMurphy called Kashmiri as soon as he heard the news about the murder of Nabil Nassar. Kashmiri reported that he had tried to call Nabil several times, but his phone went to voicemail each time.

  “You didn’t leave your name or anything, did you?” asked MacMurphy, readjusting the bandage on his arm.

  “Of course not. I left no messages at all.”

  Satisfied with the gauze’s new placement, MacMurphy said, “Good, but the police will still get your number from Nabil’s phone. Better toss that phone and get a new throwaway.” His wound was healing nicely, but it still smarted occasionally.

  “Okay. Then what will out next step be?” Kashmiri sounded worried.

  “The bitter truth is this whole thing’s unraveling. I’m sorry. They’re moving back up the chain and you’re next. It looks like Walid led them to Nabil, and we have to assume Nabil has led them to you.”

  Kashmiri’s voice was strained. “Yes, I understand . . . I . . .”

  “Where are you now?”

  “I’m home. In my house on Kanari Street.”

  “Well, get out of there. Right away. Move in with friends. Anything. Just get out of there and don’t check into a hotel in your name. Call me when you have a new phone. Culler and I will get there as soon as we can.”

  Kashmiri’s voice trembled. “Okay . . . okay, Mac . . . I’ll . . . okay . . .”

  Santos and MacMurphy packed up their gear, vacated the Coral Beach Hotel, and headed for the marina where Fotopolous was waiting on the Theano with the engines running. They loaded their gear aboard the yacht, locked the Land Cruiser, stashed the car and hotel keys on top of the left front wheel, and sailed across the calm Mediterranean toward Limassol. The vehicle would be returned and all bills would be paid by Fotopolous’s contact. Very neat. No strings left dangling. No connections.

  It was late when they arrived at the marina in Limassol, so Santos and MacMurphy remained on board with all their gear and spent the night on the yacht. Early the next morning Kashmiri called to give them the number of his new phone.

  “Where are you?” asked MacMurphy.

  “I’m staying with friends. I told them my air conditioning went out and they invited me over. It is just across the bridge from my place, still in the Strovolous area on Perikleous Street. But I don’t know how long I can stay here.”

  “Don’t worry,” said MacMurphy. “You can move back home when we get there. We’re in Limassol now. We’ll leave after breakfast and get there later this morning.”

  “Do you want to meet me here?”

  “No, meet us in front of the Hilton Hotel. We will follow you back to your place in a rental car. I’ll brief you when we get there. Do you have a valid U.S. visa?”

  “I . . . um, yes. Multiple entry. Good for another two or three years. Why do you ask? Am I going to America?”

  “Maybe. We’ll talk about it later.”

  As soon as MacMurphy ended the call, ideas and possible courses of action tumbled through his brain. His priority was to protect Kashmiri, but Kashmiri was also his link to the Hezbollah killer. If he wanted to smoke out and neutralize the assassin, he would have to use Kashmiri as bait. On the other hand, he could simply get Kashmiri a new identity and resettle him in the United States.

  He discussed these options with Santos, who said, “What are you asking me for? You know my answer and you know what you ought to do. Let’s kill the sonofabitch who killed our assets and end this thing right here.”

  So, it was unanimous. Hadi Kashmiri would have one more mission before heading for resettlement in America under the CIA’s political asylum quota system, Public Law 110.

  CHAPTER 63

  A few minutes before noon, Santos and MacMurphy drove a nondescript, midnight-blue Lexus sedan rental up to the circular entrance of the Hilton Hotel. They spotted Kashmiri sitting in his gray Toyota sedan under the portico and pulled up beside him. MacMurphy rolled down his window and signaled for Kashmiri to pull out in front so they could follow him to his house.

  Upon arrival at Kashmiri’s home, MacMurphy parked their car in front of the house and got out to survey the location with Santos. Kanari Street ran through the upscale Strovolous neighborhood, which was a few miles away from the center of Nicosia. The three-bedroom, one-story house sat on a corner lot directly across from the Pedieos River, an ephemeral stream.

  “Look at that,” said MacMurphy to Santos, indicating the streambed. “That’s going to present a problem.” It was approximately fifty meters across, heavily foliaged, and hedging in a narrow, sandy creek that ran down its center. The creek was little more than a trickle at this time of year.

  Santos replied, “Yeah, plenty of concealment for someone waiting in ambush. It’s probably a torrent of water during the rainy season, but you can step across it right now.”

  MacMurphy crossed the street from the garage and looked down into the dense foliage. “If I were looking to take out Kashmiri, I’d wait in the bushes right over there and nail him as he pulled into his garage. That’s the perfect choke point.”

  “Yep,” said Santos, “that’s how the Greek ‘17 November’ terrorist organization took out our station chief in Athens a while back. What was his name? Dick Welch, I think.”

  “Very similar,” said MacMurphy. “No matter how many times you change your arrival times and navigation routes and run your surveillance detection routes, you always end up pulling into your driveway at home. And that’s where they’ll shoot you.”

  Kashmiri had parked his car in the garage and come out the side door to join Santos and MacMurphy. “Want to see the rest of the house?”
he asked.

  He led them from the garage and through an adjacent pool area to small set of porch steps. They walked up the stairs and stepped through a sliding glass door into a kitchen-dining area. To their left was a large living room comfortably furnished in dark blue leather with complementary carpeting and drapes. The house’s front entrance was at the far end of the room, and, according to Kashmiri, three bedrooms were located further down a hall to their right.

  “Very nice,” said MacMurphy. “You live here alone?”

  Kashmiri blushed. “Most of the time. I’ve been divorced for several years. I do have a housekeeper who also does some cooking when I need it. She comes in three days a week.”

  “Can you cancel her services for the next week or two?” asked MacMurphy.

  “Actually, she is off right now. I just won’t tell her I am back in town. She gets paid whether I’m here or not.”

  Santos asked, “Who else knows your comings and goings? Neighbors?”

  Kashmiri laughed. “The entire neighborhood knows everyone’s business.”

  “So, if anyone asked one of your neighbors whether you were here, your neighbor would know and say something, right?” asked Santos.

  Kashmiri laughed again. “Well, it would depend on who asked. Most of these people are pretty close-mouthed when it comes to the neighborhood. I suppose if someone had a good reason to ask that question, that person would get a good answer. Otherwise my neighbor would just play dumb and shrug.”

  MacMurphy thought a moment and said, “Perhaps you should leave your car out in the driveway for the time being. Pretend your garage is full or the door is broken or something like that.”

  Kashmiri looked quizzically from MacMurphy to Santos and back again. “So, I’m going to be the bait. Is that it?”