by Ben Coes
Ho reached to his left. He lifted a thin silver briefcase from the ground and placed it on his lap. He adjusted the six-digit lock out of sight of Aziz, then popped open the case. He removed a manila envelope, then handed it to Aziz.
“Happy birthday, Hasim,” said Ho, closing the briefcase and placing it back on the ground. He reached for another dumpling, tossed it in his mouth, then picked up his wineglass.
Aziz ripped open the envelope. He pulled out a small stack of photos. All were black-and-white, grainy.
The first photo showed a tall, handsome man walking with a gorgeous dark-haired beauty; both were Middle Eastern.
“Do you recognize him?” asked Ho.
“Yes,” said the Iranian. “Lon Qassou. A cabinet member. Of course I recognize him.”
“These photos were taken less than an hour apart, at Odessa Airport.”
“Odessa?”
“Yes.”
“Our Kiev chief of station was killed in Odessa last weekend,” said Aziz, flipping to the second photo. “Two Quds soldiers too.”
“Do you know what date?”
“Yes. September tenth.”
Ho reached out and yanked the top photo from Aziz. It showed a digital time stamp:
10-09-12
Aziz placed the second photo on top, at first his head seemed to jerk backward ever so slightly at the subject. The photo was the clearest of the three. It showed an American with short hair, unkempt. He wore a suit coat with a button-down shirt. He was good-looking. But the camera also caught something else in his demeanor; his dark eyes had an angry edge. A silent wave of electricity, composed partly of fear, moved through Aziz. He reached for his wineglass, then drank down the remaining wine as he continued to stare at the photo of the man.
“Who is he?” asked Aziz.
“His name is Dewey Andreas,” said Ho. “Have you heard of him?”
“No,” said Aziz. “Should I have?”
Suddenly the door opened again. Aziz swung around just as the waiter was entering, a tray full of food on his shoulder.
“Out!” barked Aziz, his voice trembling with anger. “Now!”
The waiter almost dropped the tray, but managed to hold on. He slipped quickly out, then slid the door closed.
“He’s American,” said Ho calmly. “He’s the man who led the coup in Pakistan.”
“Special Operations Group?”
“No,” said Ho. “He doesn’t work for the government.”
“What do you mean he doesn’t work for the government?”
“You heard me correctly. He’s a free agent, a former Delta. He’s a mean son of a bitch.”
“Mean?”
“Very. He’s the one who stuck a knife into Khomeini’s brother more than a decade ago.”
“Bali?”
“Yes.”
Aziz flipped back through the six photos. He swallowed hard.
“What’s going on?” asked Aziz.
“I have no idea,” said Ho. “And frankly, I’m not sure China cares. You, however, would seem to have a situation on your hands.”
“It could mean anything,” said Aziz.
“Or nothing.”
“You don’t believe that.”
“No, I don’t. Perhaps Abu should grab a cup of coffee with Mr. Qassou.”
Aziz stood up. He quickly put the photos back in the envelope. Aziz stepped quickly toward the door.
“You’re welcome,” said Ho. “By the way, Minister Bhang has a simple favor to ask. Not urgent, but if you happen to think of it … If the situation presents itself.”
“What?” asked Aziz.
“Kill Andreas, if you have the opportunity. For all our sakes, Hasim. It’s not good to have an American running around with such—how shall I put it—skills.”
25
PRESIDENTIAL PALACE
TEHRAN
Mahmoud Nava walked down the hallway next to his office to a private elevator that led to the basement garage. Instead of pressing the button that would take him to the garage and one of his waiting limousines, Nava pressed the button for basement two, one floor below. When the doors opened, he stepped out into a dimly lit hall.
He walked quickly to the right, to a door at the end of the hall. He looked back over his shoulder; he thought he had heard something, but he saw no one. He took a silver key from his pocket and unlocked the steel door. A black Range Rover sat just outside the door, idling, windows completely dark in black tint. Nava stepped over to the SUV, opened the front door on the passenger side, climbed in.
Seated in the driver’s seat was a man in a khaki military uniform, sunglasses, a beard and mustache, longish black hair.
“Colonel Hek,” said Nava, climbing in.
“Mr. President.”
* * *
An hour later, the shiny Range Rover moved quickly through the half-paved, half-dirt streets of downtown Mahdishahr. Dust churned into the afternoon air behind the black SUV as it sped through the crowded streets, as many pedestrians on the streets themselves as on the sidewalks. The vehicle attracted stares but for the most part it blended into the general chaos of the small city, sixty miles east of Tehran.
They turned off the A83 Highway south of Mahdishahr. At a traffic light at the end of the exit ramp, they went left. Trees dotted the sidewalks, bushy cypress that provided little relief from the scorching sun that had the city, at 2:45 P.M., cooking at 101 degrees. They drove into an area of warehouses and lots piled high with industrial equipment. At one of the warehouses, a light yellow unit with nothing particularly distinguishing about it, the Range Rover slowed and entered the parking lot. Hek pushed the vehicle quickly across the parking lot, then around back. He sounded the horn once and a door at the back of the warehouse began to slide open.
They drove inside and the door quickly slid shut behind them.
Bright lights shone down on a clean concrete floor, the building empty except for one item. In the middle of the floor, a big semitruck; eighteen-wheeler, blue truck cab, a long silver trailer hitched to it. A dozen soldiers stood with weapons pointed at the SUV. Colonel Hek was the first to climb out, followed by Nava.
Nava followed Hek across the concrete floor. At the back of the truck, Hek stepped up a small set of steps. Nava followed him, his eyes growing wide as he climbed.
Resting inside the trailer was a long object that resembled a steel can, except that it was much, much bigger. The underside was emblazoned with Persian lettering. The object was squat—no more than ten feet long—and bulky. The front was shoulder-height to Nava.
Nava was speechless. His trembling hand arose from his side. He touched, gingerly, the steel tip of the missile. He ran his finger down the cone, then along the smooth side of the missile, his eyes like a child’s on Christmas morning. Nava traced the lettering on the side, shaking his head.
“It is magnificent,” Nava said, barely above a whisper.
“Yes, Mr. President,” said Hek. “That is the perfect word for it.”
* * *
An hour later, as Nava walked into the entrance foyer to his office, his assistant held up a piece of pink paper.
“Your brother called, Mr. President. He said it was urgent.”
Nava kept walking, shutting the door to his office, and went to his desk. He dialed his brother.
“What is it?” he said into the phone. “They said it was urgent. Is it Father?”
“No,” said Nava’s younger brother, Davood. He spoke softly, as if he was crying. “It’s Harui.”
“Harui?”
“He’s dead,” moaned Davood. “He was on a business trip to Ukraine. Israel murdered him.”
“How do you know this?”
“They let a man live. The Israelis said they will keep killing until Meir is returned.”
For several seconds, Nava stared at the phone, as if dazed.
“I’m sorry, Brother,” he said, anger in his voice. “But if it means anything, Harui did not die in vain.”
> 26
BEIT RAHBARI
TEHRAN
Nava climbed out of the back of a black Mercedes limousine. He walked up the steps of the Beit Rahbari, House of the Leader, a former palace, through a set of heavily guarded steel gates. He went by a small coterie of worshipers and imams. Inside, he was met by one of Suleiman’s assistants, who nodded to Nava.
“Mahmoud,” he whispered.
“Imam,” said Nava.
“The Supreme Leader is expecting you.”
They went down a long, dark corridor, illuminated by candles. They came to a large wooden door, the top of which was arched like a half-moon. Suleiman’s assistant knocked on the door.
“Imam,” he said. “The president is here.”
The door handle turned, then the door opened. Ali Suleiman, a short man like Nava, stood behind the door. He waved his hand quickly.
“Come in, Mahmoud,” he said.
Inside, six other men, all dressed in the attire of imams, sat in chairs along the walls. The office was small and had a single window that looked out on the mosque and behind that, in the distance, mountains covered in snow. It was a simple office, with a table beneath the window, and no artwork. It always amazed Nava that the Supreme Leader of the country, who could have availed himself of any material comfort he so desired, would choose to exist so simply.
Nava bowed, holding his head in fealty for several seconds, then stood again.
Suleiman shut the door behind him.
“Please, Mahmoud,” said one of the clerics. “Sit down. Take a load off, as they say.”
“Thank you, Imam,” said Nava.
Nava sat in a wooden chair at the end of the line of clerics.
“You have asked for this meeting of the Supreme Council, Mahmoud.”
“Indeed,” said Nava. “Members of the Assembly of Experts, thank you. I will get to the point. Today, I believe, has the potential to be an important day in the history of the Islamic Republic, one of the most important, perhaps the biggest day since February first, 1979.”
Nava looked around the room, meeting the eyes of the bearded clerics one at a time. He ended with Suleiman.
“Our Iranian scientists have made all citizens of Iran proud,” continued Nava. “I am pleased to report that the first nuclear device has been completed. Today, I seek the official sanction of the Supreme Leader for the use of the device.”
“The use of the device?” asked one of the clerics. He looked at Suleiman. “Were you aware of the completion of the nuclear device, Imam?”
“Yes,” said Suleiman, nodding.
“And you didn’t inform the assembly?”
“Since when do I have to inform the assembly of anything? If you don’t like it, appoint someone else in my place. I grow tired of your complaining, Mashiri. Besides, are you not here today? Am I imagining this meeting? Please, someone pinch me; Mashiri seems to think today’s meeting isn’t in fact taking place.”
Several of the other clerics started to laugh as Suleiman shook his head back and forth, a wide smile on his face beneath brown, bespectacled eyes.
“The assembly has been fully aware of the process for the development of the nuclear device,” Suleiman continued. “It was completed less than two weeks ago. We have not had a meeting of the assembly in this time. Besides, Mashiri, I have no need to tell you or anyone else. I am aware of many things. Until there is a call for some sort of action, I have no obligation to blather to you or anyone else about developments.”
“Iran has completed its first bomb!” said the cleric.
“That’s right,” retorted another cleric. “Under the leader’s guidance! Stop your complaining!”
Suleiman stared at Mashiri, then raised his hand and, in a casual flicking motion, dismissed his comments.
“Continue,” he said, staring down the cleric.
“Yes, Imam,” said Nava. “Today, with the blessing of Allah, I seek the sanction of the Supreme Leader for the use of the bomb. It is time for Iran to begin the process of wiping the Zionist from the face of the earth. I believe we must detonate the device in Tel Aviv.”
The room was silent. For several moments, the clerics, to a man, stared at the ground in contemplation. Then another cleric, a short, rotund man to Suleiman’s right, cleared his throat.
“Why?” he asked.
“Because we are the chosen ones who will stab the blade of Allah into the Zionist,” said Nava. “First, with the capture and, soon, the execution, of Kohl Meir. Then, when the dust has settled, and the Israelis believe they can take no more punishment, we shall ignite Tel Aviv with the majesty of Iranian technology.”
The room was silent. One of the clerics looked up from the ground.
“What will happen after we drop the bomb?” he asked. “How many weapons does Israel possess of its own?”
“Yes,” said another cleric. “So we drop one bomb, our first bomb, and Israel drops ten bombs. Soon, how much of Iran is destroyed?”
“But therein lies the genius of our plan,” said Nava, smiling. “We will move the bomb by water into Tel Aviv. A small fishing boat is all that is needed. Israel won’t even know it’s Iran that has done it.”
“Who will do this?”
“Hezbollah,” said Nava. “Colonel Hek will oversee it. The bomb is in hiding. It will be transported to the port at Bushehr. A martyr from Al-Muqawama will then spirit it into the belly of the beast, Tel Aviv.”
“What about Washington?” asked another cleric. “Surely, they would come to the defense of Tel Aviv?”
“How?” asked Nava. “They won’t have a clue. None of them will. And when they want revenge, which they will, who will they blame? They will have to blame the entire Middle East. Look at how weakened the Americans are. They were badly scarred by their failed experiments in Iraq and Afghanistan. They’re impoverished by their debt to the Chinese. Their economy is in ruins. Perhaps most important, Israel’s main ally, Rob Allaire, is dead now. President Dellenbaugh is a weak, naïve man. Will he come to the rescue of Israel?”
“I agree,” said another man, seated next to Nava. “Please don’t any of you take this the wrong way, but Iran is not entrapped by the logic and moral quandaries of the West. America will not respond because America is shackled down by its own rules, laws, congresses, treaties, but most of all by its own Western morals.”
“Well put,” said Nava.
“It’s not the United States I’m worried about,” said one of the clerics. “It’s Israel. They will counterattack. They know one rule, and it’s self-defense. If necessary, Israel would drop a bomb in every city in the Middle East in order to survive.”
“So what are you saying?” asked Suleiman.
“I’m against it,” said the cleric. “We have a bomb. Iran has the bomb! Let us celebrate that. Kill the Jew Meir. But must we kill a bunch of Israelis? Let us not forget that many of these Israelis will be children.”
“I must tell you something else,” said Nava. “In the past twenty-four hours, no less than half a dozen Iranians have been murdered by what we believe to be Israeli Mossad agents. This includes the Iranian ambassadors to China and Portugal. Two officials at NICICO were killed, including my own nephew. Imam, I implore you: let me take this next step.”
Suleiman looked at Abdollahi, the cleric who was against the strike.
“Your concerns are sincere, Abdollahi,” said Suleiman. “And well considered. But the blood of the child is part of the tide that will wash away Israel forever.”
Suleiman stood. He stepped to the window.
“Kill the Zionists,” said Suleiman.
27
RUMIANA FARM
MIDDLEBURG, VIRGINIA
The sun was rising, bright orange on the horizon, as Dewey drove slowly along Washington Street, through downtown Middleburg.
Middleburg was a picturesque rural town in Virginia horse country; neat brick and clapboard homes, shops, inns, and municipal buildings located a little more than an hour o
utside of Washington, surrounded by horse farms and fields, streams and forest. The town itself was a simple grid of streets lined with antique shops, restaurants, gourmet food stores, and other establishments catering to Middleburg’s equestrian set. There was even a place to arrange a private jet out of nearby Dulles Airport, about a half hour away. In the town center, the shops, restaurants, and inns transitioned quickly into small homes, then the land opened up and spread out, becoming rolling country of large estates with fields of verdant blue and green, stone walls, big, sweeping, tree-filled vistas leading to the Blue Ridge and Bull Run mountains in the distance.
The estates were owned, for the most part, by old-line Virginia gentry and their descendants, along with the new wealthy; businesspeople working along the tech corridor near Dulles. Every year, the area was the site of well-known equestrian events, including the oldest horse show in the United States, the Upperville Colt and Horse Show, and the Gold Cup, a day of steeplechase racing attended by most of Washington’s elite, sponsored by Tiffany’s, BMW, Range Rover, and other luxury brands.
After passing through town, Dewey went left on Zulla Road, driving his rented Chevy Tahoe for precisely three and a quarter miles, along a thin winding road. Dewey had flown into Dulles the night before from New York City, staying at a Marriott near the airport. He’d risen at 4:30 A.M., showered, then checked out, grabbing a coffee at a gas station in Chantilly.
The meeting had been hastily arranged the night before. Dewey was to meet two ex–CIA agents, Katherine Foxx and Rob Tacoma, at the farm that served as the headquarters for their firm, Riscon. Legally, Riscon LLC was a consulting firm that specialized in risk management. Its only official listing was in the tax rolls of the town of Middleburg and the Internal Revenue Service. Riscon had no phone number, Web site, or other means of identification.
Dewey knew there were many entities such as Riscon sprinkled throughout the Virginia and Maryland countryside. As with any government agency, the CIA had plenty of people who ultimately tired of the relatively low pay of being an agent, just as other executives in other branches went into the private sector.
