Colonel Avi Migdol released the four clamps holding the back panel in place. He pushed on the lever and cracked the panel open. Light filtered into the belly of the oil tanker truck, barely denting the impenetrable blackness they suffered through for the last several hours. The hazmat suits were claustrophobic, holding temperature and moisture against their skin, soaking their uniforms. But their respirators kept them alive during the long drive from Turkey, and the suits protected them from the burns their skin would otherwise suffer from the oil residue that coated the tanker’s interior.
Colonel Migdol had twenty soldiers at his back. Sabra, mostly. Field-tested, hardened, combat veterans. More importantly, for all of these men this assignment was a calling, a moment of divine intervention, an answer to whispered prayers, and the chance to avenge a lost loved one. They may die. But they would not fail.
Peeking through the opening in the rear panel of the oil tanker, Migdol watched the outside darkness for moving shadows. He slipped the visored hood from his head, held his breath, and listened. Still and quiet. He held up a gloved hand, keeping his soldiers in place. The colonel eased the back panel farther away from the truck’s body, just enough that he could slip through the opening and drop to the ground outside.
In the shadow of the tanker’s belly, Migdol’s black hazmat suit was invisible. In a squat, he pulled apart the strips of Velcro, and the top of the suit dropped around his waist. The Uzi was strapped against the black Kevlar vest on his chest. For a heartbeat, Migdol held the machine gun close to his heart, remembering why he was here. Then he turned its barrel away from him. Time to go to work.
He swung the Uzi in an arc as he quickly swept a three-sixty circle. Nothing moved. Off in the distance, the sounds of the refinery were distinct, carrying through the silence. The overnight shift, which kept the refinery’s pumps moving, the kilns and crackers cooking up more Iranian crude, paid no attention to the tanker trucks parked in this far corner of the refinery.
Migdol motioned with his left hand, his eyes ever searching the distance where he knew the workers toiled. Two soft, barely discernible thuds. He edged along the length of the tanker’s body as more soldiers dropped out of the belly of the beast. Certain of his cover, Migdol pulled apart the Velcro on the legs of the hazmat suit. He was free. Soggy, but free. He moved farther along the bottom of the truck until he came to the end of the shadow. He knew his men were behind him. It was his duty to lead.
The colonel and his men were alike in many ways—born in Israel, career soldiers in a nation of reservists, trained in stealth and destruction. And each had a personal reason to exact this revenge. Migdol’s mother and father were on the way to market, on the Egged bus to Kiryat Shmona. The bombers came across the border from Lebanon, with Russian weapons and Iranian explosives. Twenty-eight were murdered—blown apart or burned, no one knew for sure. There wasn’t much left to determine how they died.
Avi Migdol joined the army that day. He trained and waited. He fought in Lebanon and waited some more. Tonight the waiting ended.
Far southwest of Tehran, along the northern edge of the Persian Gulf and hard against the border with Iraq, the oil refinery of Abadan was Iran’s largest. Over 320 thousand barrels of oil flowed through its pipes and onto tankers every day, only half the amount that it did before the West imposed economic sanctions on the recalcitrant regime. Even so, the oil pumped from Abadan and Iran’s five other major refineries was the life’s blood of the staggering Iranian economy. Without the income from this oil, even more Iranians would suffer. Without the hope that someday these refineries would return to full capacity, the new president, Hussein Rakhsha, and the supreme leader, Ayatollah Ali Ghorbani, would be in greater risk of losing their death grip of fear and reprisal. Iran could fall.
Migdol’s team of demolition experts carried a new generation of phosphorous chemical explosive, like napalm on steroids. Once the charges were in place, the sequential detonations would build, one upon the other, sucking the Iranian oil into an expanding conflagration that would melt the metal catwalks and leave the refinery a molten, smoking disaster. Another assault group was at Bandar-e Abbas tonight, the nation’s third-largest refinery, with the same mission. They were the only two refineries on the Iranian coast, but accounted for more than forty percent of the nation’s oil capacity. Two parts of what Migdol surmised was a larger plan—a plan to destroy the government of Iran and its capacity to pose a significant threat to Israel.
Tonight was the night he had waited for.
Migdol knew exactly where he was in the refinery. He had memorized every pathway, tank farm, and building. He scanned the landscape, the narrow spires of metal chimneys and ductwork illuminated by hundreds of bare red and white lightbulbs, large pipes sidling through the spires and catwalks like an endless, giant gray snake. No alarm—no running feet, no shouting voices. Only the rhythmic clanging of chains holding the tanker ships at anchor in the gulf.
He pointed right, and seven soldiers padded off, skirting the pools of white and red light, moving to the refinery’s edge nearest to the harbor. Migdol watched their backs and tilted his head to the left. Seven more melted into the night toward the far eastern fences—three demo experts, two snipers, and two gunners lugging Dror .30-caliber machine guns. That team needed to be on time. They were the fuse lighting off the chain reaction of the explosives that would rip through the refinery from east to west. If they acted too soon, some of his men would get fried before they could escape. Too late, and all of them would be exposed in their most vulnerable position.
Migdol patted his chest, pointed forward, left the lee of the truck body, and double-timed it across a gravel berm that fell away into a dirt ditch, part of the dugout surrounding one of the refinery’s storage tanks. A forest of these circular tanks ran along the northern flank of the refinery, each one surrounded by a square, sunken, earthen enclosure. Blowing the storage tanks would ignite an incredible fire, but the Israeli commandos were there to destroy the refinery, not simply to torch fuel tanks. Migdol and his men used these massive foxholes as cover, scrambling up and down the sloped sides as they made their way to the center of the refinery, where the cracking ovens were located—also where most of the refinery’s workforce concentrated.
The demolitions experts in Migdol’s squad worked deftly. The explosive devices were contained in metal tubes that looked like, and were painted the same color as, the piping system running through the refinery. Moving through the labyrinth of pipes, the bombers would stop at a selected location, twist off the top of the device, and trigger a cellular receiver. Replacing the top, they attached the devices in a way that looked perfectly at home in the refinery’s maze.
With precision, the squad moved laterally, section by section, toward the western edge of the refinery and the gulf, snipers in advance on point and trailing behind to watch their backs. The heavy guns, with Migdol in the middle, were ready to unleash a lethal downpour on any Iranian who ventured near. The refinery crew was skeleton at best. No one noticed their passage.
Migdol caught a faint wisp of seawater through the pervasive oil smell as he stopped his team’s progress. The first squad, their explosives set, should be in the section to his west, some guarding the perimeter, some releasing the inflatables they hoped would take them to rendezvous with the still-submerged submarine lurking in the shallows of the Strait of Hormuz, far off the shipping lanes. Migdol clicked the small, square microphone attached to his shoulder. One click came back, a pause, then another click. His men stood as a unit and moved rapidly through the shadows, joining the first squad just short of the ring road that surrounded the refinery.
All fourteen men were pressed down against an embankment, some looking forward, some looking back for the third and last squad—and any unwelcome intruders. Colonel Migdol trained his eyes on the light-and-shadow maze of pipes and catwalks, willing his mind to wait patiently for the click from the mic on his left shoulder.
Gunfire erupted at almost the same
instant as floodlights sprang to life throughout the refinery, bathing the facility in a garish, faux daylight. Migdol heard the keystroke rattle of the Uzis and the deeper thump of the .30-caliber Dror machine guns, but the sound of his squad’s defense was nearly obliterated by a growing crescendo of automatic weapons, the sound of battle rolling through the metal thicket—and coming closer.
“Boats.” The first team scrambled up the embankment toward the shore while Migdol’s team ran toward the refinery compound, ten meters to a ditch and a berm, where they spread out and lay in the dark. Migdol stole a glance at his watch and then looked back into the tangle of pipes. Fewer bursts came from the Uzis. The fighting distant enough that Migdol could not see the gunfire flashes through the brightness of the light flooding the refinery. The sounds seemed to be fading.
He’s leading them away. Good man. Good men.
Migdol looked to the soldier on his right, held up his right fist with his thumb sticking up, and then pushed his thumb down as if pressing on a button. Or a trigger. For a long moment, the soldier held Migdol’s gaze, then turned to the touch pad in his hand. He tapped the screen. Tapped once again. Looked up at his colonel. Migdol nodded. The soldier tapped the screen for the third time, and the first of the explosions sent a ball of fire into the sky. Like an insatiable beast gathering strength and size, an all-engulfing tide of riotous flames and blinding, white light began flowing in Migdol’s direction. “Out. Now.”
The colonel lingered a moment, looking into the growing conflagration, turned to follow his men, and saw the demo expert to his right with his head down, the touch pad still in his hand. Migdol scrambled to his right, grabbed the soldier’s shirt, and pulled him off the ground. “Out!”
There was no more gunfire. Only the birth of a second sun, this one on earth, and coming closer. Migdol and the soldier ran hard, crossed the ring road, and sidled through the cuts in the perimeter fence. They sprinted across a gravel flat and each rolled over the gunwale into one of the waiting inflatables, which immediately pushed out into the dark waters of the Persian Gulf.
Seated in the back of the inflatable, his legs up on the gunwale, Colonel Avi Migdol could feel the heat on his cheeks as the enormous fireball spread across the refinery and consumed everything in its path. Like his own, the eyes of any defender would be riveted to the conflagration. But Migdol didn’t see the flames, only the faces of the seven soldiers being incinerated.
11:10 p.m., Iran Central Bank, Tehran
They didn’t know each other. Once a month they were on the same shift. Different parts of the Central Bank of Iran complex, but the same late-night shift.
Aheem Tavana got an email the day before from the national library. A book he reserved was available. There was no book. Tavana, a bachelor, didn’t sleep that night.
Famid Hussein received the coded text message before he left for work that evening. Aliyia and the children were out shopping. There was no one to wish goodbye.
Bezalel Khomeini, of the famous name, was sitting in the Chitgar Forest Park by the Kan River—one of the few places in Tehran where a person could escape some of the city’s deadly air pollution—when he was Tweeted. Six words from his fictitious uncle, Rashid. He picked up the towel upon which he rested, rolled it up under his arm, and started walking to the bus stop.
The plan was simple, though none of them knew it. Each individual’s responsibilities were segmented, compartmentalized, and independent of the others. There were six in all—three coming in to work for the night shift; three finishing their shifts. Each of the six carried a piece of a device. Tavana, the building’s messenger, was the collector. As he made his rounds of the Central Bank—the huge, blue cube in the heart of Tehran—Tavana distributed and gathered up parcels and interoffice messages. Of all the parcels he collected that night, Tavana had four small packages tucked inside a canvas bag on a shelf under his cart. Those packages would not be offered up to the Revolutionary Guard for inspection.
A secret member of the Green Wave party, the rabidly defiant opposition to the mullah’s iron-fisted rule of Iran, Tavana came up alongside Famid Hussein’s desk in the engraving department, ready to receive the last piece.
Hussein held out a small, padded envelope. “For the finishing department,” he said, and turned abruptly back to his work.
Only the most observant would notice how Hussein’s gaze locked momentarily with Tavana’s before the messenger moved on without a word of response. Marwan Alami was that kind of observer. She leaned back from her desk to watch Tavana as he made his way through the engraving department, buried deep in the underground levels of the Central Bank building. Tavana’s eyes locked with no others. She picked up her telephone while keeping both Hussein and Tavana in view. “The messenger, Tavana. And the engraver, Famid Hussein. Something is not right there. They look suspicious.”
Alami listened for a moment. “Yes, my instincts are usually correct. Watch them.”
Tavana sorted the messages and parcels and left them on the counter in the mailroom for their regular inspection. Nothing moved through the Central Bank building, even a piece of paper, without members of the Revolutionary Guard conducting a thorough inspection. He picked up his lunch bucket and turned to the door. The way was blocked by two members of the guard.
“Leaving before the inspection, Tavana?” asked the captain.
“I have medicine.” Tavana tried to remain calm. “It’s time, and I must eat food before taking the medicine. Everything is waiting for you.” Tavana turned to the side and gestured to the table.
“Give me your bucket,” said the captain.
Tavana forced himself to look at the captain as he handed over the round, metal bucket with the tight-fitting lid.
The captain twisted open the lid and rummaged through the contents of the bucket. He pulled out a round piece of flat bread. “Tear it.”
Tavana took the flat piece of bread and tore it in two.
“Again.”
The captain held out his hand for the four pieces of bread. He looked at the edges, pulled the bread apart. Then threw the pieces back into the bucket and pushed on the lid.
“Your lunch,” said the captain, holding out the bucket toward Tavana. “I should make you stay with us, but go. Get your food. Take your medicine.”
Tavana took his lunch bucket, edged past the other guardsman at the door, and turned down the hall toward the lunchroom. The packages, including his, were now taped to his thighs, under his blousy, linen trousers. His knees shook, but only he was aware.
Halfway down the hall, Tavana turned and entered the men’s restroom. He went into the very last stall—the one just under the security camera in the corner, the one with the dead spot below—lowered his trousers, and sat on the toilet lid. With the precise gentleness of a surgeon, Tavana removed each of the objects from his thighs. Blocked from the eye of the camera, he assembled two devices from the six pieces. He took his lunch from the bucket, replaced the lunch with the two devices, and then flushed his lunch down the toilet.
Tavana washed his hands, left the men’s room, and continued down the hallway to the lunch room. Entering the room, he went to the coffee maker, poured himself a small cup of thick, sweet, strong coffee and retreated to a table in the corner. He sat there, sipping his coffee, until his lunch break concluded, then gathered up his bucket and walked back to the mailroom. The captain and his aide were just leaving.
“Feeling better, Tavana?” The captain’s question felt more like an accusation.
“Not yet, sir. But I will.”
“Then get on with your work.”
He watched the two guardsmen saunter down the hall, and then turned into his mailroom. Loading his cart with the inspected deliveries, Tavana took the two devices out of his lunch bucket and stuffed them into the canvas bag below the shelf. He pushed the cart out of the mailroom, his calm exterior belying the riot of fear and dread that raced through his veins.
Marwan Alami waited patiently for th
e messenger’s return. Famid Hussein worked diligently at his engraving table. He hadn’t moved from his space all night. But Tavana was scheduled for his final pickup, and it wouldn’t be too long. Alami walked to the water cooler and filled a cup. She turned, with a full view of Hussein’s face, as Tavana entered the engraving department. Alami glanced over her shoulder. The two guardsmen stood outside the enclosure to the engraving department. All that was needed was a wave of her hand.
Tavana pushed his cart down the main aisle of the department, scanning outboxes left and right for any waiting delivery. He passed Hussein’s desk without a pause. Hussein never took his eyes off the engraving tool and the design he was cutting into the metal. Alami waited a heartbeat. Nothing changed. She shook her head. Disappointed, but undeterred, she went back to her desk.
Tavana did not have access to the vaults, to the stacked bars of gold stamped with the seal of Iran and piled in pyramids a meter and a half high. But he didn’t need to get to the vaults. The anteroom of the guards would suit well enough.
From the neat stacks on top of his cart, Tavana handed the sealed message to the guard at the desk and backed his cart into the anteroom so he could return up the hallway from which he came … the same maneuver he made every day. But this time he stopped. He knelt on the floor and bent down to tie the laces on his boots. While on the floor, Tavana took the two assembled devices from the canvas sack. There were two large, heavy, reinforced carts lined up in the anteroom, sitting to Tavana’s right. With a minimum of movement, using the powerful magnets on the side of the device, Tavana attached one device under the bottom shelf, into the corner of the heavy frame of one cart. With the guard intently studying his work schedule for the next two weeks, Tavana swiftly deposited the other device in the same location on the second cart—under the shelf, a heavy rim surrounding it, invisible to anyone who didn’t look from underneath.
It took less than two breaths, and Tavana was back on his feet. He pushed his delivery cart out into the hallway, past the guard at the desk. “Salaam.” Without a reply from the guard, Tavana retraced his steps down the hallway. Before him, the captain of the guard and his aide rounded a corner and walked in his direction.
The Aleppo Code (The Jerusalem Prophecies) Page 6
