The Last Refuge

by Ben Coes

  Other than speaking briefly with Foxx on the phone, Dewey had done no research or background checking on Riscon, Foxx, or Tacoma; he was relying solely on the recommendation of Calibrisi. He had no idea what to expect. But then again, this world was somewhat foreign to Dewey. His interactions with the CIA when he was in the military were limited.

  When he was in Delta, he was used to receiving detailed operational plans. The design of the operations themselves was always done by someone else, someone who knew more than Dewey about the various aspects of an operation necessary for success. Travel arrangements, funds flow, armaments, local political situations, everything was done, for the most part, by someone else.

  In the Pakistan coup, the key to Dewey’s success had been based on three factors. First, research conducted by the CIA, in conjunction with a team of UAV pilots and analysts out of the Pentagon. It had been the CIA’s National Clandestine Service and its Political Action Group who knew the political lay of the land well enough to select the right military leader to replace Omar El-Khayab. The second key was Special Operations Group, the other arm of the National Clandestine Service, who planned out the on-the-ground tactical support Dewey needed to take out El-Khayab, including the weapons planning and intra-Pakistan travel, from automobiles to the chopper that took Dewey and his small team from Islamabad to the Kashmir war front in order to find Bolin, El-Khayab’s replacement. The third factor, of course, was Dewey and his team and their in-theater decision making and actions.

  But in Iran, it would all be different. Dewey didn’t have the CIA to help him this time. With Calibrisi sidelined, Dewey couldn’t count on any support whatsoever, whether it was the basic logistics of travel inside Iran, or weapons. Even manpower.

  Dewey had never been much of a planner; he was the one who executed the plans of others, no matter how chaotic, fluid, or dangerous the environment. He was also good at improvisation. But now, he knew, he needed a plan. And he needed to design it in such a way that he kept certain end goals hidden.

  As he rounded a corner on Zulla Road, edged with a low stone wall and a faded yellow ribbon tied loosely around the trunk of a tree, he checked his watch: 5:38 A.M.

  He slowed, then went right onto a pebble driveway that meandered between white horse fence, thick pine trees every hundred feet or so, then, beyond the trees and fence, green fields that were neatly cut. Dewey drove for half a mile and came to a set of steel gates. The gates opened as his SUV came closer. The pebble drive continued for another quarter mile, opening up into a large circle, behind which was a simple, pretty two-story house, with white shingles, green shutters and dormers.

  Standing in the middle of the circular parking area was a man dressed in an orange T-shirt, running shorts, and flip-flops. He was tall, with a mess of brown hair that looked like it hadn’t been brushed in several weeks. He also had a mustache, which looked slightly out of place. He was young, athletic, with thin arms. He leaned back against a mud-covered white pickup, a cup of coffee in his hand.

  Dewey pulled up alongside the pickup and climbed out. The man walked toward him.

  “Hi, Dewey,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m Rob Tacoma.”

  “Hi, Rob,” said Dewey, shaking his hand.

  “How was your flight?”

  “Fine. I got in last night.”

  “Well, shit, you should’ve told us that. We could’ve put you up here.”

  “Thanks. Next time, maybe. You guys live here?”

  “No,” said Tacoma. “I live in London. Katie lives in Paris. We stay here when we’re in the States.”

  “Is Katie here?”

  “Yeah, she went for a run.”

  Dewey followed Tacoma to the front door. The entry foyer was empty except for a long table, on top of which were several firearms, most of which Dewey recognized: SMGs, a few sniper rifles, handguns. On the walls, there was no art, just faded sun-marks outlining where frames had once been. The kitchen was off the foyer, and was also sparsely furnished, except for a round table and chairs. The countertops had boxes of cereal, a coffee maker, stacks of books, and newspapers. On the countertop nearest the stove, at least two dozen combat knives were laid out.

  Dewey couldn’t help staring, trying to take it all in. It looked like a fraternity house for assassins.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” said Tacoma. “It’s a fucking mess, right?”

  Dewey grinned. “No, I wasn’t thinking that.”

  “The truth is, it’s a pain in the ass hiring a cleaning woman,” said Tacoma. “Sure we can vet them, that’s not the problem. The problem is, we have to hide everything before they get here. It’s just a logistical nightmare.”

  “So what do you do to clean up?”

  “We sort of take turns,” said Tacoma. “Emphasis on the sort of. We also try and do everything electronically, so there’s less paper we have to worry about burning or disposing of. Once in a while, when we need it, we ask Bill Polk at NCS to send out a cleaning crew.”

  “When did you start the firm?”

  “Three years ago,” said Tacoma. “Katie was number two in Special Ops. I worked for her. By the way, you want some coffee?”

  “Yeah,” said Dewey.

  Tacoma crossed the kitchen and opened a cabinet, pulling out a coffee mug with a Boston Bruins logo on it.

  “Bruins fan?” asked Dewey.

  “Fuck no,” said Tacoma. “I’m from Philly. Flyers.”

  “So what’s your deal?” asked Dewey. “I know you probably, by this point, know a little about me, but tell me about your background.”

  “Yeah, I studied you,” said Tacoma. He smiled. “You’ve seen some shit.”

  Dewey remained silent.

  “So me,” continued Tacoma. “I went to UVA, then worked on Wall Street. After a couple of years, I got sick of it. I tried out for the SEALs, made it through Hell Week, then did that for six years, mostly Iraq, a little Afghanistan. Katie recruited me into Special Operations Group. All in all, not too dissimilar from a lot of other guys inside. Especially since nine-eleven, a lot of jocks working out in the real world, realizing they could be over in Afghanistan killing jihadists and risking their lives. I had to have some of that, know what I mean?”

  “Yeah, I know what you mean.”

  “Come on, let’s go out back,” said Tacoma. “Katie should be here soon.”

  Dewey trailed Tacoma through a living room, decorated with a few chairs and couches, a flat screen on the wall. From every window, Dewey could see empty, overgrown sun-covered green fields, running away toward the horizon. They walked through a set of French doors to a brick patio. They sat down in wooden Adirondack chairs.

  “What about security?”

  “Yeah, that’s pretty covered. Two motion layers and a thermal scrape, all state of the art. We know when someone arrives, anywhere on the property. The small stuff gets weeded out. But, truthfully, if someone tried to penetrate, somehow got through the layers, then most of the time we’re not even here. The computers are in the basement and you can’t get inside the room without passing the biometric scanner. If we are here, and we don’t know you, you’re not going to last long.”

  Dewey scanned the grounds behind the house. A neatly trimmed lawn ran from the edge of the patio for a few hundred yards to a field, covered in knee-high, olive-colored grass. The field spread out beyond, in an undulating pattern of wild green, pushed by a gentle morning wind. It rolled gently for what seemed like at least a mile, away from the house, far into the distance.

  A small black dot appeared at the end of the field. It was a person.

  “How many acres?”

  “A few hundred.”

  Tacoma pointed to the black dot, now moving toward them.

  “Now take that individual, for example,” said Tacoma, sipping his coffee. “I knew when they crossed the first and second perimeters. I received a signal here.”

  Tacoma took out a small device that looked like a credit card. He handed it to Dewey.
It had a small screen with some letters on it, indecipherable to Dewey.

  “Thermal scanner tells me he or she weighs about one hundred and twenty-five pounds. Now if I didn’t know who it was, I would start getting slightly more serious about things in a minute or two. Grab one of the sights or even the sniper rifle. I’d arm it with a tranquilizer, of course.”

  The black dot started to take shape. It was a woman, running quickly across the field; Dewey estimated a six-minute pace.

  “Then again, if I shot Katie with a tranquilizer, I don’t think she’d be very happy.”

  The runner moved swiftly through the field. Her blond hair was in a ponytail, which bounced as she moved toward the patio. Dewey sipped his coffee and watched her as she came closer. It took several minutes for her to cross the field. At the edge of the lawn, she slowed down, leaning over to catch her breath. She walked slowly across the lawn toward the house.

  The running pants and shirt were tight, and clung to her body. Her face was bright red from the exertion, covered in perspiration. Her nose was sharp, longish, and tan. She looked like she was in her late twenties. She smiled. She was cute, like the girl down the street, or a little sister; more Mary Ann than Ginger. Except for her eyes. As she walked closer and Dewey’s eyes met hers, he saw the cold look of a trained operative.

  “Dewey,” she said, huffing as she stepped onto the patio, extending her hand. “I’m Katie.”

  Dewey stood up, shaking her hand.

  “Hi,” he said.

  “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting long.”

  “Not at all.”

  “Let me grab a water. Be right back. You want a refill?”

  “Sure,” said Dewey, handing her his empty Bruins cup.

  When Foxx returned, she handed Dewey the coffee cup, then sat down on a wicker couch across from Dewey and Tacoma.

  “Hector called me yesterday afternoon,” said Foxx. “Other than telling me your name, and giving us some access to your background, he wouldn’t tell me anything. Except to say everything had to be done outside Langley.”

  “It involves Iran,” said Dewey.

  “Okay. That explains a lot. They’ve shut down offensive operations inside the country until this agreement is signed.”

  “Look, we know Iran,” said Tacoma. “We know the players. What do you need?”

  “Before we get to that, how do you guys work?” asked Dewey.

  “What do you mean?” asked Foxx, smiling, curious.

  “How much do you cost? Who designs the actual operations? Do you go into the field?”

  “If you were the head of security for a Fortune 500 company, we would probably design the OP. Looking at your background, I would say we could go either way. You’re obviously capable of designing it. Who goes into the field from our end depends on the OP design. Sometimes we’ll use subcontractors. As for the cost.… Hector didn’t tell you?”

  “No,” said Dewey.

  “We work on retainer. We get half a million a week with a minimum six-month retainer. Plus expenses. We’ll need the first million today.”

  Dewey took another sip from his coffee cup, then calmly set it down on the arm of the Adirondack chair.

  “I don’t have that kind of money.”

  Foxx looked at Dewey with a mischievous smile.

  “I’m just fucking with you,” she said. “Hector said he would cover it. You have a fan at Langley.”

  “What’s your deal?” asked Dewey. “How did you get into this line of work?”

  “When I was a senior in high school, my mother was killed on United Ninety-three in Pennsylvania,” said Foxx. “I went to the University of Texas. I was so miserable for four years all I could do was study. I was valedictorian. After graduation I joined the CIA. At some point, I realized that the only thing that would ever make me happy would be killing terrorists. And I was right. That’s about it.”

  “Why did you guys leave?”

  “Same job, more money,” said Foxx. She leaned forward and reached her hand up for her ponytail, removing the rubber band. “I used to be the person who hired firms like ours, then managed them. I realized I could easily do what any of them was doing. So I did.”

  “So what do you want to know?”

  “What’s the OP?”

  “It involves Israel,” said Dewey.

  “Kohl Meir. I read about it. Do you know where he is?”

  “Evin Prison.”

  “So what do you want from us?”

  “I need a clean insertion into Iran. And I need to talk to someone, someone who is very well protected.”

  “Who?”

  “Amit Bhutta, Iran’s ambassador to the UN.”

  “Are you crazy?” said Foxx.

  “He has information. I need that information. I also need his participation.”

  “So what do you want to do?”

  “First, I need a biograph on him,” said Dewey. “His background, family, that sort of thing. I want to know if he has any weak spots. Any vulnerabilities.”

  “Why?”

  “It’ll make the interrogation go quicker,” said Dewey. “I want to talk with him in a controlled environment.”

  “Interrogation?” asked Foxx. “He’s ambassador to the United Nations. What are you planning?”

  “What we’re going to do,” said Dewey, “is take him hostage. In New York City. And we have to move now.”

  “You realize we’re private contractors?” asked Foxx.

  “If any of us gets caught, it’s ADX for twenty years,” said Tacoma. “What information does he have that’s so valuable?”

  “I can’t tell you that,” said Dewey.

  Foxx stared at Dewey, then her eyes moved to Tacoma, a look of annoyance on her face.

  “That’s a deal breaker,” she said.

  “I gave someone my word.”

  “That’s not good enough,” said Foxx.

  “The information Bhutta has is necessary for me to exfiltrate Kohl Meir. That’s all you need to know. If you can’t live with that, I’ll find someone else to help me. I’d rather have you, though.”

  Foxx leaned forward, wiping her still sweaty brow with her arm. She stared into Dewey’s blue eyes, at his big chin, at his mouth.

  “Is the idea that we’re going to free Kohl Meir from an Iranian prison?” asked Tacoma.

  “Yes,” said Dewey.

  “Evin is a fortress,” said Tacoma. “That’s even assuming you can get into the country. Iran’s borders are without question the tightest borders in the Middle East—outside of Israel, of course. There are no leaky holes.”

  “I know,” said Dewey.

  “Let’s just say you’re in-country,” continued Tacoma. “You’re talking about a place that’s covered with secret police. VEVAK is everywhere. A big American guy with blue eyes, maybe carrying around an SMG, might set off a few alarm bells.”

  Dewey grinned, but said nothing.

  “VEVAK catches you, and you can say goodbye, Dewey,” added Foxx.

  “But say we figure that all out,” said Tacoma. “We alter your appearance a little, dye your hair, that sort of thing. We get you inside Iran. Then you have to get him out of a prison that ranks among the tightest security prisons in the world. What are you going to do? It’s a triple-gate complex. You can’t even get close to the front door.”

  “I need Bhutta,” said Dewey. “And I need a clean insertion into the country. If I get caught in Iran, then it’s none of your concern.”

  Foxx looked at the ground. She stood up, then leaned over to stretch. Try as he might, Dewey couldn’t help checking her out; her long legs, outlined in the stretch nylon material that clung to every inch of her legs and thighs. She leaned over, stretching out her hamstrings. When she was done, she walked inside.

  After more than a minute of silence, Dewey looked at Tacoma.

  “Are you two dating?” he asked.

  “No.” Tacoma laughed. “Katie’s like my older sister. She doesn’t date
much. All work.”

  Dewey sipped his coffee. He wanted to confide in them. If they were cleared by Hector, and recommended by him, they were obviously trustworthy. What Dewey had in mind was complicated. He hadn’t run it by anyone. Getting feedback—and help—from two veteran NCS operatives would be incredibly valuable.

  But another voice told him not to. Keep your cards close to your vest. If he informed them that Tehran had a bomb, there existed the very real possibility they would tell someone else at CIA. Then, all bets would be off. The operation would be outside his control. And Dewey didn’t trust the CIA to do what was necessary to succeed. Not to mention whatever CIA channels to Mossad existed, permitted or otherwise. If Lon Qassou was right, and a mole inhabited the upper echelon of Israel’s spy agency, he couldn’t run the risk of tipping his hand.

  Keep your cards close to your vest, he repeated to himself.

  Finally, Foxx returned from the house. She was eating an apple.

  “I’m afraid we can’t help you,” said Foxx. “I’m sorry.”

  “Is it because you think taking Bhutta will be too difficult?” asked Dewey. “Because if it is—”

  “I don’t like being kept in the dark,” interrupted Foxx. “If you don’t trust me, that’s fine, but I’m not working for you. Besides, if I don’t know the full details of the operation, I’m relying completely on your skills and judgment. And from what I saw of the coup in Pakistan, you guys made a bunch of mistakes that cost lives.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” asked Dewey, slightly irritated.

  “Don’t take it personally.”

  “We had less than thirty-six hours to remove Omar El-Khayab from power. We’re talking about the president of the sixth-largest democracy in the world. If you ask me, it was a pretty good goddamn operation.”

  “Dewey, yes, you’re a talented in-theater commander. Hector certainly thinks you are. But you lost two very valuable men. Accident or not doesn’t matter. Alex Millar and Rob Iverheart died. Not to mention the fact that you came within a hair of dying too. You also caused the death of six Israelis.”

  “The mission was, remove El-Khayab from power,” said Dewey defensively. “Avoid a military confrontation with China. We succeeded.”