by Jack Winnick
“Dinner will be as usual, Heydar,” she called after him; he just nodded with a tired sigh.
On reaching his room, he removed his shoes and searched his secret phone for anything from Tom. He didn’t have much reason to think he would hear this soon; it was only about 6:00 a.m. in New York. But there it was: Everything on schedule. Proceed as planned. Brief and to the point. He washed up, put his shoes back on, and without even changing clothes from his workday, walked slowly down to dinner.
To the casual observer, Uri looked like a tired working man after a long day, looking forward to a restful dinner and sleep without much else on his mind. The three members of his “family” looked at him sympathetically; they recognized a person who had had a tough day. Tala smiled and, without a bit of rancor over her rejection the previous night, said, “You still have on your glasses, you know.”
“Oh yes, I guess I’m even more tired than I realized.”
“We will just have dinner and let you go to bed. You have to be at work early tomorrow?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so.” Uri had not given them any idea of what he was up to; they only knew him as an antigovernment agent whom they were ready and willing to support. But he could tell they were extremely curious about his real role. However, he continued the performance as the tired and listless office worker. Inside, he was a ball of nerves, ready to follow through with the missile firing set for the following day. While he picked at his food, his mind whirled with every detail of the test. It simply had to go off as planned, or his role as the expert analysis agent would be destroyed.
“If you’ll excuse me, I really do have to go to bed. I have to leave for work at five in the morning, so I will just pick up something for breakfast at the booth in our building downtown.” He rose, folded his napkin, and trudged wearily to the stairs.
“You will come with us to prayers on Friday, will you not, Heydar?” Aunt Sarina pleaded.
Uri had completely forgotten about the Friday Jumu’ah services. He immediately turned and replied, “Of course, I will be most pleased to join you.” He was fully prepared to join in the Shia religious observance. The family, especially Tala, beamed at his response. He would spend the day with them, dinner and whatever else they had in store.
The next morning came early. Uri slept little, going over and over the day’s plans. On rising, his first business was to check his phones. There were no messages. Tom was not one to risk unnecessary communications. He headed to the bus stop in the predawn semidarkness. Even the normally chatty birds nesting in the trees had not begun their standard conversations. Only the earliest of commuters rode the bus at this hour. He had plenty of room to sit and consider all the things that might go wrong. He transferred as usual midway on his commute, now standing for the short remaining trip. He practically burst through door as the bus reached his intersection, half jogging to his building, his briefcase under his arm, his identification badge already around his neck.
The guard merely nodded to him as he hastily signed in and bounded up the stairs. Aside from Sa’id, he was the only one already there. His boss seemed as full of nervous energy as he, just as eager to see this intelligence coup come to fruition. For different reasons, of course, but he could smell a promotion if it were to come off as planned. As far as Sa’id knew, no other part of the Iranian military had a hint of this missile launch. In fact, his superiors were very skeptical of the veracity of the intercepted message concerning the event. Sa’id was certain they would be as curious as he to see if it indeed came off as he anticipated. They had, as far as he knew, never been privy to such information.
Uri gave a brief greeting to the excited Sa’id as he headed to the small refreshment counter to get something for breakfast. The food stand on the second floor was surprisingly similar to those in Israel or any American office building. He got a cup of hot coffee and a packaged breakfast bar. That would serve him until near “launch” at 1:30 p.m. local time. He came back to the office as the others arrived, as excited as he at the upcoming event.
Ms. Hadani was the last to arrive, as nervous as the others. She glanced at Uri, who was making himself busy, scanning all the incoming news on the non-classified wire. There was nothing at all to suggest that the few Iranian military observation planes or satellites had seen any activity in the mid-Pacific. Finally, at one o’clock, Uri went back to the little food stand to get some juice and snacks in preparation for the upcoming shot. He did not dare to check his secret phone for messages from Homeland. It was too late now to do anything about it.
At precisely 1:33 p.m., there was a burst of electronic chatter on the military wire. An American missile launch had been detected in the Northern Mariana Islands by both planes and satellite; it appeared to be headed in a southeasterly direction toward an unknown target. The room erupted in cheers; Uri was at the center of the congratulations. Sa’id quieted everyone as they awaited news of the path and impact. As Uri had predicted, the path was maintained, and at 2:58 p.m., an impact was reported just east of the Marquesas Islands. First reports were of a vessel being struck; it was moored in open water, and there were no distress calls as it quickly sank.
There was near pandemonium; the room exploded as if it were New Year’s Eve. Uri was pummeled by his coworkers. All they awaited was official word from “upstairs,” verifying the news. Uri welcomed the applause as casually as possible; after all, he had done nothing more than report a captured enemy signal. In less than ten minutes, the phones were ringing. The people in headquarters, housed on the sacred sixth floor, were asking Sa’id—no, ordering him—upstairs ASAP with all of his pertinent intelligence on the launch. Sa’id started on his way to the elevator, then turned back and told Uri to come with him and bring the deciphered, classified intercept. Uri, trying his best to hide his elation, did as told.
As they arrived upstairs, it was clear that this was a monumental event. Never had the offices of the Operations branch broken into the securest of American transmissions. If they could do this, there might be no limit to the extent of their reach. Plans for an incursion, even for a cooperative venture with the hated Israelis, might be made available. The operatives in the sixth-floor offices were on their feet, many in military uniform, applauding the pair as they arrived. Uri had surreptitiously turned off the power to his secret phone before they entered the offices; he didn’t know how sophisticated their detection systems were.
How had this new arrival, Heydar, performed this feat? Uri did have some declassified documentation to try to satisfy the curiosity of the gathered group of military and civilian administrators. Amid the celebration, one man stayed seated at his large, gleaming desk. He wore what Uri recognized as the bars of a brigadier general in the Revolutionary Guard. The general stared at the unimposing new middle-aged man steadily, directly into his beer-bottle spectacles. There was a long silence as the two men gazed at each other. Then finally, the silver-haired general broke into a broad grin, rose, and grasped the newcomer’s hand, his other hand reaching around Uri’s shoulders. “You have indeed done a great service to the nation, my friend,” he growled.
You should only know, Uri thought as he accepted the plaudits of the gathered officials. They insisted on knowing more details of his successful signal interception, which Uri deflected with obscure explanations with phrases like “elliptical transmissions” and “hole-in-time technology.” But the room was too drunk with elation for anyone to try to understand what the rock star of the moment was talking about. They settled for a highly condensed version of his manufactured schooling and experience, taken directly from his resume. The festivities lasted well past 3:00 p.m., when the work day was scheduled to conclude.
Sa’id and his now-famous employee headed back downstairs to their offices. There, his teammates were all over him, complete with cheers and congratulations. Sa’id calmed everyone down, reminding them that the workweek was now concluded; they would commence again on Sunday, as usual. As everyone packed up to leave, returning al
l classified documents to the safe in the outer office, Ms. Hadani’s interoffice phone jangled loudly. Something was up. Everyone stopped and waited for the office manager to answer it. After just a brief pause, she drew Sa’id and Uri over to her desk. Covering the phone, she said just loud enough for all to hear: “It’s the chief of operations—at the Castle. They want to see you, Heydar, first thing Sunday morning. Bring all your gear.”
There was no doubt in anyone’s mind; Heydar was being transferred to headquarters, in the Castle. After just one week on the job! The staff looked on in awe as he packed his meager possessions into his briefcase. Sa’id signed and Ms. Hadani cosigned the release that was taped over his locked case. That gave the guard at the front door authorization for “Heydar” to leave the building with it, as long as the release form hadn’t been torn open.
Uri knew something about the Castle. It was a medieval structure just northeast of the city in the foothills of the mountains. The ancient fortification had been converted into a secret office building strongly believed to be the location of the headquarters of Iran’s military apparatus. Before Uri left, Sa’id told him that transportation to the Castle would be available for him on his arrival at work Sunday morning.
The speed with which all this was happening was making Uri’s head spin. He could hardly wait to brief Tom on these events and get his reaction to them. What instructions would he receive? Uri was glad they had two full days for the plans to develop and be transmitted to him.
Chapter 11
Lara made her incursion into Tehran without incident on the same day as Uri. After a long trip in the blazing sun the jeep carrying her and her friendly escorts finally made its way into the southern outskirts of the bustling city of Tehran. She had to admit, at least to herself, that she felt unusually vulnerable here in these surroundings on her own. She knew, of course, that the network of counter-revolutionaries had been going strong for more than twenty years, so she wasn’t, strictly speaking, alone.
The US Department of Homeland Security had overseen activities in Iran ever since the department was established a year after the heinous attacks of September 11, 2001. The DHS had nearly a quarter-million employees, with an annual budget of over $40 billion. Most of this allocation of personnel and money was spent on issues involving the Middle East. Originally, since the 9/11 terrorists were all Arabs, the focus had been on the Saudis and their allies. Now, however, the center of attention had shifted to Iran. Knowing these facts gave her some degree of comfort. The hidden assets the United States had in Iran were behind her, even though not always immediately visible.
The transport from her landing spot on the Persian Gulf Coast to Tehran was a jeep, similar to Uri’s. There were in her jeep, however, two Iranian women agents, schooled in the States. That gave her a great deal of assurance. She was also pleased to find that her residence was in a very modern area on the western edge of the city, with parks, museums, and apartment buildings. Pulling up to the door of her new home, she found it to be in a quiet neighborhood southwest of the downtown, with a plethora of schools, shopping centers, and monuments.
To her great relief, two women greeted her on arrival at the two-story dwelling just three blocks from a modern mall. The women, who introduced themselves as Faezeh and Sara, were very different in appearance. Faezeh was a large middle-aged woman with brown hair and intense black eyes. She seemed to be the person in charge. Her companion was almost the opposite. She was a small woman, about thirty years of age, with a mild, soft-spoken manner. They both greeted her in English with almost no detectable accent, each giving her a warm, friendly hug. Lara returned the pleasantries but using her excellent Farsi. The two Iranians gasped in astonishment at her facility with the dialect; they recognized that from here on, the conversation would be carried out in the Iranian language. No other occupants of the house were apparent; it was just as she had been briefed.
Lara’s escorts brought her bags from the jeep, and after a brief exchange, excused themselves and headed back to their vehicle. “Sit down, please,” Faezeh said pleasantly to her new housemate. Sara just nodded in agreement. Lara felt immediately at home with the two and saw no imminent difficulties. They chatted for about twenty minutes, Sara bringing in a platter of hot tea and Persian cakes. The two hosts detected Lara’s tiredness almost immediately; she’d had practically no sleep for the past twenty-four hours. Looking at Faezeh for affirmation, Sara suggested to Lara that she might wish to see her room and “freshen up.”
What a great idea, thought Lara silently as she smiled agreeably and followed Sara up the stairs to a small second floor that had four closed doors on the hall. Lara was grateful to find that her room was to be the last along the corridor, with an adjoining bathroom that also opened from the hall. There was a double bed, mirror, and washstand in the bedroom, along with a desk, chair, personal computer, and television in the corner. “Delightful!” Lara uttered in honest approval, to the clear pleasure of her hosts.
“We can have dinner at eight if that suits,” Faezeh suggested.
“Of course, that would be great,” Lara responded, noting that allowed her a couple of hours to shower, rest, and change. Faezeh nodded and placed Lara’s bags on the floor by the bed. Lara was so relaxed at this point, she hadn’t even realized that she had left the bags right where her “chauffeurs” had put them on arrival. She lay down on the bed, set her internal alarm for one hour, and fell instantly asleep.
Just about an hour later, she heard a gentle tap on her door. So much for my internal alarm, she thought to herself. “Be right there,” she remembered to say in Farsi. She found she was even thinking in the Iranian language these days.
Lara first unpacked her bags, placing her clothes neatly in the bureau provided. There were the work clothes that had been picked out for her: the western-style loose-fitting long-sleeved shirts and equally loose-fitting tan slacks that came down to just above her ankles. For her off-work hours, she had brightly colored blouses and full skirts. No skin or body curvature must show at any time, of course. To top things off, so to speak, she had a variety of plain and flowered head scarves, in keeping with modern Iranian custom.
She dressed quickly, then remembered to wet her contact lenses. She had gotten used to them amazingly well; but she took every opportunity to use the special fluid she had been given. That item taken care of, she trotted quickly down the stairs. The table was already set as Faezeh came in from the kitchen with a platter heaped with skewers of what appeared to be beef and lamb, interspersed with onions, carrots, and other vegetables. The entire platter was covered in rose petals, giving it an amazingly charming appearance. There was also a delicious-looking salad and a pitcher of cold, sparkling water. A plate of warm, homemade bread and olive oil sat in the center of the square dining-room table. I couldn’t have ordered anything better, Lara thought. She noticed the implied but not obvious intimacy between the two women: the way they seemed to know what each other would choose to eat, the warm friendliness they shared. She presumed them to be a couple, which was just fine with her.
Faezeh controlled the conversation. There was no discussion of her mission, background, or capabilities; only talk of the city, transportation, and sights. It was as if she were any tourist visiting Tehran for the first time. Lara was feeling more and more comfortable. Dinner proceeded with a slow, friendly pace until Lara noticed by the hall clock that it was approaching 9:00 p.m. She made her excuses to her hosts, thanking them for the wonderful meal, but noting she had appointments beginning early the next day, Monday. They understood completely and rose as she did, wishing her a sound sleep.
“But first,” Sara interrupted, “we must give you your local mobile phone. It was purchased from a reliable vendor here in town.” She smiled knowingly. Lara accepted it gratefully; this was as expected, even though it seemed a bit odd to have this connection with her hosts.
Before going to bed, she needed to check in with Tom, see if there was any news for her or word from Ur
i. Sure enough, there was a message on her secret DHS phone, tailored to appear like a commercial Iranian model. If ever questioned as to why she had two mobile phones, she was to say that one was not operating well, so she had purchased the other but had not transferred all phone numbers as yet. If anyone other than Lara tried to open the DHS phone, it simply would fail to function; it was just like Uri’s in that regard.
She was pleased to hear that Uri had arrived safe and sound around the same time as she. He was living in a neighborhood a few miles east of her in a similar private home. They, of course, were not to communicate directly. The news was reassuring; she could imagine him nearby. She responded with the code for “everything normal.” On that pleasant note, she got up and opened the single window in her room. The cool nighttime breeze was already wafting down from the nearby mountains; along with the wonderful songs of the nightingales, Lara fell quickly asleep.
Chapter 12
Six thirty a.m. arrived too soon. Lara awoke refreshed and immediately checked for messages; thankfully, there were none. She then switched to thinking about her first appointment that morning. It was for an experienced cryptologist, something in which her resume showed she had abundant training and experience. Of course, that was true, except that most of it was gained at the NSA, the US National Security Agency. She had, in fact, two years’ experience unscrambling Iranian intercepts the agency gathered. She had no real way to know what lay in store for her; this particular job she was interviewing for was with a company carrying the nebulous title “Information Systems Specialists.”
She found that Faezeh and Sara had prepared a wonderful breakfast of cereal and light cream along with dates and figs, fresh from the market. She had her choice of sweet tea or strong, hot Persian coffee; she chose the latter for a quick wake-up call. Then it was off to her job hunt.