The Courier: A Ryan Kealey Thriller

by Andrew Britton

  “This battery will run for one hundred hours,” Boulif said. “That’s four days. Do not turn it off.”

  “Why?”

  “There are reasons,” he said. Boulif wrote down the number of the phone from the drawer. “Memorize this and then destroy it. The success of this mission depends on it. “

  “I understand,” Mohammed said gravely. He understood what Boulif was doing—the second phone would eventually go inside the device. It was the detonator. The phone he held was what activated it.

  “Do not program the number of the detonator into the other phone,” Boulif warned. “If you dial it by accident, the detonator will explode. Powerfully. Do not drop it and try not to fall on it. There is nitroglycerin in this mixture. It will explode. Powerfully. In either event, you will probably die without accomplishing your goal.”

  The thought amused Mohammed. His brother had often called him from the market or from his girlfriend’s home without meaning to. He had heard many conversations that were not intended for his ears.

  Boulif slipped his hands in the gloves and closed the container. He secured the latches on the side, then told Mohammed to remove the lid of the Soviet box. He watched the Geiger counter as Mohammed lifted the lead top. The radiation leak was the same as before: nominal. The Germans had built a box that exceeded all expectations. Boulif helped lift the lead container and set it on the table. He stirred the oatmeal until it was a thick paste, then went and got a pair of flexible metal bands from a drawer. He began to attach them to the lead box, like they were ribbons on a gift. Mohammed helped him by lifting the container so the professor could slip them underneath.

  “These are shipping bands,” he said. “They will secure the lid, make sure there is no leakage. You release them by popping the latches like so.”

  He demonstrated how the small, seatbelt-style locks worked.

  “You seem to have everything we need,” Mohammed marveled. “It is as if God prepared you!”

  Boulif smiled. “God . . . and years of shipping explosives that I could not have jiggling around a container.” He returned to the oatmeal. “And this is how I will turn the cell phone into an IED. I’ll mix the chemicals into the oatmeal and apply a coating to the inside of the cell phone, both the workings and the lid. When you call, it will create a small explosion, like a hand grenade.”

  “But how will that penetrate—” Mohammed stopped as he understood. “I will remove the lid and place it inside. Then I will call the number.”

  Boulif nodded soberly.

  “Blessed be God,” Mohammed said. “I will be the direct instrument of his vengeance.” He studied the scientist’s actions. “Will we need so much?” he asked, indicating the mixture.

  “Not for the bomb, no. It is for other things. Get me the backpack on the hook behind the door.”

  Mohammed did as he was told.

  “There is a cell phone inside, wired with open ends to the bag,” he said.

  “Open ends?”

  “Live wires. They’ll generate a short, hot spark and when I’m finished that will complete a circuit five seconds after you punch 911. Can you remember that?”

  “Of course.” Mohammed watched him work. “You have a great many cell phones, professor.”

  “I give a great many lessons here,” Boulif replied. “Now—we must also figure out where you will go and how you can get there. I have some thoughts.” He looked at his watch. He suddenly seemed concerned, as if he’d remembered a missed appointment. “How was the man in the shack when you left him?”

  “Sir?”

  “His mood. His manner.”

  Mohammed thought for a moment. “He seemed all right—I don’t understand.”

  “He should have called to tell me you were coming,” Boulif said. “The man you killed couldn’t have been the only one who knew,” he thought aloud. “We must move quickly. We need to get this, and you, out of here. There is something you must do first. Number one,” he added, referring to the countdown he’d mentioned a moment ago.

  “Gladly.”

  As the scientist went to work mixing the explosive, Mohammed experienced a strange detachment from his activity and from life itself. He was overcome with an immediate sensation of rapture and relief.

  Your time in this life will end very soon, he thought. Paradise awaits and in it a reunion with your brothers.

  All he had to do was transport this weapon to a suitable goal. Then he, his name, and his deed would be enshrined forever among those of the great martyrs. Tears of joy filled the edges of his eyes as he watched this great man at work.

  God—and life—were great.

  VALLEY STREAM, NEW YORK

  Largo Kealey sat at his dining room table staring at his laptop.

  It was early evening, less than twenty-four hours after his nephew had given him the phone number of Dr. Allison Dearborn. It was her personal phone, not her office. He wouldn’t be calling to schedule a discussion. There was no firewall. He would be calling her to talk.

  About what? he asked himself.

  What had made him cry the night before . . . and several times throughout the day? He had ideas about that. He had had a lifetime to think about them. He seldom shared those thoughts with his wife, with anyone, because what would he say?

  “The best years of my life were spent in France, and those days are gone.”

  “What was it about those days that made them so special?” he asked himself. He had hated them at the time. He had feared for his security, prayed he wouldn’t botch his mission, prayed harder that he wouldn’t get one of his colleagues killed.

  That was what made them special, he told himself. The stakes.

  But what man—what young man—was so masochistic that life was only precious when it was at risk?

  He picked up his cell phone and called the number.

  “This is Allison,” said the voice on the other end.

  “Hi, All—I mean, Dr. Dearborn. This is Largo Kealey. Ryan’s uncle. He—he gave me your number.”

  “Is Ryan all right?”

  The urgency in her voice surprised him. “Yes!” he said quickly. “God, yes—I’m calling about me.”

  He heard her breathing relax on the other end. He wished he could hang up. Talk about a blundering first step—

  “Mr. Kealey—hello. Sorry about that.”

  “No, it was my fault.”

  “You are the uncle who was in the war?”

  “That’s right,” he said. “I’m in G.I. Bill suburbia now on Long Island. I . . . I don’t know. Ryan said I could talk to you. I need to talk to someone. Is this a convenient time?”

  “I am sending out a text to make it convenient,” she said.

  “Please don’t—I can call back.”

  “It’s done. This is a pleasure for me, Mr. Kealey. I don’t get too many of those. What’s on your mind?”

  He didn’t know how much Dr. Dearborn knew of Ryan’s activities, so he thought it best not to tell her he’d seen his nephew. “I worked behind the lines in France during the war,” he told her. “When the war ended, I left the OSS, got married, and became a milkman. I wanted a life where I wasn’t always afraid, where there weren’t terrible responsibilities.”

  “Do you have children, Mr. Kealey?”

  “No. And my wife has passed on—and I am not afraid to join her. What I am afraid of is that I have wasted my life. Most of it, anyway. And will continue to do so.”

  “Is there anything you wanted to do but didn’t? Someplace you wanted to visit? A memoir you wanted to write?”

  “No,” he said. “No. I spent so long searching for peace that I never had a backup plan.”

  “Have you found peace?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “My brain says yes but I’m realizing that with no provocation whatsoever, my body, my nerves, my instincts have never relaxed. I’ve spoken with guys at the VFW center who say the same thing about Omaha Beach, about the Bulge, about Berlin. One man who liberat
ed Dachau sees those faces every week in nightmares. I don’t have it that bad. But I realize I’ve spent my life in hiding, and I’m tired of it.”

  “Did you ever tell your wife about these thoughts?”

  “Not—in words.” He started to sob. “I just withdrew. She comforted me. She was so giving. I miss her, and now all I have is this foxhole. It’s not a life.”

  Allison allowed him to cry. He apologized. She told him it was natural and healthy. He set the phone down and wept into his hands. After nearly a minute, he picked up the phone.

  “I want to do something,” he said. “I want to do anything.”

  “Come to Washington,” she said.

  That was something Largo had not expected—or considered. He didn’t know what to say to the woman.

  “We can talk—I would love to hear about your experiences. Have you been here recently?”

  “I haven’t been to D.C. since Eisenhower was Commander-in-Chief.”

  “When was the last time you left Long Island?”

  He replied, “When Mr. Ford was Commander-in-Chief.”

  “Then come,” she said.

  “Doctor, I’m not a charity case—I’m not even sure what I need.”

  “You’d be giving me a great deal,” she said. “I see a lot of people who work in government, who have served in the military. Not from before the Vietnam era, though. Your thoughts, your perspectives could be enriching. And it sounds to me like a change of scenery would be beneficial. The Defense Department maintains a number of apartments for visiting dignitaries, foreign officers, that sort of thing. I shouldn’t have any problem setting one up. If you come tonight, I can meet you at the airport.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Why not?” she said. “It sounds like you’ll just ping-pong the pros and cons all night. Sometimes it’s better to do something a little more proactive. You can leave from JFK up to around ten p.m.”

  Largo decided. “I’ll be there,” he said. “I’ll book online and forward the flight information as soon as I have it.”

  “Perfect. I’ll send a photo back so you recognize me,” Allison said, and then she gave him her email address.

  Largo thanked her, hung up, and booked a flight that left at 10:22. That would give him time to get his caboose in gear, as his wife used to describe it. He had to pack, get a taxi for the half-hour trip to JFK, and accept the fact not just that he was doing this but that it was a good thing to do. He looked at May’s picture and, when he packed, he took a moment to run his fingers along the sleeve of her favorite sweater. It still hung in the closet, on the hanger where she left it.

  There were no tears now. Just a smile for the memories he cherished—and a fresh, firm resolve to understand those that had eluded him for the better part of his life.

  He pulled a dusty suitcase from the closet and, with as light a heart as he had known in decades, he started packing.

  CHAPTER 12

  FÈS, MOROCCO

  Mahdavi Yazdi purchased a pack of cigarettes from the dispensary where the aspirin had been bought. He had already checked the medications, made sure that the labels were the same. There was no point interrogating the boy behind the counter. He was watching a movie on a laptop set on a stool. He wouldn’t notice anyone who came or went. It didn’t matter. The target was somewhere near.

  Yazdi went out to the sunny street, a short but busy block full of small shops catering to young people. He lit a cigarette and looked around. He saw a bookstore, an emergency medical facility, a gift shop, a mosque. He would go to all of them, starting with the medical facility; that would be the ideal place to run a nuclear lab of any sort.

  First, however, he had other business to attend to.

  Moving purposefully toward the nearest corner, as though he knew exactly where he was going, he stopped as soon as he rounded it. The woman on the motorbike— the one who had been trailing him since he had arrived at the Professor’s home—was on foot, as expected; on a street filled with pedestrians and two-wheel bicycles, her sleek, noisy machine stood out. She was more dogged than skillful, having stuck with him at the same distance, unaware of how her motorcycle was reflecting in the sun—and apparently never thinking that he might recognize it from the shack on the beach.

  She was carrying her helmet under her arm and he got a good look at her when she swung around the corner and awkwardly put on a head scarf. She looked Semitic, that was for sure; young and healthy, her step a little uncertain, and her clothes were Western.

  She was not a veteran. A coworker or relative of the dead man? She didn’t seem angry enough to be on a mission of vengeance.

  All of this he noticed in the moment it took for her to come toward and then past him. She did not want to seem as though she was following him, but he noticed the flicker of hesitation when she saw him waiting there, looking in her direction. He waited until she had passed before he spoke. He would try Farsi first. If she didn’t understand he would speak in Hebrew; there was always a chance she was Israeli, a field agent who happened to be converging on the same target as he was.

  “What do you want?” he asked.

  The woman kept walking.

  Yazdi didn’t have time for this. Her hands were outside her casual clothes. If she were carrying a weapon, it was not visible in her waistband. His instincts told him she was an amateur. He walked up beside her and matched her pace.

  “You’ve been following me,” he said. “Why?”

  She didn’t answer. She kept walking.

  Yazdi let her go. He had to get over to the medical center and find the device. The woman was not going anywhere and he would deal with her when he had to. He would start by disabling her bike.

  He turned and went back around the corner. The bike was parked against the curb, nose in, between two cars. He took his keys from his pocket, pressed a button on one. A small blade snapped from the end. Yazdi dropped the cigarettes by the rear tire, bent to pick them up, went to puncture the tire.

  A hand stopped him by grabbing his bicep. Before he even turned, Yazdi knew that the grip was strong, very firm, not the small fingers of the woman he had been trailing. He had made a mistake even a novice would have been smart enough not to commit. He had assumed the woman was traveling alone.

  Yazdi let the keys drop to the asphalt, rose slowly, and turned. He looked into the dark, unblinking eyes of a man he did not know and who clearly did not belong here. He was a tall American who looked like a cross between a Marine and a poet. There was something powerful but not immediately threatening about him—and wise. Those eyes seemed to know more than Yazdi could or would have confessed.

  The woman, the borrower of the motorbike, came hurrying around the corner. Yazdi was now doubly caught off-guard: she seemed as surprised as he had been to see the other man. She entered the space between the cars from the front end of the motorcycle.

  Yazdi offered the American a cigarette. Kealey shook his head once, slowly. The Iranian lit one for himself.

  “I’m going to go now,” the Iranian said in Farsi.

  “Tell him we’re going together,” Kealey said to Rayhan, though his eyes were on Yazdi.

  She translated and waited. Yazdi shook his head. He started to go. Kealey stopped him with a hand to his chest. “You won’t get anywhere without my help,” he said.

  When Rayhan had translated, Yazdi blew smoke. “Why?”

  Kealey replied, “I have a Geiger counter in my car.”

  The Iranian listened to the translation, then relaxed slightly. “Who are you?”

  Kealey lowered his hand. “Tell him I’m the only guy in American intelligence who would rather work with him than stab him with my much larger knife.”

  When Rayhan had translated Yazdi looked down at the American’s hand. Low, where he hadn’t noticed it, Kealey was holding a switchblade. It wasn’t pointed at the Iranian. Yazdi appreciated that. In the language of spies that was known as a “give.” The American could have coerced him but didn’t.


  Yazdi didn’t have time to analyze or debate. He nodded and asked Rayhan if he could pick up his keys. She did it for him and put them in her pocket.

  “Do you think I’m going to run?” he asked. “At the very least I’d follow you now.”

  She made no response other than to motion him along.

  “We’ll go to my car, right over there,” Kealey said, leading the way. “What should we call you?”

  As Rayhan translated Yazdi was inwardly amused by the wording of the question. It didn’t matter because the American assumed he wouldn’t tell the truth. Should he answer honestly? It could provide an enemy with a priceless hostage, a source of information—though the American was the outsider here, not him. Yet it would also establish a hierarchy. The American was simply a functionary. He was a subordinate in status, knowledge, and access. There was also a question of credibility. How much more influence would he have as Mahdavi Yazdi than pretending to be Qassam Pakravesh or someone else? These were typically the life-or-death questions he decided, without emotion, for others.

  As they crossed the street to the front of a bakery, Yazdi said, “I am Mahdavi Yazdi, Director of Vezarat-e Ettela’at Jomhuri-ye Eslami-ye Iran.”

  Kealey reacted by looking back. “The director? What’s your annual budget?”

  Rayhan translated and he replied at once. “Nine hundred billion rial.”

  “What’s the name of the frigate you lost yesterday?”

  The man did not answer as quickly—or as unemotionally. His jaw shifted unhappily as he said, “Jamaran. ”

  Kealey didn’t know if the Iranian was right about the funding—there were about twelve thousand rial to the dollar, making it about seventy-five million dollars, which seemed a little low—but he answered quickly and confidently. And he didn’t like being asked about the ship, but he knew about it. That kind of news would not have been publicized in Iran. Kealey was inclined to believe the man.