The Last Man in Tehran

by Mark Henshaw

It had taken him much of the day to get here by the indirect route he had chosen. He had started at the Jefferson Memorial, then worked his way north through the Air and Space Museum, then the National Archives, where the darkness had depressed him. He had decided against taking a tour of the International Spy Museum, thinking that particular destination would be a cause of considerable mockery by the FBI if he was caught later.

  He had considered a stop at the Holocaust Museum but that holy place deserved better than to be a stop on his surveillance detection route. He had promised himself that he would go there, but it was going to be on the final day of his tour in Washington, DC. He knew that he would only be able to bear a visit to the museum once and that he would weep by the end of it. The man had lost his great-grandparents to Hitler’s camp at Sobibór and to see their story told in all its details would make the day one of the most important and disturbing of his life. It infuriated him that anyone in this world could be so sick in spirit as to deny the Nazis’ attempt at genocide.

  He had finally arrived at this little greasy spoon that, for some reason that eluded him, drew celebrities and political leaders in a kind of culinary pilgrimage, a bizarre American hajj. He had ordered what the woman ahead of him had ordered and, to his surprise, found it disturbingly delicious. He tried not to think of all the ways it likely violated the kashrut, the Jewish dietary laws. He was not one to keep kosher—a virtually impossible task when one was engaged in covert operations abroad—but this meal violated the laws of good sense at least as much as it did the laws of God. Perhaps that explained his guilt at having enjoyed it as much as he had.

  He pushed the empty tray away and made his way to the small bathroom. He closed the door, locked it behind him, then set about taking care of the reason he’d spent the day outside.

  Shiloh had signaled that there was a package waiting via a single message.

  I dug up the Blu-ray set for you the other night, but I heard you had some car trouble on the way over. Really sorry to hear it. If you want to come by tonight, it’s still waiting. I’ll throw in Series 3 for you, too.

  The Mossad chief of station had checked the list and cursed when he saw the location data. The unknown mole was a bold one to leave a dead-drop package here and the station chief had considered refusing his approval to retrieve it. As with the Banshee Reeks site, where Adina Salem had been detained, it was not a sound operational choice. It was apparent that Shiloh was not a field officer, but it seemed the ramsad was prepared to forgive that failing given the times, and Shiloh was giving them a second chance to receive the intel that Salem had tried to recover. That suggested it was especially valuable, which would justify some added risk. Still, they needed to find a way to convince Shiloh to let them pick the sites, or at least reject the ones that were overly risky, like this one. Too many patrons came through here, though he supposed none of them would be motivated to look inside the toilet tank. The Mossad officer lifted the ceramic top off and looked inside. The package was there, a simple letter inside a sealed ziplock bag attached to the inside wall with duct tape. He flushed the toilet, letting the water drain, and pulled the letter out. It had been submerged and he used a paper towel to wipe it off before tucking it away in the inside pocket of his jacket. He replaced the top of the tank, then washed his hands, unlocked the door, and stepped out.

  Another man was waiting by the door, tall, African American, a powerful build covered by a fine tailored suit. Their eyes met.

  The Israeli smiled and stepped aside. “All yours.”

  “Thanks,” the American muttered. He stepped into the bathroom and closed the door.

  The Mossad officer made his way outside and began his walk back to the embassy, another surveillance detection route that would, mercifully, be shorter than the one that had led him to the restaurant. He began to walk west along U Street.

  It took him two more hours to reach the embassy, where he handed over the envelope and his duties for the day came to an end. But he took a few minutes to rest his sore feet and to draft his report. That task done, he added the appropriate names to the distribution list, and then one more. Salem had championed Shiloh’s value as an asset to her less courageous colleagues, and he knew it wounded her to be sent home, leaving him to another handler. She would be relieved to know that Shiloh’s information again was in their hands.

  Israeli Institute for Intelligence and

  Special Operations (Mossad) Headquarters

  Tel Aviv, Israel

  The building’s location was a state secret. It had guards and barriers and all the usual security, but anonymity was the real wall protecting it, and that defense was tissue thin. That this place had remained hidden so long was a miracle of sorts. Ronen had only two real fears left. The first was that Iran would someday set off a nuclear device inside his country, not just a dirty bomb but a true warhead that would erase one of Israel’s cities from the landscape. The second was that the site of Mossad’s home would someday be revealed to the world. If that fact ever escaped into the world, children across the Middle East would begin to dream of becoming the suicide bomber who set off the truck bomb that wrecked the headquarters of the HaMossad leModi’in uleTafkidim Meyuhadim. The man who succeeded in that operation would become a martyr venerated by endless generations of future killers.

  The building itself was one of the more modern facilities in Israel. The grounds were meticulous and clean, adorned with sculptures created by some of the country’s more famous artists. Ronen’s single regret these days was that he did not get to spend more time outside the building, walking in the gardens and enjoying the greenery that was too rare in the countryside outside the walls.

  It was very early when he entered the building, the sun only starting to rise over the horizon. The short meeting with the prime minister had convened late in the night and then he had returned home to sleep for a few hours, which was becoming a rarity. He thought it a fortunate thing that his wife had left him years before. Ronen still loved the woman and it had always hurt that his country had claimed more of his life than she had. Now, in the midst of these events, she would hardly have seen him at all. She deserved better and had found it with another man. He was saddened but not angry. Her new husband was a good man who had served well in the Israel Defense Forces and was as devoted to her now as Ronen always wished he could have been.

  The walk to his office was less than five minutes. He said nothing to anyone on the way until he reached the outer door. Sitting next to it on a plain wooden chair was Adina Salem.

  “Have you been home?” Ronen asked the woman. The lack of sleep was apparent on her young face.

  “No, sir. I came here straight from the airport. I have information I wanted to share.”

  “Come in.” Ronen opened his door and turned on the light. The woman followed behind him and closed the door as he sat down behind his desk.

  “Sir, I regret the loss of Shiloh’s intelligence—”

  Ronen waved away her apology. “Do not worry about that. I have no doubt that you did all you were able to do to preserve it. Perhaps more than you should have, from what I read,” he chided her gently. “You should not endanger your life to protect such things in countries where your life and freedom are not at risk.”

  Salem nodded, her expression still depressed. “I understand, sir. But I find it strange that the FBI had a considerable force waiting at the drop site.”

  “Do you think Shiloh was a provocateur? That he set you up for arrest?” He had his own thoughts on that matter, but he wanted to hear Salem’s before deciding her case.

  She hesitated before answering. “My instincts tell me otherwise, but perhaps that is wishful thinking. I do not know how the FBI knew to be there, but I do not think it was Shiloh.”

  Ronen nodded to the young officer. “I trust my people. Your word is enough. Was that all?”

  “No, sir,” Salem continued. “I admit, I opened Shiloh’s package and scanned the contents on the scene. Perhaps that w
as against protocol, but I was anxious to see what Shiloh had given us. There were several reports inside. One was quite different from the others.”

  “How so?”

  “It was not formatted like a normal intelligence report. It was more of a letter. I do not know who wrote it and it was clearly not intended for us.”

  “Do you remember what this letter said?” Ronen asked.

  “Only part of the first sentence. I kept repeating it in my mind so I would not forget it. I wrote it down after my release from FBI custody.” She reached into her pocket and extracted a slip of paper, which she held out for Ronen. He took it and read the words, written in block letters.

  British Senior Intelligence Service (SIS) liaison has identified the buyer as Asqar Amiri, a British expatriate working from Kish Island for the Iranian government to arrange the clandestine acquisition of arms and sanctioned nuclear materials.

  Asqar Amiri. Another name for Mossad to extinguish. Ronen studied the paper, reading it several times.

  “The author of the letter said that this Amiri was involved in smuggling materials for Iran’s nuclear program,” Salem added when Ronen looked up. “He also said that Amiri works out of Kish Island and was involved in a deal to buy radioisotope thermoelectric generators from the Russians.”

  Ronen’s eyebrows went up at that bit of news. “RTGs?”

  Salem nodded at him. “Yes, sir. I did a bit of research earlier this morning while I was waiting here for you to return. Some Russian RTGs use strontium 90 as their power source, the same element that was used in the Haifa dirty bomb. Sir, of all the material in the package, I think that was the report that Shiloh most wanted us to have. If Iran acquired those Russian devices, then Shiloh may have given us the source of the nuclear material used to attack Haifa.”

  “That is quite possible . . . and the name of the man responsible for delivering it to our attackers,” Ronen agreed. There was no question, the man named on the page merited an operation, and the ramsad found his anger rising. This was the kind of information the Americans should have been passing through official channels. We should be receiving this . . . but not this way.

  He looked up at the young woman. “Clearly justice must be delivered to such a man. Would you like an opportunity to redeem yourself?”

  “Yes, sir!” Salem exclaimed.

  “I thought so,” he told her. “Go home and clean up. Rest tonight, then report back in the morning. And, Salem?”

  “Sir?”

  “I received a call shortly before you arrived. Shiloh signaled another drop and one of our officers was successful in retrieving it this time. Your friends in Washington are still going through it, but the officer who secured it wanted you to know. It seems that Shiloh did not set you up after all.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” Salem said. She turned and left his office.

  Ronen picked up his telephone and pressed a single button. The call was answered on the second ring. “Bo-ker tov. I want to see him in my office within the next hour. Kol tuv.” Then he replaced the phone and read the paper a third time. And kol tuv to you, Shiloh, he thought. You are doing us a great service.

  • • •

  Surrounded as their country was by hostile neighbors, Israel’s leaders had always been firm believers that one execution, the right person snuffed out at the right moment, could be worth entire divisions of men and armor on the battlefield. Many foreign leaders had thought twice about supporting attacks on Israel out of the simple fear that they might awaken one night to see a Mossad barrel pointed at them, or, more likely, just never awaken at all. The Americans liked to joke that it was God’s job to judge terrorists and their marines’ job to arrange the meeting. Mossad had arranged many such meetings but not as many as they would have liked.

  There were fewer than a hundred members of that particular Mossad unit. All were recruits from Israel’s special forces or other groups within Mossad itself. All had trained for two years in the Negev Desert before moving out into the field, where they might reside for years at a time to conduct a single operation. The mullahs in Tehran lived in fear of that Mossad unit. It was not implausible that these few dozen had done more to hold back Iran’s nuclear ambitions than the efforts of the rest of the world combined.

  The head of the unit sat in Ronen’s office. His hair was peppered with white, the only real sign that he was growing old. The rest of his body was in excellent shape, not overly muscular, but there was clear strength visible through his shirt. He was not entirely morose, but it took either a very funny joke or a considerable amount of alcohol to make him laugh.

  He was as sober as Moses today. The man read the paper carefully, then folded it and placed it back on the table. “Asqar Amiri,” he said. “We have heard his name before, but we were not able to learn from where he operates until now.”

  “It is never a simple thing to find men who don’t want to be found . . . harder when one’s allies withhold useful information. Now we know,” Ronen observed. “How long to send a team?”

  “I will have to redeploy one of my teams already in Iran. I can have a small unit on Kish Island by tomorrow night. A larger one would take a few more days, possibly a week.”

  “Very good,” Ronen said. “I would like to hear that this man, Amiri, has been extinguished within the week.”

  “If he is there now, that should be possible. If he is not, the team will find his base of operations and watch for him. I will be able to give you an estimate of his life expectancy then, depending on where he is and which assets we have to deploy.”

  Ronen nodded. “See to it. And if there are any other bits of low-hanging fruit in Shiloh’s reports, feel free to pluck them at the earliest moment of opportunity.”

  “We already have one picked out in Tehran. We will deal with him and then I will redeploy that team to Kish to handle Amiri, assuming they have not already finished him.”

  “Good,” Ronen replied. He valued men who shared the dangers of the front line with their subordinates. It showed commitment, both to the mission and to Israel itself. Soldiers would follow such men into Gehenna itself. “I want Salem assigned to the Kish Island unit. After her failure in Washington, I want her to have an opportunity to redeem herself at the earliest moment. It is important our people know that we do not lose faith in them when a mission fails through no fault of theirs.”

  “Have her report to my office in the morning and I will arrange it,” the subordinate assured him. “I assume we have permission to proceed?”

  “You do.”

  The field officer nodded, stood, and walked out, already calculating options and possibilities in his mind. In the office, Ronen leaned back in his chair, took the Salem report, and filed it in the drawer behind his desk.

  Jamaran District

  Tehran, Iran

  The target in Tehran was Dr. Qolam Rouhani.

  Mossad had many of its own sources in Tehran and had been using the intelligence to assemble a list of nuclear scientists who would be executed if and when their deaths were needed to ensure Israel’s survival. But this particular name had escaped them. The Iranians had been keeping the identities of their nuclear scientists hidden for the same reason they had not announced the now-dead nuclear program director’s appointment. That had not saved him, and thanks to Shiloh’s first tranche of information, it would not save the scientists who had likewise labored in anonymity.

  The ramsad had approved a team of fifteen to remove Rouhani from the world, an unusually large group for this kind of operation. There were twelve men and three women, all veterans of the Sayeret Matkal, Israel’s finest commando unit. They entered the country on separate days using false British, Russian, French, and Swiss passports, and met at a designated safe house just outside Tehran’s limits that Mossad had maintained at great expense since the Iranian revolution. The equipment they needed had been cached in the basement for years, sealed inside metal crates buried under the basement dirt and covered by the concre
te floor. It took two hours to crack through it with the small hammers kept in the upstairs closets and dig through with the shovels kept in the garage. The Semtex, ten kilos’ worth, and detonators were in separate boxes. They would only need a small fraction of that for this first operation; the rest, later perhaps, depending on whether the ramsad named other targets in their area of responsibility.

  The team was divided into five units, each named after a letter of the Hebrew alphabet. The Het squad, three men, established cover for the team, renting three cars, buying food, and taking care of the other logistics that would be needed for the next week.

  The Ayin unit, six men and one woman, had the tedious job of gathering the bits of data needed to bring Rouhani’s life to a violent close. They had little information on the scientist other than his photograph and the address of his residence, but they really needed nothing more to start. Two days’ surveillance suggested that he was a man of habit. He arose both mornings at five o’clock and walked out of his house at five forty-five lost in thought, hardly aware of his environment. He drove the same route to his office both days, which was located in an industrial complex ten miles away with no identifying signs. The two Israeli officers who followed him had spent those days in their car parked three blocks away, sitting until their buttocks cramped on the thin padding of the seats in their rental car, a locally manufactured Saipa Tiba, a low-end four-door subcompact that, mercifully, had air conditioning. It was not difficult to follow Rouhani. Tehran’s streets were well maintained and Rouhani’s early drive to avoid the heavier rush-hour traffic kept things simple for the Ayins.

  Rouhani broke for lunch and walked around the building at half-past noon for thirty minutes each day, then returned inside. He left for home at three, drove his morning route in reverse, and arrived at a fixed time. His evenings proved less predictable. The first night he spent at a local pub watching soccer with friends, the second at home with his girlfriend, who was his neighbor’s wife judging by the early hour at which she left for her home after spending only two hours on Rouhani’s couch. Both nights, the man had retired by ten and was asleep by eleven.