by Ben Coes
Jessica sipped her coffee as Dellenbaugh took a seat at the dining-room table.
“Before we discuss the transition, Mr. President, I’m afraid there’s a situation,” said Calibrisi.
“Go on.”
He glanced at Ober.
“I have clearance,” said Ober.
“No, in fact, you don’t,” said Calibrisi. “You have top secret clearance. There’s a level above that.”
“I wasn’t aware of that. What’s the process for getting that clearance?”
“It involves a comprehensive interview and reinvestigation by Langley. We can probably have you in front of the group, depending on the quality of your background materials, by midweek next week. I’ll push it.”
“Okay,” said Ober. “I completely understand.”
“Until then, I must insist that any discussion of CIA activities or written materials be restricted to your eyes only, Mr. President.”
“Of course,” said Dellenbaugh.
“Do you want me to leave while you guys talk?” asked Ober.
“That might be best,” said Calibrisi.
As Ober closed the door, Calibrisi turned to the president.
“It concerns Iran,” said the CIA director.
“What about it?” asked Dellenbaugh.
Calibrisi glanced at Jessica.
“As you know, two months ago, the United States engineered the removal of Omar El-Khayab from the Pakistani presidency,” said Calibrisi.
“I read the debrief,” said Dellenbaugh.
“The American who led the coup, Dewey Andreas, was abducted in the hours after the operation was over. The military commander we initially installed as president of Pakistan, Xavier Bolin, took him and sold him to terrorists. Bolin killed Andreas’s two American teammates, both soldiers, and flew Andreas to Beirut where he was to be tortured, then executed.”
Dellenbaugh’s eyes were wide in disbelief.
“My God…”
“By the time we found out, we had only a few hours to put a rescue operation together,” said Calibrisi. “We had one option.”
“Israel?” asked Dellenbaugh.
“Yes,” said Calibrisi. “General Dayan dispatched a team of commandos to save Andreas. Israel lost six men that night saving him. One of the survivors, the man who led the Israeli special forces team, was named Kohl Meir.”
Dellenbaugh nodded, sipping from his cup, rapt by Calibrisi’s story.
“So how does Iran come in?”
“Iran kidnapped Meir yesterday in New York City,” said Calibrisi. “He was there visiting the parents of one of his fallen teammates. Agents from their intelligence service, VEVAK, abducted him. We believe they took him back to Iran.”
“The Iranians also killed two American citizens,” added Jessica.
“Who?”
“The parents of that dead Israeli.”
“This might sound like a stupid question, but why would Iran want Meir?”
“It’s not a stupid question, Mr. President,” said Calibrisi. “Meir is on an Iranian capture-or-kill list. He’s a high-priority target for Tehran. In addition to being one of Israel’s most highly decorated soldiers, he’s the great-grandson of Golda Meir.”
Dellenbaugh was silent for several moments, then glanced at Jessica.
“How does this concern us?’ he asked.
“Israel has asked for our help,” said Calibrisi.
“Help?”
“Finding him. Rescuing him.”
“Obviously, this is complicated by what’s going on in Geneva,” said Dellenbaugh.
“Yes, sir,” said Calibrisi.
“Can you update me on the status of those negotiations?” Dellenbaugh asked, looking at Jessica.
“The negotiations are at a delicate stage,” said Jessica. “The Swiss are close to finally getting Iran to agree to cease the development of their nuclear weapons program and allow inspectors inside the country.”
“Close?”
“The deal is done,” said Jessica. “Iran will receive $150 billion in IMF loan guarantees. But they’ve made another demand, one that President Allaire turned down. We’re at a stalemate.”
“What was the demand?” asked Dellenbaugh.
“President Nava wants to sign the agreement on the same stage as the American president,” said Jessica. “President Allaire wasn’t willing to do it.”
“Why not?” asked Dellenbaugh.
“He felt it would tarnish the reputation of the United States,” said Jessica. “He also believed the Iranians were lying.”
“I can certainly understand where President Allaire was coming from,” said Dellenbaugh, pausing. He looked at Calibrisi, then at Jessica. “Still, do you two realize how historic this could be?”
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” said Jessica.
“So you don’t think Iran will go through with it?” asked Dellenbaugh.
“They might sign it, but I’d be lying if I told you I trust Mahmoud Nava.”
“People are capable of change,” said Dellenbaugh. “This would be a major historic achievement.”
“‘Change,’ Mr. President?” asked Calibrisi. “This is the regime that just killed two American citizens on U.S. soil.”
“And whose magnetic bomb killed the scientist in Tehran last January?” asked Dellenbaugh.
“Your point, sir?” asked Calibrisi.
“My point is, they kill some of our citizens and we kill some of theirs. It’s the way it works.”
“Mostafa Roshan was one of their top nuclear scientists,” said Calibrisi. “That’s quite a bit different from killing two innocent bystanders.”
“All I’m saying is, trust is not the issue,” said Dellenbaugh. “It seems to me that any agreement that provides the international community with increased inspection powers inside Iran is worth the risk.”
“Iran pledging to stop building nuclear weapons is just the tip of the iceberg,” said Jessica. “Until we actually start to do on-demand inspections, we won’t know if the agreement is being adhered to. That’s at least a year from now, maybe two.”
“Look, I’m as skeptical as you two,” said Dellenbaugh. “But imagine if we did the signing in Tehran. At the embassy where Americans were taken hostage. It would be like Nixon going to China.”
Jessica and Calibrisi were silent.
“Well, I don’t expect you to jump all over it,” he said. “I know it’s out there.”
“Iran has been trying to build a nuclear device for more than a decade,” said Calibrisi.
“Well, that’s up for debate, is it not?” asked Dellenbaugh. “I mean, they want nuclear power. Is that really so wrong? Who are we to dictate where they get their power from? If we go to Tehran, it might embolden the good side of Iran, the good side even of Nava, to follow through on their promises, to become part of the civilized world.”
“Mr. President,” said Calibrisi, “the decision as to whether or not to hold a summit with President Nava doesn’t need to be made tonight. You bring up some good points. But we need to make a decision as it relates to Kohl Meir.”
“I understand,” Dellenbaugh said. “I apologize for changing subjects, Hector. What assets do we have inside Iran?”
“The CIA has at least a dozen operatives in or around Tehran; mostly Kurds we recruited out of northern Iraq and trained over here. In terms of informants, we have a broader set of Iranian citizens, perhaps two dozen, who provide us information on a regular basis.”
“Do we know where they took Meir?”
“We believe he’s in a prison on the outskirts of Tehran. Evin Prison.”
“And is Evin the sort of place we could somehow penetrate? Do we have any agents or informants inside the prison capable of rescuing him?”
Calibrisi nodded, understanding the drift of Dellenbaugh’s comments.
“No, sir. Evin is virtually impenetrable.”
“Then what would you have the United States do, Hector?” asked Dellenba
ugh. “Invade Iran? Storm a prison that you yourself just said is impenetrable? This is Israel’s problem. It’s not our problem. I understand American citizens were killed, and it pisses me off. And if it makes you feel better, find out who did it and have them killed. Frankly, I don’t care. But unless you can explain to me how we get Meir out, I don’t see how we have a role here.”
“Iran has at least fifty spies inside U.S. borders, Mr. President,” said Calibrisi sharply.
“What does that have to do with anything?” retorted Dellenbaugh. “Kick ’em out. But I am not going to send in SEAL Team Six or anyone else for that matter to a situation that sounds, frankly, like a suicide mission. In addition, I disagree with Rob Allaire on this agreement signing. I want Iran to sign it. Even if you’re right, that they’re just deceiving us, it’s worth the risk. It’s a little bit of money for a lot of increased manpower on the ground over there.”
“To be clear, we’ll be saying no to helping rescue the man who saved Dewey Andreas’s life,” said Jessica.
Dellenbaugh nodded.
“What would you have us do?” asked Dellenbaugh.
“Condition our signing the agreement on Tehran releasing Meir,” said Jessica.
“No,” said Dellenbaugh calmly. “I’m not happy about what happened, but I am not going to risk the opportunity, the history-making opportunity, to finally get Iran to stop their nuclear weapons program. The opportunity that lies in front of America, and in front of Israel, is bigger than one man. If Iran can be brought back into the community of civilized nations, imagine the number of Israelis whose lives will be saved.”
9
THE BRONKELMAN FUND
JOHN HANCOCK TOWER
BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS
Dewey wore a navy blue suit, a white button-down shirt, and a green tie. His entire outfit had been purchased at Brooks Brothers the day before, as had a pair of cordovan wing tips, which were on his feet. Dewey’s hair was short, and he was clean-shaven. He handed his license to the security guard, walked through a metal detector, then headed for the elevators. On the forty-eighth floor, he stepped off the elevator.
The floor was empty. He walked to a set of glass doors, the letters TBF etched in elegant cursive across the glass. Behind the doors, twenty feet away, sat an attractive brunette behind a large desk. He heard the faint click of a lock unbolting. He reached for the door and stepped inside.
“Mr. Andreas?” the woman asked. She stood up, her hand extended.
“Yes,” said Dewey.
“Welcome to Bronkelman,” she said. “I’m Monica George. Chip is expecting you. Please follow me.”
Dewey followed her down the hall. In the distance, at the corner, a set of double doors was open. Past the doors, Dewey could see into a large office, then the windowed walls and behind them, the Boston skyline and the blue waters of Boston Harbor.
As he walked along the muted, lush brown carpet, Dewey glanced at the large paintings on the walls, an Edward Hopper oil of a diner at night, several Andrew Wyeth paintings, including one of a field running toward the distant ocean shore, which looked like a field he knew in Blue Hill, near Castine. Then a line of Picassos. The offices were quiet, nearly soundproof. He passed a line of young analysts seated in front of flat-screens, two per desk, each clotted with red and green numbers and graphs that undulated with activity.
“May I get you something?” asked Monica. “Water? Coffee? Tea?”
“No thanks.”
She showed him into the corner office. The office was huge, two of its walls completely glass. An enormously large wood desk was arrayed with computer monitors, perhaps a dozen of them, and several phones. The chair behind the desk was empty, but in a seating area near the corner of the room, a large, overweight man in jeans and an untucked red button-down shirt stood up. He had a cell phone clutched to his ear, and he smiled and waved at Dewey to come to the seating area.
“Call you back,” he said into the phone, then tossed it onto the glass table and stepped toward Dewey. “Dewey Andreas, how are you? Nice to meet you. I’m Chip Bronkelman. Come in, sit down, make yourself at home.”
Dewey shook Bronkelman’s hand.
“Nice to meet you,” he said.
“Shut the door, will you, Monica?”
Dewey was at least half a foot taller than Bronkelman. The hedge fund manager was five-six or -seven, but he weighed at least three hundred pounds. He was bald, with glasses, and had a big, infectious smile.
Bronkelman sat back down on one of the leather sofas. Dewey sat across from him.
“You don’t look like the kind of guy who likes to wear ties, Dewey,” said Bronkelman.
“I’m not,” said Dewey.
“Good. I don’t let any of my people wear them. Honestly, I don’t even understand what the fucking point is. Originally ties were there to catch food before it hit your shirt. Now God forbid you spill something on them. Cost you two hundred bucks.”
Dewey grinned, but said nothing.
“So you’re from Maine, went to BC, played football there, then served in the army, Rangers, Delta,” said Bronkelman.
“Yes,” said Dewey.
“Jessica tells me you’ve done a bunch of other things but that she wasn’t at liberty to divulge any of it, for national security reasons.”
Dewey nodded.
“She also said you didn’t talk much.” Bronkelman smiled. “That’s okay. I talk enough for two people. So here’s the deal. I need someone to oversee security, mainly for myself and my family. Last March, my daughter was kidnapped while we were in St. Bart’s. It cost me several million dollars to get her back. I don’t care about the money, but if I had lost Rebecca it would’ve killed me.”
“Who did it?”
“We still don’t know. The exchange was arranged by someone at the CIA. It’s how I met Jessica. She’s the one who recommended I get someone to help out.”
“I understand. Do you mind if I ask what it is you do?”
“I’m an investor. Mainly currency. I’m what they call a global macro investor. I take what are hopefully educated guesses about the direction a specific country’s currency is going to go in relationship to the dollar. We manage approximately thirty billion dollars. Insurance companies, endowments, wealthy individuals. Almost half of it’s my own money; clients like when you put your money where your mouth is.”
Dewey smiled.
“Look, Jessica told me a little bit about you. I know you view this as a lousy job, a compromise, settling. And the fact is, most of the time, you’re going to be bored out of your skull. But, I don’t want the kind of person who wants this job. That guy’s a schmuck. I want someone who does view it as boring, as settling, because then I know I’ve got the right guy.”
“I’m flattered you’d consider me,” said Dewey. “I don’t see it as settling, I’m just not sure I’m the right person.”
Bronkelman leaned forward. He was an odd-looking man with a slightly nasally voice, and he spoke very rapidly; Dewey liked him.
“Here’s the deal, and you think about it,” said Bronkelman. “Take your time. Your base pay will be a million dollars, and I’ll give you a nice bonus. You’ll have access to my plane when we’re not using it. I’ll give you a budget so you can hire a few people so you don’t have to be a constant babysitter.”
“That’s very generous,” said Dewey.
“Something else,” said Bronkelman. “We’d be spending a bunch of time together. I’ll teach you how to trade. Maybe you’re good at it. My best currency trader is a guy who didn’t even graduate from college. He played online poker from the time he was fifteen until I hired him. I’ll show you the ropes, teach you another skill. And you can teach me a thing or two, I’m sure.”
Dewey grinned.
“You want some references?”
“No. Already got ’em. Jessica’s the best reference I know. I can tell you’re my kind of guy. I’ve never been wrong, at least about people. You seem like the kind o
f guy who’s had some interesting shit happen to you. I’ll take that. I always tell people, the best time to buy something is when it’s undervalued. And my best traders are invariably the ones who’ve lost a fortune or two.”
Bronkelman stood, as did Dewey. Bronkelman extended his hand and they shook hands.
“Take your time,” said Bronkelman. “You know, this job would be easy for you. You’d make good money. And I’m a good boss. My people like me because I’m fair and I’m loyal. I want you here. So let me know.”
* * *
Dewey took the Delta shuttle from Logan to LaGuardia Airport outside of New York City. By the time the plane touched down, it was nearly 5:00 P.M.
Dewey was to meet Meir in the lobby of the Mark Hotel at six.
Dewey had liked Bronkelman, more than he ever would have predicted. He found him to be straightforward, kind, and not at all corporate or stuffy. Clearly, Bronkelman was also brilliant. Interestingly, what intrigued Dewey the most wasn’t the money, but rather the chance to learn something new.
So, he’d take a day or two and think about it. In the meantime, he’d get together with Kohl Meir and see what he wanted. Maybe he’d head down to Washington and see Jessica. He’d call Bronkelman from there and say yes.
Dewey stepped off the plane, clutching a leather weekend bag. He walked quickly through the terminal. Outside, he made a beeline for the taxi line.
As he did, he heard a loud whistle. Turning, Dewey saw a black sedan with darkened windows idling in front of the taxi stand. The back window was halfway down. He recognized the face of Hector Calibrisi.
Dewey stepped toward the Town Car.
“Hi, Dewey,” said Calibrisi. “Get in.”
Dewey climbed in the front seat. A young agent was at the wheel; in back sat Calibrisi and Jessica.
He stared for several moments at her. She returned his look with a steady, blank stare.
“Hi, Dewey,” said Jessica.
“Hi, Jess,” said Dewey. “I’m sorry about the president.”
“Thanks,” she said.