The Last Refuge

by Ben Coes

  “So noted,” said Khasni.

  “If you don’t believe me,” said Meir, “ask Abu Paria. He’s standing at the back of the courtroom.”

  Meir raised his cuffed hands and pointed at the back of the room at Paria.

  “He’s the one who funds the terrorists,” continued Meir, his voice rising. “Hezbollah, Hamas. Al-Qaeda. He’s the one who slaughters innocent children. If you don’t believe me, ask him.”

  Paria stared back at Meir without expression, saying nothing.

  “Mr. Paria is not the one on trial,” said Qazr.

  “He should be!” yelled Meir.

  “Where were you on the night of August twelve?” asked Qazr, stepping toward the cage where Meir sat.

  “What year?” asked Meir. “Can you be more specific?”

  Qazr shook his head, glancing at the judge.

  “You know what year,” said Qazr. “2009. Where were you on the night of the alleged crimes against the men on the Adeli?”

  “I was in a fishing boat,” said Meir. “In the Strait of Hormuz.”

  Qazr stopped, looked back at the other prosecutor, then regained his composure.

  Achabar suddenly stood up.

  “Judge,” said Achabar. “May I have a short consultation with my charge?”

  “I don’t want to talk to you,” said Meir. “Sit down and shut the fuck up.”

  Achabar raised his hands in mock resignation, then sat down.

  “You were where?” asked Qazr again.

  “You heard me,” said Meir.

  “What were you doing in the Strait of Hormuz?”

  “I was sent there to kill.”

  Qazr paused, again momentarily taken aback.

  “To kill? By who? Who sent you?”

  “None of your fucking business, that’s who.”

  “Who were you sent to kill?”

  “Terrorists,” said Meir. “The men you listed, Azizi, Kadivar, Tabatabaei, were all Hezbollah. Kadivar himself was a commander in Al-Muqawama, the military arm of Hezbollah. You can call them Iranian Navy or Revolutionary Guard or Quds or fishermen or whatever you want, but the fact is, they were all Hezbollah. My mission was to kill Kadivar. The other two were an added bonus. The other man, the skipper of the vessel, was collateral damage.”

  “So you are admitting to killing all four men?”

  “Yes. In point of fact, I killed three of them. Another member of my team killed the fourth. Frankly, it was an easy operation. We expected more of a fight. But then, perhaps we overestimated the intelligence of the Iranians, yes?”

  “Which man was killed by the other frogman?” asked Qazr.

  “What does it matter?”

  “Well, perhaps you’ve been falsely accused of killing a man?” Qazr said, smiling.

  “You’re a jackass,” said Meir. “None of your fucking business, that’s who.”

  “Do you remember which man you did not kill?”

  “Yes, I keep a picture of him in my wallet,” said Meir.

  “Mr. Meir, which man did you not kill?” asked Khasni from the bench.

  “I don’t know,” said Meir, exasperated. “What does it matter? I just know that I killed Kadivar. A bullet through his head. If you want me to take credit for all four, fine with me. Would that make the paperwork easier, Judge?”

  Meir looked at Khasni, then Achabar, then to the back of the room.

  “Kadivar was a classmate at the University of Tehran, yes?” said Meir, staring at Paria in the back. “Was he a friend too, Abu? Did you talk as students about how much fun it would be to kill Israeli children?”

  “Silence,” interrupted Judge Khasni. “You will not do the asking of questions, Mr. Meir. You’re accused of crimes that could result in the imposition of the death sentence. You’re not helping your cause by—”

  “Fuck off, Judge,” said Meir. “Who’s fooling who? This is a kangaroo court and we both know it.”

  Khasni leaned forward in anger, then stood up, pointing at Meir.

  “You will not disrespect this courtroom,” he barked.

  “I will never respect this courtroom,” shot back Meir. “Send me to the firing squad now, will you, you fatuous ass!”

  Khasni stared at Meir in anger. He paused, flummoxed, his face red. He breathed deeply for several seconds, trying to calm down, then sat back down.

  “We will complete the trial, Mr. Meir,” Khasni said quietly. “It might be short, and you might plead guilty to every charge, but we will impose justice, which means a complete trial, with all charges and defenses, as appropriate. Mr. Qazr, continue.”

  Qazr looked at Meir.

  “What evidence did you have that Kadivar was Hezbollah?”

  “None of your fucking business,” said Meir.

  “How long had you been planning the mission?”

  “Again, none of your business.”

  “Can you tell me how long you were in the Strait of Hormuz before the incident?”

  “No, I can’t tell you that either,” said Meir.

  “Why can’t you tell me?”

  “Do you think I’m going to give Paria insights as to Shayetet’s internal workings?” asked Meir. “Are you a fucking idiot?”

  “You’re the one who’s in jail, Mr. Meir,” said Qazr.

  “Yes, after you kidnapped me on U.S. soil. Has Israel begun its reprisals, Abu?” Meir looked toward the back of the courtroom.

  “Have you killed other Iranians?” interrupted Qazr.

  Achabar stood.

  “Objection,” said Achabar. “This is a question that forces Mr. Meir to present new evidence against himself.”

  “I am attempting to establish a pattern of behavior,” said Qazr. “So that we can determine if Meir’s mission was premeditated. Since he won’t tell the court how long he was in the Strait of Hormuz, I need to attempt to learn more about the background of the accused.”

  “Your objection is sustained,” said Khasni. “Mr. Meir does not have to answer this question.”

  “I’ll answer,” said Meir. “I’ve killed many Iranians. How many? Even I don’t know that number. And if I were to get out of here, I will kill more. But I have never intentionally killed an Iranian woman, child, or man I knew to be uninvolved in Iran’s war of terror against Israel. I kill terrorists. That’s what I’ve been trained to do. As long as Iran sends terrorists to Israel, my brothers back home will kill Iranians. That is the simple fact. After you shoot me my place will be taken by another man, just as strong, just as willing to die in order to protect our homeland. Leave us in peace and Israel will leave you in peace.”

  The prosecutors, Achabar, even the judge, sat rapt, motionless.

  “Abu Paria,” said Meir, again pointing with cuffed hands from the cage. “He is the father of the terrorists. He funds them. The suicide bombers. The missiles that rain down from Gaza and Lebanon into the schools in Haifa, Jerusalem, Tel Aviv, Jericho. In Nazareth.”

  “Mr. Meir,” yelled Khasni, striking the gavel on the table. “Stop these outbursts at once!”

  “If you need more evidence of my murderous ways, unshackle me right now,” said Meir, standing up and pointing with cuffed hands at Paria. “I will kill another Iranian in front of your very own eyes. Would you like to watch me, Judge?”

  “Be quiet!” yelled Khasni to little effect.

  “Of course, Abu will have his henchmen stop me,” said Meir, his voice calm, almost quiet, yet somehow cutting through the racket of Khasni’s gavel and shouting. “He could never fight me himself. Paria could never actually get his hands dirty himself, could you, Abu? We both know who would win if they gave me a chance to fight you.”

  “I order you—”

  As Khasni hammered a gavel on the table in front of him, trying to get Meir to be quiet, Paria, whose arms had been crossed, let his hands fall to the side. He said nothing. His anger was obvious. He stared at Meir across the largely empty courtroom. Then, he walked out of the courtroom, slamming the door behind h
im as he departed.

  Meir smiled, then looked down at Achabar. His defense attorney was leaning back, reclined in his chair, in quiet resignation.

  “Do you want to go to your boss?” asked Meir, looking at Achabar.

  All the while, Khasni’s hammering of the gavel had become a steady monotone, which Meir ignored.

  Finally, Meir sat down, a gentle smile on his face. He looked around the courtroom and then at Judge Khasni.

  Khasni stopped hammering the gavel, but remained standing. He leaned over the table, looking at the ground, shaking his head in disgust.

  “In my twenty-four years as a judge, I have never seen such behavior,” said Khasni. “It is as if you want me to impose the gravest possible sentence. Or perhaps by your abhorrent behavior, you wish to dare me. Is that it? To dare me into being lenient?”

  “Yes, that’s it, Your Honor,” said Meir sarcastically. “I would much prefer to spend the next fifty years of my life in an Iranian gulag than die. That sounds like it would be a lot of fun. Especially the torture with the car battery. And the cuisine. The bread was superb.”

  “Your Honor,” said Achabar weakly. “My client is under extreme emotional duress. He is out of his mind, as they say.”

  Meir glanced at the clock above the door. It was now eleven.

  “We will take a recess until tomorrow evening,” said Khasni. “At which time, Moammar, you will have the opportunity to present the defense of Mr. Meir.”

  Khasni hammered the gavel once, then turned and stormed out of the courtroom.

  30

  KARBU

  TIME WARNER BUILDING

  NEW YORK CITY

  There were only six tables at Karbu, despite the fact that the restaurant could have routinely filled five times that number any night of the week; this lack of seating only served to heighten the allure of the exclusive, incredibly expensive establishment. Considered the best sushi restaurant in the city, it was practically impossible to get a reservation at Karbu. Entrees at the tiny restaurant on the forty-fifth floor of the Time Warner Building started at $375 per plate, individual chef tastings, single pieces of sushi made by Karbuyoshi Takayta himself, ranged from a simple piece of fresh tuna, flown in that morning from Iceland, for $175, to a more complicated and rare strip of Blue Marrow Osso Bucco, a soufflé of raw bone marrow and roe taken from the vertebrae of a female blue whale off the coast of Japan. Its price was a cool $4,000 per piece.

  On a typical evening, Karbu played host to people for whom dropping thirty or forty grand on a meal was no big deal. Russians, usually oligarchs, their wives, girlfriends, or mistresses. Middle Eastern oilmen, Saudis mainly, some Saudi royalty, the occasional banker or real estate developer from Dubai. Some Europeans, fourth-generation royalty or telecom billionaires. Increasingly, Chinese entrepreneurs, some of whom were already billionaires despite living in a country that billed itself as a communist people’s republic. From the United States, it was hedge fund managers who came, private equity guys, some investment bankers, the occasional celebrity. Though not often. While the food was outstanding, Karbu had started to earn a reputation as a place for foreigners, impossible to get into, crowded with Arabs, usually with some sort of thuggish guard contingency just outside the restaurant’s doors. Takayta had to install a small waiting area for just this purpose, to keep some of these security types from loitering outside the restaurant’s entrance, a tight square of comfortable orange Barcelona chaises to the side of the entrance. On some nights, the chairs were filled with odd combinations; ex–KGB agents, now private security, guarding Russian mobsters, seated across the glass table from ex–British MI6 guarding Chinese Internet billionaires.

  Katie Foxx was dressed in a simple red and black dress. She looked down at her plate. She did not like sushi. Where she grew up, in Canton, Connecticut, the thought of eating raw fish would have made her and her three older brothers laugh in disgust. But here she was. She smiled at Tacoma. She watched as the tall, brown-haired Nebraska farmboy wolfed down his fourth piece of raw flounder.

  “Hey, slow down, Robbie,” said Foxx. “That’s two hundred bucks a pop.”

  “Yeah, but it’s so fucking good, Katie,” said Tacoma, smiling. He reached up to wipe his mouth. As he did, Foxx caught a glimpse of Tacoma’s weapon, tucked in his shoulder holster, .357 magnum SIG P226, suppressed. It was standard-issue SEAL armament, where Tacoma had come from before joining Foxx’s paramilitary team within CIA National Clandestine Service.

  Over Tacoma’s shoulder, she watched Iran’s ambassador to the United Nations, Amit Bhutta. He was seated with two other Iranians, both unquestionably security guards.

  “He’ll be finished soon,” Foxx whispered.

  Foxx reached down. She picked up the piece of reddish fish, threw it in her mouth. After all, if he was going to pound down hunks of raw flounder at two hundred bucks a pop, she was damn well going to join him. She started chewing. It tasted like raw fish. It felt, in her mouth, like raw fish. She looked agonizingly across the table at Tacoma. He had a big, mischievous, gloating grin on his face.

  “That bad, huh?” he asked.

  “Disgusting,” she said, swallowing.

  At Bhutta’s table one of the big, dark-haired Iranian security guards stood, whispered something into a wrist comm.

  “They’re moving,” said Foxx.

  Tacoma picked up the cue and nodded at the waitress for the bill. A minute later, it arrived.

  Bhutta, Iran’s ambassador to the United Nations, stood. He stepped toward the marble counter, behind which was a short Japanese man with a bright red chef’s hat. Takayta smiled as Bhutta approached.

  “Here he goes,” Foxx whispered.

  Foxx stood up as the bill came. Tacoma paid with cash.

  They moved to the restaurant entrance. Foxx reached for Tacoma’s hand, looked up into his eyes as they walked past one of the three Iranian security detail.

  “I love you,” said Foxx as Tacoma held the door, playing to the Iranians, who watched the swooning couple pass in front of them to the door.

  “Thank you,” said Tacoma to one of the men as he held the door.

  “Congratulations,” the man said in a thick Middle Eastern accent, smiling.

  At the elevator door, they stood. Tacoma leaned forward, holding Foxx’s face gently between his hands. He leaned forward and kissed her. They embraced and kissed for more than a minute.

  “You taste like fish,” she said, pulling back for a breath before locking lips again and closing her eyes.

  Behind them, the sound of Bhutta’s entourage. The two security guards from the restaurant were joined by three others. Five Iranians in all, along with the Iranian ambassador.

  One of the Iranian guards came to the elevator. He pressed the button.

  Tacoma, sensing the approaching group, pulled his lips back from Foxx. He acted slightly embarrassed.

  “Sorry,” Tacoma said bashfully to the Iranian who pressed the elevator button behind his back.

  “It’s no worries,” said the Iranian in a thick accent.

  “Were you engaged this evening?” asked another man, behind Foxx, in near-perfect English. Bhutta.

  “Yes, sir,” said Tacoma, smiling. “Tonight. Thank you for asking.”

  “It’s always nice to see,” said Bhutta. “It reminds us that there are other things that matter in this world. Sometimes we forget, don’t we?”

  The elevator door opened.

  “Please,” said Tacoma, glancing down at Foxx. “We’ll take the next elevator.”

  “Are you sure, then?” asked Bhutta. “All right.”

  The Iranians moved past Tacoma and Foxx, stepped into the open elevator.

  “We don’t mind,” said Bhutta from inside the elevator. “There is plenty of room.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Tacoma, glancing in at the tall, distinguished-looking Iranian.

  “I insist,” said Bhutta, reaching forward, pressing the door open button.

  Tacoma
and Foxx stepped into the elegant, mahogany-walled elevator. The doors closed behind them. Foxx quickly scanned the group of Iranians. In addition to Ambassador Bhutta, there were five men guarding him. Foxx noted the small gumdrop camera in the upper-right corner of the elevator.

  The elevator began to descend.

  “Did you enjoy your meal?” asked Foxx, smiling at Bhutta.

  “Yes,” said Bhutta. “It was wonderful. My favorite restaurant in New York.”

  “That was our first time,” said Foxx, wide-eyed. She looked up at Tacoma. “It was amazing.”

  The elevator dropped silently. Foxx watched the green digital on the wall as the numbers descended: 35 … 34 … 33.

  “And where are you from?” asked Bhutta, directing his question to Foxx.

  She smiled, glimpsed the digital: 24 … 23 … 22.

  “Canada,” she said. “I moved to the U.S. ten years ago.”

  Foxx moved her right hand behind her as she smiled up at Bhutta, smoothly, unnoticeably. She quickly felt for the folds in her overcoat behind her, then, like riding a bike, moved her fingers to the small custom-made sew-in along the back of the wool coat. She glanced up at the elevator digital: 15 … 14 … 13.

  She felt the butt of her Glock 18, already set to full auto.

  “Canada,” said Bhutta, nodding. “I love Montreal.”

  Tacoma’s eye caught the digital. He got the signal, the number “ten” used by Foxx, a double meaning. He reached his right hand inside his blazer, gripped the butt of one of the SIGs. He moved his left hand behind him, against the elevator wall, then to the small of his back, gripping the other suppressed SIG P-226, which had been tucked uncomfortably behind him the entire meal.

  12 … 11.…

  Foxx swung the weapon from behind her back in the same instant Tacoma ripped the pair of SIGs out, crossing his arms, left aimed right, right left.

  Bhutta’s mouth opened in shock and surprise. The Iranian security guards reached for their weapons.

  Foxx swung the Colt sideways, firing. Slugs tore from the muzzle as she moved the gun left to right, hitting the mahogany of the elevator wall, tearing up chips of wood, then striking the first guard chest high, knocking him backward. A second guard, to Bhutta’s right, was struck by a bullet to the forehead.