by Dan Mayland
“Also, I’ll be joining you in France to assist with the interrogations. Inform the Iranians that immediately after the takedown you are to take possession of the detainees.”
There was a long pause. Amato knew his announcement would come as an unwelcome shock—a case of a higher-up trying to micromanage a field operation. Martinez said, “What’s your ETA, sir?”
“As soon as I can get there—figure ten hours tops. I’ll contact you for coordinates when I’m close.”
“If the subjects are set up for a long stakeout, it’s possible the capture won’t even have been executed by the time you get here, sir. Unless you want us to try to force them down, which again, I wouldn’t recommend. Better to stay back a bit until this thing plays itself out.”
“If I can be on the ground with you prior to capture, all the better.”
Amato hung up, dialed another number, and gave orders for a C-37A jet—the military version of a Gulfstream—to meet him at Reagan National in an hour.
He did the calculations in his head—deal with Ellis quickly, make it to the airport on time, figure a six-hour flight, then an hour or so to get from the airport to the church…he could be there by late afternoon French time.
The last thing he did before getting dressed was to go online to his personal bank account and electronically wire every cent of what was left in it to an offshore account he’d set up yesterday, just in case.
The sunrise was stupendous, a pastel smear of red and yellow. Blackbirds, perched in trees around the church, were calling out. But all Daria could see was an image in her head of a muddy field with newly dug graves and all she could hear was the voice of her uncle.
He’d been panic stricken when she’d told him of her intention to help smuggle the uranium out of Iran.
You have given enough!
It will be enough when the mullahs are dead.
Don’t talk like that. Don’t do this.
I already told Minabi I would.
Minabi doesn’t care about you—
I’m not doing this for her.
She and Mark sat forty feet off the ground, cross-legged and hunched under a brown canvas tarp atop a rickety half-rotted wood platform. A two-foot-high stone parapet, which had previously served as a base for the roof of the bell tower, encircled the platform. Directly behind the church stood a grove of apple trees, and a half kilometer or so farther away, amid a fallow field overgrown with weeds, lay the farmhouse.
“We’ll take shifts,” said Mark. “I’ll watch the house first, you scan the surrounding fields and woods.”
Daria recalled presents her uncle had given her on her birthday—a little Iranian jewelry box decorated with ivory inlay; a gift certificate to Macy’s; a miniature watercolor, painted on camel bone, that depicted beautiful yellow irises. Her uncle had never wanted her to get involved with the MEK in the first place. The only thing he’d really pushed her to do was to study hard at Duke and get her degree.
“OK?” said Mark.
“Yeah, fine,” she answered, but what she was thinking was that she didn’t know whether she could do this anymore. Anger had sustained her for so long. But losing her uncle went beyond anger. The mullahs had now taken from her everything in this world that she’d loved. They had won. There was nothing left for her to be angry about.
“Switch every half hour?”
“That works.”
At seven thirty in the morning two men with automatic rifles emerged from the rear of the house. The stone wall that enclosed the backyard blocked out their legs, but through the telephoto lens of her camera Daria could see them from the waist up. They could be Iranian, she thought—but they could also just as easily be French, given the mix of cultures in the country.
“Know any of those guys?” Mark asked.
Daria looked for markings on their olive-green shirts, searching for clues as to their identity.
“No.”
She saw Mark squinting as he looked through his binoculars. It reminded her that, back in Baku, he’d sometimes worn glasses.
“Their rifles are Iranian-made AKMs,” Mark said.
“How can you tell?”
“Black plastic stocks.”
Her uncle had been right, Daria thought. This hadn’t been worth it. She should have done something decent with her life. Her uncle should have done something decent with his life. Instead they’d both devoted their lives to a failed cause.
A couple of minutes later a woman wearing a red headscarf emerged. She was shorter than the armed men who’d preceded her, and wasn’t carrying a weapon.
“Heads up,” said Mark.
But Daria had already seen her. She stiffened as she focused the telephoto lens on the camera and leaned forward against the wall. The woman in the red headscarf began to walk back and forth across the small walled-in yard behind the farmhouse. Each time she reached the far end, her full body was visible.
For the first time since hearing Decker’s story about the graves, Daria felt something approaching hope.
“That’s Minabi!” she whispered.
“You’re sure?”
“She walks a little duck-footed, often with her hands clasped in front of her. The way she’s walking now. Besides, I can see her face well enough.”
“You’ve met her in person?”
“A few times. If Minabi’s alive, there’s a chance…”
“A chance.”
There was a chance her uncle was still alive too, she thought. If Minabi had been spared, her uncle and other top MEK leaders might have been too. She eyed the guards around Minabi, taking better stock of their weapons, feeling a little flicker of that old familiar anger return.
When Minabi finally went back inside the farmhouse, it was clear from the way the guards gestured with their guns that she’d been ordered to do so.
Mark said, “So it’s the middle of the night, Minabi’s locked up in a room, maybe sleeping maybe not, and suddenly you slip in and tell her to hightail it out of there with you while Deck and I deal with the guards. Does she trust you? Does she recognize you? Does she scream?”
“I’m not sure. Depends on how I approach it.”
If her uncle was in there, she’d get him.
“Think about it. You got all day. Meanwhile we’ll keep watching.”
Washington, DC
From a pay phone on Twelfth and Madison, Amato called National Security Advisor James Ellis at his home in McLean, Virginia.
Ellis picked up after two rings, sounding alert but speaking softly. Trying not to wake up his wife, Amato assumed.
Amato often called at night, when Ellis was reading in bed—the man hardly slept at all—and it was always the same routine. In a moment Ellis would walk to his study.
“We need to meet,” said Amato.
“Hold on.”
Amato heard the sound of Ellis’s footsteps as he padded from his bed to his study, then the sound of a door closing shut.
“What’s going on?” said Ellis.
“Not over the phone.”
Ellis was silent for a moment. “How soon can you get here?”
“Your guards will record it if I come.”
“For Christ’s sake, Henry, you’re my assistant. Who cares if they record it?”
It occurred to Amato that in all the years he’d worked with Ellis, it had apparently never once occurred to his boss that taking the Lord’s name in vain, repeatedly and excessively, might somehow cause offense.
Ellis sighed. “Where, then?”
“The Vietnam Memorial. As soon as you can get there.”
“Give me twenty minutes.”
“There’s a bench on the north side,” said Amato.
“I’ll be there.”
The half moon that had hung in the sky earlier in the night had by now dipped below the horizon, but the weak starlight that remained illuminated the pale, dry grass in front of Amato. In the distance he could just make out the looming black shadow of the long stone wa
ll.
Amato thought of all the names he recognized and wondered what the men who’d served under him would think of what he was about to do. Then he wondered whether Ellis recognized any of the names on the wall, or whether the multiple deferments that had allowed him to pursue a doctorate in international relations had completely insulated him from the madness of that era.
Amato checked his watch, feeling remarkably calm as he considered the situation. He’d tried to avoid having things get to this point, but he’d failed and now he had to act accordingly. There would be no second-guessing. His only real concern was timing.
In the distance, through a grove of trees, he saw the white glow of the Washington Monument, and beyond that the Capitol, its dome all lit up from below. He checked his watch again, and began to pray. O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee, and I detest all my sins because I dread the loss of Heaven and the pains of Hell but most of all because they offend Thee, my God, who art all-good and deserving of all my love…
Even at a distance, and in the dark, Amato was able to recognize the black silhouette of Ellis’s narrow shoulders as his boss approached from the south.
“Thanks for coming,” he said when Ellis reached the bench and sat down.
“For Christ’s sake, Henry. What’s this about?” Ellis wore a suit but no tie. On his head was a dark navy-blue Georgetown baseball cap, reminding Amato that Ellis’s son played college ball.
Amato spoke quietly. “A surveillance team has been detected at Minabi’s house outside of Auvers.”
“Have the Iranians been notified?”
“Yes.”
“We know who it is?”
“No. But from thermal profiles and process of elimination, I suspect it’s Sava and Buckingham. The Iranians are planning the takedown. I don’t trust them to do it right so I ordered our team to—”
“Call them off.”
“The Iranians will need help. Buckingham and Sava aren’t civilians, they won’t be an easy grab.”
“We’re to avoid any type of engagement on French soil at all costs. That order, by the way, comes from the top. So don’t go getting your ass in an uproar, Henry, or thinking you can convince me otherwise.”
“And I’d like to go to France to help with the interrogations.”
“What the hell is the matter with you, Henry?” When Amato didn’t answer, Ellis said, “We agreed no foreign travel for either of us for three weeks prior to launch.”
“That was before the complications. That was before Sava and Buckingham got involved.”
“You’re not even trained for interrogations.”
“That’s not entirely true.”
“No, Henry. You’re staying right here and the Iranians are going to handle it without our help. Is that all?”
Amato closed his eyes for a moment. He’d tried to give Ellis an out; that was all he could do.
His right hand rested in his coat pocket, and he could feel the cool metal chain against his palm. With his thumb and index finger he made his way, link by link, down to the end of it. The metal jingled a little, as if he were fiddling with change in his pocket.
He could still taste the stale grappa in his mouth. The stink of alcohol sweating out of his pores was mildly repulsive even to himself.
“No, James, there’s one more thing we need to talk about,” said Amato. “It’s more of a personal matter, though.”
“Be quick about it.”
“Walk with me. I’ll go in your direction.” Amato stood up and waited for Ellis to do the same.
Ellis exhaled loudly through his nose as he pushed himself off the bench. “I’m parked on Twenty-First.” He began walking.
For a moment, Amato fell in beside him, so that they were nearly shoulder to shoulder.
“After the conclusion of this operation, I’d like to put in for a—”
As Amato spoke he pulled the metal chain out of his pocket, gripped each end of it tightly, and swung it over Ellis’s neck.
Ellis sensed something was wrong and at the last second managed to slip a few fingers between the chain and his neck. He fought like a rodeo bull, kicking his legs back violently and trying to smash the back of his skull into Amato’s face.
The ferocity of Ellis’s counterattack surprised Amato, but he held tight with every ounce of strength he possessed, squeezing so hard that his arms shook. Ellis still struggled, kicking his legs wildly. Eventually he tried to throw Amato off balance by suddenly dropping to the ground like deadweight.
But Amato had been a soldier. And even though he was old and out of shape, with a bad back and aches that made waking up in the morning painful, his raw strength hadn’t lessened much over the years. When Ellis tried to drop down, Amato held fast and Ellis wound up just hanging there, making little spitting sounds.
In two minutes it was over. Amato dropped the chain and made sure the job was complete by breaking Ellis’s neck with the heel of his shoe. When he collapsed on the ground next to his dead boss, his chest was heaving and he felt lightheaded, as though he might pass out.
When he’d caught his breath, he pressed a button on his wristwatch, illuminating the faceplate. It was nearly three o’clock. If he was going to be at Reagan National in under a half hour, he had to be quick about it.
He dragged Ellis into the center of a cluster of bushes, stripped him of his wallet, and covered him with dead branches and old leaves. The longer it took for Ellis to be discovered and identified, he thought, the better.
At three thirty in the afternoon, Mark’s cell phone vibrated. It was Decker, sounding agitated.
“I don’t know how they did it, sir, I don’t know how they did it…”
Mark and Daria had been detected. “I only got a partial visual but I’m almost certain they’re the same guys I followed last night.”
“How many total?” Mark was still beneath the brown tarp atop the bell tower, fixated on the farmhouse with only his eyes poking up above the stone wall. He didn’t see how anyone could have noticed them—which made him wonder what else he wasn’t seeing.
“Two. They pulled up in a van a couple hundred yards down the street from the church and—”
“When?”
“Just a minute ago. I was going to check it out when two guys climbed out and hopped the fence outside the church.”
“They see you?”
“No.”
“Are they armed?”
“Couldn’t tell but you have to figure pistols at least. Shit, if they’re coming for you now—I just lost a visual, they went around to the south side.”
“It’d be two on two with us on the high ground and they can’t be sure we’re not armed ourselves.”
“So maybe they’ll wait it out.”
“What do you have in the way of weapons?”
“A knife. I couldn’t risk smuggling anything into the country.”
Mark clicked off his phone and eyed the low parapet in front of him. Some of the wide, flat stones had been dislodged in the process of taking off the top of the bell tower. He pulled five down, sat on two just in case anyone started shooting up the stairwell, gave two to Daria to sit on, and then held one in his hand so that he could crack open the skull of anyone who might try to ascend the tower.
“We need a better plan than this,” said Daria, as she took another rock for herself.
It was sunny out, a gorgeous day. The deep green of the forest to their left contrasted with the blue of the sky and the white of the few lingering clouds. Mark wondered for a moment whether it was as magnificent a day back in Baku, and he imagined it was. He thought of what it would be like to be sitting out on his balcony. For a moment he grew irrationally nostalgic for the smell of petroleum.
“This is our plan. We’ve already drawn two of them away from the house.”
“That’s not a plan. That’s putting the best face on a disaster.”
“There’s a difference?”
“I still don’t trust Decker.”
“I do.”
“We can’t rely on him. The two of us need to think our way out of this.”
“I am thinking. I’m thinking all we have to do is hold these idiots off until dark and stick with the plan we already agreed on. End of story.”
“That’s four hours from now.”
“We’ll make it.”
At first Amato didn’t pay much attention to little ribbon of black smoke he saw snaking its way up into the gray, twilit sky. He figured it was probably a farmer, burning brush in a nearby field.
It was nine o’clock at night and he was driving through the French countryside. The trip from Washington had taken longer than he’d hoped. But he’d make it in time. The takedown wasn’t scheduled to go down until ten.
Then he rounded a corner.
Good God, that trail of smoke is coming from a church.
He checked the coordinates on his GPS unit as he sped up, hurtling past a wheat field at top speed. And that wasn’t just any church, it had to be the church, where Daria was.
When he looked up, he could see the first tiny flickers of flame creeping up through a giant hole in the roof. No. NO. I am not seeing this. Those heathen beasts.
Amato called Martinez. “Captured alive! Those were my orders! What the hell do the Iranians think they’re doing! Burning a church! In the middle of France! Are they fucking insane!”
“They didn’t have anything to do with it, sir. The targets set the fire themselves a couple of minutes ago.”
“If that whole roof goes up—”
“Stay back and let us handle it, sir.”
“Who’s going in for Buckingham and—”
“Sir! Please! Stay back and let us handle it!”
First there’d been just a hissing sound as the lithium from Mark’s camera battery, which he’d cut up and thrown down one of the holes in the church roof, reacted with the water he’d poured over it. Next came a tiny orange glow and the faint hint of a burning smell as the flaming battery parts ignited both the hundred-year-old insulation in the church attic and the gothic vaulting just below it, vaulting that Mark—on his way in—had noticed was constructed of wood instead of the more costly stone that an older church would have used.
