by Dale Brown
“Actually, my ulterior motive was to get to a baseball game,” said Zen. “If it weren’t for you, I’d be listening to some State Department dweeb telling me about how China’s going to blow up next week. You were my excuse to the staff to blow it off.”
“Uh-huh.”
“So what about it?”
“What about what?”
“You taking it?”
“I don’t think so.”
Zen pushed his chair up closer to the open window of the booth. The Yankees’ best hitter had just struck out.
“Hey, it’s no reflection on Bree at all,” said Danny.
“I didn’t think it was,” said Zen. “This guy’s going to whiff, too.”
He didn’t — he sent a long drive to the warning track in center field. The Nationals fielder needed every inch of his six-nine frame to catch it, jumping high at the wall to bring it down.
“If you take it, we’ll see a lot more of you,” said Zen when the crowd had quieted down. “I hope. Got a couple of dates lined up for you.”
“Thank you, Mr. GoodDate.com.”
The Nationals manager had seen enough. He came running from the dugout waving his right hand, asking for a new pitcher.
“How come Breanna didn’t ask me herself?” said Danny.
“She doesn’t want to talk you into it,” said Zen. “She’s afraid you’ll take it just as a favor.”
“So she sent you?”
“Actually, no. She doesn’t know you’re at the game with me. She’d probably be pretty mad if she found out. So don’t tell her, right?”
“I won’t.”
Zen hadn’t learned of Danny’s candidacy from Breanna. He found out originally from Magnus, who’d consulted him not just because he’d served with Danny, but because Zen was a member of the Senate intelligence committee. The new Whiplash concept had been championed by the committee, and Magnus was a smart enough backroom politician to keep his allies well-informed about what was going on. He also suspected that Freah would need some convincing to take the job.
Danny stared down at the ball field. He was sure plenty of other people could do the job.
“I can probably come up with a whole list of people for her if she wants,” he told Zen.
“Well, why don’t you then? Give her a call. Tell you’re thinking about it and you want to talk to her.”
“So she can talk me into it, right?”
“She won’t.”
“You didn’t have to take me to a baseball game to get me to call her, Zen.”
“Hey, I told you — the job’s just an excuse to get out of the reception.” He pointed toward the field. “Watch now. This guy’s going to strike out, too.”
* * *
The batter didn’t strike out — in fact he hit a home run, and when the Nationals were set down in order in the bottom of the tenth, the Yankees won the game.
Zen was a reasonably decent sport about it when he dropped Danny off at his hotel. Breanna was a reasonably decent sport the next day when Danny called her at her office.
“I understand General Magnus spoke to you yesterday,” she said when she came on the line. “So, have you made up your mind?”
Danny hesitated. He had, but he knew it wasn’t the decision she wanted to hear.
“You don’t have to take the job, Danny,” she told him. “It’s all right.”
“I want to—”
“Great!”
“No, no, I mean — I don’t know, Bree. I just…”
“It’s a tough job, I know.” She tried to hide her disappointment. “We can’t really ask you to keep making the same kind of sacrifices you made when you were younger.”
“It’s not my age—”
“I don’t mean it that way.”
“I do want to be involved. It’s just…”
“You don’t want the job. It’s OK,” she told him. “Don’t worry.”
“Can we have lunch?” Danny asked. “Or coffee or something?”
* * *
They arranged to meet on the mall that afternoon, not far from the Lincoln Memorial. The day turned chilly, threatening rain. Danny, dressed in a civilian T-shirt and jeans, found himself rubbing his arms for warmth as he crossed from the reflecting pool. Breanna, coming from a meeting on Capitol Hill, had already called to say she was running behind, and he took advantage of the delay to walk around.
He stared up at Lincoln, seated not on a throne but on a simple chair.
Lincoln was a man who knew the costs of war, who suffered them personally. How many mornings had he risen feeling he had gone as far as he could, yet continued, conscious not just of the burden, but of the necessity of his mission?
He should take it, he thought. It was his duty.
And he wanted to. But still, he was afraid — not that he couldn’t do it, but that he wouldn’t measure up to who he’d been.
Fear was a terrible reason not to do anything. Fear only held you back.
He should do it.
Danny felt his pulse rate kick up as soon as he saw Breanna walking from the direction of the Vietnam Memorial. Two bodyguards trailed behind at a respectful distance as she strode toward the monument where they said they’d meet.
She spotted him and waved.
“Hey there,” he said as she stood on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek in greeting. “You allowed to kiss the hired help?”
“It depends on whether they kiss back,” she countered. “How are you, Danny?”
“I’m good. Yourself?”
“Busy, unfortunately.” Breanna took a step back, comparing him in her mind’s eye to the younger version she’d known a decade and a half before. He looked a few pounds heavier, though not overweight by any means. His face seemed more relaxed, the space beneath his eyes smooth. She remembered his eyes were always puffy from lack of sleep. He’d always looked a few years younger than he was, and that remained true. A casual acquaintance might guess he was in his late twenties or early thirties.
“I don’t mean to play Hamlet,” he started.
“I kind of know what you’re thinking,” she told him. “After my — after our crash, when Zen and I were lost on that island off India. When I was laid up. I went through — it was an awful experience. I wouldn’t want to go through it again. I don’t. With Teri, now — I’ve taken my risks.”
“No, that’s not it,” said Danny. “I guess — well you know, one of the things is, I am in line, I want to be in line, to be general. And that was one of the things on my mind.”
“There’s not going to be a list this year, Danny. And probably not next year.”
“Yeah. But listen, forget all that — I want the job.”
Having expected that Danny would reject the offer, Breanna was surprised — and then apprehensive. “I don’t want to talk you into it,” she said.
“No, that’s OK. I’ve made up my mind. I’m doing it.”
“It’s a tough job.”
“You trying to talk me out of it?” He smiled, but there was an edge in his voice. Her reaction did make it seem as if she had changed her mind.
“No,” said Breanna. “Not at all.”
“When do I start?”
“Monday. Sooner if possible — as soon as we can get the paperwork settled. Whatever time you need for your assignment now. The sooner the better.”
5
Tehran, Iran
One day later
There was no grand funeral for Rafi Luo, no fine oration or long march to the mausoleum trailed by weeping women and bereft children. Like the majority of people who had died in the Coliseum, his body was eventually dumped in a potter’s grave, unmarked and unremembered. The Rome authorities would never know who he was, let alone why he had been killed. As far as they were concerned, his death was an insult and an expense, nothing more.
His demise did not provoke a great deal of emotion from his business associates, either. Many of them did not even know he was dead for quite some time. Only one of
his partners was aware that Luo was bound for Italy, and his initial reaction was both selfish and completely in character: profit would have to be shared one less way.
Luo’s demise did, however, provoke the interest of one man. His name was Bani Aberhadji, and he had never met Rafi Luo, though he was Luo’s greatest benefactor and even, in a sense, his protector.
Bani Aberhadji drew a paycheck as a low-ranking functionary in the Iranian ministry responsible for motor vehicles, ostensibly helping to oversee the registration and inspection of trucks in the port city of Bushehr. Unlike many of his coworkers in the ministry, Aberhadji came to work every day, and could usually be found at his desk immediately following morning prayers. This made him a singularly punctual motor vehicle clerk, and not just in Iran. In fact, Aberhadji was unusually precise and efficient in his duties. A person with a registration problem could not expect him to bend the law, but he could at least receive a prompt answer to any request. He would not have to proffer a bribe to receive it; in fact he would find that a bribe would neither be welcomed or accepted.
Aberhadji’s official duties consumed perhaps thirty minutes of his time on the busiest days. The rest of his office hours were spent on his second job — coordinator of special projects for the Iranian Revolutionary Guard, and as a member of the Guard’s ruling council. He was also the commanding officer of Brigade 27. It was in this capacity that he had dealt with Rafi Luo, though never directly.
The Revolutionary Guard — or Pasdaren — was established following the overthrow of the Shah in 1979. The Guards’ role in the country’s vanguard had been cemented during the 1980s war with Iraq, when thousands of volunteers defended the country against Saddam Hussein. Its political influence, however, had begun to wane over the past few years, until many in government considered it completely irrelevant.
The government’s recent signing of the nuclear disarmament treaty was seen by many, even inside the organization, as the ultimate sign of its fall from influence. Aberhadji had a different view. To him, it showed just how necessary the group was. The Revolutionary Guard was the country’s — and Islam’s — last hope against the encroaching Western forces of decadence and apostasy.
It was critical in these difficult times for members of the organization to adhere strictly to the tenets of their religious beliefs, to perform all of their duties as effectively as possible, and to appear as model citizens in all ways. These requirements suited Aberhadji perfectly. He had been pious from the womb. Many called him imam, or teacher, though in fact he was not formally attached to any mosque and did not, as a general rule, lead prayers when he attended. Piety was simply part of his being.
The people he generally dealt with were anything but pious. Brigade 27 did not have a regular base or even regular members. It was concerned with spreading the Revolution beyond the geographical boundaries of Iran. Its forebears had funded and encouraged movements among Shiites in several places, most notably Palestine, Lebanon, and the Horn of Africa. Today, its most successful project was in the Sudan, where the long-running Revolution showed signs of spreading to Egypt, long a goal of the deeply committed.
Luo was one of several dealers whom Aberhadji had funded, through middlemen, as part of the general campaign to help the Sudanese Brothers, the umbrella organization of the Shiite freedom fighters. But his interest in Luo’s network had gone further than that. For Aberhadji had made use of his network in his other capacity as head of special projects.
Secretive even for the highly secretive upper echelons of the Guard, Aberhadji’s project had a singular goal: the creation of an Iranian stockpile of nuclear weapons to replace the ones being signed away by the government.
This, of course, was forbidden by the agreement the government and the Grand Ayatollah had signed. But Aberhadji and others among the Guard’s elite believed the agreement was illegal, and they had evidence that the Ayatollah himself wanted them to proceed. There was no question that the agreement had been signed under duress. Iran was suffering from the worst depression in its history, with famine rampant thanks to an embargo on oil sales that made it impossible for Iran to sell its petroleum at market prices. It still sold, of course — China was more than willing to break the embargo if the price was right and the transactions were carried out in secret — but the severe discounts forced on the country hardly made it worth pumping from the ground. The United States, the Satan Incarnate and the Revolution’s traditional enemy, had engineered the boycott, changing its own energy policies to dramatically reduce its dependence on oil and make it possible.
Luo’s demise did not directly threaten Aberhadji’s project. His organization supplied only a very few of the many items required, and it had been months since Aberhadji used them. Many people would have cause to kill Luo, including his own associates. But Aberhadji immediately began making inquiries.
Aberhadji’s main agent in Africa, a slightly disreputable yet ultimately reliable Guard member named Arash Tarid, had checked into the murder only hours after it happened. He believed the Egyptian secret service had been involved. But that belief appeared to be based only on rumors.
Aberhadji decided that he would take the opportunity to visit his deputies involved in the special project. He was due to make his rounds within a month anyway; doing so now, to make sure everything was secure, would put his own fears to rest. He’d pay special attention to the posts in the Sudan, even visiting the facilities personally.
And so he went to see his superior at the motor vehicle bureau to ask for unscheduled time off.
Like many in the ministry, Rhaim Fars had gotten his job because he was related to someone in the central government, in his case an uncle who was close to the Iranian president. That president had left office nearly a decade before, but Fars retained his position for several reasons, not least of which was his generosity and benevolence toward those he suspected had better political connections than he did. Still, Aberhadji’s request for an indefinite leave tested his goodwill.
“Perhaps we should put a limit on it,” said Fars, gesturing to his underling to have a seat. He poured him some water, then took a sip of his own. Fars did not know that Aberhadji was even a member of the Revolutionary Guard, and would have been surprised to find out how important he really was.
“I am not sure how long my business will take,” said Aberhadji.
“And it’s of a personal nature?”
Aberhadji said nothing. He would not lie, but he would also not say anything that would reveal either his position or his interests. Obtaining the vacation time was merely a matter of being persistent.
“We are approaching our renewal time,” said Fars. “There will be demands for our paperwork.”
“Mine are in order.”
The true issue for Fars was not the paperwork, but the inspections that followed; the minister liked to see the entire staff at his welcoming party.
On the other hand, Aberhadji would not contribute to his “present”—a sizable amount of money that would be presented “spontaneously” at the party. This was little more than a kickback by the employed to maintain their status. To smooth the waters, Fars had made up Aberhadji’s share the last two years. And come to think of it, Aberhadji had left very early the year before, so early that the minister surely saw him go — something more noticeable, and therefore more insulting, than his not showing up at all. So Fars reasoned that perhaps it was not important that Aberhadji be there after all.
“You have personal time accrued,” said Fars, deciding he would find an excuse that would allow the vacation. “That was my point in asking the question. You have not taken any time to tend to your family, and a man like you, a pious man, has a great deal of obligations, thanks be to the Prophet.”
Aberhadji nodded. He had no immediate family and had had none since he was young. His father had died in the war against Iraq, and his mother passed away a year later, mostly out of grief.
“Well then, let us put you down for a week. The matte
r is decided,” said Fars.
“It should be stated as indefinite.”
“Yes, well, we will say two. If, at the end of two weeks—”
“It should say indefinite. It may be less than two.”
“Well then, two weeks can cover it for the moment.”
“It should say indefinite.”
Fars could not grant someone an indefinite leave except for a medical emergency. Aberhadji’s honesty was a problem.
Fars decided it need not be. He could prepare two versions of the request — one for Aberhadji to sign, the other for the Tehran bureaucrats. Problem solved.
“So, indefinite. And should we put down that the business is a matter of a personal nature? Clearly, you’re not going on a vacation. I only have to ask,” Fars added, “because you know I have to make these reports each week to Tehran. In this economy, I think they are always throwing problems in to keep us on our toes.”
“It is a private matter. Certainly.”
“Good,” said Fars, choosing to interpret that as personal. “I will take care of it,” he added, rising. “Don’t worry. Take whatever time you need.”
6
McLean, Virginia
Three days later
Danny Freah found his excitement growing as he made the arrangements to take the new Whiplash assignment. It had been quite a while since he had been involved in a “black” or secret project, and he’d forgotten just how quickly things could move once they had that imprimatur. Breanna assigned one of her assistants as a facilitator, taking care of the paperwork and everything else necessary, even finding him a condo to rent.
“It won’t be much,” she warned, “but you won’t be there very much anyway.”
Actually, the apartment had its own terrace and a view of the river. The bedroom was about twice the size of the living room he had been renting in Kentucky. Best of all, he could afford the rent.
The only problem was that the moving company he’d hired to cart his furniture couldn’t arrange to pick up everything and deliver it for several weeks. Danny spent the weekend packing and taking care of last minute arrangements. After a Sunday afternoon good-bye party that stretched well into Monday morning, he hopped in his rental car and drove straight back to Washington, D.C., stopping at a McDonald’s to shave and change into his uniform. Parking at the Pentagon without a permit these days was a fool’s errand, so instead he returned the car to a rental agency at Reagan Airport and took the Metro. As the train reached the stop, he thought of the prim and proper woman he’d seen the last time he was there. He couldn’t help wondering if he’d run into her again.
