by Ward Larsen
Slaton got a fistful of uniform collar, braced against the boat’s hull, and pulled the sailor over his shoulder and into the lake. Having removed his scuba rig, he vaulted over the stern with the Glock ready. He was breaching the point of least freeboard, the most vulnerable position to defend, so he expected Hamedi’s two remaining men to have their weapons already trained in his direction. He only saw one, and much closer than expected. Only an arm’s length away.
In an instantaneous decision, Slaton shifted his momentum and threw himself on the man.
He crashed in hard, but his hand struck something and the Glock flew from his grip. The man was big, but he was flat on his back. Slaton lashed an elbow to the head that slowed the Iranian, but he kept fighting—the determination of an old soldier who’d battled for his life before. They grappled and locked arms, heading for a stalemate that was not in Slaton’s favor. He sensed something under his free hand, and recognized by feel what it was. Working a hand free, he pulled the anchor line until he had enough slack, then managed to loop it around the man’s neck. One handed, he had little leverage, but then he caught a break—his adversary panicked.
The big Iranian put both hands to his throat and tried to pry the rope away. That was all Slaton needed. He didn’t pull, but twisted, tightening the noose in a powerful grip. The Iranian struggled fiercely, but that only used more oxygen and made his life that much shorter. In less than a minute it was over.
But a minute was far too long.
Slaton rolled away and saw the boat’s last two occupants. Ibrahim Hamedi was backed against the starboard side. Across the beam, down on one knee, was Farzad Behrouz.
Slaton’s Glock was in his hand.
FIFTY-TWO
Slaton went still, the only option when looking down the barrel of a 9mm.
Behrouz said, “Almost, Jew. You almost did it.”
Slaton said nothing, and the Iranian’s eyes seemed to narrow with suspicion. He thought Behrouz might be having a flashback, remembering his face from yesterday’s encounter in the elevator. But then Slaton was taken completely by surprise.
Hamedi kicked out a leg, perhaps to get his balance in the rocking boat, and for some unfathomable reason Behrouz took it as a threat. He shifted the gun and pointed it at the scientist. Only a few feet away, Hamedi backed against the fiberglass hull, fear etched into his broad face.
Behrouz appeared baffled, unsure. His bewilderment was compounded when someone shouted his name from the sinking yacht. At that moment an acrid wave of black smoke washed over everything and, as if to make the chaos complete, a muffled explosion shook the night. Slaton guessed the blast was not from a grenade or a gun, but rather a death throe from the ship, probably a pressure door giving way behind tons of water or a keel beam buckling.
He watched the two Iranians intently and saw a passionate mistrust between them. The implications of this defied logic. Why was the security chief threatening the man he was duty-bound to protect? Slaton wasted no time on analysis. With a hunter’s instinct, he saw Behrouz’s hesitation as his chance. The man was ten feet away, too far to reach before the gun could swing again. But Krav Maga did not fail. The rope was still looped around the dead man’s neck, yet there was more of it, a hundred feet of braided nylon painstakingly coiled by some meticulous crewman. And at the end of that, inches from Slaton’s left hand, was what he needed.
“You’ve made a mistake!” Hamedi pleaded, staring at the gun. “You don’t understand!”
Behrouz seemed more confused than ever, and that was Slaton’s cue. He reached for the rope.
The Iranian sensed movement and tried to shift his aim. Slaton had five feet of line to work with, plus the length of his arm. At the end of that radius was his weapon. With only one chance, Slaton twisted sideways and whipped a ten-pound galvanized anchor into a sweeping arc that ended perfectly at the side of Behrouz’s skull. There was an audible crunch, and the little Iranian crumpled to the deck, dead before he hit.
Slaton never stopped moving. He sprang to his feet as a fearful Hamedi rose and tried to defend himself. Shots rang in from the foundering yacht, and Slaton launched himself shoulder first, flying across the gap toward the panicked scientist.
Both men went headlong into the frigid lake.
* * *
Bullets ripped the water, their trails effervescent shards of orange and white light.
Slaton had a handful of Hamedi’s collar and was dragging him lower. The scientist was a large man, but thankfully he didn’t resist right away. He was in shock after having endured an armed assault, and then being pitched into an icy lake. Slaton pulled and kicked toward his only chance—the scuba rig hanging beneath the Whaler by a quick-release knot. He was nearly there when Hamedi began to struggle. They’d been under only seconds, but the Iranian was not prepared, not trained, and the lack of air induced panic.
Slaton looked up, but without a mask he could see no more than the shadow of the small craft. It was enough. Aft, starboard side, a ten-foot line hanging straight down from the surface. There was Slaton’s salvation. Hamedi began thrashing for all he was worth, fighting the man who he imagined was trying to drown him, fighting the insistence of his lungs to breath. In a matter of seconds, everything would be for naught. Slaton paused just long enough to deliver a short, compact elbow to the side of Hamedi’s head. It did the trick, stunning the man, and with one last heave Slaton reached the regulator with his free hand.
He ignored his own mouth, instead feeling blindly for Hamedi’s face and stuffing the mouthpiece between his lips. Slaton hit the purge button, forcing air out of the system and into the scientist. Either by basal instinct or good sense, Hamedi began breathing, sucking long draws from the tank. The rig was a standard octopus setup, two regulators, and as his own lungs strained Slaton found the second mouthpiece and took his first breath after a minute of strenuous work. He disconnected the rig, put one strap over a shoulder, and then donned his mask and fins.
The kidon began kicking furiously.
* * *
Direction was everything.
Slaton referenced the luminous compass on his diving rig and pushed southeast. Overhead he saw all colors of light playing the surface, yet they were patternless and chaotic. Not yet searching. In twenty minutes that would change. By then Entrepreneur would be resting on the bottom of the lake, and things would begin to organize.
The lighthouse was less than a mile away, and when he got closer it would act to the inverse of its design—it would guide Slaton straight toward the rocky jetty. His problem was speed—he was dragging a full set of gear and a two-hundred-pound physicist. Hamedi had at least gone still. Slaton knew he hadn’t drowned, because the regulator’s exhaust port was venting a rhythmic flow. More likely the man was dazed from prolonged immersion in fifty-degree water. Slaton’s thick wetsuit gave him protection, but the scientist would soon succumb to hypothermia.
Slaton did everything he could to lighten his load. He ditched all his equipment, including the damaged MP7, until the only thing left was the scuba rig. The next twelve minutes were an underwater sprint that felt like a marathon. It was the most challenging physical test he had ever faced, and there had been many, both in training and in the field. His lungs heaved and his legs burned. He shifted to different strokes as cramps set in, and following a long-honed practice Slaton translated his pain into anger. He cursed Mossad and Director Nurin, cursed Iran and the depraved genius he was dragging behind him.
Finally, he saw the glow of the lighthouse.
Nearing the jetty he popped his head up once to confirm his bearings. Slaton didn’t allow Hamedi to surface, knowing a taste of fresh air would only incite further panic when he was pulled down again. With legs that felt like rubber and straining lungs, his pace declined markedly over the last twenty yards. When he broke the surface the second time they were on the calm backside of the jetty.
The sky overhead was clear, populated with stars and planets that were every bit as tranquil
as the scene behind him was chaotic. Hamedi sputtered and coughed, and spit the regulator from his mouth. He began gulping air like a just-landed fish on the deck of a boat.
The jet ski was right where Slaton had left it, and he ditched the scuba gear before muscling Hamedi over the slick rocks. The tiny cove created by the breakwater was out of sight from the quai. In the distance he saw what was left of Entrepreneur, her white steel stern rising, air venting from portholes and blown-out windows. There were a half dozen smaller boats circling, shining spotlights and plucking survivors from the water, and at the nearby dock a shore-side contingent of police and Iranian security men scoured the water for their lost scientist.
Hamedi tried to say something, but it came out as no more than a croak. Slaton hauled him the last few yards to the waiting watercraft. He had purchased the fastest model he could find this morning, twelve thousand cash for a two-seater that would reach seventy miles an hour on their run across the lake to the quiet overlook where the Rover was waiting. From there, Slaton would call Director Nurin and make his bargain.
He tried to wrestle Hamedi onto the watercraft, but the Iranian began struggling again.
“Get on!” Slaton ordered.
Hamedi said something else unintelligible, still coughing uncontrollably from his underwater ordeal.
Then another voice rang in from behind. “Stop! Don’t move!”
Slaton froze. It was a voice he recognized.
He turned his head and saw Detective Inspector Arne Sanderson. One hand held a gun unsteadily while the other gripped the iron railing that encircled the lighthouse. He was in a wide-set stance, but swaying like a sapling in the wind. If Slaton were to guess, he’d say the man had been shot—he looked like he might pitch over at any moment. Slaton checked behind Sanderson, and as far as he could see up and down the jetty there was no one else. Neither did he see a radio bud in the detective’s ear, nor a microphone on his lapel. Slaton remembered the news article—Sanderson had been taken off the chase for unspecified medical reasons. The detective is here alone, he thought.
“I’m not as good a shot as you,” Sanderson said, seeming to read Slaton’s thoughts, “but from ten meters I won’t miss.”
Slaton was about to reply when Hamedi, finding strength from some reserve, stood straight. He pushed Slaton away with a stiff arm, and shouted, “Do you not realize what you’ve done? You have ruined everything!”
Slaton stood absolutely still. Absolutely stunned. The words themselves were not a revelation. The shove was weak and meaningless. What shocked him to the core was that Hamedi had spoken in perfectly succinct and fluent Hebrew.
FIFTY-THREE
“I am a Jew, you fool!”
Hamedi said it a second time in English, and the words themselves sank.
Slaton’s tactical mind-set aborted, tripped by the one thing he could never have imagined. Every problem he’d solved, every motive and strategy was suddenly put in a mirror, refracted by four simple words.
I am a Jew.
Hamedi’s hair was matted to his forehead and he was shivering uncontrollably. But there was unshakable conviction in his voice. “I was born in central Iran,” he said. “But I was born a Jew. There are over twenty thousand of us across Persia, and we have been there for three thousand years. My parents—”
“Enough!” Sanderson shouted. “Whatever your story is you can tell it to the proper authorities. Keep your hands where I can see them, both of you!”
In dense silence the three men stood still, each wrestling a distinct set of problems. It was Sanderson who made the next move. He said nothing, but lifted his gun toward the sky with an unsteady hand.
Slaton knew immediately what he was going to do. The detective was clearly ill, certainly incapable of an arrest. So Sanderson was going to fire a shot into the air that would bring the police swarming.
“Wait!” Slaton said. He pointed to Hamedi and addressed Sanderson, “You know who this is, don’t you?”
Sanderson nodded tentatively. “I’ll assume it’s Dr. Hamedi, the man you came here to kill.”
“Really? Think about that. I sank a ship and shot a half dozen men to get this far. Dr. Hamedi is still standing.”
Sanderson’s eyes narrowed. “So what the hell is going on then?”
“That’s what I’d like to know,” Slaton seconded.
They both stared at Hamedi.
* * *
Sirens blared in the distance as the three men stood in the lee of the breakwater.
They were less than a mile from the ruin on the lake. Entrepreneur had disappeared, her only remnants a field of charred flotsam drifting amid the sheen of unspent fuel oil. Nearby docks and bridges were overrun with first responders, and the traffic on Quai du Mont Blanc had come to a standstill. The jetty had so far been ignored, the distance enough of a buffer. But for how long? Slaton wondered. Soon the search for survivors would spread to their position. Did he have ten minutes? Fifteen? Whatever the interval, he had that long in which to salvage his life. Yet Slaton knew he was helpless until he understood.
Sanderson’s gun was at his side as Hamedi told his story.
“I was born in a small village outside Isfahan. My parents brought me up in the faith, but by the time I was three it became apparent that I had certain academic gifts. My mother was disconsolate that my talents would be wasted. Jews in Iran, you see, have little hope of a proper education. So my father moved us to the anonymity of Tehran, and we took a Persian name. My mother kept with my religious education but always behind closed doors. Able to attend good schools, I advanced more quickly than anyone imagined. As you know, I studied in Europe at the best universities. Yet I never forgot my upbringing, my ancestry.”
“Did Israel ask for your help?” Sanderson asked.
“No. Israel knew nothing of my background. It was only something in my head, a desire to work for the homeland, perhaps retribution for all those Jewish boys I knew long ago who were beaten and bullied, the ones who never had a chance to succeed. I was given wonderful opportunities in Europe, but one day a woman from the Iranian embassy came to see me in Germany. She was very up front, telling me that Iran needed help with certain aspects of the nuclear program. She didn’t come right out and talk about missile advancements and warhead design, but we both knew what was at stake. I spent many sleepless nights afterward, thinking about what she’d said, what they wanted from me.”
The siren of a police boat suddenly blared behind the breakwater, and Hamedi went silent. The siren and churning diesel altered pitch as the craft passed, and soon the sounds mixed into the disharmony of the nearby rescue. The white octagon of the tiny lighthouse was bathed in a kaleidoscope of flashing lights and stray search beams.
“I don’t understand,” said Slaton. “You claim sympathies to Israel. So why go back and help Iran with the program that is her greatest nightmare?”
Sanderson answered that question, his detective’s brain less handicapped than his body. “Because you didn’t go to help.”
Hamedi didn’t comment on that, but asked Sanderson, “You are a policeman?”
“Yes,” said Sanderson, “at least in Sweden I am.”
“And a good one, I think.”
Slaton said to Sanderson, “I thought you were taken off the case.”
“Officially I was,” Sanderson said. “But I don’t like unfinished business.”
Hamedi then addressed Slaton. “And you? You are Mossad? A kidon?”
Slaton nodded.
“So there you are,” Hamedi said. “We stand here on three different points of a triangle. But what I will tell you next may change that geometry.” He stood next to the jet ski, cold water up to his ankles, dripping hair matted to his head. His voice, however, was steady and brimmed with confidence. “When I went back to Iran I worked very hard. I made several technical and organizational changes to advance the primary goal of the project—the integration of ballistic missiles with nuclear warheads. In time I was given
greater authority, and eventually came to oversee the entire undertaking. I suppose I knew all along what I was going to do, in a general way, but the details fell into place quite naturally. In recent months I’ve issued orders for the most critical components, including all highly enriched uranium, to be consolidated at the Qom facility outside Tehran. Thanks to my efforts, Iran’s entry into the nuclear arena is imminent. Five days from today, our first missile-capable warhead is scheduled for an underground test. But it will not happen as planned.”
Sanderson and Slaton were completely absorbed, silent as they waited for the rest.
Hamedi’s voice edged into triumph. “Four days from now, this coming Thursday, I have planned for an early arrival of that blast. In a few milliseconds I will destroy the entire Qom complex and everything within. By my estimate, enough damage to set back Iran’s nuclear plans for seven years, hopefully longer.”
Slaton stood stunned for a time, but then arguments came to mind. “But this doesn’t make sense—Mossad has been trying desperately to kill you. I was sent here for just that reason. Why didn’t you get word to them, explain what you were doing?”
Hamedi looked at Slaton uncomfortably. “I did.”
For the second time in a matter of minutes, Slaton’s well-defined world overturned. Yet it all made sense in a startling way.
Hamedi went on, “My contact with Israel has been very limited. But I can tell you that the director of Mossad has known of my intentions since early this summer.”
“Early summer,” Slaton repeated. “So the assassination attempts, including tonight—they were only for show. None were meant to succeed.”
Hamedi nodded. “Quite the opposite. All were guaranteed to fail. You see, a serious complication arose. One man in Iran became suspicious of me—a man you conveniently eliminated tonight. Farzad Behrouz has been digging into my past, searching synagogues for records of my upbringing, interrogating my mother and searching her home. He was on the right track, but never found proof. Not until tonight when he heard me recite a small prayer in Hebrew. Then he knew.”
