by Ben Coes
Meir sat against the concrete wall, trying to get a glimpse of the clock on the wall, above the two-way mirror, but could not. Is it morning? Is today the day? Meir didn’t want to die. But he had resigned himself to the fact that he was going to. With that resignation, he counted the minutes with anticipation.
Paria had begun in the morning, using the promise of freedom to try to get Meir to confess. But that kinder, gentler phase of Abu Paria hadn’t lasted long. Next came the beatings. Paria had struck Meir more times than he could count, punching him, slapping him, kicking him. He would lose consciousness, only to be woken up sometime later by water being poured on him. The beatings would begin again.
“Where is Andreas?” Paria would scream. “Why are you in Iran? Answer me!”
At first he had answered.
“You’re the one who abducted me, Abu,” said Meir. “I was minding my own business in Brooklyn.”
But then, inevitably, he tired. He went in and out of consciousness. Yet still, he held on.
* * *
Paria stared at Meir through the two-way mirror. His own fists were raw and bloody, as was his shirt, covered in spots of blood that had splattered off the Israeli’s damaged face.
The door behind him opened, but Paria did not turn around.
“General,” said one of Paria’s deputies, “would you like coffee?”
“Yes,” said Paria, without turning.
The aide peered in through the dimly lit room, at the clump of flesh that was balled up in the fetal position in the far corner of the interrogation room.
“Nothing?” he asked.
Paria did not respond. Finally, he turned.
“No, nothing,” Paria said. “He’s stronger than I anticipated.”
“It’s almost three,” said his aide. “They’ll be coming for him. The firing squad is assembling now. They’re in the locker room, putting on uniforms.”
“What about the computer?”
“Nothing yet.”
Paria glanced in the interrogation room. Was it worth one more attempt to break Meir?
His aide left as Paria tightened his belt and opened the door to go back inside. The door opened again, the same aide with a Styrofoam cup filled with coffee in his hand.
Next to the door, a green light on the phone started flashing. The aide picked it up.
“Yes, sir.” He looked at Paria, extending his arm toward him.
Paria picked up the phone.
“What,” he said.
“General,” came a soft male voice. “Please hold for the Supreme Leader.”
Paria nodded at his aide, indicating that he wanted him to shut the door to the interrogation room.
The phone clicked.
“Abu,” came the voice he knew so well, the voice of his boss, Suleiman. “Good morning.”
“Good morning to you, Imam.”
“Where are you?” asked Suleiman.
“I’m … at Evin,” said Paria. “Checking on the Israeli prisoner.”
“Checking on him?” asked Suleiman. “What exactly needs checking, General?”
“I was just trying to see if I could elicit a bit more information out of our prisoner,” said Paria. “Before he’s no longer with us.”
“Well, that is fine, but I would like you with me today,” said Suleiman. “After my speech.”
“Of course,” said Paria. “It would be my honor.”
“Well, Abu, you of all people deserve credit for this day,” said Suleiman. “It will be a truly historic event. You have led the fight against Israel. I want you there with me when Meir is executed.”
“It would be an honor, Imam.”
“To think that in a matter of only hours the bomb will leave for Tel Aviv,” said Suleiman. “This is the beginning of the end for Israel.”
Paria felt a sudden, warm spike of heat in his head, then down his spine. His eyes shot to the interrogation room, to the motionless, blood-covered prisoner on the concrete floor. He reached into his pocket and removed the small, black Porsche key he had taken from Meir’s belongings, the only possession the Israeli had on him when he was abducted. Why had he kept the key? He realized now it was because he knew something was wrong with it. He’d known it all along.
“Oh, God,” he whispered.
He pressed his thumb into the bottom of the key. A small silver attachment suddenly flipped out; not a key, as he expected, but the end of a USB flash drive.
Paria dropped the handset. It crashed to the ground.
“What have I done?” he asked aloud to no one, as he reached desperately for the door.
50
ALONG THE A83 HIGHWAY
IRAN
By 4:00 P.M., Dewey was through Tehran. He steered the cab of the Mack truck east on the A83 highway toward Mahdishahr.
The A83 highway was an aging four-lane road, crowded with traffic. It wound like a ribbon around low brown desert hills with little vegetation. The vistas were, in their own way, mesmerizing; beautiful brown hills and behind them mountains that spread for as far as he could see, tinted with pink and orange. Dewey stayed in the right lane as small sedans, many coated in rust, sped by, some in the other lane, but if both lanes were occupied with vehicles, the occasional car would veer onto the dirt shoulder, sending up clouds of dirt and dust as they broke the law to get where they were going.
Dewey dialed the SAT phone.
“Control,” said the voice.
“Calibrisi,” said Dewey.
“Hold.”
A few seconds later, Calibrisi came on.
“Dewey, I have General Dayan on. Where are you?”
“I’m on the A83 highway, approaching the area. Do you have the team in place?”
“We have two vehicles positioned a hundred yards on either side of the warehouse,” said Dayan.
“If this even is the warehouse,” said Calibrisi. “We’ve seen no activity. Nothing. I have to tell you, Mahdishahr is not on any of our radar screens. This location comes as a surprise.”
“Dewey,” said Dayan, “Commander Nehoshtan has six F-16s awaiting my command. If you ask me, we should just blow the fucking place up.”
“No,” said Dewey. “Not yet. If we fail, you can wipe the place out, but give me the opportunity to take the bomb.”
“Fine. But if anything goes badly, Israeli Air Force is going in.”
“Understood. When did the Sayeret Matkal team get there?”
“Fifteen minutes ago.”
“How many men?”
“Five.”
“What kind of weapons do they have?”
“They’re armed to the teeth.”
“Is there news on Kohl?” asked Dewey.
“According to Al Jazeera, there’s a big rally in downtown Tehran,” said Calibrisi. “Nava speaks at five, followed by Suleiman. Either they’ll execute him before the speeches or after, we don’t know and they’re not saying.”
“Do we have a UAV overhead?”
“We have a KH-13 satellite overhead. More than enough.”
“What do you see?”
“Dewey, this is Bill,” said Bill Polk, the head of the CIA’s National Clandestine Service. “It looks empty. We haven’t seen anyone move in or out. Are you sure your source got this correct?”
“No,” said Dewey. “But it’s all we have. I’ll call you when I’m there.”
The outline of the city of Semnān arose from the desert like a mirage. A panoply of gray dots suddenly littered the horizon, as Semnān’s homes and low-slung buildings came into view from the highway, scattered mud and adobe, some of which were painted in bright hues of red, orange, and green.
As he came closer to Semnān, he saw a sign that said MAHDISHAHR. Taking the exit, he drove for several miles through choppy, thin streets, cutting through Semnān as he aimed north to the smaller city of Mahdishahr. On the right, the undeveloped brown hills suddenly turned into warehouses in the distance. Ahead, Dewey saw a street sign.
Golest
an Street.
He went right, down the thin street, past more than a dozen warehouses. Then he saw a brown van, which appeared empty: Israel one. He kept driving. When he came to a yellow warehouse, he didn’t even look twice; but from the corner of his eye, he counted a pair of security cameras, along with two men near a gate, watching him pass by.
He passed an old white Land Cruiser, parked to the side of the road.
A mile down the street, he pulled into a large parking lot and turned the truck around. He came to a stop, then redialed Langley.
“Calibrisi.”
“Any movement?”
“Yes,” said Calibrisi. “We see at least a dozen men behind the warehouse.”
“Is that our guys, brown van, white Land Cruiser?”
“Yeah. Team leader is a Kurd named Baz.”
“Can you patch me in?”
“Yes.”
He heard some static, then a couple of clicks.
“It’s Dewey. Is this Baz?”
“Yes.”
“Are you guys ready?”
“Yes, we’re good to go,” said Baz.
“I need someone with me. Someone who can handle a truck. I’ll pull up next to the Land Cruiser.”
“Okay, I’ll give you Cano. What’s the OP?”
“A truck is going to come out of the building. We hit it on the service road. I’ll handle the truck with Cano. You need to eliminate whatever they accompany it with.”
“There’s not a lot of time,” said Baz.
“Make the best of it. They won’t be expecting us.”
“Got it.”
Dewey checked his submachine gun, an HK MP7A1 with a suppressor. He checked the magazine on his Colt. He moved the truck slowly back down the road. When he came to the white Land Cruiser, he stopped. From the back left door, a man in a baseball cap and sunglasses emerged, dark-skinned, a carbine held out in front of him. He sprinted to the passenger door of the cab and climbed in. It was Cano.
Dewey nodded, but said nothing.
Cano handed him a small, gumdrop-shaped object. Dewey stuck it in his ear.
“Is that working?” whispered the commando.
“Yeah,” said Dewey.
“I’ve got you on COMM,” said Baz, who was in the brown van.
“Move to COMM, Hector,” said Dewey into the phone. “I’m hanging up.”
“I’ve got movement,” said Polk, now patched into the Israeli closed frequency.
“Where?” asked Dewey.
“Back of the warehouse,” said Polk. “We’ve got one, two, three SUVs. Now we have a big truck. One more SUV. That’s it. You got four SUVs and the truck.”
Dewey floored the gas and moved past the warehouse entrance. From the corner of his eye, he saw the first SUV at the side of the warehouse, in the distance, behind a fence.
“Can you handle four?” asked Dewey.
“Yeah, no problem,” said Baz. “It might get a little bloody.”
“Take them on the road. I don’t care what you do with them, but don’t touch the truck. And do it out of sight of the warehouse so they don’t send more people.”
“Understood.”
“Hector, how about some support on this?” asked Dewey.
“What do you mean?” asked Calibrisi.
“You need to destroy that warehouse and everyone in it. Can you do anything from the sky?”
“You’re going to get me fired, Dewey. Let me see what we can do.”
* * *
Calibrisi and Polk were monitoring the operation from a windowless tactical operations room on the third floor of CIA headquarters. The room looked like NASA control center. The walls were lined with plasma screens. One screen displayed a live video feed of an overhead shot of Dewey’s truck moving slowly down a street. Another screen showed the warehouse, also a live shot, the image clear enough to make out half a dozen soldiers milling about the entrance area to the warehouse. Another screen—the largest of them all—showed a regional map of Iran and the Persian Gulf; several flashing lights moved on the screen, showing in real time the various assets the United States of America possessed in the region, including vessels, UAVs, and troops, all displayed in real time. On yet another screen was a live network feed from Khomeini Square, where a massive crowd awaited the arrival of Mahmoud Nava.
Three CIA engineers sat in bucket seats, smaller plasmas in front of them.
“Chris,” said Calibrisi, “what do we got in the area?”
“Yes, sir,” said the CIA engineer in the middle seat. He typed into his keyboard. The large screen showing Iran and the region suddenly went black except for bright yellow lines, indicating the borders of the countries, followed by brightly lit, flashing starlike clusters, some in green, others in orange, which indicated the UAVs in striking distance; sixteen in all.
“The closest assets in theater are over the Strait of Hormuz, Hector,” said the engineer. “We have enough Tomahawks to level the town, sir.”
“How long will they take to get there?”
“Hold on.”
As, Chris typed, a red line shot across the screen, showing the flight path of a hypothetical missile from one of the UAVs, hovering off the coast of Iran and Semnān. Then a number jumped on the screen: 4:34.
“Four and a half minutes,” said Calibrisi.
He hit the phone console.
“How much time do you need, Dewey?” asked Calibrisi.
“Send ’em right now.”
Calibrisi looked at the engineer to the right.
“Send in three, on my go,” said Calibrisi. “And don’t miss.”
“No, sir.”
“One, two, fire.”
* * *
Dewey watched in the side mirror, looking behind him, as the front of a Range Rover pushed slowly into the street, several hundred yards behind them.
“Thanks, Hector.”
“No prob. I just hope they fixed that thing that was screwing up the targeting.”
Dewey laughed.
“Did I make you laugh?” asked Calibrisi.
“Yeah,” said Dewey. “You don’t have any more coming out of the building, Bill?”
“None,” said Polk.
“Hector, I need you to do me a favor,” said Dewey.
“What is it?” asked Calibrisi.
“You need to call Katie,” said Dewey.
“What do you want me to tell her?”
“Tell her to get Bhutta ready.”
“Ready for what?” asked Calibrisi.
“She’ll know.”
“I know she’ll know,” said Calibrisi. “I want to fucking know.”
Dewey exhaled and shook his head.
“To call Mahmoud Nava.”
51
TEHRAN
Paria ripped the door to the interrogation room open. In his right hand, he held a photo of a nuclear bomb, taken from the Israeli’s USB drive.
Paria’s aide, who was standing above the Israeli, turned, surprised by Paria’s sudden entrance. Paria swatted him with the back of his powerful left forearm, sending his aide flying to the ground.
He stepped to Meir and threw the photo through the air, where it landed next to Meir’s head.
Paria kicked his boot viciously toward Meir’s head.
Yet somehow, through the thin slit still remaining in his left eye, Meir saw the boot. His adrenaline spiked. He lurched right, avoiding the kick from Paria, then grabbed the big Iranian’s boot and, with every ounce of strength left in his body, ripped the foot sideways; he listened as Paria let out a blood-curdling scream. Paria fell to the ground, clutching his ankle, as his aide stood up and withdrew his handgun, aiming it at Meir’s head. He fired just an inch from Meir’s ear, the bullet striking the concrete wall and raining dust all over Meir’s shoulder.
Paria stood, limping. He began to say something, then turned toward the door.
“You’re too late,” said Meir as Paria hobbled from the interrogation room.
“May
be,” said Paria, grunting in agony, which he swallowed. “But you’ll never know.”
Paria picked up the phone next to the door of the observation room. He dialed a number, then waited for a response.
“IRGC command,” said the voice.
“Get me Colonel Hek now!” he yelled into the phone.
A minute later, the phone clicked.
“General Paria,” came the voice, a deep, scratchy voice.
“You must divert the movement of the bomb,” said Paria. “It’s a setup!”
“What are you talking about?”
“Listen to me. Stop the bomb. It’s a trap, Ali!”
“It’s too late, General,” said Hek. “The device has left Mahdishahr.”
* * *
Dewey waited at the side of the small industrial road, a hundred yards ahead of the brown van.
“Here they come,” said Polk on COMM.
From the parking lot, a pair of black Range Rovers emerged first, moving down the street toward Dewey and the brown van. Then, the Iranian semi turned onto the street, behind the pair of lead Range Rovers guarding the bomb.
The semi was followed by two more Range Rovers, which fell in line behind the truck carrying the missile.
“Get out,” Dewey said to Cano.
Dewey moved across the seat, toward the passenger door. He carried his silenced MP7A1, then inched along the side of the trailer, out of view.
Three Israeli commandos climbed out of the van. Two took up positions behind the van, kneeling. Each commando held shoulder-fired missiles, and they brought the weapons to their shoulders, out of view of the approaching convoy. They calibrated the targeting mechanism, then flipped the safeties off.
Cano crabbed along the side of the van, out of view. He clutched a silenced M4, whose safety he flipped off as he came to the rear bumper. He saw the side of the street darkening as the shadow from the semi moved slowly along the road toward him.
Behind the convoy, the other two Sayeret Matkal commandos climbed from the back of the Land Cruiser. They knelt, backs against the back bumper, out of sight, while they waited for the rear Range Rovers to get onto the main road. Each commando brought their shoulder-fired missile into position on top of their shoulders.
The Israeli team was communicating on a closed cell frequency, the COMM devices jammed in their ears.