The Protectors

by Dowell, Trey

  CHAPTER 37

  Are you fucking insane?” I shouted at her after she’d released her small army of escorts and come inside.

  “Good morning to you, too,” Lyla muttered while sliding past me. I noticed her niqab from last night, now loosely draped around her neck like a scarf. She walked to the kitchen, uncoiled the fabric, and dropped it in the trash basket.

  I shadowed her up the steps to the third floor, cursing the entire way. She responded to none of it, simply walked into the master bedroom and swung the balcony doors wide. When she turned around with a satisfied smile plastered to her face, it was more than I could swallow.

  “Dammit, Lyla! Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

  “I have a very good idea, yes.” She stood her ground in front of the balcony, hands on her hips. “The Iranian people will finally get to determine their own destiny.”

  “Is their destiny to be blown to pieces by artillery shells? Because that’s what’s coming. TV says army units are moving on the capital right now.”

  The smile cracked. She sat on the edge of the bed and closed her eyes, listening to exultations from the crowd outside. Absorbing them.

  “Nothing? Seriously?” I roared. “People are going to die. Thousands . . . millions. You’ve started a goddamn civil war.”

  Her eyes opened. “No. I have not.”

  I barely heard her. “Christ. This is my fault. I should have known you couldn’t handle this. The nuke program was never gonna be enough—”

  “We did not start this,” Lyla said.

  I shook my head. “How the hell can you say that?”

  She launched off the bed and grabbed me by the wrist. Lyla pulled me to the balcony, stepped over the threshold, and swept her arms across the scene. “Look at this!” she cried. “Look at all of it. The tears, the dancing, the joy. There are millions of them, Scott . . . not just here, the whole country.”

  “I get it. But this—”

  “No, you don’t! You don’t understand.” Her volume matched my own. “I didn’t do this. I’m not controlling these people. I embraced one man. And do you know what I told him to do? Three words. Tell the truth. That’s all.”

  She grabbed me by both shoulders.

  “Nikahd only voiced what these people already knew: the government controls eighty million people with violence and fear. And those eighty million now have the courage to say something about it. Like before, in 2009 when the student rebellion almost took Tehran. You think I started this?”

  She pointed beyond the balcony.

  “They started it, Scott. Years ago. All I did today was give them the opportunity to finish.”

  I stumbled backward into the room, pulling at the sides of my face. I found the corner of the bed and plopped down, mind furiously spinning, trying to understand. Lyla slowly closed the balcony doors. She stood there, letting me adjust.

  “Well, that’s just great,” I said, staring at the floor. “The Iranian people get to fight for their freedom. I’m happy for them.”

  My head sank into my hands. “But what about us? What do you think the Agency’s gonna do? You’ve disobeyed orders and gone on a personal crusade—exactly what I promised them you wouldn’t do. The CIA is gonna put the word out to every intelligence agency on the planet.”

  I couldn’t suppress a grim laugh.

  “Congratulations, Lyla. You’ve achieved world unity. Unfortunately, the one thing they’ll be unified on is killing us.”

  She came to the bed and sat beside me, wrapping an arm around my shoulder. “I’m not so sure. The Agency might need us now more than ever. In fact, I’m praying they do.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “This doesn’t have to descend into civil war. The United States doesn’t want an Iranian bloodbath any more than I do. Think about it. The most powerful military in the Middle East and more than ten percent of the world’s oil supply? The CIA can’t allow Iran to go the way of Egypt or Syria—it’s too strategic. If anyone can understand that, it’s you.”

  Obvious vanity play on her part, but still, it made me curious. “Then what will the Agency do?”

  “I think they’ll want our help. Want us to stabilize things.”

  That was enough to launch me off the bed and into orbit. I gestured to Lyla’s seventy-five thousand friends outside. “Stabilize that?! Are you shitting me?”

  An unfamiliar electronic tone cut off my rant. We both turned to see the gauntlet buzzing on the end table.

  “Damn. I didn’t turn the comm link off after I checked it. That’ll be Tucker,” I said.

  “Answer it.”

  “Why, so he can look me in the face to tell me about the terminate-on-sight order? No thanks. Feel free to pick it up yourself.”

  Lyla uttered a disgusted “Fine.” After she grabbed the device, Tucker’s voice burst into the room via speaker.

  “Ms. Ravzi. What a surprise. I was expecting the illustrious Mr. McAlister. Hopefully nothing unfortunate has occurred?”

  I yelled, “I’m in the room, dick!”

  “Charming as always. It’s an honor to make your acquaintance, Ms. Ravzi. My name is Tucker.”

  Lyla sat cross-legged on the bed and watched his image on the gauntlet from her lap. “So I’ve been told. What can I do for you, Mr. Tucker?”

  “Well, as you can imagine, it’s been an exciting night here in Washington. I’d hazard a guess we’ve been almost as busy as you have.”

  All business, Lyla said, “Almost.”

  Unflappable as ever, Tucker said, “The next time you want to alter the face of the Middle East, let me know in advance. I could have invested in a few oil futures and retired early.”

  “Not very patriotic of you,” Lyla said.

  “Be that as it may, Director Shepherd and his good friend the president are facing the prospect of eight-dollar-per-gallon gas prices come morning. That’s a conservative estimate, by the way.”

  “Are you saying you’d like us to intervene?”

  I heard Tucker sigh. Wouldn’t surprise me if I heard him from halfway around the world without the comm link. “Director Shepherd has no choice but to give you a new mandate. Is General Ahmadi still an available resource?”

  She bent closer to the screen. “Yes.”

  “Then you are to use Ahmadi to gain access to the Ayatollah. Your mission is to embrace him, his aides, and anyone else necessary in his leadership group—defuse the situation as quickly as possible. The Ayatollah can bring the military in line and end this before it goes too far.”

  Lyla clasped hands in front of her face and closed her eyes. “Understood,” she said, voice unsteady. “Thank you, Mr. Tucker. I swear to you, we will accomplish this mission. Thank you.” She turned the gauntlet’s screen to face the bedroom wall for a moment to compose herself. Tucker never saw her wipe her eyes.

  Prayers answered.

  “Pay attention, Ms. Ravzi,” the gauntlet announced to the wall before Lyla twisted it back. “Comm traffic indicates the Ayatollah has not been moved out of Tehran, so you should be able to get to him quickly. And it needs to be quickly. In less than twelve hours, the military will have secured vital supply and arms depots around the country. After that, they’ll engage the citizenry wherever deemed necessary.”

  I stood next to Lyla’s bed so I could see Tucker’s face. “So were you in favor of this plan?”

  His sharky smile rivaled Lyla’s. “Goodness, no. I suggested we terminate your services immediately. Sadly, cooler heads prevailed.”

  Scary part? I didn’t think he was joking. Lyla was apparently too focused on the new mission to care. “When we find the Ayatollah’s location, what can you do to assist?” she said.

  “Report his position and we’ll task a thermal-imaging satellite over the target area. We’ve got a couple in the region now. You can
use the gauntlet to observe the feed in real time and gain additional reconnaissance if you need it.”

  “Excellent. Anything else?”

  “No . . . embrace the Ayatollah, stop a civil war. That should be about it. And Mr. McAlister?”

  I grabbed the gauntlet from Lyla.

  “Yeah?”

  “Just so we’re clear: if you can’t accomplish the objective, I suggest you and Ms. Ravzi find a nice, quiet corner of Antarctica and settle down. It’ll be the only safe place on the planet for either of you.”

  CHAPTER 38

  Took almost three hours for Fahrook to get to the townhouse in the big black Mercedes. The main streets of Tehran weren’t as jammed as the narrow corridors of the bazaar, but traveling by car was a nightmare no matter where you were. We wouldn’t have even made it out of the townhouse driveway if I hadn’t dropped the two dozen people rocking the vehicle like drunken Canadian hockey fans after the Stanley Cup Finals. Fahrook might have been a first-class bodyguard, but neglecting to remove the general’s military plates didn’t exactly qualify him for Mensa.

  Lyla sat up front with him and the two jabbered while I fumed in the back. I caught her glance my way in the mirror a couple of times, but for the most part I stared at the surreal landscape of humanity speeding past my window. Well, maybe not speeding—long sections of the drive north were more like crawling. Twice I had to defend the stopped vehicle with targeted drops. The second time was just before the highway, where hundreds of people clogged the final few yards to an empty on-ramp. I wound up causing a mini-panic in the streets when I dropped a few people to the side of the Mercedes; someone screamed “Gas!” when they saw bodies fall to the ground with no visible cause. After that, people couldn’t get out of our way fast enough.

  When we were safely out of the mob’s reach, Lyla turned to face me. “Fahrook says the Ayatollah has been moved to the Niavaran Palace complex, north of Elahiyeh.”

  I answered with arms clamped across my chest. “Is that good or bad?”

  Displeasure flashed in her expression, but she buried it quickly. “Both. The area is more remote, so we won’t have crowds of people blocking us. However, Niavaran is also the former residence of the Shah of Iran. It’s surrounded by a fifteen-foot wall on all sides, with only one large gate, easily defensible. The Revolutionary Guard has an entire armored regiment fortifying the perimeter—at least five hundred men with heavy equipment.”

  “How heavy?”

  “Machine guns, armored personnel carriers, tanks.”

  “Oh, that’s all?” I grumbled. “How are we supposed to sneak into a fortress?”

  A broad smile spread over her face. She was so beautiful it almost made me forget how screwed we were. “We’re not going to sneak in. Fahrook will drive us right through the front gate. Ahmadi is coordinating the defense of Niavaran.”

  “Are you shitting me?”

  “I am not shitting you. He’s in charge of protection, remember? The gate guards have been told to expect Fahrook and allow him to report to the general as soon as we arrive.”

  “You picked the right guy to embrace.”

  “Yes, well, don’t be too excited. Getting to the Ayatollah in the main house will be more difficult. Ahmadi will brief us when we arrive.”

  I scowled out my window. “Of course it’s more difficult. Fucking tanks. Don’t know if I can even drop somebody encased in two feet of armor. You realize it doesn’t matter if we accomplish the mission, right? The CIA is just using us to stabilize this mess. After that, we’re a king-sized liability.”

  Lyla twisted and thrust half her body into the back so she could get in my face. “Be angry all you wish, my love. But kindly get your head out of your ass, because I need you to focus.”

  When I leaned forward to argue, she shoved me back into my seat. Air rushed out of the perforated leather underneath me, squeaking like a weak fart.

  “We have a mission to accomplish and a country to save. Keep up that petulant attitude and you will see just how childish I can make you. Understood?”

  I gave her two less-than-enthusiastic thumbs up. Not my finest response, but an adequate one because she wriggled back into the front seat. She was right, as usual. Today was more important than tomorrow, no matter how many dark clouds hovered beyond our horizon. Funny how the potential death of millions of innocent civilians tends to take your mind off relationship issues.

  —

  Two grueling hours later, we approached Niavaran Palace. I didn’t have to ask if we were close, because traffic trickled down to nothing. When we passed twin all-terrain vehicles on opposite sides of the road, each with mounted 20 mm guns pointed at us, it became obvious. The military flags and plates on the general’s car got us as far as the outer checkpoint without being stopped, so I reconsidered Fahrook’s Mensa application. His credentials allowed us through to the main gate, where the scenery got serious. Four Soviet-era T-62 battle tanks waited like a row of hulking offensive linemen, protecting the wide gates to the complex, their guns pointed out over the road.

  The cannons looked really big up close.

  Security was tighter here. Soldiers with mirror-attached rods surveyed the underside of the vehicle, while another rifled through our trunk. Lyla sat quietly behind her darkened window, unseen from the outside, until the soldier with the most stripes on his sleeves made a demand of Fahrook, evidently ordering all passengers out of the vehicle.

  That’s when Lyla spoke up and gave an order of her own.

  The entire time we waited, I had my radar spooled up, ready to send out a pulse that would drop everyone at the gate. Once Lyla got us through, I saw how disastrous that plan would have been. Past the walls of the compound, there were soldiers spread out everywhere—my meager range wouldn’t have affected more than a handful. I wondered if anyone was bothering to guard the sides and back of the complex, because it looked like all five hundred guys were watching the front door. Long tents and temporary shelters lined the outer edge of a massive courtyard in front of the palace. Armored personnel carriers and a handful of light infantry vehicles waited in reserve to support the tanks out front. The Shah might have evacuated this place in a panic back in 1979, but the Ayatollah looked better prepared.

  “Holy shit.”

  My words leaked out as Fahrook pulled the Mercedes to the far end of the courtyard. We glided up next to a small outbuilding halfway between the main gate and the palace. Looked like an oversized guard shack, adjacent to the stone driveway that led directly to the palace façade. Only one window and it was papered over from the inside. Fahrook parked the car so the passenger side was only a few feet from the shack door; it took less than three seconds’ exposure for Lyla and me to duck inside.

  General Ahmadi turned to greet us. His face, an emotionless mask at first, transitioned to pure joy when Lyla stepped out from behind me. The only furniture in the small room was a folding metal table, and he bumped the corner in his haste to hug her. She shrank a step, but allowed the contact. She grimaced until Ahmadi released her and drew our attention back to the table.

  “More unconditional worship,” I whispered.

  Her response slid from the corner of her mouth. “Shut it, McAlister. Focus.”

  The general launched into a quick update from the opposite side of the table, only to have Lyla shut him down.

  “English, please. For my friend.”

  He nodded and started over. “The Ayatollah is here,” Ahmadi said, pointing down at the large blueprints on the desk between us. “Office at the far end of the palace. Third floor. There is, how you say? Good news and bad news.”

  “That’s how we say. What’s the bad news?” I asked.

  He addressed Lyla only, like I wasn’t even in the room.

  “I cannot enter the building unless summoned. No one can. Family and leadership only inside. Two squads guard the palace entr
ance. They will not allow anyone near the doors unless ordered by the Ayatollah himself. If you approach uninvited, you will be shot. There is much . . .” Ahmadi struggled for the right word and resorted to Farsi.

  “Paranoia,” Lyla translated. “Not a shock in an uprising. The good news?”

  “Two hundred men guard the main gate, and another two hundred fortify the perimeter. You saw the tanks and artillery, yes?”

  “Still waiting on the good news,” I said.

  Ahmadi couldn’t be bothered to look at me. “Although a full regiment surrounds the area, the interior of the palace has only a small number of soldiers. Less than twenty. They want as few people as possible near the Supreme Leader. His personal guard only.”

  The general was right—less than twenty men inside an entire palace was good news, except for one small problem.

  “How do we get in?” Lyla asked before I could.

  He smiled. “The best news. This was the Shah’s palace long ago. The tunnel system he used to escape during the revolution still exists. Entrances outside the walls have been sealed, but there are still two ways to get to the tunnels from inside the complex.”

  “I don’t suppose one of them is this shack?” I said, looking under the table.

  “I am sorry, no. One is near the helicopter pad behind the palace.” He drew his finger across the blueprints, from the tiny rectangle of the shack to a large circle on the other side of the complex. “Too far. But this one”—his finger traveled a few inches—“is less than fifty meters from here. A maintenance hatch near the garden.”

  “There are soldiers everywhere. Fifty meters may as well be five hundred,” I said.

  He pointed to a sack over in the corner. “I have army uniforms for both of you. They will not trick anyone now, but wait two hours . . . in the dark; you are just soldiers walking to a post. No one is stationed in the garden, so you should be able to slip inside the tunnel. I unlocked the hatch myself.”

  Lyla and I both looked at our watches. Almost 6 p.m.

  “Tucker said twelve hours until a military crackdown, which would mean midnight. If we get to him by eight or nine, that’s plenty of cushion,” I told Lyla.