by Ben Coes
It was a silver trailer, anonymous-looking even down to the license plates, which gave no indication as to its contents. Kashilla looked up at the shiny container holding the bomb, then reached his arm out and touched the side of it, wanting one last moment of connection to that which he’d spent so long creating.
“Can you believe it?” one of the workers said to him.
But Kashilla ignored the worker. He looked at his watch. It was late afternoon. They would come for the bomb at midnight.
“Do you need a ride home, Doctor?” asked one of Kashilla’s assistants.
“No, thank you. I will wait until it’s gone.”
23
USKARIPA ROAD
MUKACHEVE, UKRAINE
In the foothills of the Carpathian Mountains, a pair of shiny silver Audi S8s moved quickly along a winding mountain road. To the north, the white tops of the Carpathian Mountains were visible in the distance.
The meeting had gone well, Yuri thought, relaxing in the backseat of the lead car. Now they would all go to dinner at the Star, drink the best wines in Mukacheve, then retire for the night. Normally, Yuri would have asked Victor, his assistant, to procure a few of Mukacheve’s best poviya. Perhaps having them waiting in his guest’s hotel rooms to seal the deal with some of the Ukraine’s legendary female companionship.
But not this night.
The Iranians were different. They were Muslims. There were plenty of Muslims in Ukraine, but when it came to how devout and what sort of particular practices each sect and country had, Yuri thought it best to avoid introducing elements that could strain what was a business relationship. He didn’t like religion, didn’t understand it, and found it was better to just leave it all alone. So no whores tonight; at least not for the Iranians.
They would have a hearty meal at Star, go to sleep, get up, and sign the letter of intent. And by this time two months hence, if due diligence went smoothly, he would be worth more than a billion dollars.
“I’ll be a billionaire,” said Yuri from the backseat. “A fucking billionaire.”
“Yes, yes,” said Victor, who was seated next to him. “I know.”
“You say that as if you’re disappointed,” said Yuri. “What’s with the attitude, Vic?”
“Nothing,” said Victor. “The end of an era, that’s all. I don’t like the Iranians.”
“Like them or not, it doesn’t matter. They like my copper. And that’s all that matters.”
“Yes, yes. They like your copper. And you and Olga can go live in Paris. But I’m from here and this is all I know.”
“I’m sure you can still work for them if you want,” said Yuri. “They will need someone to run the operation. You heard them.”
“I don’t want to work for the Iranians,” muttered Victor, running his hand back through his longish brown hair. “They smell.”
“They smell?”
“The cologne. My God.”
Yuri started laughing and looked at his assistant, who had grown into his closest friend. Victor tried to show no emotion, but Yuri poked his elbow once, then twice, and Victor grinned.
The Audi moved quietly along the curvy road that laced the hills near the mine operations. It was still light out, barely. The road was remote, cutting around a series of mountains at their tree-rung bases. A sign for the M06 appeared. Soon they would see the lights at the outskirts of Mukacheve’s quiet, quaint downtown.
“Are they still behind us?” Yuri asked, looking in the rearview mirror at the driver.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Anton,” said the driver. “That’s them, the lights just behind.”
Yuri nodded, saying nothing. His grandfather, after whom he was named, had bought the land from the Ukrainian government, using political connections to win the bid for the valuable state-mining operations near Mukacheve, paying little and being allowed to repay the government with a cut of the profits. What a deal, thought Yuri, shaking his head. It wasn’t Ukraine’s biggest mining operation, nor its most profitable. Just a little mine, enough to make one family very rich, and that is all.
Now, at age forty-four, Yuri would turn that simple transaction into more than one billion dollars.
* * *
Inside the tail Audi, a stone-faced Russian driver stared straight ahead as two men in the backseat spoke to each other in a high-pitched, rapid dialect that the driver couldn’t understand. The third Iranian, who sat in the passenger seat in the front of the expensive vehicle, remained quiet.
The men were the three top executives at the National Iranian Copper Industries Company, or NICICO, one of Iran’s largest mining conglomerates.
“You read the engineering report,” said Esh, one of the men in the backseat, speaking in Persian. “They have barely scratched the surface of territories fourteen and fifteen.”
“I know, I know,” said the other man in the backseat, Harui, NICICO’s vice president for development. A tall man, younger, with a thin mustache, he was giddy with excitement. “If they were smart, they would expand the operations, then sell. We’re lucky they’re not charging us five times the price.”
“Yes, but there is the cost to get it to market,” argued Esh. “This detracts from the beauty of this deal.”
“How much does it detract?” said Harui. “Really, come on. We are stealing this mine from the stupid Russian.”
“He’s Ukrainian,” said Esh.
“Ukrainian, Russian, who cares.”
The man the front seat suddenly whipped his head around, a cold stare of anger on his face.
“Shut up,” barked the man, looking at Harui, then Esh, nodding ever so slightly at the driver. “Your wild tongues will see this deal ruined. Or worse, the price doubled. Keep your mouths shut.”
The man, Marsak, was NICICO’s chairman and chief executive officer.
Marsak stared for several more seconds at his underlings, scolding them with his eyes, then turned back to the front of the sedan. Glancing at the driver, he saw that the big man had had no reaction. Still, he hated the lack of discipline from his vice president. He made a mental note to fire him after the deal closed. Fire him, that is, if he could. After all, Harui was the son of Nava’s brother. Perhaps he could just demote him instead.
Marsak leaned back and stared out the window. He loved traveling, especially to places that had colder climates than Tehran. That would be one of the biggest benefits to the deal, he thought. He would visit Mukacheve once a quarter, bringing his wife, Kessola. It was getting darker outside by the minute.
The Audi came to a sudden stop. The red brake lights of the forward car were bright, the car having come to an abrupt halt on the winding, remote mountain road.
“Buck,” said the driver in rough English, so that they could understand. He pointed toward the front of the car. “Buck. In road. Deer. Big deer.”
Slowly, the driver maneuvered the vehicle next to the other Audi, then stopped. Lying across the road was a massive deer, a fourteen-point buck by the driver’s quick count. On the buck’s chest, next to its leg, was a large bullet hole. From the front legs down, blood covered the big animal’s brindle coat.
Next to the animal, backs turned, stood two men, inspecting the buck. Hunters. As the vehicles came to a stop, the men remained standing over the dead buck, still as statues, not turning.
“What is it?” asked Harui from the backseat.
“A deer,” said Marsak, smiling. “Let’s go see.” He reached for the door handle.
The Ukrainian driver, a former officer in the Kiev Police Directorate, reached for Marsak’s arm.
“No,” the driver said, “I will look.”
The driver opened the glove compartment and removed a handgun.
“What’s wrong?” asked Marsak.
“Perhaps nothing,” said the driver. He opened the door to the car.
As if choreographed, the two hunters turned. Each clutched not a hunting rifle, but submachine guns: HK MP5s, sleek, tight to the torso, long black suppressors screwed to
the muzzles.
Yuri’s driver stepped on the gas pedal, sending the first Audi lurching toward the gunman on the right. At the same time, the driver of the second Audi started shouting.
“Down!” he screamed as he tried to get behind the now open door.
The first Audi aimed at the hunter to the right; he stepped nimbly aside and started firing his SMG. The Audi slammed into the 1,500-pound buck as the gunman pelted the car with slugs. The windshield shattered, then bullets struck the driver. The gunman moved the weapon methodically along the driver’s side of the car, stepping toward the vehicle as he did so. He mowed down Yuri and Victor in the backseat.
The hunter on the left opened fire, sending bullets beneath the second driver’s door, into the driver’s legs, who screamed for a brief moment until, through the Audi’s aluminum, a tungsten-tipped bullet cut through the door and killed him instantly, his large frame falling to the road next to the car.
The gunman stopped firing and stepped to the side of the Audi. He looked inside the car, counting three men.
“Mr. Najar?” he asked politely in perfect Persian, stepping over the dead Ukrainian driver, aiming the weapon and looking inside the car at Marsak in the passenger seat.
Car lights suddenly danced in the distance, coming toward the scene.
Marsak’s fear-filled eyes flew from the gunman, hopefully, to the oncoming vehicle.
“It’s our car,” said the gunman. “Sorry.”
He aimed the tip of the silencer at Marsak.
“Whatever you want,” said Marsak, pleading.
He fired the MP5, riddling Marsak’s chest with a short spray of bullets.
“Who is Harui?” the gunman asked, again in Persian, looking onto the backseat.
“I am,” said Harui with surprising confidence despite his predicament, perhaps believing he was to be saved.
The gunman aimed, then fired, ripping a quick slug through the Iranian’s head.
The gunman stepped back, aimed the weapon at the car’s tires, then fired. He punctured all four tires. He leaned into the driver’s seat and looked at the last remaining person alive, Esh.
“Today’s your lucky day, Mr. Zamia,” said the gunman to Esh.
The gunman opened the door. Esh, whose cheek was now covered in blood spray from Harui’s skull, stepped from the back of the automobile.
The gunman grabbed Esh by the collar of his jacket and directed him around the dead driver.
The headlights of the approaching Mossad recon team moved in behind the dead animal.
The gunman pushed Esh to the buck.
The other gunman waiting there took a pair of flex-cuffs and put one on the base of the buck’s antlers, then looped the other end around Esh’s wrist. He yanked tight.
“I will freeze to death out here,” said Esh.
“No, you won’t. Someone will come along. If not, here, take this.”
The gunman reached into his pocket. He pulled out a folding combat knife. He handed it to the Iranian.
“If no one comes, gut the animal and climb inside. It will keep you warm. It’s better than dying, yes?”
Esh looked down in horror at the blood-soaked animal, just in front of his black Gucci loafers.
“Who are you?” Esh asked as the two men stepped around the animal and walked to the waiting Range Rover.
The gunmen ignored the question. The first gunman climbed into the backseat of the SUV. As the second gunman, a Mossad operative, opened the passenger door, he turned to Esh.
“Go back to Tehran,” he said. “Tell them everything that has happened. Tell the midget we will find you anywhere you walk. Tell Nava no Iranian is safe, not until Kohl Meir is returned.”
24
WANG BAO HE
SHANGHAI
Wang Bao He was, as usual, crowded. At half-past eight on a Friday evening, the large waiting area of bamboo chaises and window seats was filled with those people who didn’t have reservations. Out the door, a neat line stretched halfway down the block, beneath the restaurant’s garish, mammoth red signs that hung overhead.
Past the lobby, a central dining area held a dozen tables, all filled with patrons. A din of laughter and chatter, in Mandarin, inhabited the space as waiters moved quickly between tables and the kitchen in back, porting bottles of Shaoxing wine from the small bar and food—the hairy crab was the house specialty—to the tables. The restaurant was filled with wealthy patrons from Shanghai, mostly Asians but a few Aussies, Americans, and Europeans. Wang Bao He seemed to always be crowded, but rare was the customer who walked out afterward thinking it hadn’t been worth the wait—and the cost.
Most diners, however, were not in the public dining area. A pair of corridors stretched out and around the perimeter of the establishment. Down each dimly lit hallway were private dining rooms; intimate, windowless rooms set off from public view, with a large round dining table in the center and a beautiful crystal chandelier hanging overhead. If the central space held walk-ins, last-minute reservations, or tables set up by a concierge from a Shanghai hotel, these private dining rooms were the provenance of Shanghai’s elite. On any given night, one of China’s newly minted millionaires was entertaining colleagues in one of the private rooms.
In the last one down a corridor, a neatly attired waiter slid the bamboo and paper door aside, then stepped in. He was carrying a tray with two large plates piled high with Xiao Long Bao, the restaurant’s famous crab roe dumplings. Though the table seated eight, it was occupied by only two people, a pair of gentlemen dressed in suits, one Chinese, the other with darker skin, short-cropped black hair, slightly overweight, with a sinister, almost sneering look on his wide face. They halted their conversation as the waiter placed the plates down on the table.
“Another bottle,” said the Iranian, his Mandarin flawless, holding up his wineglass. “Colder this time.”
The waiter nodded without saying a word, without even making eye contact with either man. He took the empty bottle of Shaoxing from the table, and left, sliding the door quietly closed behind him.
“Your fears are an illusion,” said the Iranian, leaning in toward the other man. “There is no way anyone knows.”
The speaker, Hasim Aziz, was an operative with VEVAK. He was, in fact, head of VEVAK in China. The man he was seated with was his main point of contact within the Chinese Ministry of Intelligence, Liu Ban Ho.
“It’s not my fears,” said Ho, reaching for his plate and picking up a dumpling. “It’s the fears of my superiors. What do you do with our secrets? We’re concerned about what happens when we tell you something. It is imperative that the Iranian government not react immediately upon receipt of information.”
Ho stuffed the dumpling in his mouth.
“You’re referring to the abduction of Meir?” asked Aziz.
“Yes, of course,” he said with his mouth full. He swallowed, then washed it down with a gulp of wine. “Minister Bhang is very concerned. He himself spent more than a decade cultivating the relationship with our friend inside Mossad. He is among our most valuable assets. Not only is he privy to what is happening inside Israel, he is always on the receiving end of information out of Langley. We cannot see him put at risk.”
Aziz leaned back in his chair. He took a sip from his glass.
“And what would you do if somehow General Dayan discovers this mole?” asked Aziz. “You jump to the conclusion that somehow it is Tehran who has erred.”
“We would never jump to a conclusion, Hasim. We would investigate. And if it was discovered that somehow Tehran had outed our man and got him killed, suffice it to say, Beijing would be very upset.”
“And if Tehran were falsely accused of committing some form of error that led to the exposure of China’s agent, we would be upset too,” said Aziz. He squinted his eyes, then let a maniacal smile come to his lips. “In fact, I believe the oil ministry would be more upset than perhaps any other part of the republic. And I don’t need to tell you what that means.”
<
br /> “Right,” said Ho, laughing. “The only thing more powerful in Iran than hatred of the Jew is greed. You would sell oil to Satan if he had cash in his wallet.”
Aziz grinned.
“Perhaps,” said Aziz. “Though it is unfortunate your Sinopec holes are always so dry. China has many wonderful things.” He reached out, picked up a dumpling, nodding to it. “Oil is not one of them.”
Aziz tossed the dumpling into his mouth.
“Your threats are meaningless to me, Hasim. I am a deliverer of a message. The point is, be careful with our asset.”
Aziz finished chewing and swallowed, then washed it down with the last sip of his wine. He reached his hand out and patted Ho on the shoulder.
“We value your asset perhaps even more than you do, Liu,” said Aziz. “For China, it’s a game. For Iran, we are talking about life or death. Israel is our mortal enemy. We would never do anything to compromise what Bhang and the ministry have created inside Israel. Never.”
Ho smiled.
“I know that,” he said. “I just need to remind you from time to time.”
“No, you don’t,” said Aziz.
“Yes, I do,” said Ho. “For I have a particularly juicy and delectable present for you tonight, my friend.”
Aziz’s eyes widened.
“I’m all ears, Liu,” he said, leaning closer to the Chinese agent.
The door abruptly opened and the waiter from before stepped inside the room. He quickly slid the door shut, then turned, arm raised, in his hand a dark object; the green bottle of Shaoxing. Ho and Aziz remained silent, waiting for him to finish his business. He refilled the glasses, then placed the bottle in the middle of the table. He turned and left, sliding the door shut behind him.
“What is it?” asked Aziz. He took his wineglass and gulped nearly half of it down.
“An accidental discovery,” said Ho. “Uncovered by Mossad. A juicy little morsel that will make Abu Paria get an erection.”
“For God’s sake, tell me,” the Iranian whispered, urgency in his rasp.