by JB Turner
Meyerstein said, "And we will be the pariah. It will set off unrest across the Middle East. Spark Hezbollah into full-scale confrontation with Israel. The Shias in Iraq will be in uproar. The place will be in flames. And that's why they might be thinking we'll want to localize the threat."
McMaster blew out his cheeks.
Meyerstein went quiet for a few moments. "Something else to consider. Do you think these guys in California have gone rogue?"
McMaster winced. "Long shot . . ."
"Think about it. What if the brother of this dead nuclear scientist is ripping up the rule book and playing to his own agenda, and to hell with the consequences."
McMaster said, "From everything we know about Quds, this is not how they play the game. It's tight and it's scripted. Very, very disciplined."
Meyerstein took a few moments to reply. "What if we're wrong? What if these guys have stepped off the deep end? What if they are not planning to go back to Tehran until Reznick is dead?"
No one said a word.
When the videoconference came to an abrupt halt, Meyerstein headed back to the interview room where Reznick was leaning against a wall, arms folded. She faced him, hands on hips, outlined what she knew to Reznick as he listened intently. "What do you reckon's going on here, Jon?"
"With regards?"
"With regards why they're going to call back. Any minute now."
Reznick stared at her long and hard. "They're fucking with us, that's what they're doing."
Meyerstein sighed. "Is that your considered analysis?"
"Pretty much. We're all waiting on them to make the next move. But I guarantee you they've already made it."
"What do you mean?"
"They're playing you. They're playing me. They're playing all of us. My gut is telling me these guys are doing their own thing."
Meyerstein said, "What if I told you that one of the Iranians . . . you killed his brother in Tehran."
Reznick said nothing.
"Did you know that?"
Reznick shook his head.
"So where does that leave us?"
"They're going to try and kill me. No matter the cost. And make no mistake, revenge is everything to these guys."
"Jon, I . . ."
The shrill ringtone of Meyerstein's cellphone interrupted their conversation. She saw that the caller ID display on her phone was changing, clearly scrambling the lines to avoid detection.
Meyerstein felt her heart rate quicken before she answered. "Meyerstein."
A long sigh. "Good to speak to you again, Assistant Director."
"Thank you for calling back."
"I can hear the uncertainty in your voice, Meyerstein. It betrays your true feelings. I don't want to hurt you. As long as I get what I want."
Meyerstein closed her eyes. "What do you want?"
The man began to laugh.
"What the hell is so funny?"
"You know exactly what I want. Jon Reznick."
Meyerstein looked across at Reznick was who staring back at her. Eyes cold, face inscrutable. "No deal.'
"That is your final answer?"
"Yes it is."
A long sigh down the line.
"We have plans in place."
"What sort of plans?"
The line went dead.
THIRTY
Jerry Morlach was listening to an old Miles Davis album on his terrace when his cellphone rang. "I'm looking to speak to Jerry Franklin Morlach," an unfamiliar man's voice said.
Morlach's antennae switched on immediately. He didn't know anyone who used his full name. The fact that someone had used his full name told him everything he had to know. "I think you have the wrong number."
A long sigh down the line. "I am a contract worker."
Morlach took a few moments to compose himself. He had been expecting the call. The two-tier code – his full name and the words contract worker – had been activated. His senses were switched on. "I'm sorry, this is a bad line. It sounded like you said you are a contract worker."
A long sigh. "Yes I am."
"What can I do for you?"
"You may know my predecessor, Mr. Morlach. His name was Stadler."
Morlach did indeed know who Stadler was. He hadn't heard from him in years. He wondered if the caller was a replacement.
"There are things we need to discuss. We want to talk. Frankly."
"Why?"
The man sighed again. "You're the back channel for this deal, right?"
Morlach said nothing as a silence opened up down the line. He lit up a cigarette, sucking the smoke deep into his lungs. "I need to know that you are indeed who you claim you are?"
"You need to make a call. They'll verify."
Morlach said nothing as he exhaled the smoke.
"The verification code is eight characters long. Do you have a pen handy?"
Morlach had a photographic memory for figures and didn't need a pen. "I'm listening."
"Verification code is as follows: 9-4-4-9-8-1 . . . Delta . . . Delta . . . I'll call you back in an hour."
Morlach nodded. He ended the call and pulled up the contact number he had in his cellphone. Four rings and a woman's voice.
"Please give the verification code."
Morlach recited the number. There was a long pause down the line.
"I can confirm our contract worker has been deployed."
"Thank you." He ended the call and waited. Exactly an hour after the first call ended, Morlach's cell rang.
The man answered after one ring. "We okay?"
"We're good," Morlach said.
"We have work to do."
"I'm listening."
A long sigh. "We are quite prepared to give you what you want."
Morlach said nothing.
"I mean, of course, Jon Reznick."
Morlach's stomach knotted at the mere mention of Reznick's name. "How do I know that what you say is true?"
"I think it's important we keep this channel of communication open at this time."
"You haven't answered my earlier question."
"Which was?"
"How do I know that what you say is true?"
"I'll be back in touch."
THIRTY ONE
Meyerstein was running on adrenalin. A sense of foreboding washed over her, pervading her every thought. She felt as though events were about to unfold in the darkest way. The specter of terrorism on American soil. She sensed it. So did the intelligence community. But unless they tracked down the Iranians, they were beholden to them.
She pushed those thoughts aside and endured another grueling video conference call, this time with the Pentagon. NSA analysts checked and cross-referenced leads on the whereabouts of the caller they believed was in the Santa Monica area. But they couldn't pin down the call.
Meyerstein felt frustrated and apprehensive as she ended the videoconference. She had sank too many black coffees for her own good, nerves shredded. She called home and spoke to her mother who was looking after the kids. She had three minutes with each. They asked when she was coming home. She felt bad. She always did when her job took her away from her family. But she knew the demands of the job. It was no nine-to-five.
Meyerstein worried that her kids were no longer the center of her life. She simply wasn't there for them nearly as often as she would have liked. She missed their concerns and foibles and the small things that made up their day. When she did spend time with them, she felt herself zoning out of their world, as she focused more and more on her work. Was she becoming detached from her own children?
She thought of the times her daughter talked about a piece of music, invariably Bach, she was rehearsing with her piano teacher, but struggled to stay interested as she was always exhausted after work.
The more she thought of it the more she worried she was becoming adrift from her family. The job was doing that to her. Day by day, month by month. Year by year. It was eating away at her. From within. She wondered if it was time to r
eassess her priorities.
"Meyerstein, video conference room!" Belmont shouted, snapping her out of her reverie.
She headed back to the videoconference facility. Three huge screens now showing the FBI's counter terrorism HQ in McLean.
"Gentlemen," she said, "any developments?"
McMaster punched a few keys on his laptop. A grainy photo was brought up on the big screens of a man wearing a Lakers baseball cap. He had light brown skin, cellphone pressed to his ear. "Got a breakthrough, ma'am. This is the latest shot we have of Mohsen Sazegara."
"Where was this taken?"
Counter terrorism specialist Mac Jackson, put up his hand, "Hi, Martha. Yeah, this was taken seventy two minutes ago at a Laundromat in Santa Monica."
"How are we only getting this now?"
"Long story. Face recognition matches throwing up other IDs, but we're satisfied this is one of our guys. But here's the kicker. He doesn't live or work in Iran."
"You got to be kidding me?"
"The face recognition matches a naturalized U.S. citizen with dual Iranian citizenship. He lives in Corpus Christi, Texas. New identity."
"Shit?"
"Indeed."
"What does he do?"
A long sigh but no answer.
"I said what does he do?"
McMaster cleared his throat. "He's an engineer at defense contractor Methvens & Fischer."
"No, that can't be right. Jesus!"
A long sigh again.
Meyerstein shifted in her seat as she stared up at the faces staring down. "Okay, let's focus here. Firstly, how many times has he visited Tehran?"
"We make it he has made seven return trips to his brother-in-law in Hamadan in the last five years."
"Tell me about Mohsen Sazegara."
"He's not married. Fitness fanatic. Thirty five. Black belt karate. Member of three gun clubs in Texas. Very well integrated and westernized. And he's operating under the name Mozen. M-o-z-e-n." He spelled it out."
"Have his details been circulated?"
"Intelligence and Homeland Security now have it."
"Cops?"
"Restricted to senior levels in Southern California."
Meyerstein nodded. She knew that if there was any leak or whiff from a sheriff or cop the whole thing would turn into a media frenzy. "What about his home in Corpus Christi?"
"Already combing through it. Forensics are working through his laptop but nothing so far. Pretty advanced encryption by all accounts."
"Who's pulling the strings? Local or foreign?"
"Maybe both. But we've ran this around and we think this guy is leading the team."
"Guys, we are chasing shadows. What's their next move?"
"Martha, I don't think we can . . ."
"I asked what's their next goddamn move?"
A long sigh. "Near unanimous votes for long range sniper picking off next target, especially after Vincenza being gunned down long range and the two Iranian-American students being taken out the same way."
Meyerstein felt a headache coming on. She didn't know if it was too much coffee or too little sleep. Maybe both. "How have we missed this guy?"
McMaster said, "The same way we missed the Boston bombers."
"That's not strictly true. We didn't miss those guys. We had a heads-up from the Russians."
McMaster and the rest of the guys up on the screen nodded.
"This is different. This guy should have been on our radar. He's not working on his own. What about the rest of his crew?"
A long silence opened up.
Meyerstein stared at the faces on the screen. "You're keeping something from me. What the hell is it?"
McMaster rubbed his eyes. "Martha, he was, at one time, on our radar."
"What?"
"FBI had him two years ago under surveillance."
"So why did it end?"
"Martha, there are competing threats. We have to think triage. What is the most severe and urgent threat? Work back from there."
Meyerstein leaned back in her seat. "So the guy leading this cell that hunted down and killed ex-Delta operatives was once under our goddamn nose? Tell me you're joking."
"Sadly not?"
"Who made that call?"
"Martha, I don't think it does anyone any good to trawl over . . ."
"Goddamn who made that call?"
McMaster looked around at the faces at his end before he turned to look at Meyerstein. "Authorization shows that it came from San Antonio FBI field office."
"Who's in charge there?"
"Martha, I don't think blaming someone . . ."
"This is nothing to do with blaming someone. This is holding people to account. Because if we don't we're going to make those same mistakes over and over again."
"Special Agent in Charge Charles Patterson."
"I need to speak to him right now."
"The SAC is indisposed, Martha."
"What do you mean?"
"He's on honeymoon."
"I don't give a damn where he is. I need to know the rationale."
"Martha, it was the wrong call."
"Get me the number."
Mac gave her the number and Meyerstein abruptly ended the videoconference. She punched in the number for Patterson. Three rings and the call was picked up.
"This better be good," a man's voice rasped.
Meyerstein cleared her throat. "Charles, apologies for bothering you, Assistant Director Martha Meyerstein."
"Em . . . is this a joke? Do you know what time it is?"
"This is no joke. We've got an emergency, Charles."
"What kind of emergency?"
"A guy San Antonio field office had under surveillance. Look is this a secure line you're on?"
"Yeah. Who are we talking about?"
Meyerstein rubbed her shoulders to relieve her tense muscles. "Mozen. Dual citizenship. Iranian-American. Worked for a defense contractor under surveillance."
A beat. "I know the one you mean. But what do you mean we had him under surveillance?"
"I mean you lifted the surveillance on him."
"I did no such thing."
Meyerstein was momentarily wrong-footed by the answer. She quickly scrolled her iPad to bring up the details. "I'm sorry, I have a copy of the instruction you sent out, March 7 this year."
"Listen, Meyerstein, I sent no such thing."
"I have it in front of me, your signature."
"Not mine. There is no goddamn way I authorized that."
Meyerstein wondered if the SAC was just not willing to take the flak. "Are you positive, because I'm going to double check this?"
"100 per cent. I did not authorize that. You say a document has my signature. Has that been verified? Because I think you'll find it is not mine."
Meyerstein closed her eyes for a moment and sighed. She hadn't seen this coming.
"Listen, get your handwriting forensics at document examinations to check the signature. It ain't mine."
Meyerstein thought he sounded genuine. "Charles, we'll check this out. You might be hearing from counter terrorism. Probably want to keep your cell charged."
"What the hell is going on, Martha?"
"I need to go, Charles. Enjoy the rest of your honeymoon."
Meyerstein ended the call and hooked up again to McLean. She relayed the information to Mac and the rest of the counter terrorism specialists around the table.
"That's impossible," Mac said.
"Except it's not. I want the best FBI forensic handwriting expert to check over this instruction from Charles. He is adamant it wasn't him. I believe him."
"Copy that. We're on it. This will take a couple of hours, Martha. I'd suggest you get some rest. You look terrible."
Meyerstein was about to protest but a wave of tiredness washed over her. She realized she hadn't slept in the last 24 hours. She ended the videoconference and was shown to a dormitory. It was basic but clean with an en-suite. She took off her shoes. It was bliss. She strippe
d down to her underwear and went into the shower room cum bathroom. She washed the make-up from her face. She looked in the mirror. Bloodshot eyes, panda shadows around her eyes. She got into the single bed, switched the light off and was asleep before he head hit the pillow.
Three hours later, Meyerstein was woken by gentle knocking on the door. She came too. It took her a few moments to get her bearings. "I'll be there in ten minutes," she shouted.
She jumped out of bed and quickly freshened up with a hot shower. She always carried her full make-up in her handbag. She applied fresh make-up, got dressed popped a mint in her mouth and was ready to rejoin her team.
The videoconference recommenced.
FBI forensic handwriting specialist Morton Greenbank's face was up on one of the screens. "Ma'am, Special Agent Greenbank. I can see how they did this?"
"Did what?"
"The signature is not Patterson's."
"What do you mean?"
"It looks like Paterson's at first glance. But it's not. They hacked the FBI."
Meyerstein shook her head. "This is getting worse. How could they have done this?"
"We're still trying to figure it out. But I can confirm there has been a clear breach down in San Antonio. Someone has accessed a server, and got to work."
"The FBI cybersecurity has been breached? Are you kidding me?"
"The Iranians are world class at this. They do this all the time."
"Yeah, but how?"
"Any weak spot or local weak spot might have provided the opportunity. Perhaps a memory stick that has been swapped, infecting a local computer down there, allowing them access. Break in of an agent's car, and any laptop or flash drive in there, could be their way in. It's low tech, but very effective. Social engineering. But this might've come all the way from Tehran."
"Okay, how long till you determine exactly how this happened?"
"I'll have it within an hour."
"Can you also determine how this false signature got on the document and into our system?"
"I'll get to it."
The forensic expert's face disappeared and in its place was McMaster. The adjacent screen flashed up a picture of a thickset man with pale brown skin and piercing black eyes. "Martha, we got a critical update."
"Who's this?"
"This is Mohsen's brother Behzad. He lives in Dallas, organizes tours to Middle East tourist haunts in Jordan, Egypt etc. for wealthy Texans. Wife and three kids took a flight to Tehran ten days ago. He's disappeared."