Sadegh looks carefully over the checklist in his hand. This is the end of stage two of the master plan. By this time tomorrow night, stage three will begin. His mind totally focused, he continues his work. Painstakingly and with great care, checking and double-checking, as is his custom, he continues to pack his suitcase.
Ready to leave, Sadegh stands at his desk and dials the bank manager. “Abdullah, I have a favor to ask. I know it is late and the bank is closed, but have just discovered that I will need the full amount in dollars. Can you please assist me? Instead of my wife, I will be at your office within ten minutes to pick up the money.”
Delighted to have the famous general ask him for a favor, the bank manager replies, “With pleasure Mon General, with great pleasure. My wife, who is my secretary, is still typing next to my office. She will open the back door so that you will not have to walk through the bank. I look forward to seeing you. It will be a great honor.”
* * *
Smiling brightly, the bank manager’s wife opens the door. She moves aside to let Sadegh in. Awed to have a chance to meet the great man, she curtsies as she put out her hand to shake his. “Welcome, General, you honor us with your visit.”
Sadegh enters the bank. Instead of shaking her outstretched hand, he puts the gun against her chest and shoots. The hiss of the silencer makes only a slight noise. She collapses at his feet.
The bank is in darkness. The employees have left hours ago to beat the curfew. Walking through the bank manager’s office door, Sadegh sees him sitting at his desk, a pile of dollar bills stacked neatly in a tray. Looking up, the manager starts to rise up his face aglow with pride. “Mon General, you honor…” He stops in mid-sentence, his face frozen in horror when he sees a gun pointed at his head.
Walking rapidly toward him, Sadegh said, “Don’t speak. Do as I say immediately or I will kill you.
The bank manager takes two steps backward, bumping into his chair, his eyes bulging as he stares in terror at the gun. He is fearful of the gun, but more terrified of the man who is holding it. When Sadegh speaks, the manager doesn’t look at him; he stares only at the gun and the gloves on Sadegh’s hands.
“Open the safe.” Without a word, the manager picks up keys from his desk and walks to the massive safe. He kneels down, his hand trembling awkwardly. Using both hands, he inserts the key and unlocks the door.
“Open the door. Do not reach inside. You have done well, Abdullah. Now sit in your chair.”
The bank manager realizes the danger of being shot was when he’d opened the door. He had not been shot, so the danger is over. The bank manager begins to relax as he walks back to his chair. He sits down and let out a sigh of relief. He wipes his mustache, twirling one side into a point, searching for ways to turn this situation into an advantage to get more than twenty-five percent. He starts to say something just as the first bullet hits his forehead, sending his glasses spinning across the desk. The second bullet goes through his throat, but he is already dead.
Quickly, Sadegh empties the contents of the safe into a duffel bag he has brought. Later, he will sort out what needs to be destroyed. Opening each drawer of the manager’s desk, he empties its contents as well. By now, the duffel bag is nearly full.
Sadegh climbs under the desk, searching for any hidden drawers, but finds nothing. Looking at his watch, he sees that the incident has taken just under three and a half minutes. He is pleased, a full minute ahead of schedule. On the desk, he spies the manager’s name plate: Abhullah Brahimi. With a swipe of his meaty hand, he brushes it to the floor and stomps down, crushing the brass and wood with his shoe. Oblivious of the two dead bodies, he walks out of the bank.
* * *
It takes Sadegh ten hours of fast driving to get to the Turkish border crossing. An hour out of Teheran, he throws the plastic bag containing the gardener’s clothes down a ravine. During the night, he’s been stopped six times at checkpoints, his white, oval, plastic reflectors allowing him to pass through speedily. His false identity papers are barely glanced at. Near Tabriz, he stops for gas, siphoning from the petroleum trucks that are parked near large ammunition stores. His papers are checked, and he signs Khali’s name on the receipt for gas.
When the sun rises and curfew ends, cars and trucks clog all roads. Driving a military vehicle enables him to weave in and out of traffic quickly. Traffic comes to a halt to allow him to pass, the white reflectors informing soldiers of his importance.
Soldiers keep horses and carts off the highway, forcing them to move slowly with the line of people stretching from village to village. No one is talking to the people walking along the road; their eyes are vacant, staring into a space that seems too far away. Shell-shocked desolation shines from their faces. All they are capable of is just dragging their belongings. The fear of a future under Khomeini, or what a committee will do to them, is the engine driving them to walk the long walk.
The former general Sadegh glories at their fear and their sense of hopelessness. Dazed and beaten, they look defeated, are defeated, and for the rest of their lives they will wander through the wildernesses of hell. The Shah’s people are running from their beloved country.
Finally, he arrives at the border.
People are standing in line, trying to persuade Turkish guards to let them through the border post. Pulling off to the side of the road, he parks under a tree, turns off the Jeep’s ignition and soon falls asleep.
* * *
When Sadegh awakes, he eats the last of his food. Eposito, his CIA liaison for the past ten years, will escort him through the border post. He recalls how a year ago all had been agreed in Langley and what the plans would be going forward and the next steps once he arrives at the border. After the CIA debriefs him, he will have plastic surgery to alter his face. General Sadegh Muzahedi will have a new name and disappear into a witness protection program as soon as possible, or the CIA will be seriously compromised.
The previous year, Sadegh had flown secretly to CIA headquarters in Langley. After debriefing, he made it quite clear he felt no affinity or obligation to remain and work for the CIA. His future plans were none of their business. All the time he worked for them, Sadegh’s aims coincided with CIA’s objectives. He had been well paid by them over the years. However, they admitted on numerous occasions he was by far their best agent in the region. He planned to retire and enjoy life.
Sadegh informed his superiors that he had taken the necessary precautions to make sure the CIA would not try to reactivate him ever again. If they tried blackmail, or if he suffered an unexplained accident, three major newspapers would receive over two hundred pages of documents, graphically outlining in detail all of the CIA’s activities and the role they played in de-stabilizing Iran, and the fact that they had the White House approvals. Sadegh insisted all he wanted to do in the future, was to become an ordinary citizen. He had not enjoyed being a spy; it had merely been a means to an end. Both he and the CIA had each received what they wanted, and now both would go their separate ways. His decision was not up for further negotiation.
In the past, he had proved to the CIA he could be resourceful and at times dangerous. Sadegh suggested that they forget about him, completely make him an invisible man that never existed. Destroy any files they kept and let him walk away. To prove the seriousness of his threats, Sadegh showed them copies of seven of two hundred documents in his possession related to payoffs to Prime Minister Tananka of Japan by Lockheed Aerospace, and payoffs by the Iranian government to three senior United States senators. He showed them copies of each senator’s Swiss bank accounts. All three sat on the Armed Services Appropriations Committee and one had announced his intention to run for President of the United States.
CIA special operations in Langley dealt daily in blackmail and recognized this for what it was. They took it in stride, did not argue, and thanked Sadegh politely for his services. They asked him when he would be leaving Teheran, and informed him that Esposito would be standing by in Turkey when he cho
se to leave Iran. It had been a civilized meeting. No one felt animosity or anger. It was business, nothing personal.
Once unrest and rioting began, Iran would be destroyed completely. Sadegh had been an important cog in achieving the Shah’s downfall. By helping the CIA implement its policy to destroy the Shah and replace him with Khomeini, he had accelerated the Shah losing control of Iran. Sadegh had been one of a hidden network of shadowy figures that organized Khomeini tapes to come in via diplomatic couriers. By his refusal to accuse or arrest the diplomats, he had laid the groundwork for Khomeini’s speeches to be heard in mosques. He had kept soldiers from arresting mullahs who played tapes to their congregations.
Sadegh and the CIA had arranged where and how to contact Esposito when it was time to get out of Iran. When Sadegh finished his negotiations in Langley, he was flown to Teheran. Effectively, he had neutralized any action the CIA could take against him personally, ensuring they would not bother him in the future. In the ten years, he had amassed more than $2 billion dollars in assets spread in offshore companies and banks.
When he needed more, various Arab governments would provide what he needed; their hatred for America was on a par with his. Now, his own personal jihad would begin. His mission would be the downfall and total destruction of the Satan of all Satan’s—America.
* * *
At midday, Sadegh walks to a side door of the building adjacent to the checkpoint. As he approaches, the door opens.
Esposito says, ““Welcome to Turkey, Sadegh. I trust you had a good journey. See that you cut yourself shaving. Hope the drive from Teheran was not too tedious.”
Book Two
Jay
CHAPTER ONE
The Desert Bunker
Cool breezes from the Persian Gulf quietly dust the desert. The group of people sitting under an umbrella nurse their drinks, watching spectacular red and orange colors deepen dramatically across the sky as the sun sets. All turn when they hear a gate open. The path leads downstairs into the desert bunker.
A man approaches them and bow.
“Excellencies, all reports have now come in. Our strike force performed their missions perfectly. Wire services and television stations opened their programs with pictures of the incidents on the buses. Praised be Allah. We suffered no casualties. Countdown for plan two in Chicago is now 17 hours, Excellencies.”
CHAPTER TWO
“We will all be dead in two days. Why are you wasting time in this shop? You will not buy anything. We must return to our hotel now.”
“Massood, Massood, just a few more minutes. I need to savor with passion and delight everything, one last time. Even in paradise, they do not have advanced hi-tech video recorders, stereo equipment, or miniature, state-of-the-art wristwatch color televisions. We die Wednesday. it is but a few hours away. Today, I enjoy what little life I have left on this miserable earth. All is brighter, clearer, and more beautiful.”
“Hassan does not permit us to be late. The others arrived last night. They will be waiting. I go. I do not want to be part of your foolishness any longer.”
“Insha Allah, it is the will of God.” Both men walk out of the store.
I have been packing cartons into a storage area behind the door when inadvertently I hear men speaking Farsi. I am amazed that I understand perfectly what the men said to each other, for I haven’t heard or spoken Farsi in nearly twenty years. I am concerned to hear how they matter-of-factly speak of dying, though the cavalier acceptance of death was common in Iran.
I sense impending danger. Did the two men know that I stood only a matter of feet away, separated by a thin plywood door so their words were directed not at each other, but purposefully said loud enough for me to hear?
Talking about death or about life was a form of hyperbole speech common in Moslem countries. The language assumed a haunting beauty of being able to be spoken with undisguised flowery phrases and great passion. However, if it was spoken by people who had made up their minds to die, death for them usually followed soon after. But when they died, countless numbers of other people would also perish.
I recall the terror and sheer hopelessness as the country I had lived in for six years lost control and fell apart. Friendly people who prided their cultural history that spanned thousands of years transformed themselves overnight into crazed fanatics and vicious killers. An entire population suddenly became caught up and rose in the fervor of flaming revolution, transforming themselves into sadistic executioners, thirsting for blood and more blood. The ugly evil beast in the bowels of mankind had howled its great rage and erupted with ferocity, showing everyone its face. The world would never be the same again.
Were the men in my store by mistake? Did I overhear them by chance or am I being set up? My life of shadows is a past memory, one I’ve buried. That life no longer exists. It is safely hidden away in the corners of my soul. Have I stumbled into something and are the men baiting a hook and drawing me in? Searching my mind for explanations that were rational, not emotional, I find nothing. I can handle this situation, instinctively knowing that I cannot ignore these men. If I am in danger, I want the upper hand. I wasn’t trained to counterpunch. In special ops, we always hit first.
“Be back shortly,” I yell to my assistants. Jill, please lock up if I don’t return before closing.”
The men had left the store and were walking fast. I estimate them to be in their mid-thirties. Their clothes must have been bought in the states by an American who had instructed them how not to stand out in a crowd. Iranians favor traditional black or charcoal suits with a white shirt buttoned and no tie; most have mustaches or seven-day beards. Looking at them casually, they could have been Americans. They were obviously meant to blend in, to not look like foreigners.
Following them down Oak Street, keeping well back, I constantly watch plate glass windows of shops as I walk, using them as mirrors to see if I am being followed. Twice I cross over to the other side of the street. They enter the historic Drake Hotel. I quicken my steps and edge in a few steps behind them, looking for and finding the bookstore.
I stand at the newspaper rack and watch as the taller man asks for a key. The smiling receptionist turns and slides the brass key ring out of pigeonhole 412. The two men walk to the bank of elevators, enter when the doors open, and press their floor button. I watch the UP arrow above the shining elevator doors. The light stays for some seconds at the fourth floor, then it returns to the ground floor.
At the front desk, I pick up a hotel brochure, exit the magnificent old building, then signal a cab to take me back to the store. On the back seat of the cab, which smells of fake pine, I read through the brochure and find that all rooms up to the sixth floors are efficiencies rooms that include kitchens.
* * *
Once back at my store, I dial.
“Hello, Drake Hotel.”
“Hi, my name is Lawrey, Les Lawrey. Stayed in your hotel last month. Can I reserve the same room overlooking Lake Michigan. It was room 412?”
The receptionist on the other end of the line checked her records, then told me that 412 was already booked.
“Too bad, do you have room 410 or 414 available?” I inquired.
She was able to reserve room 410.
“I’ll be there in an hour. The name’s Lawrey. That’s right. See you soon.”
I dial again. “Les, Jay.”
“What’s up, kiddo. Want to play tennis tonight? We need a fourth.”
“Sorry, Les, I can’t. I’m playing a joke on someone and need to borrow your overalls and equipment. I’ll return them tomorrow.”
“Is she nice?” Les chuckled.
“Wish it were a she. No, it’s something else. Tell you about it in a few days if it works.”
“When will you pick the stuff up?”
“Right away.”
“Hell, you’re in a bloody hurry. What’s up? Must be a woman. Come on, Jay, you never move this fast unless it’s a woman. Tell me, what’s she like? Why are you s
o hot? Listen, pal, if she has a friend, I’m available. I’ll let the other guys play singles. If you’re that hot to trot, she must have a friend. Jay, be a pal, I’ve had a long dry spell.”
“In a few days, Les, I’ll tell you in a few days.”
I put down the phone, wait a few seconds, and dial again. The voice mail connects immediately. “I am away from my desk. Please leave a detailed message and I will call you upon my return.” I wait for the beep then speak. When I finish, I replace the receiver.
Josh will be my back-up in case I run into trouble and can’t handle the Iranians at the Drake Hotel alone.
CHAPTER THREE
I knock again on the door of room 412. Louder this time, a polite but determined workman’s knock. I am a workman in a hurry. The sweat dotting my forehead is from fear, not heat. It threatens to trickle down through my eyebrows into my eyes.
The automatic pistol in an ankle holster chafes against my leg. The knife strapped to my arm above my wrist is causing an itch. I fight the impulse to scratch, instead rubbing my fingers against my hip. Les’s overalls are at least a size too large and cover both weapons.
The door finally opens a crack, the safety chain clatters, and a voice hisses irritably, “What you want?”
“Lawrey’s Spray-on Shine Services. Good morning, sir. Sorry to disturb you, sir, but I must do insect exterminating in your kitchen.”
“We do not need. We have no insect here.”
“Sorry, sir. Hotel rules. It takes less than five minutes, but hotel management insists that it’s done now.”
“Come later,” says the man, who is now getting annoyed.
I return his stare, trying not to drop my eyes. With deference yet authority, I say, “I can’t, sir. Yours is the last room on this floor. I must insist, sir. I’ll be as quick as I can. We have a terrible roach infestation on three floors, and your room must be disinfected immediately. The City Health Department will be here later and has insisted this be done right away. They have given us only a few hours to comply.”
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