by Jack Winnick
* * *
Lara and Uri sat facing each other at their desks in the federal building. The fourth floor had a number of unmarked, locked offices for just such temporary assignments. They were studying a classified printout of a map of northern Tehran around the palace; the offices of Iran’s Ministry of Intelligence lay within a mile radius. This is where they hoped to be stationed. As of now, they had already received eight promising notices; requests for their resumes met with immediate attention. The secret assets in Tehran had already submitted their documents through false email accounts in Tehran. The plan was to make appointments for about three weeks from now. By then, they should have even more opportunities for employment.
All the initial preparations for their entry into Iran had been made as soon as they agreed to the operation. Skin and hair- coloring were taken care of first, then the facial doctoring. The procedures, done by medical professionals from Sony Studios, were completed in just two hours with just the tiniest of incisions. The agents inspected each other’s appearance carefully; after just a moment of amazement, they laughed and hugged one another briefly. It was going to take some time to get used to their altered faces, but they were enjoying working together. They agreed: even their own families would not recognize them if passing them on the street.
Lara had even become accustomed to her new, soft contact lenses. They required no regular maintenance. What’s more, they improved her visual acuity; she hadn’t realized until the eye test that she had lost some ability to read very fine print.
The two agents spoke only in Farsi. They spent hours role playing, with one being the applicant, the other the interviewer. In so doing, they would find any number of traps for each other.
“Where did you receive your computer training?” Uri would ask. Lara had to reply without noticeable pause. “And were you living at home during your schooling?” Uri would respond immediately. “Were your parents living there, or were you on your own?”
They would drill like this for thirty minutes, then trade places. Many areas of concern could be revealed. Location of schools and dormitories, faculty names, and so on. They became familiar with the locations of important buildings in and around Tehran as well as the bus routes they would be using. Videos played on their computers were especially useful in this regard. After viewing the activity around the schools and markets a number of times it felt as if they had been there. It was like being back in training. Most of the previous employers and references were forgeries, of course. Requests for information would be channeled through the embedded agents using fake email and telephone contacts. At the end of each day, Bret would come down and chat easily with them, asking questions, clearly testing their readiness.
Lara and Uri continued with their training, or really, practice for ten days. In addition, they received individual exercise in their specific roles: Uri as a computer and information technology expert, Lara as a cryptologist. They were preparing for their roles as experts in an Iran that was nowhere close to the United States in these fields, but dead set on being on a par with its enemies.
* * *
It was a wet, cold day in Los Angeles, and they were getting somewhat anxious about the uncertainty of the project. Suddenly the internal phone rang. Bret and Tom wanted to see them both in ten minutes in Bret’s office.
A surge of adrenaline kicked into their systems. Something was imminent. They locked up their papers and ran to Bret’s office two floors up. “Have a seat,” Bret announced with a smile. Tom was already seated next to Bret’s desk; there was bottled water for everyone and empty pads of paper as well. At each agent’s desk was a briefcase without markings, filled with papers and maps.
Bret did not waste any time. “I think you’re ready to go,” he stated bluntly. Tom nodded his agreement; he had obviously kept up with their progress through Bret. “We’ve got enough job interviews set up for each of you to keep you busy for at least a week once you get there. You’ll find packets in each of your cases.” He casually indicated the attaché cases on the desks. “You’ll have plenty of time to go through these on your way over there.” Despite his relaxed manner, there was perceivable tension in the room. Tom nervously twisted his wedding band without saying a word while Lara and Uri sat tensely, listening for every nuance in Bret’s instructions.
Bret was brief and to the point. “You already have everything you’ll need in terms of clothing, identification, and personal items, according to the lists you’ve given us.” The agents had prepared their lists of toiletries to be packed for them. They knew from past experience that the items would have been procured from shops in Tehran. “You’ll be going over to our King Abdulaziz Air Base on Saudi Arabia’s eastern Gulf coast, for transit through the Gulf to Iran’s west coast. That last part you’ll do separately, so you’ll need to make your goodbyes at the launch site. You’ll each be picked up by ground transit for safe transfer to your ‘homes’ in Tehran.”
“If you’ll take a quick look in your packets, you’ll see where you’ll be staying.” Bret continued. “The houses are run by our assets there and are completely secure. There’s even safe telephone contact through a dedicated satellite system back to Homeland in Washington. We’ll stay in touch with them at all times. Your daily sign-in times with Tom are listed on your papers; memorize those and destroy them, of course. Oh, and here are your secure phones; they’re the latest of the Agency’s toys.”
He smiled at them convivially as he handed each of them what looked like a small, standard mobile phone. “You’re to check in daily within a relatively wide time window to allow for any sort of contingency. To use it, you have to first enter the correct passcode: the date, but in reverse order; that is, year, month, day, each two digits. You get a second chance if you make a mistake—but that’s it. You’ll have to wait until the next day to check in again. If you miss that second day, your phone is temporarily disabled. The only way to reestablish communication is to type in the real name of your partner, last name first. You’ll get a beep, then go through the daily sign-in procedure. Failing that . . . well, the presumption will be that you have been . . . um, separated from your device . . .” A long pause followed a grim look from Bret. “The phones are also the latest in trackers; we’ll know exactly where you are as long as you have them with you. We’ll pick you up on satellite.” The two agents gave each other a knowing look, reassuring, if a little intrusive.
“There are limitations to the devices,” he added gravely. “Although they are the top of the line, they’re not perfect. First, they have a limited battery life. But the term ‘battery’ is not exactly accurate. They’re powered by top-of-the-line, solid-state fuel cells. Conservatively speaking, you can count on normal usage for about two months.” The agents reacted in disbelief. “I know it sounds astonishing, but these devices have been tested in a variety of adverse conditions; they are so well sealed and so efficient, well, you can count on them.”
Buckley noticed a palpable sense of incredulity on the part of the agents. He then added, in a note that brought them back to a sense of reality, “They do have some drawbacks. While the locator will pick you up as long as you’re not in a heavy, concrete-and-steel structure, conversation is limited to most of the populated world. Which means that about ninety percent of the globe is inaccessible to voice contact.” At that, he noted a significant letdown in the mood of his troops.
“Which means you need to prepare for the necessity . . . of emergency extraction. There is, as you can imagine, a substantial chance of your exposure and the necessity of an urgent rescue.” He looked at the two grim-faced agents. “Our go-to plan in the worst of all scenarios is one in which you’re involved in a desperate chase. You will head for our last-chance pickup point: the city of Qazvin, two hours northwest of Tehran. Get to the municipal airport there; it’s really just an empty lot on the north edge of town. There’s a pretty good highway from Tehran. If you have any sort of radio, signal us through the emergency frequency you’l
l be given.”
He paused for just a second, looking grim. “But . . . if you have no communication at all . . . then look up into the sky to the north from the end of the runway, at ten hundred and fifteen hundred hours each day.” That was 10:00 a.m. and 3:00 p.m. “Our facial-recognition cameras will be on the lookout for you, especially if we haven’t heard from you at your normal contact times. You undoubtedly know we can identify you from a minimum of fifty thousand feet, with ninety-nine percent certainty. The cameras will be housed in drones as well as satellites.”
They sat there in silence as Tom read carefully through their instructions one more time. His brow furrowed as he neared the end. “One final thing: if you’re stranded out there near the Qazvin airport and need to spend the night, take the gravel road at the east end of the airport and head north; it’s the only way you can go. Two miles from the end of the airstrip, there’s an oilseed farm.” The two agents followed along on their copies of the instructions. “There’s a thatched hut with a striped canopy and a sign that reads, ‘Camping gear,’ in Farsi, of course. Look for an old man with just a few teeth and a cigar. Ask for Omar; he’s one of ours. That’s the signal that you need help. He’ll provide you with a small hut in a farmworkers’ enclave. He’ll give you food and water as well. You’ll be safe there for one or two nights, max. That’s all you should need. If you come by car, he’ll show you a lean-to you can park it under.
“There’ll be camouflaged pick-up aircraft, probably choppers, ready in the Caspian throughout the duration of your mission. They will pick you up from that location at the end of the runway. In case you’re curious, we have that copter access through the courtesy of the nation of Azerbaijan and the transfer of a few hundred million dollars.” He grimaced as though the money had come out of his own pocket. The four members of the small group all recognized the understandable gravity; this plan sounded precarious, at best.
“We plan for your departure at oh eight hundred tomorrow from LAX, so read over everything this afternoon; let me know if you have any questions. We can deal with anything tomorrow morning at six. Use your phone to sign in.” Bret checked with Tom, then the two agents, who were clearly eager to get going. “I’ll leave it there; until tomorrow.” He smiled, but there was a slight hesitation in his voice as he said goodbye. This was no sure thing; but he was certain it was necessary and that these were the right people for it.
* * *
Lara and Uri sat quietly in the back of the government sedan that was taking them to the hotel for their last night in Los Angeles. Each was attired in the desert fatigues and footwear meant for their comfortable transport. Holding each other’s hands tightly, they watched the spring rain pelt the car and the street with wind-driven fury. Low black clouds obscured everything but the splashing of puddles; the skyline was invisible in the torrent. It did nothing for their mood.
Lara’s gut twisted into knots. They had been together on other dangerous assignments in enemy territory before, but this was somehow different. The unknown nature of what they were after brought down her confidence. They could have used far more time to prepare, she felt; but the power and immediacy of the threat made that luxury out of the question. Her mind raced between the horror of millions of people being trapped by monsters who were poisoning their life-giving water and the vulnerable situation into which she and her husband were headed. What would she have done if Uri were not here with her?
Uri held both their briefcases. He had similar thoughts, but he felt a fearful responsibility that he had brought this terrible responsibility onto his wife. Would she be here if not for him? This was a nagging question and one to which no answer came easily. Certainly, they were both well-trained field agents, but could they survive this perilous a mission? If anything were to happen to her, he didn’t think he could . . . His years of training came back and forced him to rid himself of these negative thoughts. It was the ominous weather, he told himself. But this wasn’t a Hollywood movie; the outcome didn’t depend on the background. He settled back and gripped Lara’s hand protectively as the car came to a stop.
Chapter 8
At their suite in the hotel, Lara and Uri first checked on the situation with the drinking water. They were relieved to find from the TV news that the downpour hadn’t complicated the process of providing clean water to the people of Los Angeles. The contaminated water had been rerouted to other reservoirs and treated with ion-exchange membranes to remove the polonium. Once the poison was removed, the water would be piped several miles offshore; it would not be a threat to the ocean. Clean water from the Sierra Nevada mountains was already being pumped into the city water supply.
The bad news was that Dr. Regis Trombley had passed away from the relatively large dose he had bravely, if unnecessarily, ingested that first horrible day. There were other casualties, as well. But the bulk of the polonium never made it into the city water supply; quick action stopped the flow from the reservoir. However, more than two hundred people had been admitted to emergency rooms that first day. Fortunately, none had perished, but many suffered reversible internal organ damage. The chemical chelating agents provided to the hospitals saved the day. But the entire country was scared. Bottled water was sold at a premium everywhere, for at least the time being. With that news to deal with, they went straight to bed.
* * *
Five a.m. came without even a trace of predawn light. The rain continued to pour on Los Angeles. Water spouted out of the overburdened storm sewers. The couple slowly made their way into their clothes and through their room service breakfast. The continuing rain did nothing to improve their spirits; sleep had been elusive at best. Both, however, were glad to be starting out. They knew that once they were on their way, they could devote their energies to the tasks at hand and not dwell on the unknown.
Their car arrived right on time and hustled them to the reconnaissance shack in the military wing of the airport where the two agents went through the telephone sign-in; it worked perfectly. The device they each had received looked deceptively like the modern mobile phones in Iran. But the electronic chips inside were marvels of modern engineering, connecting them to their home base through top-secret military satellites. Even if lost or stolen, the devices were inoperable without the daily codes they had been given. They also, as a backup, recognized only their fingerprints. Tom answered each of their calls, wishing them a hearty good morning.
Bret and Tom arrived, all smiles as they had a leisurely cup of coffee. No need for any added anxiety. Tom gave them both a list of emergency contacts and telephone numbers; these they had to memorize on the plane and destroy. Nothing new there. Tom assured them again that their assets on the ground in Tehran were capable and trustworthy. The government men had access to the same contacts as the two agents and were there to help in any way possible. “You know,” Tom told them again, “their friends and family suffered terribly at the hands of the Iranian theocracy; they’re ready to wreak whatever vengeance they can. Count on them for whatever you need.”
The duo had heard this assurance before, but it was still comforting to hear it again. The thought of being alone in such a hostile environment was daunting at best. Bret continued the calming lecture. “You are the best in the business as far as I’m concerned,” he promised them. “If anyone could handle this situation, it’s you two for sure.” Looking at them closely, he had to grin. “I’d never believe it was either of you, I mean it. You look like something out of ‘Lawrence of Arabia.’ No way anybody’s going to recognize you.”
The two were already so used to their altered appearances, they seemed natural. There was a pause as Tom and Bret waited for last-minute questions from the pair, but none came. Finally, Tom shook their hands and wished them luck. Bret did the same, adding, “You can reach us any time during the flight, even after you reach Saudi Arabia.”
Lara thanked him for everything and assured him they were ready. At that, they were led into the covered jeep that would take them to the wait
ing aircraft.
* * *
At the Homeland Security base in Manhattan the troops were busy as well. Buckley’s teams of men and women were preparing the interview sites for the agents. Those locations in Tehran that had responded positively to the applications from the agents were now being struck with very specific and very troubling computer and website problems.
First, those Iranian defense contractors and government offices that had issued interviews with Uri suddenly saw their official websites turn sour. People were unable to login or were guided to other sites that seemed to pop up without warning. Even the government officials were not able to reach their own employees. The problems were intermittent; the offices were able to solve one difficulty, only to find another taking its place.
Next, those contractors and secret Iranian government installations that had asked Lara to interview were plagued with interference from outside sources. Vital information was in desperate jeopardy. Despite all the help the Iranians were able to acquire from their standard, and even high-level computer wizards, there was fear of another virus-like intrusion that had so publicly humiliated them with the so-called Stuxnet worm in 2010. Their nuclear program had been set back for months because of the Israeli/American attack on the computer-controlled Iranian fuel-enrichment centrifuges.
Homeland Security gleefully monitored the frustration occurring in the Iranian armed forces due to this double-fisted attack on their information and defense industries. They were sure to welcome the aid that the American agents were coming to provide—at least, that was the idea.
* * *
The flight carrying Lara and Uri from Los Angeles to Thule Air Base in Greenland took well into the first night. In fact, it was past 8:00 p.m. local time when they landed. The flight had taken nearly nine hours, during which time the agents had a chance to study the aerial maps of Tehran, memorize their contact information, and once again rehearse the imagined interviews with their prospective employers. They would take turns, each taking the part of personnel agent for the other. Of course, it was all done in Farsi. They had a few hours in Greenland to have a leisurely hot meal and stretch their legs. Then it was on to the US air base in eastern Saudi Arabia. As soon as they got back on the refueled and restocked plane, they settled in to sleep; they would arrive at King Abdulaziz Air Base just past noon the following day.