The Last Refuge

by Ben Coes

  Two minutes later, Dewey threw cash on the bar and exited Khutorok by the Sea. Outside, Dewey stood for a moment and looked at the ocean, slapping the shore just across the street. The sound of the ocean’s waves, crashing against the beach, created a steady rhythm.

  Straight ahead, Dewey marked the couple, standing on the quay just up from the beach. She was pretty, dressed in a simple, sleeveless white dress. The man was dressed in khakis and a white button-down shirt with no collar. The man’s arm was around the woman’s back. They began to stroll away.

  Qassou.

  Dewey waited outside the bar for several minutes, watching Qassou and the woman walk away. The sidewalk wasn’t crowded, but there were a few people out, enjoying the clear night and the sight of the ocean. He watched the couple as they receded into the distance.

  “He will be with a woman. She’s unaware of the purpose of the visit. Be careful. He might be followed by VEVAK.”

  Suddenly, to his left, in the distance, walking down the sidewalk, Dewey’s eye was drawn to a short, roundish man, smoking a cigarette, a wool beret on his head. He looked like an overweight tourist or a retiree and walked like someone who’d overeaten—shuffling, moving slowly, one hand on a thick belly.

  Dewey went left, in the opposite direction of Qassou and the woman. He passed a second man, dark hair, a leather jacket. Dewey glanced at him and saw his eyes were searching, tracking, following the couple.

  At the next corner, Dewey went left. He walked fast, down the block, then took another left, and kept going for three more blocks. He took one more left, slowing now. The street was thinner and darker, a service street.

  After several minutes, as Dewey expected, at the far corner Qassou and the woman were crossing the street from the beach, heading up the thin service street in Dewey’s direction.

  Dewey walked on the opposite side of the small, dimly lit street. Halfway down the street, he tucked into a darkened alcove in front of a dry cleaner, now closed. He pressed against the glass, out of sight. Unzipping his fleece then unbuttoning the top button of his shirt, Dewey pulled the Stechkin from around his neck. He watched as Qassou and the woman passed slowly on the opposite sidewalk, chatting to each other, laughing.

  Gripping the suppressed 9mm in his left hand, he lifted it into the air as the soft shuffle of footsteps came from down the street. A shadow appeared on the cobblestones, a silhouette, as the lone figure stepped in front of the alcove.

  Training the Stechkin at the figure, Dewey prepared to fire.

  The silhouette turned, and in a reflection of light, Dewey saw an old woman clutching a shopping bag. He recoiled the weapon, and stood silently as she walked quickly away, filled with fear, yet too old to do anything except flee.

  Dewey’s paranoia had nearly caused him to kill an innocent Ukrainian woman. Wake up, he thought. How could you come so close to making such a mistake?

  Dewey returned to the Maristella Club. He took the elevator to the third floor, then went to his suite and waited. After ten minutes, a knock came at the door. Dewey stepped to the door and opened it. Qassou stepped inside the room. Dewey shut the door behind him.

  Qassou was drenched in sweat. He looked disheveled, even slightly panicked.

  “We need to hurry,” he said, in near perfect English. He was as tall as Dewey. “She’s asleep, but if she wakes up she’ll wonder where I’ve gone. A cigarette break lasts only so long.”

  “Who is she?” asked Dewey.

  “Just a girl. But she’s my alibi.”

  “Is it standard operating procedure to track government officials when they leave Iran?” asked Dewey.

  “The answer is, I don’t know, Mr. Andreas. Why? Was I followed?”

  “I thought so,” said Dewey. “But if you were, I lost him.”

  Dewey walked to the seating area of the large suite and sat on a chair. Qassou followed and sat across from him on the couch.

  “I have questions,” said Dewey. “If I’m going to put my neck on the line, I need to be able to trust you. And right now, I don’t.”

  Qassou stared at Dewey, nodding his head.

  “I understand,” said Qassou. “I can’t make you trust me. What I can tell you is that I’ve already taken great personal risk to be here.”

  “What about Kohl Meir? Is he at Evin?”

  “Yes,” said Qassou. “He’s at Evin. They are going to put him on trial. It will be a farce, but then you know that already.”

  “Can you do anything to get him out?”

  “I have contacts inside Evin,” said Qassou, lighting a cigarette, “but I don’t see any way to get him out. He was a wanted man.”

  Qassou took a piece of paper from his pocket and unfolded it. It looked like an FBI most wanted poster from the post office, written in Persian. There were three lines of black-and-white headshots, photos of twelve different people. In the top corner, a grainy photo showed the unsmiling face of Kohl Meir.

  Dewey took the sheet and studied it.

  “What is this?” he asked.

  “This is a VEVAK capture-or-kill list,” said Qassou. “Agents are authorized to capture or kill anyone on this list.”

  “What’s the writing?” asked Dewey.

  “Various so-called crimes, real or imagined. Kohl was the number one target. As the great-grandson of Golda Meir, his capture is significant.”

  “How were you and Kohl going to find the weapon?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Dewey leaned forward and took a cigarette, then lit it. He shook his head, unconsciously, for the first time realizing there wasn’t any sort of structure or strategy.

  “Tell me about the mole.”

  “He works for Beijing. In turn, Beijing relays everything they know to VEVAK. It’s imperative Mossad not know of our plan. Mahmoud Nava would detonate the device preemptively if he believes Tel Aviv or Washington knows and might attempt to destroy it.”

  “Let me tell Menachem Dayan,” said Dewey. “They run a fucking mole hunt. They know what the hell they’re doing.”

  “That is the precise moment when the traitor inside Mossad will call his handler,” said Qassou, “and before the hour is out, the bomb will be sent on its way to Tel Aviv. I know Mahmoud Nava. This is what he will do. We only have a few days, but if he finds out someone is on to his plan, then all bets are off. Tel Aviv will be destroyed.”

  Qassou lit another cigarette.

  “What about the CIA?” asked Dewey.

  “I thought of the CIA,” said Qassou. “I know the Damascus chief of station. With the CIA, it’s a different problem. America will send in the cavalry. It’s your arrogance. If we tell Langley, they’ll want to start bombing ‘in five minutes.’”

  “I know people at the CIA we can trust,” said Dewey.

  “Mossad has people inside Langley. There is practically an open pipeline.”

  “So what if we did start bombing? Maybe that’s the best solution.”

  Qassou blew out a mouthful of smoke, then smiled. He looked at Dewey.

  “I don’t know where the bomb is,” said Qassou. “As you can imagine, this would make it difficult. And before the second American bomb is even dropped, Mahmoud would detonate the nuclear bomb in Tel Aviv.”

  Dewey reached out and took another cigarette from Qassou’s pack.

  “Look, I don’t love Israel,” continued Qassou. “But that doesn’t mean I want to see half a million people die, no matter what their nationality or religion. When I found out Mahmoud’s plan to use the nuclear device on Tel Aviv, I knew I had to do something. I would like to think someone in Tel Aviv would do the same if they found out someone was going to drop a bomb on Tehran.”

  “How did you find out about the nuclear bomb in the first place?” asked Dewey.

  “Mahmoud trusts me. As much as he trusts anyone.”

  Qassou pulled a small letter-sized envelope from his pocket. He pulled out a short stack of photos. He placed them out on the table.

  “They
were taken last week. I spent more than an hour trying to guess the password to his laptop. I finally got in, and printed these. If I had been caught, he would have had me killed.”

  The photos showed different angles of the bomb. The final photo in the stack showed a plain-looking, new semitruck.

  “Do you know the dimensions? The weight?”

  “No.”

  “Why the photo of the truck?”

  “The bomb’s inside it,” said Qassou. “The plan is to move it to a port, then bring it to Tel Aviv by boat.”

  “Who else knows about the bomb?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Guess.”

  “At most a dozen people. The builder himself, Dr. Kashilla, and now, whoever is holding it. The military. Paria, of course. High-level Revolutionary Guard. And of course the Supreme Leader, Suleiman.”

  “You have no idea where the bomb is?” asked Dewey.

  “If I knew where the bomb was,” said Qassou, “I would simply have told Kohl. Israeli Air Force could get rid of it within the hour, I have no doubt. But I don’t know where it is. It’s the most closely guarded secret Mahmoud has. When I ask him if I may accompany him to see it, he lashes out at me.”

  Qassou leaned back. He removed another cigarette and lit it.

  “Is the bomb launch ready?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Is it on a mobile launcher? Is it in a silo? Do you know?”

  “All I know is the plan that Mahmoud has bragged about. It’s going to be sent by water. Hezbollah will bring it into Tel Aviv in a small fishing boat. They’ll detonate it once it’s in Tel Aviv.”

  Dewey stood up, shaking his head, his stubble-coated face lined with a look of anger, frustration, and fatigue.

  “You have to find out the location. It’s the only way.”

  “I’ll find the location,” said Qassou.

  There was a long silence. Dewey went to the minibar and took out a beer.

  “So you find the location,” said Dewey, unscrewing the bottle of beer. “Then what?”

  “That’s why you’re here,” said Qassou, looking at him. “There will be very little notice. You’ll need to be inside Iran. Then, when the bomb is being moved, you’ll have to intercept it.”

  “Oh, that should be easy,” said Dewey sarcastically. “I’ll just go up and knock on the door. Maybe they’ll even help me load it into the back of my car. What do you think?”

  Qassou was silent for several moments. Then a grin spread across his face. He laughed.

  Dewey took another sip and laughed with him.

  “I do know that it’s within a two-hour drive of the presidential palace,” said Qassou.

  “That narrows it down,” said Dewey. “You’re talking about a massive area.”

  “By my math, approximately a thousand square miles,” said Qassou.

  Dewey stood at the minibar and slugged the rest of the beer down. He opened the minibar again, pulled out a small bottle of Jack Daniel’s, twisted the cap off, and downed it in one gulp. Then, he grabbed one more beer, another bottle of Jack Daniel’s. He sat down again, unscrewed the cap of the whiskey bottle, and took a sip.

  Qassou stared at him in disbelief.

  “What?” Dewey asked.

  “You like to drink, don’t you?” asked Qassou, laughing.

  “When I’m planning my own funeral, yes,” said Dewey.

  Dewey stared at Qassou. He couldn’t imagine how he’d hijack a nuclear device; he would have to involve the CIA. He thought of Calibrisi, Polk, and the rest of the team that had helped execute the coup in Pakistan. He thought of Jessica. He would need their help.

  But then, he realized, if he were to tell any of them, no matter how much they promised, they would have to elevate it. Especially Jessica.

  “How much time do we have?” asked Dewey.

  “Days,” said Qassou. “Taris will e-mail you. I’ll try to figure out how to free Kohl before they execute him. But you have to know something. I probably won’t succeed.”

  “Why are you doing this?” asked Dewey.

  “Why?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Not every Iranian hates Israel. You wouldn’t know that, would you? The day Iran destroys Tel Aviv will be celebrated by a very small, very vocal minority of Iranians. Most of us will be deeply embarrassed, ashamed, and angry. I would not have been able to live with myself if I didn’t try to stop this. When I die, I want to be proud of what I did while I was alive.”

  With those words, Qassou stood, walked to the door, and disappeared into the night.

  Dewey sat on the sofa for several minutes, closing his eyes, trying to think. Finally, he stood up and went to the minibar. He took the final bottle of whiskey from it. He stepped to the window. Lights dangled from lampposts along Arcadia Beach every hundred feet, illuminating the sand in small, eerie tan circles. He unscrewed the bottle and, as he put it to his lips, suddenly saw Qassou walking beneath the lights of the the boardwalk back to his hotel. Dewey slugged the whiskey as he continued to watch Qassou trail away.

  Dewey was exhausted, both mentally and physically. He’d barely slept the night before, staying at a run-down motel near the airport in Tel Aviv. His flight tomorrow was at 11:00 A.M. He would sleep in. There was so much to think about now, the complexity of a mission whose parameters had just changed, a mission he could tell no one about. His mind was too frazzled to think about any of it.

  “Tomorrow,” he whispered aloud.

  He would figure it out tomorrow. He watched as Qassou’s dark frame receded down the boardwalk to the left. He put the small bottle to his lips and drained it.

  And then he saw it.

  Out of the corner of his eye, to the right, along the beach. Almost imperceptible. A shadow passing beneath a lamppost. Then, whatever it was disappeared as it moved to the left, to the south, tracking Qassou at a distance.

  It was at the opposite end of the beach from where he’d just seen Qassou, at least two hundred yards away.

  Maybe it’s nothing. A shadow. A whore. Nothing.

  But he knew it wasn’t nothing.

  Then, at the next lamppost, the dark figure appeared from behind the shadows, stalking. He was large, a tall man, dressed in black. He moved calmly.

  Was Qassou followed? Was I followed? Was it the man from earlier?

  The man below, whoever he was, now was aware of Qassou’s meeting with Dewey.

  Dewey picked up the Stechkin off the bed and ran to the door. He stepped into the hallway, then ran toward the elevators.

  As he rounded the corner to the elevators, he came upon an agent in a leather jacket, bearded, young, olive skin, carrying a weapon Dewey recognized immediately, a H&K VP70M. Instinctively, Dewey stopped in his tracks, ducking as bullets tore from the muzzle. He pulled himself back, behind the corner, as bullets struck sheetrock next to his shoulder.

  Shielded by the wall, Dewey moved backward, toward the fire stairs, as fast as he could, pressing his back against the wall, his right arm raised, pointing the Stechkin back at where he knew the gunman would emerge. His head swiveled between the corner of the wall, near the elevator, where he knew the killer would be coming, and the door to the stairs.

  Then, with a suddenness that caused Dewey to jump back against the wall, the glass in the fire stair door shattered as shots were fired from the stairwell. There was a second killer.

  Dewey flattened his back against the corridor wall and fired, causing whoever was in the stairwell to duck. Dewey’s eyes shot in the opposite direction, back to the elevator, as a black cylinder emerged from behind the corner of the wall. Bullets sailed blindly down the hall in his direction.

  In front of Dewey was a hotel room door. As a hail of silenced slugs encroached now from both directions he raised his right foot and kicked the door violently in.

  A woman inside the room screamed, her voice pitched with terror. Dewey lurched forward into the hotel room, sprinting. He fired one last round towar
d the stairwell, striking the Iranian in the forehead, dropping him. The woman screamed as Dewey crossed the carpet, running toward the deck. He fired toward the glass as he ran for his life, taking out the terrace door with a slug. The sound of shattering glass mingled with the young woman’s hysterical screams.

  The other killer entered the room, weapon out, cocked to fire. He pulled the trigger. The girl’s screams were abruptly silenced as a slug ripped into her head, slamming her hard against the headboard, killing her instantly.

  Dewey sprinted through the terrace door, onto shattered glass, then jumped, right foot first, to the railing, then out into the open air. As he leapt, he turned, rotating, and looked back up at the terrace. His legs flailed wildly as he fell. When the dark-haired killer stepped onto the terrace, Dewey fired a slug that ripped into his head, kicking the Iranian backward. A moment later, Dewey crashed into the swimming pool, back first, striking the water with a painful splash.

  From three stories up, hitting the water was not like it was with a casual dive, but more like falling onto a piece of plywood. Dewey slammed down into the hard water of the pool; the wind was knocked out of him immediately. But he expected it, anticipated it, and in the moments after landing he let his body relax. He absorbed the trauma, swallowing the pain, then kicked his way slowly back to the surface. He left his gun at the bottom of the pool, swam to the shallow end of the pool, and stood for more than a minute, catching his breath.

  He climbed from the pool, slowly now, leaning over and coughing. He tasted whiskey, cigarettes, and chlorine. He walked down the deck of the pool. His wet shoes made a sloshing noise. He took a set of stairs down to the beach. It was desolate, the only sound the soft, lazy patter of surf slapping atop the sand at water’s edge.

  In the shadows beneath the boardwalk, he stopped and removed his shoes, socks, pants, and shirt. He was now dressed only in a pair of soaking-wet navy blue underwear. He ran down to the water, in the darkness, then sprinted along the surf line toward the south, running parallel to the path Qassou had taken back to his hotel.