The Colonel's Mistake

by Dan Mayland

“They touched down,” said Decker, who’d opened the back door of the Land Cruiser and had been listening intently.

  “At the farmhouse?”

  “Could be. Yeah.”

  “They’re looking for us,” said Mark.

  He continued to search the sky as a breeze rustled the leaves behind him. Daria stood on the other side of the car, silently scanning the tea field and the surrounding sky.

  He considered the logistics of getting a helicopter to a rural part of Azerbaijan within what—ten minutes? Whoever they were dealing with had access to some serious resources.

  In the backseat, Yaver was dead. Mark dragged him out of the car and let him flop to the ground. Then he picked up some downed branches from the forest floor and piled them on the roof of the car.

  “We’ll lay low here for a while,” he said. “In the meantime maybe Daria will finally deign to tell us more about what the hell is really going on.”

  “No more lies,” said Daria. “No more secrets.”

  “No more secrets,” Mark agreed.

  “No, look at me. I mean it this time. I tell you what I know and in return you don’t bullshit me, like saying you sent Decker away. Or telling me you were a CIA analyst.”

  “I was an analyst. For six months.”

  “Over a twenty-year career.”

  “You never asked for how long.”

  “I mean it, Mark. We come clean with each other for real now or no deal.”

  “Fair enough,” he said, although in truth he was thinking that any opportunity to reestablish mutual trust was long gone.

  Daria glanced around her, as though someone might be eavesdropping even in the middle of the woods. “So this is the deal—as part of that pipeline agreement I told you about, the Chinese gave the Iranians help with their nuclear program.”

  “What kind of help?” Mark said slowly.

  “Enriched uranium.”

  “High grade or low grade?”

  “Most of it low. Around four percent uranium two thirty-five.”

  Good enough for a reactor but not for a bomb, thought Mark. Besides, the Iranians were already making plenty of 4 percent 235 on their own. “And the rest?”

  “Some at sixty percent uranium two thirty-five, some as high as eighty. Not the ninety-plus percent considered weapons-grade, but—”

  “Eighty percent is concentrated enough to be used in a weapon. Not a very efficient weapon, but a weapon that might work. I can’t believe the Chinese would have been so fucking reckless.”

  But he actually did believe it. The Chinese hadn’t balked at arming the genocidal government of Sudan in return for access to oil, or dealing with the deranged generals of Myanmar in exchange for an oil pipeline; arming Iran would be right up their alley.

  “The low-enriched uranium was given with the understanding that the Iranians would use it to produce electricity. The rationale was that, with the Chinese buying so much of Iran’s oil, the Iranians would need the extra energy capacity.”

  “And the highly enriched uranium?”

  “Supposedly for use in a research reactor and in two nuclear-powered subs the Iranians want to build to patrol the Persian Gulf.”

  “What safeguards were there, so that it’s not used for a bomb?”

  “Real ones? None. The Chinese want the Iranians to have the bomb, so that the US and Israel will think twice before attacking their gas station. The BS about the research reactor and subs is just so that, if this ever comes to light, they can deny that they meant to give Iran the bomb. Anyway, what it comes down to is that China got its oil and the Iranians got enough highly enriched uranium to make three small fission bombs in the ten kiloton range.”

  “That’s big enough,” said Mark. Ten kilotons was only about two-thirds of the explosive power of the bomb dropped on Hiroshima—nothing compared with the destructive force of modern nuclear weapons, but more than enough to destroy the better part of a city. “What about delivery systems?”

  “They’re going for something small that can be smuggled over borders or onto a cargo ship, or better yet a cargo plane. A poor man’s version of an ICBM since their long-range missile technology sucks.”

  “They’ve already built these bombs?”

  “No. At least I don’t think so. And when they try to, they’ll be short some enriched uranium.” Daria’s mouth tightened into something approximating a smile. “I helped a physicist in Tehran smuggle two blocks of it out of Iran.”

  “My God, Daria.” You are in way, way over your head, was all Mark could think. It occurred to him that he was now, too. “And where did this uranium wind up?”

  “It was supposed to have been transferred to the International Atomic Energy Agency. The MEK wanted to use it to prove that the Iranians were lying about not developing nuclear weapons.”

  “This transfer to the IAEA, was it actually made?”

  “I have no idea. All I did was bring the physicist and the uranium from Tehran to Esfahan. The MEK contact I met in Esfahan was supposed to have smuggled it outside of Iran.”

  “But the IAEA never broke the news,” said Mark.

  “No. And now it’s been six weeks.”

  “Which suggests the uranium didn’t get from Esfahan to where it was supposed to go. You stole a bunch of uranium from the Iranians and now it’s disappeared.”

  “Yeah, you know, I figured that much out.”

  “So have you tried to call the MEK leadership?”

  “I’ve tried my uncle ten times today. He’s not answering or returning my—”

  Mark put his hand up, silencing Daria as the sound of the helicopter started up again.

  After a minute of listening to it wax and wane in the distance, Decker said, “They’re searching for us.”

  The sound of the helicopter faded, to the point where it was almost inaudible, but then gradually it grew louder. And louder. Until suddenly it was within a few hundred feet of them, sending gusts of wind whipping down through the trees.

  Mark could see portions of its black silhouette through the leaves but couldn’t make out any identifying marks. He wished he’d piled up more branches on top of the car. Then it was gone, off to circling in a new area.

  Until a cell phone started ringing.

  “Shut that thing off,” snapped Mark, thinking it was either Daria’s or Decker’s.

  “Not me, boss,” said Decker.

  “It’s not mine,” said Daria. Then she stared at Decker. “It’s Yaver’s. You forgot to turn it off.”

  “No. No, tell me you didn’t,” said Mark.

  “Fuck me.”

  “I told you. The signal can be triangulated.”

  Decker pulled out Yaver’s cell phone from his front pocket and shut it off.

  “Fuck me,” said Decker again.

  “Maybe they weren’t tracking it,” said Daria.

  “Guys, I’m sorry.”

  “Maybe they didn’t have time to get a lock,” said Mark.

  Moments later the helicopter came screaming back toward them.

  Decker jumped out of the car and grabbed the equipment bag. “You guys blow.”

  “No one gets to play the martyr,” said Mark. “We ditch the car and run together.”

  Decker unzipped the equipment bag and pulled out the Heckler & Koch MP5 machine pistol. “I’m not planning on a suicide mission! I’ll just keep them busy for a few minutes and then bolt. There’s plenty of tree cover—I’ll be fine. You guys take off.”

  Mark quickly calculated that his best chance of finding out who’d attacked the CIA in Baku was to first find out who had stolen Daria’s uranium, because it was a near certainty that whoever had done it would be at or near the center of this mess. And that meant retracing the uranium trail, starting in Esfahan, Iran. He estimated the times and distances involved in getting to Esfahan.

  To Decker, he said, “If you make it out of here, go to France.”

  Decker was dragging Yaver back to the Land Cruiser. Mark saw the heli
copter through the trees.

  “I’ll make it.”

  “Find out what happened to Daria’s uncle. I’ll call you sometime after you get there. Daria and I will be in Iran.”

  Mark handed a $10,000 bank bundle to Decker, who quickly stuffed it in his pocket.

  “You’ll find my uncle at the MEK compound in Auvers,” said Daria. “On Saint Simon Road a mile out of town. His name is Reza Tehrani. There’s a photo of him on the MEK’s website. He’s an advisor to the leader of the MEK, a woman named Maryam Minabi. She should be on the website too. Are you going to remember all this?”

  “Auvers, Saint Simon Road, Reza…”

  “Tehrani. Tehrani. Like the city.”

  “Tehrani. Got it.”

  “Advisor to Minabi, who’s the head of the MEK.”

  “I’ll remember.”

  “Just go to the website if you forget.”

  Decker took Yaver’s cell phone, switched it back on, and threw it into the front seat of the Land Cruiser. With Mark’s help, he heaved Yaver’s dead body into the driver’s seat.

  The helicopter was just a couple hundred feet away now, hovering over the empty tea field just past the forest, circling and searching. Decker turned on the Land Cruiser and jammed a spare AK-47 between the gas pedal and the front seat.

  “Good luck,” said Mark, just before Decker threw the Land Cruiser from park into drive and aimed it through a break in the trees.

  Mark grabbed two pistols and full clips from the equipment bag and started to run. Daria kept close on his heels. After he’d gone a hundred yards or so, he turned and, through the trees, caught a glimpse of the Land Cruiser careening out into the middle of the tea field. Shots were fired from the helicopter, followed by shots from Decker, still hidden in the woods.

  Daria looked up at the sun. “If we keep going south we should hit a road I know in a few minutes. From there I can take us to a trail through the mountains and get us over the border without running into guards.”

  “How long are we talking?”

  “Border crossing’s not more than a mile away. That’s why we had the safe house up here.”

  “I’ll follow you,” said Mark, and then they both turned and ran.

  PART III

  Port of Jebel Ali, United Arab Emirates

  The two-story steel warehouse was one of thousands of freight stations clustered on the eastern edge of the port. It was remarkable only in that on the inside, instead of being crammed full with goods for import or export, it lay empty save for a thirty-foot-long powerboat and a group of soldiers.

  Three of the soldiers wielded spray guns and were painting the boat, which had been propped up on jack stands and blocks.

  A fourth, the leader of the group, stood in the background observing his men and occasionally glancing at a photo of an actual United Arab Emirates Coast Guard boat that he held in his hand. Tomorrow, when the gray paint had dried, two red stripes would be affixed to either side of the hull, and the marine radar dome and other antennas would be installed. The details would have to be perfect, he thought, because anything approaching the USS Reagan that was perceived to be a threat would be blown out of the water.

  Under normal circumstances, not even the Emirates Coast Guard would be allowed to get too close. But if the coast guard was in direct pursuit of a hostile craft…well, the soldier couldn’t see the Americans firing on the coast guard until it was too late.

  Washington, DC

  A man in his midtwenties, wearing khakis and a wrinkled Oxford shirt, sauntered up to the office of Vision Financial Consulting and Cash Advances on Georgia Avenue. In one hand he held a set of keys, in the other a giant Dunkin’ Donuts coffee cup. He took a sip and nodded to Henry Amato, who was standing on the sidewalk in front of the locked entrance to the building.

  Morning rush-hour traffic was noisy and a car alarm was going off nearby.

  “You were supposed to open at eight,” said Amato.

  “It is eight.”

  “It’s five after.”

  The guy shrugged. He was tall, with floppy brown hair and an untrimmed soul patch under his lip. Amato noted the enormous metal-ringed hole in the guy’s earlobe and scowled. Why people chose to deface their bodies like savages was beyond him.

  “Sorry. We’re open now.” He unlocked the door. “Come on in.”

  It was a small store. The gray carpet was black with street grime in front of the main counter, over which hung a sign that read Paychecks Cashed Here. An old air conditioner stuck out from the wall. In the back lurked an office separated from the main area by glass partition walls and a flimsy wood door.

  “Here to cash a paycheck?”

  “I’m a retired colonel in the US Armed Forces,” said Amato, standing tall. “And I need a cash advance on my pension.”

  “Colonel, huh? Don’t see many of those down here.”

  It disgusted Amato that this kid who, if he had even gone to college, had probably spent the time drinking himself silly and smoking marijuana, and who had certainly never seen military service—probably even looked down on those who served—it disgusted him that this kid would, for even this brief moment in time, hold the key to something Amato desperately wanted. It was a prime example of the degeneration of values across the nation, Amato thought. A degeneration he’d tried but had so clearly failed to prevent. This punk, he thought, was what America had become.

  “I’m in a bit of a rush.”

  “You bring a copy of your most recent pension statement?”

  “I did.”

  “You working now?”

  “For the government. I brought pay stubs.”

  “How’s your credit?”

  “It’s fine,” said Amato sharply.

  He was ushered into the back office, told to take a seat in front of the desk, and handed an application. Amato filled it out in five minutes.

  The guy leafed through it. When he got to the last page, he whistled. “That’s quite a figure.”

  “Can you do it?”

  Since Daria and Sava clearly didn’t plan to take refuge at the embassy, Amato figured his only hope was to pay private contractors to intercept Aryanpur’s men. But private contractors were extraordinarily expensive.

  When it came to money, Amato had never been a saver. With social security and his government pension due to kick in soon, he’d always figured he didn’t need to worry about socking money away.

  And anyway, too much money was an affront to God.

  “I’ll need to confirm your pension of course, and run a credit report and all that. But if everything checks out, you should be OK.”

  “What kind of timing are we talking about?”

  “Two weeks or so.”

  “Your website says immediate cash advances.”

  “Yeah, on paychecks. The pension buyouts are another animal.”

  “If I can’t get it today, it won’t do me any good! How long does it take to run a credit check and confirm my pension? You should be able to do that in ten minutes.”

  “You can pay for us to expedite it, but honestly sir, I wouldn’t recommend it. You’ll take a huge hit in fees, see. You’d do better to wait.”

  “Expedite the application, son. I’ll pay what I need to.”

  “I don’t know if we can even do this figure this quick. I’ll have to call my boss.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  Mark recalled that there had once been a border fence separating Iran from Azerbaijan, a mini-Berlin Wall that had stood for decades during the Soviet era. But there were more Azeris in northern Iran than there were in Azerbaijan itself, so as the Soviet Union was collapsing, Azeris on both sides of the fence had just ripped the thing down.

  Ever since, illegally crossing into Iran from Azerbaijan had involved little more than racing along a well-trodden path from one side of the border to the other. Which is exactly how he and Daria did it.

  Not far from where they crossed stood a cluster of well-kept farmhouses. Insid
e a mud-walled garage attached to one of them, Mark hotwired an old Paykan—a cheap Iranian car—and left $2,000 in its place on the dirt floor.

  They raced south toward the city of Esfahan, passing perfectly symmetrical green rice paddies, tea fields planted on steep mountain terraces, roadside kebab restaurants that smelled of grilled lamb, and roadside stores that displayed open barrels of dried fruit amidst unruly stacks of blue oil drums.

  Soon they hit the cool air of the craggy Alborz Mountains, followed hours later by the intense heat of the westernmost tip of the vast Kavir Desert. They chose roads that kept them far from the crush of people and stink of cars in the cities. On the wide open stretches, where Mark could be sure there were no cops for miles around him, he kept the gas pedal pinned to the floor.

  As he stared out across a dry desert salt marsh, Mark was reminded of the desert south of Baku, which in turn led him to start thinking about Nika and her son. He remembered the last dinner they’d all eaten together. It had been at an unpretentious little Georgian restaurant south of Baku, not far from the beach where they’d spent the day. After dinner, Nika had put her son to sleep at her parents’ house. And then she and Mark had gone back to his place to drink wine and have sex on the balcony. That must have been just about the time everyone in the Trudeau House was being slaughtered, he realized, struck by the absurdity of his own obliviousness. He hoped Nika was safe.

  He turned to Daria. “Tell me more about this physicist who helped you steal the uranium.”

  She was sitting in the passenger seat, still wearing a black chador robe that covered her hair and upper body.

  “His girlfriend was an Iranian-Kurd reporter who was murdered by the regime.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “He’s a source.”

  “Who’s already bolted.”

  “His disappearance was made to look like he was abducted by the Mossad or the CIA. I’m not going to put his extended family in danger. If you were ever captured—”

  “Who are we meeting in Esfahan?”

  “An MEK courier. Whose name you also don’t need to know. I should go to meet him alone.”