Ops Files II--Terror Alert

by Russell Blake

  He remembered the words of his father, now dead for half a decade: “The future belongs to the bold.”

  Cowardice and timidity were the death of dreams. Vahid had decided after his father’s passing that he couldn’t settle for a lesser position in history than as one of the bold. Cranky, cynical, and perpetually single, he’d watched his region of the world manipulated and discarded by the West like a soiled tissue, millions killed in undeclared wars, the barbarians closing on the gates of his own country, their agenda clear. He couldn’t sit on the sidelines any longer. He wouldn’t.

  His newfound determination was unfamiliar territory for him, ordinarily a man of science. His world was that of the atom, of reason, of collisions and energy release and chain reactions. Everything was clean and predictable, action and consequences, no ambiguity or subtlety or ability to read between the lines required. Equations were his friend, and it was only after endless soul searching that he’d arrived at the conclusion that logic was not enough in some situations.

  But his hands were still trembling like an old woman’s.

  And he had important business to attend to.

  There was no backing out now. He’d burned all his bridges but the one in front of him. The one that required uncomfortable, and risky, action.

  Vahid felt in his shirt for his cell phone and then dropped his gaze to his shoes. He couldn’t chance a call. He’d see his contact soon enough. And he wasn’t a child who needed the soothing effect of a calm voice to guide him through his crisis of confidence.

  The future belongs to the bold.

  That was all he needed to know.

  Two minutes later he walked out of the restroom with his tie straight and his chin high. A young man passed him in the wide hall and nodded in greeting.

  “Hello, Dr. Madani.”

  “Hello, Levik.”

  As part of Iran’s nuclear program, Vahid, an award-winning physicist with a professorship at Tehran’s Malek Ashtar University, was afforded every privilege and courtesy the regime could provide, and had the respect and admiration of not only his students but his colleagues, as well as his co-workers at the clandestine uranium-enrichment plant near Qom – a top-secret location that was officially denied by the government.

  During much of the year he resided at the university, where his classes were considered among the most rigorous in the curriculum. Levik was one of his brighter students, a promising youngster with incredible math skills whom Vahid had been grooming for the doctorate program he steered.

  A muscular man in an ill-fitting blue suit was waiting for Vahid outside of his office – Tariq, his bodyguard, and Vahid suspected, his minder for VAJA, the Iranian Ministry of Intelligence. Vahid’s brain was a repository of state secrets the CIA would do anything to possess, and it had long been rumored that the agency was trying to encourage high-ranking Iranian scientists to defect, although Vahid had never been approached – his loyalty was above reproach, everyone knew, although in the darkest night he questioned whether his government was completely sure. The bodyguard and his ilk were their insurance policy, Vahid understood, although his presence was explained as a security measure for Vahid’s protection.

  Tariq was shaped like a door and had the meaty face of a wrestler. Vahid could plainly see the bulk of the pistol he carried in a shoulder holster beneath his suit jacket as he approached. Vahid smiled, and Tariq stared at him expressionlessly.

  “Are you ready to go?” Vahid asked.

  “Yes, sir,” the bodyguard said, his voice a deep growl.

  Vahid followed him out the rear faculty exit, to the car – one of the positives of the security arrangement was that he was chauffeured everywhere by a government-supplied vehicle and driver, also kindly provided by the Ministry of Intelligence.

  “The mosque,” Vahid ordered the driver, who nodded silently and pulled out of the parking lot. In the passenger seat, Tariq scowled through the windshield at the setting sun.

  Once inside the mosque, Vahid prayed with the assembly and then slipped into the restroom as Tariq waited for him by the exit. Two men framed the doorway inside the small space, preventing anyone from entering. A paunchy man with a flowing white beard stood by one of the faucets, smiling as Vahid joined him.

  “It is all arranged. We have your new papers, the bank account is fully funded, and nobody suspects anything.” The bearded man looked Vahid over. “This is an important moment in our struggle. Are you holding up?”

  “Yes. But I wish it were done. The waiting is the worst part.”

  “Be strong and have no fear. Soon you will be with our associate in France, where you will have your first project. But until then, just go about your business, say nothing to anyone, and behave normally.”

  “I…yes. Of course.” Vahid managed a smile, but its effect was sickly, twisting one side of his face into a grimace.

  “You must go. It won’t be long now,” the older man warned.

  “I wish I could say goodbye to a few friends.”

  “We must all make sacrifices. This will be one of yours. You must not say a word. I’m sorry – it is the only way.”

  Vahid dried his hands and blotted his face with the paper towel before tossing it into the bin. “I know.”

  The ride home in Tehran’s rush-hour traffic was the usual maddening stop and go. Vahid busied himself on his cell phone, responding to the endless emails that flooded his inbox. He finished one to a student asking for a clarification for his doctoral thesis and sat back in the seat, eyes closed. Soon there would be no more contact with anyone from his past life – he’d be embarking on a new existence, one fraught with danger, no doubt, but one in which he could make a profound difference; as opposed to being a government functionary in a massive state-controlled machine, as he now was.

  “Are you feeling all right, Doctor?” Tariq asked, eyeing him in the rearview mirror.

  Vahid’s eyes snapped open, and he hoped the security man didn’t see the fraction of a second where he looked like a startled nocturnal animal caught in a floodlight. “Yes, yes. Everything’s fine. I just didn’t sleep well. Something I ate.”

  “Let me know if you’d like to go to the hospital,” Tariq, the ever-helpful killer, said.

  “That won’t be necessary. Best to let nature run its course.”

  Tariq locked eyes with him in the mirror and nodded. “Your call.”

  “I just want to get home and pack. So much to do for the trip…”

  “I understand.”

  The rest of the drive went by in silence. When he entered his condominium complex, where another security man would take over for the evening shift, Vahid could swear he felt Tariq’s eyes burning a hole in his back.

  An artifact of his racing imagination, no doubt, he told himself, trying to shake the sensation.

  But frighteningly real nonetheless.

  Chapter 7

  Dhaka, Bangladesh

  Layers of dark clouds stretched to the horizon as the jumbo jet banked on final approach to Hazrat Shahjalal International Airport. Maya stared out the window as the heavy plane bounced through air pockets, the turbulence increasing on descent as warm updrafts from the hot terrain met cooler air. The sun was a dying red ember sinking into the distant hills of India as they dropped into the clouds, and then the window went gray and the aircraft bucked like a mechanical bull.

  She’d been briefed by Yael the prior day, told she was to assist the head of station in Dhaka in whatever way was necessary, that he was an esteemed Mossad veteran engaged in a critical counterterrorism surveillance operation in the teeming city, and that she was at his disposal until such time as she was recalled to Israel. She’d read the dossier he had supplied, with photographs of the imam and a description of his suspicious activities – which as far as she could see, didn’t amount to anything.

  Elana had offered her matter-of-fact words of advice, reminding her to keep her eyes open, to assume nothing, to trust
nobody, all of which was generic, expected, and ultimately, useless – Maya already knew it all. In truth, she’d been anxious to get back out into the world, away from the drudgery of the camp, the endless training and preparation, and on a real mission. She’d already gotten a taste in her first operation, and even with the implicit danger, she felt…anticipation. A new city, an area of the world she’d never been to, working with an agency legend, tracking real terrorists, not aluminum targets – this is what she lived for, and a part of her thought it was about time they put her to use.

  As far as she was concerned, she’d more than demonstrated her skills, and further training was wasted on her. Of course, she’d never admit to that out loud, but it must have come through in her attitude because everyone in the camp seemed to treat her especially harshly, demanding more out of her than she thought possible, rarely congratulating her but always criticizing even the most minor flaws in her performance.

  Which she sucked up without complaint. She knew the drill. They were testing her both mentally and physically, trying to force her to crack, to see some weakness that could get her and her fellow operatives killed in the field.

  Another waste of time. Nothing they could throw at her could match the harsh early years of her life, and she’d survived those with no visible scars. A little contrived scorn, a dollop of misery, it all rolled off her like she was coated in Teflon.

  The plane groaned like it was coming apart and began vibrating as it lurched alarmingly, losing a hundred feet in a second. The landing gear dropped from the underside with a thunk as the jet shed speed. Another shudder, a sudden acceleration as the plane neared stall velocity, and then the wheels settled onto the tarmac, shimmying like an unsteady drunk before stabilizing and slowing on approach to the terminal.

  Maya’s passport was Belgian, and she’d memorized all the details of her cover as a photographer for a news publication, but nobody gave her a second glance as she trundled through immigration and customs with only her carry-on bags. The arrival terminal was a study in disarray, a throng of yelling drivers and relatives vying for attention just outside the exits, behind a steel barricade manned by a formation of green-shirted police. Maya’s jade eyes drifted across the crowd until her gaze landed on a taxi stand near the door. She made her way to the booth where a skinny man with fewer teeth than fingers jabbered a price at her for a ride downtown.

  She shrugged and spoke in English – her briefing had indicated English was the second language in Bangladesh, after Bengali, taught in all the schools and used for official business. The man barked a number at her and motioned with his hand. Maya had been given a wad of taka, the nation’s currency, and she quickly did the math – the man wanted the whopping sum of three dollars and change.

  She gladly handed it over in exchange for a slip of paper with a number on it, stamped in green with a symbol that she presumed meant paid, and he directed her to a group of men loitering at the far end of the terminal, smoking and laughing. They looked up expectantly as she approached and she held up the slip. A reed-thin man with a coffee complexion broke off and neared her. He looked her up and down, and then flashed a gap-toothed grin as he took the larger of her two bags.

  Maya named a hotel where she had a reservation, and the man scowled. “No good, that place. Bugs. Scary bad.”

  “That’s fine. My boyfriend is staying there,” she parried, unwilling to go through the inevitable bait and switch to a hotel the driver received a commission for recommending.

  “Very bad.”

  “Thank you, but that’s where he’s waiting for me.”

  The driver got the message and settled into a morose silence as he led her to the parking garage, where his vehicle was a Toyota Corolla that looked older than she was – certainly with more mileage.

  The ride took twenty minutes in heavy traffic, and when they pulled up to the hotel, Maya saw that the driver hadn’t been exaggerating. The place looked like a condemned tenement with its cracked glowing yellow sign, bars on every visible window, and a smell like vomit drifting from the street in front of it.

  “Charming,” she said, slipping the driver a few small bills.

  “Inside way worse. I tell you so.”

  “Told you so. You told me so.”

  He nodded vigorously. “It shithole.”

  “I’m beginning to think you’re the last honest man in Dhaka.”

  “I plenty honest, no lie.”

  “I believe you.”

  She waited until the driver pulled away and made her way to the front entrance, and then turned at the last moment and continued down the crowded sidewalk. Two blocks away she arrived at her true destination and checked into a hotel that was barely better than a prison cell, but at least had working air-conditioning and no obvious bloodstains or bullet holes in the room. She unpacked her bag and activated one of two cell phones she’d brought, and then pressed the first speed dial button and waited as the line rang.

  “You made it,” a male voice answered, sounding far younger than she’d expected.

  “I did. I’ve got a room.”

  “Great. I’ll come by in a half hour and get you. We can grab dinner somewhere while I fill you in, and then we can meet the boss.”

  “Who is this?” Maya asked guardedly.

  “Oh. Sorry. Name’s Gil. I’m the number two boy, top-shelf premium kind,” Gil said, affecting a local accent.

  Maya smiled in spite of herself, but her tone stayed flat. “I’ll be in the lobby. You want to know what I’ll be wearing?”

  “My bet is I’ll recognize you. I’m tall, rich, and thin. And brutally handsome in a cinema-star way.”

  “This I have to see.”

  “Half an hour.”

  Maya changed into a pair of loose, lightweight jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt, the heat and humidity cloying even in the room. A wall AC unit moaned like a wounded soldier as it battled to cool the air, and after a fast cold shower more the temperature of coffee, the water smelling suspiciously like runoff and rust, she was sweating even before she’d put on her clothes.

  Gil was instantly recognizable when she descended the stairs, and she offered him a smile as he approached.

  “You’re shorter than I was expecting. And heavier,” she said, hugging him like an old flame.

  “That’s nothing. I’m also broke and mean.”

  “Things are looking up.”

  “What do you want to eat? Rat tail soufflé? Great Dane curry?” he asked, linking his arm in hers and leading her to the door.

  “I’ll let you pick. All I ask is no monkey brain or insects.”

  “Damn. That rules out most of my regular places.”

  Outside on the street it was just them and several million pedestrians, all seeming to be heading in the opposite direction. They waded through the sea of humanity to the corner, where Gil signaled to a rickshaw.

  Once seated, he gave the driver instructions, and the man began pedaling. Maya appraised Gil in silence. He leaned back, met her stare, and then grinned.

  “So what’s your name?”

  “Maya.”

  “Awfully young, aren’t you?”

  “They let me out of high school special to do this.”

  “Nice to see we have the resources of a superpower at our disposal.”

  “I’m a killer at spelling bees.”

  He laughed in spite of himself. “I’ll bet you are. But seriously, tell me this isn’t your first time.”

  “Usually they want me to tell them it is.”

  He reappraised her. “You have been in the field before, right?”

  “If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”

  The restaurant was marginally clean but smelled heavenly, and Maya let Gil order for them. When their dishes came, he doused his with an unmarked bottle of sauce the color of mud and then offered it to her. “Careful. It’s spicy.”

  She splashed a helping into her curry and stirred
it before trying a spoonful. “God, this is terrible. What is it?”

  “Wait until you try to digest it. That’s when the real fireworks start.” He paused. “You know that part of the horse where, when you lift the tail, it–”

  “Never mind. I don’t want to know.”

  They kept their conversation light. The restaurant was half empty, and the two of them drew only a few disinterested stares from locals who seemed more intent on text messaging than eating. The food was actually very good, and by the end of dinner she found she liked Gil – although he was already world-weary in the way her instructors all were, he’d preserved his sense of humor and had a quiet intensity she found appealing.

  “So are you ready to meet the great man?” he asked, tossing money onto the table and rising.

  “What I’m here for, isn’t it?”

  They made their way to a residential area, the foot traffic still heavy even off the main drag, and Gil opened a service door at the side of a small apartment building. The area was dark; the only dim lighting came from a low-wattage bulb at the end of the narrow walkway, and Maya had no choice but to follow Gil by taking his hand.

  Uri sat behind a cheap metal desk in the bowels of the building. The air was thick with smoke, and when they entered, he eyed Maya without comment and designated two folding chairs. Gil and Maya sat, and Uri leaned forward.

  “I got your information. Very impressive. But I’m not sure it will help with our work here. We’re doing surveillance, not blowing up an island. More precision-oriented than blunt force trauma,” he said.

  “I did what was necessary. I can be discreet,” Maya said, trying not to sound defensive.

  Uri blew smoke at the door and sat back. “First thing, then, is to insert a listening device in the apartment of the imam’s second-in-command.”

  “Why not the imam himself?”

  “We’ve had one in his place for three weeks. He doesn’t discuss anything there, but we’ve noticed a pattern, and we believe he routes his communications through subordinates,” Uri explained. “But we’ve been short on manpower, and I didn’t want to overexpose Gil here.”