“What was happening with Rex?”
“Basically, Yousef was pounding his head into the floor. After I felt sure I’d captured Yousef’s cell number, I distracted him.”
“You distracted Yousef?”
“Yeah, I yelled at him so Rex could get free, and then we both got out of there. Yousef saw my face for maybe thirty seconds.”
Carlton didn’t say anything, but if the background noises I heard were any indication, he was making himself a cup of coffee.
Once the hissing and swooshing had stopped, he said, “Well, the circumstances being what they were, I can live with that. But tell me more about your read on Yousef. Why did you describe him as being a little off?”
“My gut instinct tells me Yousef Bakir could be one of those sociopaths who justifies what he does by researching his victims, and then using what he finds to accuse them of wrongdoing.”
“So you’re saying that’s the reason he’s reading about American politics. He’s looking for some justification for killing the President.”
“I know it’s not rational to us, but it probably makes sense to him.”
“My only problem with that theory is that the President’s stopover in Baghdad hasn’t been made public yet.”
“That’s true, but the President usually makes an unannounced visit to either Iraq or Afghanistan whenever he heads over to the Middle East, and everyone knows he’s traveling to Israel next week.”
“You’re right, and I see your point about the textbooks, but let’s not discount the fact Yousef’s target could still be the Saudi Prince.”
“No, I’m not. What about Waffir’s Market where Yousef’s been buying his groceries? It’s obvious someone there is getting the textbooks for him, and that’s probably where he got his weapon.”
“Katherine and her analysts are looking into it, and I’ll let you know as soon as I hear from them. The Saudi Prince doesn’t arrive in Baghdad for two more days, so we still have some time.”
“When Henry takes us to meet Prime Minister Madi’s staff tomorrow, he said we’ll be given a tour of the new Iraqi Parliament Building. He also said the Saudi Prince will be given a tour when he arrives, so you can bet I’ll be checking out their security set up.”
“No doubt the Parliament Building will also be on the President’s agenda, but we won’t know his final schedule until he’s airborne.”
While Carlton and I were discussing possible sites the President might visit in Baghdad, I began making my way over to the duck pond. Once I could see it in the distance, I told Carlton I was near the rendezvous site, and I needed to wrap up our conversation.
He hesitated, as if he were reluctant to say goodbye.
“Is there something else?” I asked.
“Just one thing. At an opportune moment, I’d appreciate it if you’d tell Ben I said thanks for defending me to Veronica yesterday. It was entirely unnecessary, but I still appreciated the sentiment.”
Before I had a chance to ask him if that was the subject matter he’d told Garrison he wanted to discuss with me, he hung up.
I was about to call him back when I received a text from Mitchell letting me know Kasim had just dropped him off at the duck pond.
“No sign of Alviri yet. Let’s hope he’s not a no-show.”
A no-show asset was not what we needed right now.
* * * *
The duck pond was a man-made body of water filled with various species of waterfowl and surrounded by trees. A picturesque wooden bridge spanned the pond at its midpoint.
I’d seen the bridge used in brochures advertising the university. In those photos, smiling students were leaning over the edge throwing breadcrumbs to the ducks swimming in the murky water below.
There were no smiling students on the bridge today, but there were plenty of ducks waiting for some breadcrumbs.
Jennifer had suggested the duck pond as a rendezvous site because other operatives who’d used it before had reported there were a number of wooden benches nestled among the trees, and the seclusion provided privacy—or at least the illusion of privacy—for a secret meeting between an operative and an asset.
Although it wasn’t bad, it wasn’t my ideal meeting spot.
My ideal meeting spot would have had a few less ducks.
And a lot less quacking.
Besides being extremely vocal, the ducks had gotten used to people feeding them, which meant they weren’t shy about begging for food.
As soon as I sat down on a bench thirty yards away from where Mitchell was seated, two of them waddled up to me immediately, and the entire time Mitchell and I were talking to each other on our sat phones, they were gazing up at me with expectation on their faces.
They were also quacking about it.
“I see you’ve attracted a couple of admirers,” Mitchell said.
I chose to ignore both the ducks and his remark. “I thought you said Alviri was usually on time.”
Mitchell glanced down at his watch. “He’s never been late before, but he’s not all that late; it’s only a few minutes after eleven.”
While we waited for Alviri to make his appearance, I gave Mitchell the gist of what Carlton and I had talked about, but before I could pass on Carlton’s message to him, I spotted Alviri coming over the wooden bridge.
Mitchell also saw him and immediately slipped his phone inside his shirt pocket. “He’s got a smile on his face,” he said, as he continued talking to me. “I guess that means he’s spotted the messenger bag.”
Mitchell and I were using the open-comms function on our sat phones, which allowed me to listen to Mitchell’s conversation with Alviri, even though he was in a grove of trees, and I was occupying one of the wooden benches by the bridge.
I saw Alviri glance at me as he walked toward Mitchell, but since I had earbuds in my ears and was beating out a rhythm on the back of the wooden bench, I figured he thought I was just listening to music.
When Alviri shook hands with Mitchell, he said, “It’s good to see you again, Derek. Forgive me for being late.”
Until that moment, I didn’t know Mitchell was using the name Derek with Alviri, but when I heard it, I thought it suited him perfectly.
* * * *
Abbas Alviri didn’t look that much different from when I’d seen him at the El Badi Palace a few days ago when he’d left the brochure for Mitchell at the fountain. I thought he looked like a diplomat then, and I thought he looked like one now.
He had on an expensive well-made suit, a white dress shirt, and a pair of shiny black loafers.
After living in Tehran for almost two years, I’d learned to tell the difference between men who’d come from wealthy families, and men who’d become wealthy on their own.
Abbas Alviri appeared to be the latter.
Surprisingly enough, he’d become wealthy by providing excellent intelligence product to both the Agency and Mossad in exchange for American dollars—not an enterprise without considerable risk.
Mitchell said, “You’re only ten minutes late, Abbas. That hardly counts in my country.”
“Oh, yes, this is something I know. I believe it’s called being fashionably late.”
I watched as Mitchell strategically drew attention to the messenger bag by moving it from one spot to another.
“I appreciate your coming to meet me on such short notice,” Mitchell said. “I hope it wasn’t inconvenient for you.”
“It wasn’t inconvenient. I knew you wouldn’t have contacted me unless it was something important.”
“Here’s the thing, Abbas. I need your advice about something, and naturally, my country is willing to compensate you for your services.” As he was speaking, Mitchell was reaching inside the messenger bag, but he only withdrew one stack of bills before zipping it up again.
Alviri looked disappointed. “I’m always happy to help my American friends. You know that.”
I couldn’t tell where Mitchell was going with this. We didn’t need advice from
Alviri; we needed information, information about why the Quds Force had hired a hit man like Yousef Bakir and sent him to Baghdad.
“That’s why I contacted you,” Mitchell said. “We’re looking for someone in a leadership position in Tehran who has information about the Quds Force, and we need your advice about how we should go about finding such a person.”
“But, Derek, I’m in a leadership position in Tehran. Perhaps I have the information you need.”
Mitchell shook his head. “I wouldn’t expect someone in the diplomatic corps to know anything about the Quds Forces hiring a member of the Muslim Brotherhood to carry out an assassination for them.”
The tactic Mitchell was using made sense now. In fact, I thought it was brilliant on his part, as long as it didn’t backfire on him.
Instead of demanding Alviri tell him what he knew, Mitchell had created a situation in which Alviri was given the opportunity to offer it to him willingly. To clinch the deal, Mitchell had created an enticing incentive by making it clear the cash would go to someone else if Alviri didn’t have the information.
This brilliant tactic could backfire on Mitchell and turn into an epic failure if Alviri didn’t actually have the information and decided to make up something in order to get the cash.
Could Mitchell read Alviri well enough to know whether the Iranian was scamming him or not?
I’d never seen Mitchell work an asset before, so I had no idea.
* * * *
At first, Mitchell acted like he didn’t believe Alviri could help the Agency, but then he softened his attitude a bit. Finally, he relented and said he’d tell Alviri the specifics of what the Agency was needing.
“We know the Quds Force instructed one of their modirs, a Quds Force member named Baran Asan, to make contact with an assassin in the Muslim Brotherhood by the name of Yousef Bakir.”
Alviri quickly responded, “Yes, I have knowledge of this.”
I held my breath.
Would Mitchell question Alviri about this assertion?
“Do you know where that contact was made?” Mitchell asked.
Excellent question. It would definitely verify Alviri’s statement.
“Since Yousef Bakir was living in Gaza, Baran Asan had to travel to Israel to get in touch with him. It was a risky move on his part. First, he went to Morocco for the Arab Summit, then from there he flew to Israel.”
“Do you know why the Quds Force hired Yousef Bakir?”
I glanced over at the park bench where the two men were seated in order to gauge Alviri’s reaction to this question.
He had a somber look on his face, and he was staring intently at Mitchell. “Yousef Bakir carries out political assassinations for various organizations. The Quds Force hired him for that purpose.”
“To carry out a political assassination?”
Alviri nodded. “To carry out a political assassination here in Baghdad. You see? I have this information. You won’t need to pay another source.”
“We know Yousef is here in Baghdad, and we know why he’s here. There’s no reason for us to pay anyone for this information. What we don’t know is the identity of the person he’s been hired to assassinate.”
Alviri shifted his position and looked away from Mitchell. “What you must realize is the Quds Force only authorizes an assassination of a political figure if it will benefit Iran in some way.”
Not good.
It didn’t sound like Alviri knew the identity of the person Yousef had been hired to eliminate, and he was stalling.
His body language said the same thing.
“So you can’t give me a name? You have no information about the person Yousef Bakir was hired to assassinate? Is that what you’re saying?”
“No, I’m not saying that. I have information about the assassination.”
“Tell me what you know then.”
“I know the CIA is wrong if they think Yousef Bakir is here to assassinate Prime Minister Madi or anyone in his Cabinet.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because I’ve heard discussions between the leaders in the Quds Force and President Rashad. While they’re not happy with Prime Minister Madi and his relationship with the U.S., they feel he’s someone they can work with, and they know he will eventually bend to their will. Taking out Prime Minister Madi wouldn’t be in Iran’s best interests.”
“If Bakir isn’t in Baghdad to assassinate a political figure in the Iraqi government, then why is he here?”
“I don’t have that information, but I can get it for you.”
“I don’t know, Abbas. Time is running out here.”
“Trust me, Derek. I can get you a name.”
Mitchell didn’t say anything in response, and when I looked over at him, he’d pulled another stack of bills out of the messenger bag.
When he handed them to Alviri, he said, “Consider this a down payment for your services, Abbas. If you can get me a name within the next twenty-four hours, there’s plenty more where that came from.”
“The next twenty-four hours? I know the Saudi Prince will be here in two days, but I can’t believe the CIA thinks he’s the target.”
“Why is that surprising? It’s no secret your people are upset with the Iraqi government for restoring relations with the Saudi monarchy. If the Saudi Prince were to be assassinated in Baghdad, the Saudis would sever diplomatic relations with Iraq, and I’m sure this is something that would please the Iranian regime immensely.”
“Yes, but our Iranian leaders hate the Americans more than they do the Saudis, and since their ultimate goal is to get the U.S. completely out of Iraq, more than likely, they’ve hired Bakir to assassinate an American, someone whose murder will force the U.S. to withdraw from Iraq.”
“A name, Abbas. Get us a name.”
Alviri jumped to his feet. “I’ll get you a name.”
He offered Mitchell his hand. “Thank you for trusting me, Derek. You won’t regret it. I’ll contact you before tomorrow evening.”
“I’m counting on it.”
Even though Abbas Alviri hadn’t provided any new intel on Yousef Bakir, he’d provided me with some new insight into Ben Mitchell.
Namely, he could handle an asset. In fact, he was very good at it.
Maybe even better than me.
Chapter 32
Sunday, May 26
After breakfast on Sunday morning, Mitchell, Liz, and I headed over to Control Room B in the Comms Center. Truth be told, I was getting a little sick of the place because we’d spent most of Saturday afternoon and evening there.
Following the meeting with Alviri, I’d asked Kasim to take us back to the Comms Center so Mitchell and I could have a video call with Carlton and update him on Alviri’s response to Mitchell’s request.
Although Carlton hadn’t sounded all that hopeful Alviri would be able to get us the intel we needed, he’d obviously been pleased with how Mitchell had handled the diplomat, and Jennifer had given him kudos for that as well.
As we were giving Carlton our update, I was surprised to see Katherine Broward show up in RTM Center A, but then Veronica told us she’d asked Katherine to come down and brief us on the new intel her analysts had uncovered about Yousef Bakir.
First, Katherine informed us they’d found a connection between the owner of Waffir’s Market and Yousef. She said the owner, Mohammed Waffir, had rented the apartment where Yousef was staying, and he was also a member of the Muslim Brotherhood.
Then, after explaining how her analysts had hacked into the store’s security cameras, she’d played a couple of videos showing Waffir inviting Yousef into his office. In the first video, he’d given him two textbooks, which he’d placed in a plastic grocery bag.
In the second video, he’d handed Yousef a parcel wrapped in brown paper, which Katherine said was probably a weapons package.
The last piece of intel Katherine had given us had to do with the phone calls they’d found on Yousef’s cell. Unfortunately, it turned
out they were all associated with one number, an anonymous cutout, which meant there was no way of knowing who’d been calling him.
Once we’d updated Carlton, we’d spent the rest of our time watching the video feed from Yousef’s apartment.
It had been a boring way to spend a Saturday evening.
Yousef’s activities mainly consisted of reading, eating, and exercising. Much as I suspected, his exercise regimen centered around a lot of pushups.
For dinner, he’d cooked up some fresh vegetables, and Liz had pointed out if fresh vegetables were his usual evening meal, then his daily trips to Waffir’s Market made a lot of sense, although I thought the girl in the repair shop could also have been a factor.
Now, as Mitchell, Liz, and I entered the Comms Center, I found myself looking forward to getting off the embassy grounds this afternoon and heading over to the Iraqi government complex to meet with Prime Minister’s Madi’s chief of staff and be given a tour of the Iraqi Parliament Building.
“You’re just in time,” Garrison said, as we walked into the control room. “It looks like Yousef is getting ready to go out.”
“Now?” I asked, looking up at the video from Yousef’s apartment. “He never leaves his apartment this early.”
“What’s up with that?” Mitchell asked.
We watched as Yousef came out of his bedroom and sat down on the sofa. He was dressed in a dark-gray sports jacket, black trousers, and a solid black shirt. On the coffee table in front of him was a handgun. I recognized it as an H&K VP9. Along with the gun, there was a box of bullets and a couple of magazines.
He sat down and loaded the two magazines with the ammo. Then, he put one mag in his pants pocket, inserted the other mag in his handgun, and holstered the gun inside his waistband.
“That H&K carries fifteen rounds,” Mitchell said. “He’ll have a lot of firepower with him wherever he’s headed.”
“I know this sounds like a woman thing,” Liz said, “but do you see the way he’s dressed?”
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