by Ben Coes
Dewey felt his lungs burn as he ran. Looking up, the lampposts along the beach and street cast diffuse yellow light. After several minutes of hard running, Dewey spotted the red ember of a cigarette in the shadows along the dark buildings across the street. He slowed to a jog, moving along behind the ember. It was Qassou.
He scanned the sidewalk. The dark figure appeared again, a quarter mile or so behind Qassou, who was oblivious to the man tracking him. He was big and tall, and walked with the bowlegged gait of an athlete or soldier.
Dewey moved to the edge of the concrete boardwalk, aiming toward a midpoint between two lampposts, a place that was in total darkness. He hunched over next to the overhang, waiting for the man to pass, watching him. When the man was a hundred feet farther along, Dewey reached up and pulled himself onto the boardwalk. He stepped silently across the cobblestone street. He began a slow run along the edge of the dark buildings, beneath canopies, hidden by shadows. He came to within five feet of the dark figure; close enough to smell cologne; close enough to hear him breathing.
Dewey took the final barefoot steps in silence, timing it so that he reached the man beneath a restaurant canopy. In one swift motion, he wrapped his right forearm around the front of the man’s neck and his left forearm across the back of his neck, locking his left hand to his own armpit, rendering the man’s neck in a vise-like grip that was unbreakable.
The killer was solid, resilient, and he struggled, flailing his arms wildly, fighting to pull Dewey’s arms away from his neck, but it was futile. He kicked backward, then attempted to pull Dewey over, but Dewey was simply too strong. Dewey yanked back with his right forearm, snapping the man’s neck like a tree branch.
Setting the body down, he searched his jacket and clothing, finding nothing except some money, a fixed-blade combat knife, and a black Glock G22C. He took the gun and the knife. Making sure no one had seen him, Dewey ran back across the street and jumped down to the cold sand. He threw the knife and gun as far as he could out into the surf.
He ran back to the hotel, barefoot, in his underwear, along the water’s edge. Near the hotel, he retrieved his wet clothing and shoes. Looking down, he saw that his feet were bleeding from rocks and shells along the beach that he hadn’t even felt.
He needed to get out of Ukraine before the proverbial shit hit the fan. But beyond that, he needed help. He was in over his head, far over his head, and he knew it.
15
MINISTRY OF INFORMATION
PUBLIC RELATIONS COMMUNIQUÉ ROOM
TEHRAN
“The dais is prepared. Whenever you’re ready, sir.”
“Good. How many reporters are there?”
“The usual pool.”
“Are any of the U.S. networks there?”
“Yes. Fox has a camera. The others will pull off the pool. The correspondent from NBC, Richard Engel, has requested an interview afterward.”
“Tell Mr. Engel I will be happy to do it, after Al Jazeera gets their turn. Who is the correspondent?”
“El-Bakhatr.”
“That’s good. That’s very good.”
“Please, Mr. President, remember my advice. Do not smile. Do not gloat. This is about justice. This is about holding a criminal accountable. You must stick to the message.”
President Mahmoud Nava adjusted his glasses as he studied the paper in front of him. He lowered the glasses on the bridge of his nose, then looked across the mahogany desk at his minister of information, Lon Qassou.
“But how can we not gloat today, Lon?” asked Nava, smiling.
“Please, sir,” said Qassou. “As it is, the announcement will be a lightning bolt across the sky. A majority of world opinion will be deeply critical.”
“We’re used to that.”
“Yes, but if you gloat you’ll only build sympathy for Israel. Even from our natural allies. You cannot express personal satisfaction. This is about justice.”
Nava stood up.
“I understand. Do you think we would be better off if the adjutant justice made the announcement instead of me?”
Qassou shook his head, closing his eyes, his frustration impossible to hide. “Yes, you know I think Rafsanjani should make the announcement. I practically begged you. You are once again needlessly politicizing this. But that is your style. It will be your downfall. And now it is too late. Rafsanjani is not even in Tehran and there are fifty hungry reporters out there.”
Nava watched with a big smile on his face as Qassou railed at him.
“You know me too well, Lonnie.” Nava laughed. “No one could deprive me of this announcement. This will be the greatest day of my presidency. This will strike like the plague on all of Israel. There will be only one thing better, the day we drop—”
“Stop,” interrupted Qassou, anger in his voice. “It’s all a joke to you.”
Nava stepped to the door, opened it slightly. The sound of the crowded communiqué room, filled with reporters, burst inside the office. He stared out through the crack, into the room.
Nava, still facing the door, searched the crowd of reporters through the crack, then looked back at Qassou. A maniacal smile crept like a small garter snake across his lips.
“Justice will be when we have wiped Israel from the face of the earth.”
* * *
A thousand miles to the west, near the center of Jerusalem, in a heavily guarded six-story building made of tan-colored Jerusalem stone, Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Shalit rubbed his eyes.
The cabinet room, a spacious room down the hallway from the prime minister’s office, was crowded. Jerusalem was enjoying an unusual heat wave and the air-conditioning in the cabinet room wasn’t working. The members of Shalit’s cabinet sat around the square wooden conference table, cigarette smoke cantilevered in hazy lines across the sunlit air, sweating.
A door to Shalit’s left burst open.
“Mr. Prime Minister, excuse me, sir,” said the young man nervously. He looked about the room. “Come quickly.”
Shalit, followed by his cabinet ministers, walked quickly down the hallway. In the cramped press office, a large television was turned on.
“Hurry,” said Eli Ziegler, Shalit’s press secretary. “He’s about to come on.”
“Who is about to come on, Eli?” demanded Shalit.
“Nava,” answered Ziegler, ashen.
On the screen, a long, empty conference table with a cluster of microphones at the center. Behind the table, on the wall, to the left, the red and green flag of Iran. Next to the flag, three photos: Iran’s president, Mahmoud Nava; Iran’s supreme religious leader, Ali Suleiman; and the ubiquitous photo of Ayatollah Khomeini.
Beneath the screen, which was empty, the ticker scrolled: LIVE PRESS CONFERENCE WITH PRESIDENT NAVA.
Shalit, tired and angry, stepped to the television and stood directly in front of it.
From the side of the screen, Iran’s president, Mahmoud Nava, entered and took a seat behind the microphones.
“Just over three years ago, a group of Israeli soldiers killed four Iranians. This was not a battle. These Iranians were ambushed on a boat in the Strait of Hormuz by Israeli special forces. One of those men was positively identified. His name is Kohl Meir. Mr. Meir was indicted by the highest court in Iran for his role in the deaths of the four Iranian citizens.
“Recently, Iranian police captured Kohl Meir. I am not at liberty to describe how or where. What I can tell you is that the capture of Kohl Meir is about justice. Under Islamic and Iranian law, he will be given a fair and proper trial. He will experience the benefit of Iranian justice as we look with equilibrium and propriety on his transgressions.”
Shalit reached out and pressed a button on the television set, pausing Nava’s speech. Steadying himself, he looked back at his ministers, all of whom were equally speechless. His bloodshot eyes found Dayan, his military chief.
“What are we to do then, Menachem?” Shalit whispered. “Our boy is now beyond the gates. He cannot be saved.”
<
br /> Dayan stared at the image of Nava on the television screen, then turned to Shalit, saying nothing.
“This is now beyond the scope of Mossad or the Central Intelligence Agency to deal with,” continued Shalit. “He’s gone public. They will have a public trial followed by a public execution. Nava is going to torture an entire country.”
Dayan, looking back at Shalit, showed no emotion, only calm. He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and dialed a number, then held the phone to his ear.
“Unleash the dogs,” said Dayan calmly.
16
RESIDENCE OF THE IRANIAN CONSULATE
RUA RODRIGO DA FONSECA
LISBON, PORTUGAL
At just before seven in the morning, Ariq el-Sadd knelt down on the kitchen floor to tie his running shoes. Behind the counter stood his wife, Ara, glasses on, reading the newspaper.
“Do you want to go to the beach today?” he asked.
She ignored him.
“Ara?” he asked.
She continued reading.
He stepped forward, ripping the paper away from her.
“Why do you not answer me?” he asked, a hint of anger in his voice.
His wife looked up, pulled her glasses calmly from her face. She looked angry.
“What?” she asked quietly.
“Can we go one day without this fight?” he asked. “One day.”
El-Sadd looked at his wife. She remained silent.
“I have no friends in Lisbon,” she said, shaking her head. “I want to go home.”
“Ara—”
“You said that after a year in Lisbon you would ask to go home. It has been four years. I have no friends.”
El-Sadd, Iran’s ambassador to Portugal, smiled at his wife.
“So go home,” said el-Sadd. “Take a trip. Go see your sister. Or better yet, make some friends. Why do I have friends and yet you cannot find it in your heart to like anyone in the entire city?”
El-Sadd turned and walked to the door at the side of the kitchen, which led to the outside. He turned at the doorway.
“I grow tired of your anger at me, Ara,” he said. “You are starting to distract me. I love you but I need your support. The complaining is getting very old.”
El-Sadd stepped outside.
The Iranian ambassador’s house was situated on a hillside, down a tree-lined street from Parque Eduardo VIII and its modern, geometric gardens. Its views, to the south and west, were stunning; the bold ocean, beneath the cliffs that ran along Lisbon’s coast.
El-Sadd stood in the driveway. He closed his eyes, trying to put the conversation with his wife out of his mind. He stepped slowly down the large granite steps at the side of his house. The early morning sun had begun to warm the air. It was el-Sadd’s favorite part of the day. He placed his left foot on the granite step to the right, leaned down to stretch. As he did so, he looked left. The black ocean shimmered in a million silver cuts that dotted the surface as far as he could see, to the horizon. A white sedan moved into the street. It slowed as it came to the end of his driveway. He finished stretching as the sedan passed the end of the driveway. The back window of the car slid down. Before he could even process what was about to occur, he had a vague premonition. He saw the black circular abyss of a weapon’s tip. He felt his feet start to move, ordered by a part of his brain he didn’t know even existed, telling him to run.
* * *
Inside the sedan, Ziefert, a thirty-four-year-old Mossad operative, held a suppressed Ruger 10/22 rifle with subsonic ammo. Ziefert locked the Zeiss optic scope on the man’s skull. The man stood motionless for several moments as Ziefert moved the rifle into position. Then the man started to move back up the steps. Ziefert fired, just once, as the car continued to drive slowly down the quiet residential street. The suppressed bullet ripped into the Iranian’s head just above his left eye. Blood sprayed across the stucco wall of the house behind him. The Iranian diplomat, Ariq el-Sadd, was pummeled backward as the bullet tore part of his skull off. He crumpled to the ground.
“Let’s go,” said Ziefert.
17
IQASS AVENUE
TEHRAN
The shiny black Range Rover stopped in front of the imposing, sterile, square concrete headquarters of the Ministry of Intelligence and Security. Abu Paria climbed out and walked quickly up the front steps of the building.
When he arrived at his suite of offices on the third floor, Paria swept past his three assistants. Inside his office, two men were seated.
“What the fuck is going on?” asked Paria as he crossed the room.
“What do you think is going on, General?” replied one of the men, a short, fat bald man with a mustache and glasses, who sat at the conference table. It was Paria’s number two, Qasim Atta. “Israel is taking its revenge.”
“Where was the ambassador killed?” asked Paria. He reached out, took Atta’s cigarette from his deputy’s mouth, and stubbed it out in the half-filled coffee cup in front of Atta.
“I was still drinking that.”
“Where was el-Sadd killed?” repeated Paria, moving behind his desk, ignoring Atta’s complaints about the destruction of both his cigarette and cup of coffee.
“Outside the residence in Lisbon,” said Sasan Shahin, the other man seated at the table.
“Did President Nava really need to go on national television and rub Israel’s nose in it?” asked Paria rhetorically, shaking his head in anger as he stared down at photos of the blood-covered corpse of the Iranian ambassador to Portugal. “Send out a black flag immediately to all embassies and consulates. Mossad will be looking for revenge, everywhere.”
“Yes, sir,” said Shahin.
Paria threw the photos down onto his desk.
“What’s the report on Qassou?” asked Paria.
There was a long moment of silence as Atta and Shahin exchanged glances across the conference table.
“We’ve been unable to reach any of the agents we sent to track him,” said Atta.
“What do you mean, ‘unable to reach them’? Pick up the fucking phone.”
“We’ve tried.”
“Who did you send?” demanded Paria angrily. “A bunch of girls? I told you to track him full black; a kill team. ”
“We dispatched an S7 and two QUDS commanders,” said Atta, barking back at Paria. “Three highly trained operatives.”
“So where are they?” yelled Paria.
Again, Atta and Shahin exchanged nervous glances across the conference table.
“I spoke to Odessa police,” said Shahin quietly. “Three men were killed. They match the descriptions of our men.”
Paria stared at Shahin, incredulous.
“Two were shot. The S7 had his neck broken.”
Paria was silent. He looked surprised, shocked even.
Paria knew Qassou. Everyone knew Nava’s young minister of information; his propaganda chief. It was said Qassou alone had the president’s ear. Paria knew that with Qassou, he needed to tread carefully. Of course, Paria knew that if Qassou had Nava’s ear, it was he, Paria, who had the president’s balls. So he didn’t worry about Qassou. At least not until now.
“Qassou is a small man. He went to Oxford. I would be frankly surprised if he knew how to shoot a pistol.”
“Mossad?” asked Shahin.
Paria shrugged. “Perhaps. Who the fuck knows. Who was the S7?” asked Paria, looking at Atta.
“Azur. Kiev chief of station.”
“Did he send reports?”
“Yes,” said Atta.
He leaned forward and pulled photos out of an envelope. He stood and placed them on Paria’s desk. Paria picked them up.
“He tracked Qassou from the moment he landed. Qassou and the woman had been out at dinner. That was the last we heard from him.”
Paria flipped through the photos, which showed the couple in various settings, taken from a distance. He took one photo and tossed it down onto the desk. It showed the pretty face of an Iranian woman
, long black hair, dark sunglasses.
“Who is she?”
“Sara Massood,” said Salim. “Just a woman. She works for a member of Parliament.”
“Bring her in,” said Paria. “This afternoon. I will handle the interrogation myself.”
“She’s already here,” said Shahin. “She’s waiting downstairs.”
“Should we bring Qassou in?” asked Atta.
Paria paused, thinking for a moment. He reached for his pocket and removed the Porsche key that he’d taken from the Ziploc bag, the key belonging to Meir. He palmed it absentmindedly. Then, he started to shake his head.
“No,” Paria said, calmly. “No, not Qassou. But I want to see a complete dossier on him. Get access to his spending habits. Phone logs. Internet. Everything. Make sure the men tailing him are good. Our best.”
“Yes, sir,” said Shahin.
“And get the black flag out, immediately.”
Paria walked out of the office, walked down the corridor, then took an elevator to a floor two levels beneath the ground floor.
He stepped out of the elevator and moved past a pair of guards. He saw Salim, VEVAK’s chief of staff, standing next to a steel door.
“Did she come easily?” asked Paria.
“Yes, General,” said Salim. “She was in her apartment, preparing to leave for work.”
“Who is the member of parliament she works for?”
“Khosla.”
Paria entered the room.
Inside, a pair of bright halogen lights shone down, making the room feel like a sauna.
Seated in a wooden chair was the woman from the photos, now wearing a stylish red hijab that covered her hair. She wore a long yellow dress.
Paria had long ago given up the pretense of treating certain individuals with deference. He knew, as he entered the hot interrogation room, that the polite thing to do would have been to arrange for a meeting so that Massood wasn’t embarrassed by the sudden intrusion. He also knew he should have conducted the questioning in his office or at least in a place that wasn’t so unpleasant.
But he quickly brushed the thought from his mind. After all, Paria didn’t care. It wasn’t that he was within his rights; it was the fact that rights no longer mattered. The law was irrelevant; he was the law. She would undoubtedly walk out of the ministry a changed creature, every step filled with a sense of fear for the rest of her life.