by JB Turner
Meyerstein sighed and looked at her watch. "I've got a meeting with the Director at nine and I need to prepare."
Reznick took a long deep breath. "You know what? I'm sorry; I don't know what I was thinking. Forget it." He turned and began to walk away towards the stolen car.
"Wait!" Meyerstein said.
Reznick stopped and turned around. "Look, it doesn't matter. I'll deal with it from here."
Meyerstein walked toward him. "I just don't get you, Jon. Breaking into a secure police compound. Now you're outside my home. My own house, where I live with my family. This is not good, Jon. You know there's an APB out on you?"
"So arrest me."
"I don't want to arrest you."
"Help me then."
Meyerstein closed her eyes for a moment before she fixed her gaze on him. "You got two minutes before I need to leave. And you're on the clock. In the SUV now."
Reznick followed Meyerstein to the SUV and got in the passenger seat. He turned to face Meyerstein. "Two main problems. Firstly, the car was going more than one hundred miles per hour and there was no skidmarks."
Meyerstein said nothing.
"Secondly, I told you there was a transreceiver placed into the Mercedes car my friend drove before he died. I asked you to find out more about. But you refused. Right?"
Meyerstein nodded.
"Things have moved on. I've found they were to be used on a strict license for export."
Meyerstein glanced at her watch. "One minute."
"Would it surprise you if I told you the part was part of a batch destined exclusively for a foreign country?"
"So?"
"So, what if I said this foreign country was Iran?"
"Okay, you've got my attention."
"Here's the thing. The transreceiver is the car's brain if you like. And it is used in all cars. But sometimes they can be modified . . . "
"Modified in what way?"
"This part was one of a thousand perfectly legally exported to Tehran. Probably to be fitted on Iranian made cars. But I've inspected this one up close. It's been modified."
"Modified for what?"
"Modified for remote control assassinations involving cars."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"Boston Brakes. Heard of it?"
"Yes, I've heard of it."
"Radio controlled assassination. High end. Almost always by order from a government."
ELEVEN
Just after midnight, on the West Coast, high up in the Hollywood Hills, Jerry Morlach stood beside his pool, smoking a Cuban cigar. He stared out over the lights of L.A. as the cars snaked along the freeway. He dragged heavily on the Cohiba, exhaling the smoke through his nose.
Morlach never tired of the vista. The relentless buzz of the city, day and night. A city in permanent flux. Incomers. Outsiders. Immigrants. Hustlers. Workers. Mexicans. Latinos. And the destitute. The poor. The gangs. The drive-bys. The shootings. The deaths. The constant movement. The fear that stopping still would render a person obsolete. The uber-rich on Rodeo Drive. The flash cars. West Hollywood. The bars. The clubs. The strip joints. Sunset. The paparazzi. The cool. The wannabes. The cops. The creeps.
He thought back to his early days in the city. In the country. Living hand to mouth. It was the late 1970s. He nearly starved. By rights he should have curled up in a ball and just let the dogs chew on his bones. But he never did. He worked. Hard. He washed dishes at a shitty South Central diner. He hustled for dimes in the Valley. He washed cars. He washed windows. He was a valet. Then he got a job in the kitchens of the Beverley Hills Hilton. He washed more dishes. He worked his ass off. It was the American way. He got tips. He spoke perfect English. He went to night school to study accountancy. He was smart. And he learned quick. He learned that if you want to get on, you have to be prepared to step over people on the way up. Don't stop to admire the view. Because it might not be there in the morning.
He had grown to love the city. The money helped. The house. The upscale neighbors. The privacy. The luxuries only wealth could buy.
The smart private schools for his children and grandchildren, the foreign holidays to Italy, skiing in the Alps, the chalet in Gstaad, the jetset friends. What was not to like?
But in truth, whilst the material wealth allowed him to enjoy his life, cocooned in luxury away from the smell of the streets, the sweat from immigrant labor, the stinking trash strewn streets, he felt empty. Bereft.
The emptiness had never left him. The soul couldn't be nourished by money. Sure, it made things bearable. Pleasant even. But it never made him feel whole. He remembered the first time he could afford to bring his father over, three years before he died. His father was afraid. Afraid of the oppressive noise. Afraid of the hustlers on the street.
His cellphone rang, snapping Morlach out of his reverie. He expected it to be a producer looking for the green light for a new sci-fi blockbuster. But the caller ID was not one he recognized.
"Jerry," the voice said, "we've got an urgent financing request from people I've never met before." The last five words were a signal he hadn't heard for years.
Morlach took a few moments before he answered. "Do you require my signature?"
"Not at this stage. But we need you to look over the paperwork before it is issued."
Morlach dragged heavily on the cigar as the smoke filled his lungs. He knew exactly what they had in mind and his role. "When can I expect the documentation?"
"Within the next 24 hours."
"Why the hurry?"
A long sigh. "We just want to ensure that we don't have any last minute hitches and that everything is in place."
Morlach said nothing.
"So if that seems like a realistic timescale, I'll get the papers Fed Ex'd to you."
"Make it my home address."
"Very well."
"And make sure the red wax seal is on it. Is that clear?"
"Got it."
Then the caller hung up.
TWELVE
Reznick and Meyerstein were seated around a small table in a secure room at an FBI satellite office on the outskirts of DC, with two of Meyerstein's most trusted joint terrorism taskforce analysts.
Meyerstein was taking notes and taking occasional sips of her coffee. It was going to be a long session.
The bull-necked man with a bushy mustache who identified himself as Neil Slattery from the Department of Homeland Security picked up an enlarged color photo of the transreceiver. "Okay, let's get this thing rolling. Let's assume for a minute, this part did come from a consignment for Iran."
Reznick said, "Haven't you established that yet for yourself?"
The man turned crimson. "Things take time, Jon. Firstly, I'd like to know how you know that these were shipped to Iran. And secondly how you know this one's been modified."
"Courtesy of the State Department. Plus a little expert knowledge from my previous profession."
The man shifted in his seat. "Hang on, what do you mean courtesy of the State Department?"
"That's all I'm prepared to say."
"Are we talking hacking?"
Reznick said nothing.
Meyerstein sighed. "We're going out on a limb for you here, Jon. We need to work together on this."
Reznick shrugged. "Fine."
Slattery cleared his throat. "We need to know who did this hack, Jon."
Reznick said nothing.
"We need a name."
"You're not getting one."
Slattery sighed. "Let's move on. For now."
Reznick nodded. "Whatever."
"Suffice to say, any hint of Tehran is a red flag for us in intelligence. But what I'm unclear about is how this part could be used for malign purposes? This is a new one to me."
Reznick looked around the table for a few moments. "Look, I need to know that what I say stays within these walls."
Meyerstein said, "That's a given, Jon."
"I also want a guarantee."
Meyerstein said, "What sort of guarantee?"
"If I'm going to tell you a little bit about what I know and what I've done, you need to know that some of these operations were highly classified. Unacknowledged to this day. So I can't go into details."
Meyerstein said, "Jon, I trust everyone around this table, including you."
Reznick nodded. "This is how I see it. My friend Charles Burns was assassinated. By remote control. Made to look like an accident. For you guys who work behind a desk, I'll explain. The Boston Brakes method. It was devised by the CIA in Boston way back in the 1970s and has become more sophisticated over the years as technology has developed. It's used by intelligence agencies across the world as a way of assassinating someone without leaving a trace. So on the surface it is made to look like an accident. A blood test then shows the person was drunk. Just like Tiny."
Meyerstein said, "How did you get hold of the police and forensic reports for Tiny's accident?"
"The same way I got hold of the State Department intel."
Slattery said, "Have you carried out any Boston Brakes jobs?"
"Several. One in the UK, one in Brussels, one in Jerusalem, one in Libya."
Meyerstein sighed.
"I'm not going to go over things I did for this country. This is not about me. This is about Charles Burns. It was a Brakes job. The transreceivers sent to Iran – a few would've been diverted, clearly against the export license, and modified for assassination. The transreceiver is fitted to the target's car. When the target is driving, the transreceiver is activated and someone remotely takes control of the car. Crashes it at top speed and the target is killed. Autopsy report is falsified perhaps by hackers. Everything points to a tragic drunken and needless death."
Slattery blew out his cheeks. "That's some story, Jon."
Reznick threw the police report across the table to Slattery. "No mention of skidmarks, and the photos afterwards don't show any skidmarks. Yet estimated speed at time of impact was over a hundred and twenty miles per hour. Tiny was teetotal. The non-Mercedes part fitted to the car. It all adds up to a remote controlled assassination."
Meyerstein leaned over, picked up the report and flicked through it. "If someone, even if they are wrecked with alcohol, is trying to stop, there would be a skidmark as they tried to control things."
A silence opened up around the table as they stared at Meyerstein reading the report.
FBI Special Agent Lionel Berryman, an Iranian expert and analyst, who had remained silent until now, coughed nervously before speaking. "I encountered one such case a few years back. We pinpointed a military link to the suspect."
Reznick nodded. "That is where this will come from; Special Forces. Elite. Very secretive."
Lionel said, "But, if I can play devil's advocate, there is no proof that this is what actually happened. If we are to run with this and take things further, we need more than what we have."
Meyerstein said, "Okay, let's kick some hypotheticals into play, Jon. Let's just say for a minute that part of a consignment for Iran was modified by the intelligence services within Iran, and then diverted to their operatives in America for an assassination. Question is, why?"
"Why what?"
"Why Charles Burns?"
Reznick felt uncomfortable for the first time as the gazes of those around the table focused on him. "I've thought about that. There is a link."
Meyerstein said, "Jon, I trust everyone in this room. No one is taking notes of what you're saying. You're free to say whatever you want."
"I believe Charles was targeted. And yes, by Iranian operatives."
"But why?"
Reznick felt ill at ease. He wondered how much he could say. Or even if he should say what he knew.
Meyerstein stared across at him. "Jon, we're going out on a limb for you. You must trust that we will respect areas you would rather not dip into. But I think I speak for everyone round the table when I say that we would appreciate if you could open up for us. If you feel you have information that might be useful."
Reznick sighed. "I think this is revenge."
"Revenge? Revenge for what?"
Reznick took a good look at the faces round the table. Intense expressions from Meyerstein and the two analysts. But there were things Reznick knew that they didn't. The sort of things that Pentagon Generals knew. But concealed from those lower down the chain. Compartmentalization. "Do you know the last time there was a successful Iranian assassination plot on American soil?"
Meyerstein said, "Yes I do. Early 1980s."
"Absolutely. July 22, 1980 to be precise. An Iranian dissident Ali Akbar Tabatabai was gunned down."
Meyerstein said, "Your friend wasn't a dissident though. Why would they target him?"
Reznick took a deep breath and let out a long sigh. "I believe this is retaliation . . . for an operation Charles Burns was part of, carried out six years ago."
Meyerstein put down her pen. "Go on."
"Charles 'Tiny' Burns was part of a team who tracked down and killed Iranian nuclear scientists."
A silence opened up round the table.
Slattery asked, "How do you know that?"
"Because I was there. I led Charles and several other operators on these missions."
THIRTEEN
Everyone went quiet as Meyerstein looked around the room. She fixed her gaze on Special Agent Lionel Berryman, the FBI's top Iranian analyst.
"Lionel, I don't know anyone who knows more about Iranian machinations than you, you want to jump in here?"
Berryman scratched his chin with his thumbnail. "I think we've got to be careful that we don't misinterpret things here."
Reznick said, "Misinterpret what?"
"Well, what I mean by that is we don't add one plus one and make five. Just because this consignment went to Iran, doesn't mean Iranian Intelligence is involved. It could be a proxy."
Meyerstein interjected, "True. It's not the first time a government has been set up to look like the bad guy. False flag operations, you know the drill."
Berryman nodded. "Absolutely. It's important to keep an open mind."
Meyerstein said, "Let's look at the worst case scenario and work back from there. Let's say this was Iranian intelligence. Gimme some analysis that I can work with."
"Well, that would mean it'd come through the VEVAK, their Ministry of Intelligence and National Security. In the Shah's day, as guys my age will remember, we had the SAVAK. After the Revolution it was the SAVAMA. Both horrendous in their own ways. And we played no small part in training the SAVAK torturers who become SAVAMA torturers."
Reznick said nothing.
Berryman gave a sideways glance at Reznick and sighed. "Let's be clear. They are here. Iranian intelligence agents as we all know live in our midst. People who emigrated here after the revolution claiming asylum. But were in fact Iranian agents. And then we have those of Iranian descent who are sympathetic to the Shia cause. But whether they had anything to do with this, well, we're a long way from establishing that."
Meyerstein said, "But it's possible?"
"Yes. If this is a sanctioned operation by Tehran, we've got a major problem on our hands. The hypothesis that this could be a tit for tat thing after the assassination of Iranian nuclear scientists should unnerve anyone. If the public got to find out about this, God knows what would happen."
Meyerstein looked across at Reznick. "You said there were six of you, including Charles Burns based in Tehran."
"In and around Tehran. Three groups of two."
"I don't understand how they could know who was on that mission? Wouldn't they . . ."
Berryman said, "That's where this theory starts running onto the rocks. There's no way they'd know that."
Reznick said, "Why wouldn't they know that?"
"Well, for Chrissakes, it would require them accessing top secret Pentagon files. NSA files perhaps, on you guys."
Meyerstein shook her head in disagreement. "I think your own theory has just ran onto t
he rocks, Lionel. If a guy called Edward Snowden can access top secret files, perhaps there are other Edward Snowdens out there. People not in the limelight. People that have not yet been caught."
Berryman said nothing.
Reznick said, "If I'm correct, there are five others on their list, including me."
Meyerstein said, "These things don't usually come out of thin air. From my experience, there is chatter. Either electronic via smartphones or through landlines, encrypted messaging." She looked at Berryman again. "Any signs?"
"Over the last six months, we have seen an uplift in messaging to various Iranians under electronic surveillance. NSA estimates a 43 per cent increase in electronic chatter for those we are keeping tabs on. Not insignificant. But the messages are encrypted and appear to be banal."
Meyerstein said, "Has that been fed into ongoing National Counterterrorism analysis?"
"They're aware of the figure. A routine report was published just over a month ago, did you see it?"
Meyerstein rolled her eyes. "Do you know how many reports come across my desk every day? If I read every report ever produced, I wouldn't have time for sleep."
"Point taken. Well, the report, which was fed out to our intelligence agencies, concluded that whilst it appears significant, there was nothing to suggest anything untoward in the short term. They did extensive analysis decrypting the messages, and it mostly relates to Syria, Hezbollah and about geopolitical machinations with regards us and Saudi Arabia for control of oil in the Middle East."
Meyerstein said, "And that was it?"
"Pretty much."
"When you say pretty much, was there anything else which was causing concern?"
"Just had everyone scratching their heads trying to figure out why so much information. Some of us were talking about disinformation."
Meyerstein sighed. "Let's get back on track." She looked across at Reznick. "Tell me about the four others."
"Why?"
"I think it's important that we assess any potential threat."
"Sure, but we need to keep this low key."
Berryman said, "I don't think we're ready to equate this man's death with a possible Iranian hit squad. That's my opinion. A disproportionate response at this stage."