by Jack Winnick
Lara could sleep well on the single ersatz bed in their private compartment. Uri, on the other hand, was prone to worry; he ran over what they would have to do on arrival in Saudi Arabia. Then, he worried about their night transit to the western shore of Iran and the transport by jeep north to Tehran. It would be the morning of the second day before they completely converted to their Iranian selves at their hosts’ homes in the northern part of the city. They already had job interviews scheduled starting that afternoon. It was a lot to consider and worry about—in Farsi.
The couple was awakened after the nine-hour flight and offered breakfast. Lara slid open the window curtain to a blazing sun in absolutely clear skies. It was quite a contrast to their departure from subzero, totally dark Greenland. The desert landscape below them, though, was just as desolate as the arctic. They each immediately made their compulsory sign-in call; this was going to have to be a strict part of their daily routine.
Uri, in contrast to his wife, who was alert and ready for the new day, was having difficulty figuring out where he was, let alone the time of day. He had finally fallen into a deep sleep after an unknown number of hours of tortuous mental gymnastics. As he slowly awakened, he realized it was concern for Lara that was weighing on him. He simply couldn’t think of her as just his spy partner. She was everything to him, and the thought of any harm coming to her was still overwhelming. Seeing her looking down at him now in his semi stupor, he could sense that she recognized his concern. She gave him a motherly smile and tousled his already messy hair.
Actually, Lara’s smile was more than just tenderness; she was still getting used to his altered appearance. It was startling to see a bearded son of the desert sleeping there. But the food arrived quickly, and they devoured it. This may be their last Western-style meal for some time, they realized. As soon as they signaled they were finished, the polite young airman came back, took their trays, and informed them that they would be touching down in less than an hour; they needed to prepare for arrival.
The old nervousness came back as Uri waited for Lara to finish dressing. The small but adequate washroom was a welcome convenience. By the time he had cleaned up and changed into his desert garb, they were getting the heads-up of preparation for landing. The pair sat on adjacent seats, strapped in and holding hands. They were silent, but their minds were racing wildly. Some things never changed.
They touched down uneventfully and a jeep drove them to the building adjacent to the control tower. They carried their briefcases while two airmen brought their baggage, two nondescript cloth suitcases. Air force Col. James Madison Cleary met them. Cleary was the commander of the Saudi base, a veteran pilot who, they had learned, had done duty in Iraq and Afghanistan. He was fifty-five years old and close to retirement but the picture of radiant health. A warm, friendly smile peeked out from under the trim, gray moustache on his upper lip.
“Great to see you folks,” he shouted over the noise of the planes on the tarmac. He shook their hands and led them into his office, a rather austere affair compared with some of the generals’ accommodations they had witnessed. “Sit down and let me give you a quick rundown of what we have cooking for you,” he said with a Virginia twang. “We’ve got a couple of hours of reconnaissance to go over with you before we get you on the road. You’ll be going by land vehicle to our stepping-off point on the coast. Then a personnel landing craft to take you across the Gulf. You won’t even have to get your feet wet; it’s got a nice ramp we can put right up onto the sand. She’s got a big engine; you’ll make thirty knots easy, but she has a low enough profile the bad guys won’t see you on their radar. Anyway, our fleet is right there to cover your tracks and be available for any sort of contingency. Sound good?”
“Seems like you have everything covered,” Uri said easily. “Want to come along?”
“Hey, we’ve heard all about you folks. I’d be nothing but dead weight,” Cleary said, laughing. “Seriously, you’ll be casting off just after dark. The boat is fully loaded with radio, radar, GPS, and everything else you could think of, even armament—I sure hope you don’t need that!” Lara and Uri laughed nervously. “Anyway, they’ll take you across to the Iran side of the drink where your ground transport will be waiting. About a five-hour ride but pretty comfortable; all the amenities.” He paused before adding, “You’ll have separate land vehicles over there, you know,” focusing on Lara.
“Yes, Colonel, we know,” she said.
“Well, then, good luck to you. If there’s anything else we can do, let me know after your detailed reconnaissance briefing. Major Bailey will handle that.” He waved to a man standing outside, who immediately entered the room.
“Agents, I’d like you to know Skip—that is, Major William Bailey. He’ll be the captain of your landing craft. Skip, these are our hardy visitors. Please give them the complete rundown.”
Major Bailey, who looked more like a navy man than an air force officer, shook their hands. His skin was heavily bronzed, aging him beyond his years; his hands were roughened by decades on the water. It was apparent from his manner that he was aware of these agents’ history, or at least their fame. “It’s my pleasure, ma’am, sir,” he said modestly.
Lara did not want to mention their names, as was the order during undercover assignments, so she merely thanked him and waited to be escorted to the map room.
* * *
The recon with the major added nothing to their knowledge of the situation; it just confirmed what they already knew. They were, of course, pleased with the corroboration; nothing went wasted when your lives were on the line. There was just time for a light snack, and then they were off by jeep to the small harbor.
It was just after dusk when they boarded the modern-looking, high-powered launch. Lara and Uri boarded from a small dock near the US Navy offices along the road parallel to the beach, though there was a loading ramp that permitted entry and egress from the shore. Sentries guarded the twelve-foot high, barbed-wire fences that ran along the oceanfront. Well-lit concrete piers ran from the beach out three hundred yards into the calm sea. Five crewmen accompanied the agents, led by Skip Bailey. He watched with a practiced eye as the men on the dock tossed the hawsers up to the boat’s crew.
It was an amazingly peaceful scene; the gulls squawking overhead provided the only sounds other than the gentle lapping of the quiet, warm waters of the Persian Gulf. Though it was already evening, the heat was still oppressive, especially when combined with the withering humidity. The agents had become used to the gentle climate of southern California, despite the occasional spring rains. There was, however, a beautiful sunset behind them; they could watch it as the launch slithered quietly into the small harbor. Sunset was abrupt in this latitude; it seemed no time at all until they were into the open sea, the sun already below the horizon.
The boat gathered speed quickly in the tranquil gulf. They knew the navy’s Sixth Fleet was out there somewhere, silently watching over them. It was hard for them to imagine the massive forces of evil that surrounded them. There was something intangibly sinister about the quiet that enveloped them.
Skip Bailey came up as they watched the shore disappear from the port rail. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” the crusty major said in a friendly manner. He was at home on the water, one could tell. “I love it out here. Going to get me a nice thirty-footer, go fishin’, crabbin’ in the Chesapeake when my time’s up.” If this mission was causing him any anxiety, they couldn’t tell from his peaceful demeanor. Lara and Uri hoped to see him when the job was over, and he was there to pick them up on the Iranian side.
“You might want to grab some rest; it’ll be few hours before we hit the beach. Get some grub, too. I don’t know what you’re gonna eat over there.” Skip gestured vaguely at the invisible shore to the east.
“That’s not a bad idea, Major,” Uri offered. He did want to spend most of these last few hours with his bride. Who knew how long until . . . No sense going there, he told himself.
“Call
me Skip, please,” the airman said to both agents. “I’m countin’ on seein’ the both of you on the way back, whenever . . .” He tipped his cap and retreated to the pilot house, allowing the pair to head into the cabin.
Lara and Uri went into the living quarters, where they were offered some fresh seafood by the young airman who was acting as chef. “No alcohol aboard, I’m afraid,” he apologized. “But plenty of tea and soda.”
“That’s just fine, airman,” Uri replied for both of them. “We need to be on our toes from here on.”
“So I understand . . .” the young man stood there, apparently hoping to hear more about their top-secret mission. When he saw that was not going to happen, the freckle-faced youth darted into the kitchen to bring them some soft drinks.
The couple retired to the small private cabin they had been granted. It was normally reserved for the captain of the vessel; Skip was certainly seeing to their well-being. Both Lara and Uri found themselves exhausted; it had been a very long day. They lay down beside each other on the double bed and, holding each other’s hands, fell quickly asleep.
It seemed no time at all before the gentle knock informed them that sunrise was imminent, as was their approach to the spot of beach on the northeastern shore of the Persian Gulf. They had an hour to clean up, have a quick breakfast, and enter the Islamic Republic of Iran. They dressed in their Iranian garb, with briefcases and fabric suitcases, and headed onto the deck. The sun was just rising, a flaming red orb in the east. The quiet of the night was soon replaced by the noise of the hungry gulls, clamoring for any scraps of food that might come off the launch. The gulls screamed and dove into the warm, oily-looking water, fighting for every morsel the ship might provide.
The sandy beach appeared deserted, to the consternation of the agents. Though they searched the bare sand, no vehicles were in sight. Seeing their tenseness, Skip Bailey approached them and reported that their rides were already there, hidden just out of sight, waiting for them to hit the beach. The major grasped each of their hands and, with some barely concealed apprehension, wished them well. His words were reassuring, but his face revealed a hint of concern. Uri wondered if it was just his imagination, but a glance at Lara showed she sensed it as well. What did he know that he’s not telling us? Too late to worry about it now.
The crew turned the boat, backed up to the shore, and ably lowered the ramp onto the hard sand. At the same time, two Iranian-made jeeps pulled out of the scrub bushes and came to a stop no more than ten feet away. “Greetings, friends!” the apparent leader of the Iranian team said in English to the Americans, primarily to Bailey, who seemed to recognize him.
“Nice to see you, Salib,” Skip replied grasping the rebel leader’s outstretched hand. “These are our friends, who you will know as Heydar and Daria.” He nodded to first Uri, then Lara.
The two agents greeted the rebel leader in Farsi: “Our pleasure to meet you, Salib,” they said politely in unison; immediately following with the phrase, “Hāl-e shomā Chetore?” How is your health?
The group of rebels smiled and laughed at the agents’ fluency with the language. The six Persians, all men, shook hands eagerly with Uri, bowing gracefully to Lara. She nodded to them in return.
So far, so good, Uri thought. Now, what was Bailey’s apprehension all about? His goodbye to Lara was quick, without betraying any emotion. No sense giving away any personal details. The jeep carrying her and three Iranian rebels drove off without hesitation.
Uri’s driver introduced himself only as Ali, a name as common in Shia countries as John in the West. He was a young, slender Persian man, dressed in desert fatigues showing neither rank nor citizenry. Uri sat upfront with Ali, his suitcase and briefcase between his legs in the open jeep; the two other soldiers climbed in the back with just a wave to their new comrade. “It will be many hours before we reach our destination,” Ali informed him. “If you need we will stop along the way. We should be there before dark.”
Uri glanced at the sun, already climbing well above the horizon. “Oh, don’t worry,” Ali told him. “We will bring up the top before noon. The weather will be quite pleasant.” Uri smiled in return.
There was little conversation in the noisy, rough-riding jeep; he was going to be sore tonight, Uri thought glumly. At least he would get a night’s sleep before his first interviews. He ran over the first day’s schedule in his head. He had committed everything to memory by now. The first few interviews were with minor government bureaus. They all needed help setting up spreadsheets and personnel accounts. He had been impressed that they had access to relatively new software; he would be able to step in gracefully, he hoped.
Many of the personnel advertisements were also seeking graphic designers and people to set up websites. He had received valuable schooling in this during his “crash course” over the last few weeks. Others were looking for what were listed as Information Technology professionals but were people skilled in uprooting false and disruptive incoming transmissions, “scams” as they were known worldwide. Here, he would have some valuable assistance from Homeland Security. Homeland was prepared to transmit professional-looking opportunities to any company or government office to which Uri was applying. As soon as one of these transmissions was received and opened, it would cause havoc on all the office computers; Uri would be right there to solve the problem in a couple of hours. What better test of his IT skills?
His knowledge of English was also a benefit. He had a counterfeit degree from an American university and was able, of course, to pass any test his interviewer gave him. Knowing what sort of problem each interviewing agency would have been dealing with lately was an advantage. He had been thoroughly briefed during training, not only about the issues that plagued them but also the fixes.
They had been driving all day, with only three rest stops, each at a market where they were able to buy some fresh food, not the packaged variety common on American highways. Uri noticed that the sun was rapidly setting; it was now striking him from the driver’s side window. Looking out at his surroundings, he realized they had entered the suburban area south of Tehran. Even as he watched, the groups of farm dwellings slowly melded into residential communities; cars in driveways became more frequent. Children were apparent everywhere, either coming home from school or going to evening prayers. The scene was strikingly similar to the images from the global satellites and drones he had seen during his training. He quickly became more alert; he was about to enter his new life.
Chapter 9
It was late Sunday when they entered Vali Asr, one of the longest streets in southern Tehran. Ali left the four-lane highway and entered a relatively new development of upper-middle-class homes. They appeared well maintained and spacious. Modern-looking supermarkets and restaurants appeared on many of the street corners. If it weren’t for the clothing on the pedestrians, Uri could imagine himself in a suburb of Tel Aviv or even Los Angeles. Except, of course, for the omnipresent billboards displaying huge pictures of the ayatollah and his sycophants, most brandishing weapons even as they smiled at their captive audiences.
The late spring twilight had settled into night as Ali followed the instructions of his GPS onto one of the quiet streets. Most but not all of the driveways were occupied by vehicles, many of them small, white sedans. He pulled into one of the driveways nearly identical to its neighbors. They all tumbled out of their jeep, stretched, and with Ali in the lead, strode up to the front door. Uri noted very few people out in their yards or on the sidewalks. Ali knocked gently on the door, which opened, revealing a woman in casual western dress but with a head scarf. Seeing Ali, she beamed with pleasure and kissed him on both cheeks. Simultaneously, she scanned the other men, seemingly knowing the two who were Ali’s compatriots, but then stopping to peer intently at Uri, the only one carrying a suitcase and briefcase
“This is Heydar, Tala,” Ali said to the woman at the door, in Farsi, of course, even as she stood still, scrutinizing Uri. “Heydar, meet your hostess, Tala.�
� The woman did not offer to kiss the newcomer, but she did reach out her right hand to him. He took it gently but firmly.
“It is my pleasure to meet you, Heydar,” she said to Uri. “Please, come in and make yourself comfortable.” Her eyes never left him as he entered what was to be his new home. “These are my parents,” she said, indicating a rather elderly couple who sat rigidly in stiff-backed wicker chairs. A television set blared in the background; some sort of Persian game show was in progress. As Uri sat in a dining-room chair at the edge of the room, placing his bags on the floor, Tala had a conversation with Uri’s travelling companions, who started to leave. But first, Ali came over to Uri, offering some quiet words meant to calm him down a bit. Apparently, his uneasiness was obvious; the whole transition from Los Angeles to Tehran had taken place so fast.
Once Ali and his companions had said goodbye to Uri, Tala came over to him, sat next to him, and smiled. Her gaze never left his face, making him even more self-conscious. “You have been to Tehran before, Heydar?” she asked in Farsi.
“No, I’ve not had the pleasure,” he responded glibly. “This is my first time here.”
“Oh, your Farsi is quite good!” she exclaimed with delight. “Just a hint of a Lebanese accent.”
“Very good, yes,” he said. “I grew up in that area.”
He could see her trying to put everything together; he wondered just how much she actually knew about his background and mission. Her eyes continued to explore his face, now and then drifting to the rest of his person. He could feel himself coloring under her scrutiny; he hoped it wasn’t showing.