Warning Light

by David Ricciardi

  Arzaman whispered, “One last chance. Who are you working for? Who sent you here?”

  “No one sent me. I’m telling the truth.”

  The Iranian flung the chair backward and Zac’s skull struck the floor. Warm blood flowed into his hair.

  “Who sent you here?” Arzaman screamed.

  He kicked Zac in the ribs with the steel toe of his boot.

  “Who else was with you on the plane?” Another kick, this time to the head. “Who is your contact here?”

  Zac’s eyes darted about as he thrashed in vain against the ties that bound him to the chair. He tried to speak but nothing came out. One of the soldiers struck again with his rifle while the other hit him in the ribs. The beating continued for twenty minutes until Arzaman looked down in disgust, spat on the American, and walked away.

  SIX

  ZAC LAY BLEEDING on the floor, drifting in and out of consciousness. His thoughts wandered from the present to the past, to a point in time just days earlier. He’d been in Paris, staying at the apartment of a college friend and having lunch with a beautiful French woman.

  He’d arrived at the restaurant early and ordered an unpretentious bottle of Burgundy that was decanted at the table. Genevieve arrived ten minutes later, just as she was finishing a conversation on her mobile phone. She and Zac greeted each other in English.

  She sat at the table and promptly pointed out that she didn’t drink red wine. Zac retorted that he’d ordered it for himself anyway. They looked at each other for a moment, and she reached across the table for the carafe.

  “This could be a long afternoon,” she said as she poured herself a glass of wine.

  “I certainly hope so. I’ve been looking forward to it for months.”

  “I’m sure you have,” she said as she filled his glass.

  He smiled. “Is it going to be like this all day?”

  “Oh, no. It’s going to get much worse.” She pursed her full lips for a few seconds, then flashed a wide smile and raised her glass. “Santé. That’s what we French say instead of ‘cheers.’”

  “Santé,” Zac repeated.

  They clinked glasses and sipped their wine.

  “So what brings you to Paris?” Genevieve asked.

  “You,” he answered matter-of-factly.

  Genevieve opened her menu and began to read it.

  “Crossing the English Channel for a lunch date reeks of desperation,” she said, her eyes surveying the list of appetizers.

  “In your case I prefer to think of it as noblesse oblige,” Zac said, reading his own menu.

  Genevieve choked back a laugh. “Do you see anything you like?” she asked.

  Zac looked up at her and paused. “Everything looks great,” he replied.

  “Hmm . . .” she said, her eyes still glued to the menu. “I’m leaning toward the raclette or the beef.”

  “I’m impressed. Most of the women here seem to be eating a few forkfuls of lettuce.”

  “Life is to be lived, not survived.” Genevieve locked eyes with him. “Besides, my body is young and strong, and I enjoy working off the calories.”

  Zac returned his gaze to the menu. “Then maybe we should order one of each.”

  The waiter returned to the table a few moments later and Zac ordered for both of them in fluent French.

  “So you speak French?” Genevieve asked, slightly perturbed.

  “A little,” Zac lied. “I picked up a travel dictionary on the way to the restaurant.”

  Genevieve leaned back on the banquette and eyed him skeptically. “That would explain why you didn’t think to mention it during any of our conversations . . . Did you overhear what I was saying on the phone when I arrived?”

  “You mean when you told your friend Natalie how excited you were to finally be getting together with the American man you’d been telling her about? No. I didn’t hear any of that.”

  Genevieve balled up her napkin and made as if to throw it at Zac, but instead tossed back her head and laughed.

  * * *

  • • •

  BY THE TIME their food arrived, Zac had stopped trying to keep the telltale grin off his face and Genevieve’s eyes were lingering on him long after he’d finished speaking. Her long, dark hair cascaded across her shoulders when she laughed and he felt himself falling for the elegant, sophisticated Parisienne.

  She’d just ordered a second bottle of wine when Zac’s mobile phone rang.

  “I’m sorry, I have to take this call. It’s my boss.”

  “I understand. I have the same type of job.”

  Zac stepped outside the restaurant and into a crisp autumn afternoon in Paris.

  “Hey, Peter,” Zac answered the phone.

  “Can you talk?” asked Peter Clements.

  “Yeah. I’m out on the sidewalk. What’s up?”

  “I’m in my office with Ted Graves. I’ve got you on speakerphone. We just got some bad news. We’re scrubbing SNAPSHOT. I wanted to tell you now so you don’t rush back tomorrow.”

  The warm glow Zac had felt inside the restaurant vanished.

  “What do you mean you’re scrubbing it?”

  Ted Graves spoke up. “The officer we tasked for the mission is known to the Iranians.”

  “What do you mean he’s known? How do they know who he is?”

  “We’re not exactly sure. He was Army Special Forces before he came to CIA. It’s possible that he crossed paths with some senior Qods Force operatives back in Iraq. We have reason to believe his legend won’t hold up.”

  “I’m sorry, Zac,” Clements said. “There just isn’t time to train someone else. You said yourself the window was probably only seventy-two hours before the Iranians put everything back together after the earthquake.”

  “I can’t believe you’re giving up on this knowing what’s at stake. This is ridiculous.”

  Graves shot back, “Easy, Miller. It’s not your ass that’s going to be on the line out there. Do you know what the Iranians would do to this guy if they made him? Rotting in Evin Prison would be paradise by comparison.” Graves worked for Clements too, but he ran clandestine operations out of London. All of the field spooks reported to him.

  “Send me,” Zac said.

  “No way,” Graves responded. “Zac, you’re a strategic weapons analyst. What did you do, spend four weeks at The Farm when you signed up? You’ve got no tradecraft, no language skills, and no legend. You’d be a sitting duck out there.”

  “Zac, I have to agree with Ted on this. The officer we selected spent his whole career in the Middle East. He speaks Persian, Arabic, and Dari. If something went wrong, he could’ve handled it. Your dedication is admirable, and you’re one of the best at what you do, but you’re not qualified for this.”

  “Peter, you know how important this is. We don’t have any assets in-country who have the training or the equipment to do it. If we let this opportunity slip by, you might be standing in front of a congressional committee one day explaining why CIA ‘missed another one.’”

  “That’s bullshit and you know it,” Graves snapped.

  Zac dialed back the volume. “Send me, Peter. I’ll only be on the ground for six hours, surrounded by Westerners and watched over by the pilots. I won’t need all those skills. Hell, I’m supposed to look like a Westerner, wandering around taking pictures. I know how to use the camera and I know better than anyone what to look for. I trained Ted’s guy.”

  Graves began to speak but Clements interrupted him.

  “OK. Get back here now. You don’t have much time to . . .”

  “Peter, this is crazy,” Graves said. “He’d be going in naked. You can’t really be . . .”

  “Ted, this is my call and your objections are noted for the record. Zac, swing by your flat and grab some clothes, then get to the office. We’ll have ever
yone assembled here to get you ready.”

  “I’m leaving now. You won’t regret this.”

  Zac ended the call and strode back into the restaurant. Genevieve’s warm smile disappeared when she saw the look on his face.

  “Problem?” she asked.

  “I have to go to Singapore and I have to leave right now. I’m sorry, but my boss insisted.” Zac placed a hundred euros on the table.

  “You can’t finish lunch? Why don’t you leave from here?”

  “I would like to, but I have to pick up a few things at the office first.”

  Genevieve folded her arms across her chest and pursed her lips. Zac couldn’t help but smile. He reached for her hand and she stood to face him.

  “My friend’s apartment will be vacant for a few more weeks,” he said. “I’ll buy you dinner as soon as I’m back.”

  “You’d better.”

  They kissed on both cheeks. Genevieve’s soft hair brushed across his face as he inhaled her perfume . . .

  * * *

  • • •

  ZAC REGAINED CONSCIOUSNESS on the cement floor. He looked at the blood that had pooled around his face and recalled his appeal to Peter Clements.

  “Send me, Peter. I’ll only be on the ground for six hours . . .”

  What an idiot.

  SEVEN

  DESPITE THE BEST efforts of the airport staff, the earthquake-ravaged terminal at Sirjan was strained beyond its capacity to serve the stranded passengers. Sore backs, full bladders, and disrupted schedules soon took their toll on everyone’s patience. The one available telephone line was unreliable, in high demand, and soon became a source of tension among the fliers. They were tired, uncomfortable, and eager to get on with their lives.

  The Iranian staff refused to answer questions for several hours, so when an airport employee climbed onto a table between the men’s and women’s waiting areas and called for attention, everyone’s hopes rose for a speedy departure.

  “Attention everyone,” he began in English. “Unfortunately, your airplane is being grounded for repairs and inspection. Since Iran Air does not fly this type of aircraft, British Airways has to fly a repair crew here to fix your plane. Furthermore, since we are unable to move your aircraft off of our runway, the second plane will be landing in the neighboring city of Shiraz.”

  A chorus of groans and mutterings interrupted the speaker.

  “Quiet, please. And now for the good news, the second plane will also be taking all of you on to Singapore. So please pack up your belongings and listen for further announcements. The buses should be here shortly.”

  A few hours before dawn, the passengers and their luggage were loaded aboard four late-model Volvo buses. For five hours, a pair of military trucks escorted the small convoy west through the mountainous desert to Shiraz. Shahid Dastghaib International Airport was relatively modern and well equipped, and after a quick trip through immigration, the passengers were led to a waiting British Airways 777.

  The London-based flight crew eagerly helped their stranded customers aboard. While there were no boarding passes, smiling flight attendants checked passengers’ passports against a manifest and a seating chart that had been compiled by the Iranian airport workers.

  Zachary Miller settled comfortably into seat 11A in business class. The women boarded after the men, and Lady Celia Parker had been upgraded to first class. She attempted to turn around to see where Zac was seated, but the wide first class seats blocked her view.

  The 777 taxied past rows of fighter jets and attack helicopters that occupied the tarmac around the mixed-use airport. Though the Iranians had been hospitable, the constant military presence during the ordeal had kept everyone on edge. Most passengers simply gazed out the windows or closed their eyes. The big jet turned onto the active runway and accelerated quickly. The moment its wheels left the ground, a chorus of cheers erupted from the passengers.

  After a few minutes the pilot came on the public address system.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, this is Captain Lincoln. I certainly hope you’ve all enjoyed your complimentary excursion to the Middle East, courtesy of British Airways. But, just in case you haven’t, BA has offered each of you a free international ticket, a first class meal, and, once we’ve left Iranian airspace, a glass of our finest champagne . . .”

  Another round of cheers drowned out the rest of the captain’s address, but the passenger in seat 11A would not be taking advantage of the airline’s hospitality. He reclined his seat and closed his eyes as a smile crept across his face. He was grateful that seat 11B was vacant, for today he had no desire to make idle chitchat. Indeed, even though they looked remarkably alike, the man in seat 11A knew almost nothing about the man he was impersonating.

  EIGHT

  THE IRANIAN PRESIDENT and the minister for Intelligence and Security were having an animated conversation about the country’s nascent ballistic missile program, when two men in dark suits entered the conference room and took up positions on either side of the doorway. The discussion stopped mid-sentence and everyone stood. Grand Ayatollah Amin Khorasani, the supreme leader of the Islamic Republic of Iran, entered the conference room in flowing camel-hair robes and the black turban that marked him as a direct descendant of the Prophet Muhammad. He paused at the head of the table before taking his seat.

  “May Allah’s peace, mercy, and blessings be upon you all.”

  “And upon you, peace,” responded the group in unison.

  It was unusual for Khorasani to attend a meeting of the Supreme National Security Council, and no one took it as a good sign that he had chosen to do so today. The assembled officials included not only the president, but the heads of the main branches of the government and the military. They were the dozen most powerful men in the nation and they waited in silence as the white-bearded cleric conferred privately with his representative on the council, Admiral Gharamani.

  For several years, Gharamani had handled negotiations with the West regarding the scope and intent of the Iranian nuclear program. Constructing its numerous facilities around the country had come at an enormous cost, not only in terms of building expense, but in economically punitive sanctions imposed by the Western powers. Fortunately for Iran, the West never appreciated the magnitude of the sacrifice made by the nation, or understood its significance. Despite having the third largest reserves of oil in the world, Iran had willingly subjected its citizens and its economy to decades of deprivation. No nation with such enormous resources would have done so without a clear goal in mind.

  Gharamani had won many important victories over his Western counterparts whose desperation to sign any deal had forced them to make important concessions on key strategic issues. Iran had since secured military deals with Russia, China, and North Korea, and crossed a critical threshold in safeguarding itself from any foreign power. Its reserves of hard currency had been unfrozen, allowing it to expand its nuclear facilities to the point that many were now impervious to destruction or even detection. The atomic genie could not be put back in the bottle.

  It was one of these secret nuclear facilities that had drawn the supreme leader to today’s meeting. In his morning security brief he had read a single line about a foreign aircraft landing inside the Sirjan prohibited area. The brevity of the notation and its position toward the back of the eleven-page brief indicated that his national security team did not feel that the incident warranted much of a response.

  He was here today to show them the error of their ways.

  The supreme leader looked across the table with cold, hollow eyes as he began to speak.

  “For five thousand years our ancestors have traveled this land. It was the birthplace of civilization, the home of the prophets, and now it is ours. Since those early times, technology has been a source of prosperity and security, science has been a source of enlightenment and a sword of defense. From stone tools to iron plows,
from arrows to gunpowder, our forefathers fed and defended themselves with inventions and innovations.”

  His eyes moved methodically from man to man as he spoke.

  “The journey has not been easy. Moving forward on the path of righteousness has required sacrifice in treasure and in blood. For most of you, your payment of the zakat each month is the closest you come to knowing true sacrifice. Yet we demand more from the average citizens of the republic. We have commanded them to go not only without luxuries, but without necessities as well. We have forced them to forgo the present for the future. And the sacrifice required by those in our nuclear program has been even greater. Our generals have been kidnapped. Our scientists have been poisoned, shot, and murdered with bombs. Five of our Russian partners died in a mysterious plane crash. Our shipments of exported arms seem to explode prematurely whether traveling by plane or truck. Computer viruses attack our centrifuges, and the list goes on. How many of you are forced to wonder if a magnetic bomb will be slapped to the side of your car door every time a motorcycle passes by?”

  Several of the men in the room looked away.

  The leader stood from his chair, raising his voice with every sentence.

  “So why did we build twenty-nine nuclear facilities around the country? Why did we forgo a hundred billion dollars of oil and trade revenues? We did it because one day our nuclear weapons will allow us to unite the world under Allah, the one true God!”

  The leader slammed the handle of his walking stick against the table and glared at the minister for Intelligence and Security, whose office had prepared the morning brief.

  “But how can we do this when an enemy aircraft lands next to our most strategic nuclear facility and you do not investigate? How can we ask our people to sacrifice so much for so long and yet you neglect their basic security? How can we achieve our goals when you fail to do what is necessary?!”