by Ben Coes
As he came around the corner of the schoolhouse, he was surprised to find somebody already at the court hitting tennis balls against the backboard. Dillman thought about turning around. It was the only tennis court he knew of in Haifa, but he didn’t feel like waiting God knows how long for the man to be done.
Dillman walked over to the court. The player was young, dressed in red sweatpants and a long-sleeve gray T-shirt. He wore a yellow baseball cap with a Maccabi Haifa logo on it, and mirrored sunglasses. He was bearded and scraggly-looking.
“How long will you be, my friend?” asked Dillman in Hebrew.
The player turned, raising his hands.
“I only just arrived,” he said, slightly annoyed.
“No worries,” said Dillman. “I’ll go for a jog instead.”
The man tossed the ball up and swatted it toward the backboard as Dillman started to walk away. Dillman listened to the serial thwacking of string against ball; he could tell by the rhythm and pace that the player was decent. A tiny bit of jealousy ran through him. Oh well, another time, he thought.
As Dillman came to the corner of the schoolhouse, he heard a whistle. He looked back.
The tennis player waved him over.
“Would you like to hit some?” the man yelled from the court.
Dillman shrugged. Why not, he thought.
“Sure!” he yelled back.
They rallied for the better part of an hour. At first, they hit the ball back and forth, without keeping score, but that grew boring. It was Dillman who suggested they play a set. The stranger was good. His strokes were a little unnatural, as if he’d picked up the sport later in life, but he was fast and was able to get to everything, despite a slight limp. The man beat Dillman 6–3 in the first set. Dillman took the second 7–5. Then, in the third, the bearded stranger jumped to a 4–0 lead.
In the middle of the fifth game, they both heard the stranger’s string break, after a particularly nice backhand he’d ripped up the line out of Dillman’s reach.
Dillman welcomed the interruption. Not only was the younger man thoroughly beating the crap out of him, but he was sweating like a pig and hungry for breakfast.
“That’s too bad,” said Dillman, breathing heavily as he ran to the net. “I guess that means I win, yes?”
Dillman had been kidding, an attempt at a joke, but the stranger, who still wore his mirrored sunglasses and hat, either didn’t hear the joke, or, if he had, didn’t think it was funny.
“I have another racquet,” the man said, walking to the bench at the side of the court. Other than saying the score, it was the first thing the young man had said the entire match.
He unzipped his racquet bag.
Dillman walked toward him as he reached into his bag.
“Are you from the area?” asked Dillman, puffing hard as he came up behind the stranger.
The man didn’t turn, keeping his back to Dillman as he searched inside his bag.
“No,” he answered. “Tel Aviv.”
“Are you a student?” asked Dillman. “Do you play at the university? You’re very good.”
The stranger turned. His brown hair was thick and long and it cascaded out from under the hat. He reached up and removed his sunglasses. His eyes were dark brown, almost black. Something in the way he looked at him triggered a memory in Dillman. The nose was sharp and slightly askew, as if it had once been broken.
“No, I’m not a student,” he said. “I’m in the military.”
“Oh,” said Dillman “What unit?”
“Shayetet Thirteen.”
Dillman stared into the stranger’s eyes. Then, slowly, Dillman’s eyes drifted down to the man’s right hand. A trick of the mind perhaps; he had thought the stranger had pulled a second tennis racquet from the bag. He hadn’t really looked. But this was no tennis racquet. Instead of a graphite shaft there was a thick piece of wood; instead of a racquet head and strings, there was the dull steel of a large axe, the kind of axe you could chop down a tree with.
“Your second serve needs some work,” said Meir. “Other than that, you’re actually not bad.”
Dillman turned to run, but Meir swung the axe, catching him in the side of the torso, ripping a deep gash into Dillman’s side just below the ribs. Dillman fell to the ground, with the axe stuck in his side, gasping for air. The pain was so severe he couldn’t scream, as his mouth went agape, his eyes bulged, and blood abruptly filled his mouth, then stained his stomach, chest, and side. His white shirt was quickly ruined in crimson.
“Was it Bhutta?” moaned Dillman. “Did he give me up?”
Meir ignored him, staring from above.
Dillman yanked at the axe handle, trying in vain to pull it out.
Calmly, Meir knelt next to him.
“You like my axe?” asked Meir, smiling at him. “It’s for chopping the heads off traitors.”
Meir stood and placed a foot on Dillman’s chest then yanked up on the axe handle, pulling the axe head from Dillman’s body. Dillman groaned in agony. He was rapidly bleeding out, drifting into shock.
Meir held the axe in both hands, then lifted it high over his head. Before he swung down, he looked into Dillman’s panicked eyes.
“Look at me,” said Meir, seething. Dillman complied, opening his eyes.
“‘I will walk among you and be your God, and you shall be my people,’” said Meir, staring down at Dillman. “‘But if you do not obey me, I will bring terror over you.’ Leviticus.”
BEIT RAHBARI
TEHRAN
Nava sat on a wooden bench, his arms crossed in front of him, silent. He stared at Paria, who stood across from him, staring back. The feeling of hatred between the two men was visceral.
Seated behind the desk at the far side of the small room was Iran’s Supreme Leader, Ali Suleiman, whose wrinkled face was red with frustration and anger. He’d been listening for more than half an hour to the two men, each blaming the other for the fiasco that had caused the loss of both Iran’s first nuclear bomb and Kohl Meir.
“It was he who let Qassou into his confidences!” yelled Paria, pointing at Nava. “For years, right under his nose! And he has the gall to blame me?”
“You had the pieces for days, Abu!” screamed Nava, slamming his fist down onto the bench. “You suspected Qassou and yet you didn’t tell anyone! Would I have taken him to Mahdishahr? VEVAK is supposed to be good at this! My job is not to sniff out traitors! It’s to lead!”
“Then lead!” bellowed Paria. “So we spend a decade creating a nuclear device, and all you want to do is use it to kill Israelis. If not for your blood thirst, Iran would possess a nuclear bomb. We would have a deterrent!”
Suleiman’s eyes were closed as he listened. Finally, he looked up. He slapped his hand on the desk, silencing the two men.
“Silence,” said Suleiman. “It was my decision, Abu, not Mahmoud’s.”
“Nava tricked you,” said Paria, looking at Nava with contempt. “He’s nothing more than a politician. They talk people into things. It’s what they do. It’s not your fault, Imam.”
“Shut up, Abu,” said Suleiman calmly.
“Yes, Abu, shut—” added Nava.
“Both of you!” screamed Suleiman, pointing to Nava. “Shut up! You’re like little children.”
Suleiman took a moment to catch his breath. He reached for a glass of water and took a large gulp. He remained silent for nearly an entire minute, breathing deeply. Finally, he cleared his throat.
“We’re not here to talk about what happened,” said Suleiman. “It was both of your faults, and mine, if truth be told. But it doesn’t matter anymore. It’s over. We are here to discuss the proposed agreement with the United States and whether we will sign it. That is all we’re going to talk about. Do you understand?”
Nava glanced at Paria, then looked at Suleiman and nodded. Paria did nothing.
“Obviously, the Americans know we had a nuclear device,” said Suleiman. “And yet, they’re still willing to
sign the agreement. The question is, why?”
“Obviously,” said Paria, “because it allows them to get their spies inside Iran. They’re making the cold calculation that some transparency is better than none at all, even at the price.”
“Do you agree?” asked Suleiman, looking at Nava.
“Dellenbaugh loves the idea of Iran and the United States on the same stage,” said Nava. “Yes, of course I agree with Abu, they want their cameras inside the country, their little inspectors, all of that. But it’s also about Dellenbaugh’s ego.”
“Do you think we should do it?” asked Suleiman.
“Both of you know the IMF loans are badly needed,” said Nava. “The sanctions are crippling us. But if signing the agreement means we’ll be unable to continue to develop weapons, I’m against it.”
Suleiman looked at Paria.
“Well, General,” said Suleiman. “Can you figure out a way around the inspections?”
Paria looked at Suleiman. He shrugged his shoulders.
“I think so,” said Paria. “Of course, it will be hard. The first few months are the hardest part, but then the inspectors grow lazy. We learn their patterns. We should be able to do it. There is sufficient highly enriched uranium now for a weapon or two. We’ll need to be very careful.”
Suleiman stood. He turned his back to Nava and Paria and stepped to the window behind his desk, which looked out on snowcapped mountain peaks.
“You’ll go to Buenos Aires,” said Suleiman. “Both of you. Mahmoud, to do what you do best, be a politician, shake hands with Dellenbaugh, say a few silly, obnoxious things. And Abu, you will go because you need a few days away. You’re strung too tight. Go to Argentina. I’ve been there. It’s a beautiful country, with beautiful women. Take a few days off. Drink some wine.”
Suleiman turned. He pointed to Paria.
“That’s an order.”
MIDDLEBURG, VIRGINIA
Sometime long after midnight, Dewey was seated at the table, alone, his head to the side, boots crossed and up on the table. Everyone else had gone to bed. His eyes were closed; he’d long ago fallen asleep.
Something woke him; a noise from somewhere across the field. An animal? He stood up and blew out the candles on the table. Then he heard it again. It was fireworks, far off in the distance. He went inside the farmhouse. It was quiet and dark, except for a small lamp on a table in the living room. He walked through the farmhouse, then up the stairs.
At the top of the stairs, he turned right and walked toward the guest bedroom Foxx had pointed out to him earlier. Dewey went inside the room and shut the door. Dim yellow light shone from a lamp next to the bed.
Dewey sat on the edge of the bed and removed his boots and socks. He took off his jeans and shirt, then stripped off his underwear. He stepped to a mirror on the wall and inspected his left shoulder and the scar line from the bullet wound from two years before in Colombia. It was thick, and tougher every day, like leather.
He heard a soft knock on the door, and turned. The door opened. Jessica stepped inside the room, then quietly shut the door behind her.
Dewey looked at Jessica. A short, black, see-through silk robe came down to the top of her thighs. The robe was the only piece of clothing on her, and it was barely on her.
Dewey, for his part, made no attempt to hide his body from her.
“Mind if I come in?” she whispered.
He said nothing, letting his eyes move appreciatively up Jessica’s flat stomach, barely veiled through the see-through material, to her face, familiar in the light, her eyes locking on to his.
Dewey stepped toward her as she reached up and slowly removed the robe, letting it fall silently to the ground.
“So you never answered my question,” said Jessica, looking up into Dewey’s eyes.
“I didn’t?”
“You don’t remember, do you?” she asked.
“No.”
“I said, would you come with me to Buenos Aires?” Jessica asked.
She leaned forward and kissed his neck. She took his hand and led him toward the bed, as, in the distance, through the open window, the explosion of fireworks somewhere in the night rolled like a drumbeat across the plain.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Two very close friends passed away from cancer during the writing of this book, and, with the firm belief that if there is a heaven, surely there are books there too (in fact they probably get released a day or two early up there), I want to thank them for their help on The Last Refuge.
Jim Windhorst was close to me in age, and was struck down far too soon, leaving legions of family and friends who will forever miss his big heart and wonderful sense of humor. Jim always read my books in their early stages, giving me constructive criticism which was immensely helpful. His greatest editorial contribution, however, came after he read a passage in an early draft in which I’d inadvertently named a large oil tanker after my wife. He called me up and said, “Ben, you might not want to name an oil tanker after your wife.” “Oh my God,” I said, “you’re right.” “Yeah, no s— I’m right, pinhead,” he added. “What I want to know is who wrote this thing? Nobody stupid enough to name an oil tanker after his wife could have possibly written this.” I’ll miss you, Jimbo.
The other friend was more than a friend, he was my godfather, Frederick H. “Teddy” Marks, after whom our second son is named, and the basis for the eponymously named character, Teddy Marks, though the real Teddy Marks was more of a hero than the fictitious one. Ted was a goaltender on the 1965 U.S. Hockey team, a Navy SEAL, an award-winning foreign correspondent, a successful businessman, and an all-around great guy. He was brilliant, tough, opinionated, kindhearted, and wildly funny. I will miss everything about him, most of all his terrific, infectious laughter; at others, at himself, and most of all, at me. I sent Ted an early draft of The Last Refuge, and he called me up: “Ben, I’m a third of the way through the book and I just threw up all over the place.” Needless to say, I was devastated. “What part made you sick?” I asked. “It wasn’t the book, it was the chemo,” he said, laughing. “The book’s great.”
* * *
I’m fortunate to be represented by the most talented agents in the world, Aaron Priest, Nicole James, Frances Jalet-Miller, Lisa Erbach Vance, Lucy Childs Baker, Arleen Priest, and John Richmond at the Aaron Priest Agency—thank you all for your hard work. In Hollywood, a special thanks to Chris George and Michael Ovitz.
I want to thank my extended family at St. Martin’s Press, in particular Keith Kahla, Sally Richardson, Matthew Shear, John Murphy, George Witte, Matthew Baldacci, Nancy Trypuc, Stephen Lee, Judy Sisko, Anne Marie Tallberg, Hannah Braaten, Stephanie Davis, Jeanne-Marie Hudson, the entire sales team, and everyone else. Thank you also to Trisha Jackson and everyone at Pan Macmillan in London, my wonderful publishers in the United Kingdom, Australia, New Zealand, and India. Finally, thank you to everyone at Brilliance Audio and Macmillan Audio.
The Last Refuge involves America, Israel, and Iran. During my research, I spoke with people in both Israel and Iran, and flew to Israel for a series of meetings with individuals involved with that country’s political, military, and intelligence infrastructure. I would like to express my deep gratitude to Zvi Rafieh and Ophir Paz for their time, expertise, and insights. In addition, I would like to thank a certain former Israeli intelligence official, who asked that his name not be used, for his absolutely essential help. I also spoke with a number of people inside Tehran, all of whom asked that their names not be used. I would like, however, to thank them—they know who they are and I hope they get the opportunity to read The Last Refuge without being thrown in jail.
I would like to thank everyone at Harvard University’s Kennedy School, in particular Professor Graham Allison, for his expertise on all things nuclear related; and Eric Anderson, at the Institute of Politics, for his invaluable help. Thanks also to Brad Thor, Vince Flynn, Mark Greaney, Brian Haig, Melinda Maguire Harnett, Will Donovan, Michael Murray, Mac Perry, L
ee Van Alen Manigault, Amy and Jim Parker, José Gonzalez-Heres, and Joe Goldsmith.
Of course, none of this would have ever happened were it not for the inspiration, patience, profligate spending, and love of my family: Charlie, my future Boston Bruin, who can eat a gallon of ice cream, recite Tyler Seguin’s scoring statistics, and kind of do his homework all at the same time; Teddy, the future dictator of a medium-sized country somewhere and the only macaroni and cheese–addicted concert pianist who sleeps in his goalie pads; Oscar, whose passion for back scratches is rivaled only by his love of stuffed animals, and whose inherent sweetness can only partially be explained by the vast quantities of bubble gum, chocolate chip cookies, and Twizzlers he puts down; Esmé, my beautiful, wonderful six-year-old daughter, who is living proof that you can survive and in fact be charming and magical on a steady diet of applesauce, bacon, and french fries, the one who has made me smile at least once a minute since the moment she was born; and Shannon, my partner, best friend, and love of my life: thank you.
ALSO BY BEN COES
Power Down
Coup d’État
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Ben Coes is the author of the acclaimed novels Power Down and Coup d’État. A former speechwriter for the George H. W. Bush White House, he was a fellow at the JFK School of Government at Harvard, the campaign manager for Mitt Romney’s successful run for governor in 2002, and is currently a partner in a private equity firm. He lives in Wellesley, Massachusetts.
Visit the author’s Web site at www.bencoes.com.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THE LAST REFUGE. Copyright © 2012 by Ben Coes. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
