It was a good plan, and at 10:00 p.m. she arrived at the Claviere rail station. It was too dark and too late for her to cross the border through the forest, so she looked for a place to rest. A red neon sign within eyesight of the station glowed: hostel. An older man was smoking a cigarette outside its entrance, leaning against the building’s brick wall. He watched her walk past him into the dimly lighted lobby. The room’s yellow tile was dirty and needed mopping. The odor of human sweat seemed trapped in the drab walls. She tapped a silver bell at the lobby’s unmanned counter.
No one responded. She dinged it again.
Tahira heard the door from the street opening behind her. The man from outside dropped the remains of his cigarette on the floor, smashing it under his black right shoe as he approached her. She noticed he was slightly dragging his left foot.
“You need a room,” he said in a bored voice, stepping behind the counter. She couldn’t tell if it was a question or statement.
“How much for one night?”
He studied her while she did the same to him. Gray beard needing a trim. In his mid-sixties. Long, oily black hair pulled into a man bun. A cream-colored button-down shirt with a banded collar. He looked like an Arab.
“Thirty-six euros—that’s forty US—per night, and I’ll need to see your passport to register you.”
He coughed the cough of a three-pack-a-day smoker while Tahira pulled out what euros and coins she had left—a pair of five euro notes and less than a euro in change.
“Not enough,” he said, watching her.
She stuffed the bills back into her pocket and turned to leave. She’d sleep on a bench at the rail station. But when she was midway across the lobby, he called to her. “It’s late, and we have empty beds. I’ll take what you have.”
She returned and paid him what cash she had. She watched him put the euros in a drawer with other cash.
“Passport?” he said.
She didn’t respond.
“I didn’t think so,” he said. “No luggage either.”
“I’ll leave, but I want my money back.”
“No,” he said. “You can sleep in the first room up the stairs. Bathroom in the hall.”
She could feel his eyes as she walked toward the staircase.
“Have you eaten?” he called out. “I’d like company.”
“I’m not hungry,” she said, although she was.
“You should not decline my invitation. If I called the police, there could be trouble. Come sit. I’ll get food.”
He waved toward a table with four chairs in the lobby’s corner before disappearing, and for a moment she considered grabbing the money in the counter drawer and running. But that would’ve guaranteed a call to the police, so she sat. He returned carrying a tray with a bottle of water, bread, cheese, and hummus.
“You have a name?” he asked, sitting.
“Sarah,” she lied as she sat across from him.
“Mine is Farrokh. And it is my real name.”
He poured the water into two glasses and gave her a knife to cut the loaf and cheese. “Just passing through?”
“On holiday. Meeting friends tomorrow to ski.”
“Without luggage,” he noted, skeptically.
“They’re bringing it.”
“You’re what? Maybe twenty. Traveling alone. Without a change of clothes. Do you know sex traffickers look for refugees trying to cross the border into France? They kidnap them. Rape them. Take them to Warsaw to work in sex clubs.”
“I can take care of myself,” she said.
He lit a cigarette. Let it dangle from his lips. She began eating the bread and cheese while he watched without talking.
“I think I’ll go to my room now,” she said when she finished. “Thank you for the food and water.”
“You’ve not tried the hummus.” He waved his half-spent cigarette in the air. “What’s the rush? You have nowhere to go this late. Eat more.”
He watched her rip a piece of bread loose and dip it in the hummus.
“I had a daughter who would have been your age,” he said. “You remind me of her. More guts than common sense.”
“You had a daughter?”
“In Zarabad. That is where she and her mother are buried. Have you heard of my village?”
“North of Tehran.”
“Yes!” he said approvingly. “Zarabad means ‘Built by the Gods.’ It is surrounded by cherry orchards, rice fields, and walnut trees, and is very beautiful. But today it has a big cemetery. Do you know why?”
She shook her head.
“The eight-year war with neighboring Iraq. My village lost the most, I think, young and old men.”
“Your limp?” she asked, and immediately regretted calling attention to his fault.
“Yes. I fought.” He showed no reaction.
“Your daughter and wife? Were they killed during the war?” Despite her better instincts, Tahira couldn’t help but feel a kinship with the man. He too had lost his family.
“No. They weren’t soldiers. They died from Crimean-Congo hemorrhagic fever. Have you heard of it?”
“No. What is it?”
He stuffed the butt of his cigarette against his plate, using it as an ashtray.
“The doctors called it the most widespread disease of humans in the world. It comes from infected ticks or diseased animal blood and tissues. At least, that’s what the American scientists have told the world.”
He sounded skeptical.
“You don’t believe the Americans?”
“No,” he scoffed. “The Americans created this disease. A way to kill us without being blamed. If you look at where the disease is spreading the fastest, it is in Muslim countries.”
“I’m sorry that your daughter and wife died,” she said. “I’m very tired. I should go to bed.”
“You don’t believe me? You think me crazy, a crazy old man. During the war with Iraq, Saddam Hussein used nerve gas and mustard gas to kill more than seven thousand Iranian soldiers. Who was his ally? The United States. I will cheer when that nation is destroyed. I hate Americans, including those who come here to sleep.”
She pushed back her chair, which caused a squeaking noise on the worn tiles.
“Wait!” he said, more an order than request. He moved behind the counter and returned with an item wrapped in a blue cloth, which he placed between them on the table.
“For you.”
She hesitated.
“Take it!”
She reached forward and unwrapped the cloth.
“A nine-millimeter,” he said, “but I suspect you know that, don’t you? Sarah?”
“Why are you showing me this pistol?”
“It’s Iranian. Called the Thunderbolt.”
He lit another cigarette. Took a long drag and blew the smoke through his cracked lips toward her.
She wrapped the cloth around the handgun and slid it back to him.
“I have no need for a gun.”
“Don’t be foolish.”
He was about to say more, but he began coughing. Violently until he caught his breath.
“I saw the news,” he said. “Earlier today people tried to kill the director of the Mossad during a wedding ceremony in Lake Como. One of them was a young woman who escaped in a red sports car. When they trapped her, she detonated a bomb.”
“Then she must be dead,” Tahira said.
He took another puff. “No. They have bank security camera footage of her, which is being shown on television and on the internet. They are searching for her now.” Their eyes met. “The bank photo looks very much like you.”
She grabbed the pistol. Dropped its clip from its grip. Checked to see if it had bullets. Reinserted it and pulled back the slide, putting a round into the chamber. She did it quickly and pointed the pistol at him.
He took another long drag without flinching. Unafraid.
“If you hope to scare me, you will not,” he said. “After the war, after my family was kill
ed, I became Quds Force despite my leg. Intelligence. Interrogation. Do you know what members of Quds Force live for? One purpose: to die for Iran.”
Still holding the pistol, she said, “You didn’t die, though, did you?”
“A long story not worth telling.” He smashed out his second cigarette in the plate next to the first butt.
“What do you want?” she asked him.
“On the news, they said there were two assassins,” he said. “A woman fired at the Jew from an apartment in Bellagio where two people were found dead. Another ambushed the Jew while he was leaving the wedding. That means you have a partner. Will that person be joining you here tonight?”
“I already told you that I’m traveling alone. On holiday. Meeting friends tomorrow to ski.”
“Yes, that is what you said. If I wanted to turn you in, I would’ve called the police and collected a reward. If I wanted to harm you, I would not have given you my gun, would I? I told you that I hate the Americans and the Jews. I intend to help you escape.” He lit a third cigarette.
She placed the gun back on the table. “Why do you have an Iranian handgun?” she asked.
“Protection from robbers,” he replied.
She let her eyes stray, glancing at the bleak lobby. “Robbers? Here in this hostel, when there are fancy ski resorts in town?”
“I have friends in Tehran,” he said. “On television, the Jihad Brigade has taken credit for the attack on the head Jew. Are you a jihadist?”
“I know nothing about this group.”
“Israelis never forget. They will hunt you down and kill you, your family and your friends.”
“I have no family or friends,” she said.
“The news said C-4 was used, drones, sniper equipment, RPGs. You were familiar with my pistol. Checked the clip before cocking it to see if it was loaded. Yet you claim you are not a jihadist. Who trained you? Hamas?”
She did not reply. She was becoming unnerved by his questions.
“Like you,” he continued, “I wanted the Mossad director dead. I want Israel removed from the face of the earth. The Israelis would be eaten alive if not for the Americans. So I will help you escape. A car will be here at four in the morning. Two men will take you across the border to wherever you wish in France. They know ways to avoid the authorities. You will not make it on your own if you try to cross through the woods, even with my pistol. The sex traffickers will catch you.”
“Why should I trust you, or these two men?”
He shrugged. “Don’t trust them. Shoot them. It matters not to me. But you would be wise to accept my help.”
“I thought these two were your friends.”
“Not friends. They work for me.”
“Are they sex traffickers?”
“A woman without credentials and money should not be asking so many questions.”
“A woman without credentials and money should be asking many questions,” she replied.
He chuckled slightly. “Yes, they are sex traffickers, which is why you can trust them to cross the border without being stopped by the police. But I will make sure they do not molest you. And you will have my pistol.”
“Why are you helping me?”
“I already have told you. Americans killed my wife and daughter. They are no different from the Zionists.”
He placed both of his palms on the tabletop. Leaned on them to push himself up. “I am old. If you choose not to accept my help, do not come down at four. Either way, now that I have given you my pistol, I must insist you return the kitchen knife that you dropped into your lap after first cutting my bread. Before you began tearing pieces from the loaf.”
He held out his hand.
She reached down and retrieved it. She’d not realized that he’d seen her stealing it.
“Good night,” she said, taking the pistol with her as she walked up the stairs to her room. “I will return at four for the ride.”
He waited fifteen minutes to see if she would return to the lobby to sneak away. When she didn’t, he slipped a cell phone from his front pant pocket. The first call was to the two sex traffickers who worked for him.
“Drive her to France. Just be certain I know exactly where she goes.”
The second call was to a number in Tehran.
Twenty-Two
“I want Garrett arrested the moment he steps on US soil,” Connor Whittington declared.
“That might not be possible,” Peter Carter, his deputy, replied. “It’s a gray area.”
“There’s got to be some statute against him being a vigilante.”
“I checked this morning, and there are currently more than a hundred Americans overseas fighting against ISIS, al-Qaeda, and the Taliban as volunteers. Because the Roc is a known terrorist, Garrett legally falls into that same protected group.”
“What are you talking about?” Whittington snapped. “Who in the hell are these people?”
“Mostly ex-military, but some are idealistic young men who’ve turned their video game joysticks in for the real thing.”
“What you’re telling me is that any American citizen can buy an airplane ticket and . . . do what? Pick up a gun and fight for a foreign military force?”
“It depends on several factors, but overall, yes,” Carter said. “During the Spanish Civil War in the 1930s, our government encouraged Americans to go fight fascists overseas. There was a group of Americans known as the Abraham Lincoln Brigade.”
“But Garrett isn’t fighting with a brigade. He’s a damn vigilante.”
“Volunteering to kill terrorists, whether on a battlefield in Syria or chasing one across Europe—as I said, our legal department says it’s a gray area and is advising against going after him with any sort of criminal charges,” Carter said.
“I don’t care what legal says. We need to get the Justice Department to charge him—and fire her.”
“Sir,” Carter said, “you might want to consider the political downside in going after them. Like them or not, Garrett and Mayberry received presidential medals for stopping a terrorist attack in the US Senate. Their pictures were on magazine covers. They were called American heroes.”
“Heroes, ha,” Whittington said contemptuously. “Julian Levi called and told me the Mossad made an error. He now is convinced the Roc is very much alive and was responsible for the attempt on his life. That news is just encouraging Garrett and Mayberry. If we don’t stop them now, they’ll just keep going after the Roc.”
“Again, trying to stop them could come back to hurt us politically,” Carter said. “The American public loves the idea of the lone vigilante seeking justice. The cowboy who is as ruthless as the land baron who is terrorizing the cowardly townspeople. It’s in our DNA. Besides, there may be other ways to force them home without trying to prosecute them and facing public backlash. If that’s what you want to do.”
“Such as?”
“Thomas Jefferson Kim has been helping them. Our agency has multimillion-dollar contracts with Kim and his company—IEC. Contracts he wouldn’t want to lose.” Carter continued, “Valerie Mayberry is on leave from the bureau. It has regulations against its agents going rogue. Like you suggested, the bureau could terminate her.”
“Kim and Mayberry aren’t the ones whom I want to stop. Garrett’s the real problem.”
“I know Garrett,” Carter said. “He’s bullheaded. He’s not going to stop. Here’s a thought. Why not put him on the payroll? Welcome him back. He happens to be very effective as a field operative, and he has a large number of friends working here.”
“Including you?” Whittington said in a scornful tone. “It will never happen while I’m director.”
“It would be one way for you to better control him.”
“Let’s deal with the immediate,” Whittington said. “I’m briefing the Gang of Eight this morning about the attack on Julian Levi. I’m not comfortable with them asking me about Garrett and Mayberry, and why I didn’t respond when they told me about the
Roc and Nasya Radi’s murder and letter. That’s a can of worms.”
“Garrett and Mayberry haven’t been identified in any foreign press accounts. Yes, you know about them because Director Levi called and told you. He later confirmed that the Roc is alive. But there’s a very good chance no one on the Hill knows any of this. Not yet.”
Whittington nodded approvingly. “Garrett and Mayberry really aren’t my responsibility, are they? Even if word leaks out that I met with them. All I have to say is we’re investigating.”
An hour after meeting with Carter, Whittington was riding east on Constitution Avenue to the US Capitol, Romanesque federal buildings on his left and Smithsonian Institution museums along the Mall on his right. Although he considered himself tough and independent, he couldn’t help but feel alone. CIA employees had correctly seen him as an outsider, someone who had never worked as an intelligence analyst, never handled a human asset, never served in a foreign station or overseen a covert mission. Who was he to clean up their agency? From the start, obstructionists and saboteurs had undercut him. In his darkest moments, he even wondered about his deputy, Peter Carter. During their morning meeting, Carter had suggested rehiring Garrett. Said that Garrett had friends in the agency.
Whittington had expected strong congressional support. After all, he’d served in both the House and Senate before taking the directorship. His fellow members of Congress had liked him. That changed the moment he joined Fitzgerald’s administration. Former colleagues turned on him. They didn’t trust the CIA, and with good reason. Two commissions—one appointed to investigate why the agency hadn’t known about the 9/11 attacks, and a second investigating the false weapons of mass destruction claims in Iraq—had laid a foundation of Capitol Hill skepticism, distrust, and hostility. And then there was the bitter politics—the Republican-versus-Democrat bickering and backstabbing that puts party loyalty before country.
Federal law required the president to keep intelligence committees in both chambers “fully and currently informed.” The White House could limit sensitive operations to the Gang of Eight—which comprised the Republican and Democrat leaders in the US Senate and House of Representatives, plus the chairs and ranking members of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence and its counterpart, the House Permanent Select Committee on Intelligence. But there was no guarantee that classified information would not be leaked to the media. Even presidents couldn’t be trusted. Jimmy Carter’s team had told the world about advanced stealth technology that made US fighter aircraft nearly invisible simply to prop up falling voter polling numbers. In a city where partisanship triumphed over patriotism, Whittington had come to believe, as CIA director, an adage dating back to Benjamin Franklin: “Three can keep a secret if two of them are dead.”
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