“What the hell,” I said as a group of four of them stopped in the middle of the crosswalk and sneered at the traffic.
“Oh, yes, Ahmadinejad’s child army,” Leila replied. I had never heard her sound so dispirited. “The Guards recruit them from the countryside because they know the regular police won’t attack the demonstrators; after all, most of them have family walking side by side with neighbors. Not these boys. They’re starving when they come here, and they’re thugs when they leave. The Guards sees to that. The more brutal, the better. It’s terrible, Jake. Just terrible.”
The light changed. The traffic inched forward. But the tension over this city in chains could be felt even without the windows rolled down.
“Three blocks,” she said, nodding toward a fork in the road and a forest of trees rising before us. “The entrance to the park is straight ahead. No cars allowed.”
“I’ll walk from here, Leila. You’ve done enough,” I said. “More than enough.”
She pulled to the curb and brought the Toyota to a halt. She reached over and grabbed my wrist. “Take off your sunglasses. Please,” she asked in a low and husky voice. I did so, and she held me with her dark eyes, as calm and cool as a winter’s eve. “I haven’t done enough, Jake. That’s the whole point. Not near enough. I’ve been a part of the problem, not a part of the solution.”
“Leila, listen…”
“No, it’s true. If I can help, let me. I know you’d do anything to protect me. I know that. But I have to stop being afraid. And maybe you can help me by letting me help you.” Her fingers were pressing into my wrist, and she wasn’t even aware of it. “Please.”
I nodded. “Okay.” How could I hear those words and say anything else? I hoped it didn’t come down to needing her help, but I didn’t say that, either.
She opened my fingers and pressed a key into my hand. “If you run out of places to hide or just need a cold beer and someone to confide in, this opens the back door to my place. I want to do this.”
I leaned over and kissed her cheek. I grabbed my pack, opened the door, and climbed out.
I waited until she was safely away and then lost myself in the crowd. I saw a T-shirt shop with baseball caps in the window and ducked inside. I bought a gray one with a blue Nike swoosh on the crown and tossed the old one into the trash. I stepped back outside and into the shadows of the shop’s awning. I surveyed the street. I was out of place, but at least the beard I had started back in the States was coming in.
The strip of commerce gave way to an upscale neighborhood, and a block farther on the entrance to the Park of the Reluctant Martyrs came into view. I stopped under a shaggy, plain tree. The park was not as big as I had expected, given the satellite view from the Eyes app, but it was the size of three or four football fields, anyway.
Past the entrance, a concrete sidewalk ran along the perimeter of the park’s west side. There was also a walkway that bisected the park from east to west. Knots of men looked to be loitering on all four street corners, but you could see the tension in their movements. Others paced along the sidewalk under the outstretched branches of elms and maples, and still others patrolled farther into the park. A pair of black Mercedes sedans were parked along the curb, and the men standing next to them didn’t look like they’d come to the park for a game of boccie. They were Charlie’s men. All twenty-one of them, by my count. That was a lot of sentries. Which meant that Charlie had extremely deep pockets and a reason to be paranoid.
Scattered trees provided shade over the grassy lawn. The lake formed a natural barrier to the south and east. To the north, low hedges and gardens spilling over with perennials, surrounded by a decorative fountain. Sunlight refracted through the water in a spray of rainbow colors. There was a playground and common area across from the fountain. There were three picnic tables, and I could almost hear the laughter coming from the family gathering there. I was most interested in the man sitting with his back to one of the tables, watching a half-dozen young children scurry through the playground.
I slid my backpack off my shoulder. I opened it and fished out the Zeiss digital telescope. I connected it to the iPhone and scanned the park in high magnification.
I studied Charlie’s bodyguards. They all appeared to be cut from the same rough cloth. A couple wore thigh-length coats, unusual for such a warm day, a telltale sign that they packed Uzis, AK-47s, or M4 carbines. Heavy artillery for the man they protected.
I panned to the man on the bench. There he was. Charlie Amadi. He wore a sweater and khaki pants. The years had added a few pounds to his frame and rounded out his face, but he looked healthy and energetic. He was fully engrossed in the activity on the playground, the kids darting from the slides and the swings to the carousel and a sandbox. Two more bodyguards: probably Charlie’s lieutenants.
Time for our reunion.
I put the Zeiss away and sent Rutledge and Mr. Elliot the same update: About to meet the hometown boy.
I could feel the Walther in the harness beneath my jacket. I had no intention of hiding the fact that I was armed from Charlie’s army. Pure stupid. I crossed the street and walked straight for the entrance, which was really nothing more than two stone pillars capped with statuesque eagles. I didn’t see the significance.
I walked with an easy step. My arms hung loosely at my side. I was ten steps from the entrance when four of Charlie’s men blocked my way.
“Sorry, private party,” one of them said in Farsi. He was the tallest of the group and built like a linebacker. When I didn’t respond, he was smart enough to switch to English. “Private party.”
I stopped. I held my hands out in front of me. “No problem. I’m here to see Charlie. Charlie Amadi.”
“Mr. Amadi’s not here.”
I looked at him like I’d seen smarter lab rats. “Oh, I see. That must be his twin brother sitting over there by the playground. How stupid do I look?”
I started forward again. They closed ranks. One of them put a hand on my shoulder. Bad move. I grabbed the hand, took it off my shoulder, and squeezed. Before any of his buddies could react, I looked at the linebacker and said, “Charlie and I are old friends.”
I let go of the hand. Now I was attracting a crowd. I held my hands up again. “Under my right arm,” I said. “A Walther. The safety’s on.”
Now they got rough. Two of them grabbing my shoulders, the linebacker doing a hard and very effective frisk. I let him. He came away with the Walther in his hand. I looked past my reception committee and saw Charlie’s two lieutenants looking our way. Even from here I could see their lips curl in warning scowls. Charlie must have felt the tension, because he came to his feet, turned, and stared. I saw him issuing instructions.
I raised my arms high in the air. I wanted him to see that I was alone and pretty much helpless. “Go tell him,” I said to the linebacker. “Tell him it’s Jake.”
The linebacker stared at me for five long seconds. Then he spit an order to one of his team, a short guy with a gaunt face and a blue-black mustache. He turned and hustled over to Charlie’s lieutenants. Said something I couldn’t hear. But whatever it was, it got Charlie moving, not fast, but steadily. His lieutenants were caught off guard for a split second and hustled to catch up.
Charlie walked to the middle of the sidewalk and stopped, a fair distance away but with a good view of the proceedings. He said something to the runner, who turned and jogged back to us. He said something to the linebacker, but I didn’t wait for a translation. I pushed my way past the gauntlet that had been holding me at bay. I took three steps and stopped.
Charlie was looking hard at me. His squint compressed into suspicious crinkles, then eased some. The first signs of recognition must have been forming in his very suspicious mind, because the hard set of his mouth tweaked into the beginning of a smile.
I started toward him again. His lieutenants responded exactly the way I would have expected them to respond: they took two steps forward and positioned their feet the way men do
when they’re expecting a confrontation.
Charlie put his hands on their shoulders, whispered two words I didn’t understand, and stepped between them. I pressed ahead, halting close enough to Charlie that I could smell his cologne.
I lowered my sunglasses.
He beamed a toothy grin, a crescent of bleached enamel and gold implants. “Jake fucking Conlan.”
“Charlie.”
He lunged forward with an embrace. “Damn, it’s been years.” He gave me a manly hug. “You look fit. Damn fit.”
“And you look like you’ve been living the good life,” I replied.
“There is no good life here in Tehran,” he answered, without a hint of derogatory emotion in his voice. He studied me, nodding his head as if the curtain had just opened onto a scene that looked all too familiar. “My man Jake. Don’t imagine you just dropped in for a quiet stroll through the park.”
“Another time,” I said.
“Okay. Okay.” His smile evolved into a look of genuine curiosity. I saw a spark in his eye. “So, what gives?”
I motioned down the sidewalk. “Let’s take a walk. Do you mind?”
“Do I mind taking a walk with a good friend I haven’t seen in years? No, I don’t mind.” He smiled again. He gave an all-clear nod of his head to his guards, and we turned into the park. His lieutenants followed at a respectful distance.
I steered us to the fountain. The splashing water would mask our conversation from anyone hoping to eavesdrop, and Charlie seemed to understand.
When we were close enough to feel the mist, I glanced his way and said, “Charlie, you seem to have done well for yourself.”
He shrugged, a tad embarrassed by the compliment. “Inshallah. I sell people what they want. Fortunately, there are plenty of Persians who want a taste of life before the mullahs.”
“So you’re selling the good life,” I said.
“Well, that and a few of the essentials.” I loved that. The essentials. Like guns and drugs and passports. Yeah, I got it. He said, “I can’t tell you how much has changed over the years, Jake.”
“You mean like the boy soldiers patrolling your streets?” I hoped I didn’t sound too sarcastic.
“Tip of the iceberg, my friend.” Charlie beat the air with his fist, a heavy gold bracelet sliding on his wrist. “The country is like a tinderbox waiting to explode. Ahmadinejad rants against the Israelis as if they were the source of our problems. He spends billions trying to develop weapons to wipe out our neighbors while our own country is in free fall.”
“Which brings me to my mission.”
“Mission? What are you talking about?” Charlie chuckled. Then he saw that I was dead serious, and he banished every ounce of humor from his voice. “Here? In Iran? That’s why you’re here? Hell, I heard you were retired.”
“Was,” I said.
“If you say so.” He shrugged, but it wasn’t very convincing. “And this mission of yours. What is it?”
I didn’t say anything.
“And your team?” His eyes inched wider in surprise when he saw the tension etched across my face. “You’re not acting alone?”
“No. There’s a team here. Two teams, actually. I have MEK support and DDO backup.”
“That’s your team. Huh! You really know how to pick ’em, Jake,” he said with the greatest of irony.
“Problem is, my op’s been compromised.”
Charlie shrugged. “Proceed without them.”
“Easier said than done,” I replied.
“Of course,” he said, as if he’d just had a revelation. “They know too much, don’t they?”
“I can’t move forward without knowing who the traitor is, Charlie.” He knew what I meant.
“Jake. My dear friend.” He opened his arms toward the picnic area and the playground. Toward a family filled with kids and grandkids and a wife of thirty years. “Look, my friend. Look what you gave me. A man doesn’t forget that. Not ever.”
I heard the emotion in his voice. “You have a beautiful family, Charlie. You really do.”
Now he looked at me, and his eyes were those of a man who knew the rules of engagement and had never been averse to breaking them.
“Anything I have is at your disposal.” He opened his arms. “Men. Weapons. Money. You name it.”
“Charlie, I’ve come to you because you have the one resource money can’t buy.”
“What is that, Jake?”
“Trust.”
CHAPTER 15
TEHRAN—DAY 7
Charlie Amadi and I were on the bottom floor of a dilapidated warehouse in Navvab, one of Tehran’s southern districts. The warehouse was situated close to a cement factory and one of the city’s wastewater-treatment plants. A train rumbled along on nearby tracks, rattling our windows and the overhead pipes.
The outside of the warehouse was blighted with stains and flaking plaster. Rusted appliances and stripped-down cars littered the weedy grounds, and dingy broken windows revealed a gloomy interior. The building didn’t just look abandoned but forsaken. In other words, it fit our needs to a tee.
Inside, the warehouse didn’t look quite so desolate, however. It was chock-full of cardboard boxes and sealed containers filled with things like fake Rolex watches and knock-off designer purses, sunglasses and leather jackets, Persian rugs and porcelain pottery, all part of Charlie’s black-market inventory. The local street vendors must have loved the guy.
At the heart of the main floor, stacks of boxes had been pushed aside to accommodate a workstation hastily arranged atop four folding tables. Shop lamps had been clipped to the rafters, filling the space with harsh white light. A bank of five laptop computers rested on the tables, and their monitors flickered with the data steaming through my surveillance software. The laptops were connected to a router, which in turn was connected to my iPhone. A handpicked team of Charlie’s most-tech-savvy men sat at the laptops. Each wore a headset. I sat behind them, reading a text from Mr. Elliot: Russian delivery in transit. Coordinates and specifics encrypted.
I opened the encrypted e-mail, read the specifics, and transferred the coordinates into my map app. A pinpoint of red light settled over the border of Iran and Azerbaijan, on the shores of the Caspian Sea.
I left the screen illuminated, palmed the phone, and turned back to watch the op unfold.
If you looked up counterintelligence in the Agency’s manual, the description was remarkably simple. Well, concise might be a better word. Counterintelligence fell under the heading of actions taken by an intelligence apparatus intended to protect its own security while at the same time undermining any hostile intelligence operations. It wasn’t just an agency or an arm of an agency that ran counterintel. I had become a master of it over my twenty-seven-year-career running outside paramilitary operations. So, while I was running intel ops targeting everything from narcotics trafficking and domestic terrorism to arms smuggling and cyber terrorism, I was also running counterintelligence on the DEA, the ATF, and Justice.
You have to remember, these guys had no idea who I was. In their eyes, I was one of the bad guys. I couldn’t have them stumbling onto one of my ops and thinking they were in for a big-time score. The answer was to stay one step ahead of them, and the best way to do that was counterintelligence. Better safe than sorry. It didn’t always work. Mr. Elliot had bailed me out of some very tight situations over the years, including several very nasty jail cells. One day I’d be behind bars, and the next day I’d be back on the street, doing my job. The boys from the DEA or ATF never knew what hit them.
So here I was again. Familiar territory. Protecting my mission with full-scale counterintelligence and the help of one of Tehran’s most notorious crime bosses. I didn’t care about Charlie’s day job. I needed an ally. Somebody wanted me dead. If the rat was the DDO, then I was relying on Mr. Elliot’s investigation back home to ferret the perp out. If the rat was inside the MEK, then Charlie and I needed to crack open their organization and find him fast. We st
arted with Charlie’s roster of known MEK operatives.
Charlie explained how he happened to possess such a list. “There’s a lot of overlap between my import businesses and the interests of the MEK. Like most underground organizations, they finance themselves helping guys like me smuggle contraband.” He winged a thumb toward the boxes. “The truth is, they need me a lot worse than I need them, so I take full advantage.”
With as much sarcasm as I could muster and a crooked smile, I said, “You, Charlie? Damn, man, I would have never guessed.” Then my expression changed. I held the iPhone up so that Charlie could read the coordinates from Mr. Elliot’s text. “Know where this is?”
Charlie did little more than glance at the screen. “Anyone in my line of work knows where those coordinates are, my friend. Why?”
“Because I need you to make a pickup for me.”
He stared. His eyes seemed to cloud over. “I have a feeling you’re not smuggling Russian vodka into the country.”
“It’s a package from Saint Petersburg. A crate probably three feet square with the markings of an owl and a hawk. Nothing else.”
“Arrives how and when?”
“By truck. Three hours from now.” I gave him the rest of the specifics. Then I said, “I don’t want to sugarcoat this, Charlie. This is serious business. All the marbles.”
“That it’s serious business is clear, my friend.” Charlie lit a cigar. “I’ll have someone there when the package arrives.”
He blew smoke toward the ceiling and returned his attention to the workstation. Two dozen of his men had spent the last twelve hours planting GPS transmitters on MEK cars throughout Tehran. It was a start at least. Now, two of our computers were busy tracking the telltale blips crawling across the street maps of the city.
Next, we hacked in to Tehran’s central phone exchange, using a contact Charlie had on the inside, and tapped in to as many MEK landlines and cell phones as we could locate. Snooping those phone numbers led to more phone numbers, and within twenty-four hours we had constructed a good schematic of the MEK organization.
The Natanz Directive Page 15