Truth in Hiding

by Matthew Frick

  “Do we follow him?” Andie asked.

  Cohen looked left and right before stepping into the crosswalk. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s hear what he’s saying.” They crossed to the Capitol side of the street and stopped at an information kiosk, peering at the brochures and maps taped to the inside of the glass windows. Cohen watched Shirazi’s reflection and tried to listen in on the congressman’s conversation twenty feet away.

  Cohen expected to hear English from the U.S. congressman, but what he heard was something different. He closed his eyes to concentrate, as a brisk wind from the north pushed Shirazi’s words away from him. Farsi would make sense because Shirazi was Iranian by birth and upbringing, but the words he could hear were Arabic. Cohen knew very little Persian, but he was fluent in Arabic—enough so that he recognized the dialect as North African. Not Egyptian. Further west. There were not enough consecutive audible words for him to discern the nature of the conversation, but given Shirazi’s animated expressions, he figured it was more than routine business. Cohen decided it was more frustration than anger that colored the congressman’s words. Cohen saw Shirazi pocket the cell phone, and the reflection grew larger. He turned to Andie so he wasn’t staring but could still see Shirazi in his peripheral vision. Andie faced the congressman, looking beyond him down the street.

  “Asshole,” Andie said after Shirazi was past them. “Just left his paper on the bench.”

  Cohen looked over his shoulder at Shirazi’s back then quickly turned to Andie. “What?”

  “I hate when people just leave their trash wherever they damn well please,” Andie said. “He even walked right past a trashcan. Oh, and look, there’s a recycling bin right next to that.”

  “I don’t care if the man dumps paint in the river,” Cohen said. “We need to move, or he’s going to get out of reach.”

  “What were you planning on doing?” Andie asked. “He’s a U.S. congressman. You can’t just grab him and rough him up ‘til he tells you what you want to know.”

  “I don’t care who he is. If he knows anything about the leaked operations, I need to find out.” Cohen started to move after Shirazi.

  “Good, somebody picked up the paper,” Andie said. “At least there’s some decent folks left in this town. He’s even taking it with him.”

  Cohen stopped suddenly and turned around, grabbing Andie as she crashed into him. He held her arms to keep her from falling and looked over her shoulder. “Where?” he asked.

  Andie turned, coming loose from Cohen’s grip. She quickly looked around. “He was right there,” she said with the uncertainty of a child who knew she was about to be accused of lying even though she was telling the truth. “He was by the bench, heading away from us.”

  Cohen turned in a full circle. He only saw cars passing on the street and Shirazi moving further away—too far away to pursue him without drawing suspicion. He cursed under his breath and pulled Andie away from the information booth. “What did he look like?”

  “Short. Tan trench coat. Fedora,” Andie said. “I think he had a beard. It might have been gray. Or not. I don’t know. Like I said, he was walking away from us, so I didn’t get a good look. I just know he took the paper. Why?”

  Cohen turned his head to find that Shirazi was gone. “The paper,” he said, turning back to Andie. “It might have been a dead drop. An emergent one, most likely.”

  “What?”

  “To pass messages,” Cohen said. “The drop-off and pick-up were too close together. Plus the device—a newspaper left on a park bench—this had to be coordinated quickly so there was no chance of the wrong person intercepting the message.”

  “You’re assuming the newspaper had a message,” Andie said. “It’s possible the man walking by just saw a newspaper lying around and thought, ‘Hey, a free paper,’ and scooped it up to read later.”

  “And if the man you saw was Davood Raad?”

  “You think that was Raad?” Andie asked. “Remember, we’re only here because of a feeling you had about Shirazi, not because we had anything concrete that said he was Raad’s guy.”

  Cohen’s look told Andie exactly what he thought of her comment.

  “Never mind.” Andie held up her hands in surrender. “You’re the spy.”

  Chapter 28

  Davood Raad returned to his office at ten thirty. He nodded silently to the guard as he passed through the lobby to the elevator. Raad pulled the key chain out of a jacket pocket when he reached his office, but he stopped short of inserting the key in the lock. The door was already open.

  He pushed the door slowly, knowing that anyone inside would be alerted to his presence by the squeaking hinges—not that there was any place to hide in the one-room office.

  “Salam.”

  Raad shut the door behind him and dropped his keys and paper on the desk. “Salam,” he replied to the man sitting in one of the two high-back chairs. He hung his coat and hat on the corner rack and took his own seat behind the desk. Despite the uncharacteristic beard that covered much of the man’s face, Raad knew who he was. The cold, piercing eyes gave him away. “How did you get in here?” Raad asked the man in Farsi.

  The uninvited guest smiled. “You should be asking why I am here.”

  “Very well. Why are you here, General?”

  Though he was no longer in the ranks of the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps, Teymoor Khalaji was customarily addressed by his former title. His role as an intelligence chief in the IRGC made him the perfect match to lead the liaison office within the Ministry of Intelligence and Security that coordinated MOIS operational intel-sharing with the IRGC’s overseas arm—the Qods Force. Khalaji’s position and pedigree kept him in Tehran, so his presence in Raad’s office in the United States was an unusual, and risky, venture. It also did not bode well for the academic. “Consider this a courtesy visit.”

  “Then forgive me for not having any tea prepared,” Raad said.

  Khalaji sensed the animosity in Raad’s flat comment but let it slide. “I want to personally congratulate you on the work you’ve done here the past two years. As you are aware, the information you have obtained has saved Iranian lives and is directly responsible for the continued success of the Islamic Republic’s nuclear program and the major milestone that was reached earlier this month.”

  Raad nodded, silently acknowledging the compliment and offering his thanks at the same time. He knew the difficulty involved with Khalaji’s trip to the United States, not only with facilitating his physical entry, but with the measures that had to be in place to ensure he wasn’t discovered. He also knew that such risks would not be taken just to deliver a semi-official “thank you,” and there must be another reason for the visit. “But…,” Raad prompted.

  Khalaji smiled. “But something has changed.”

  “How? Do you mean with the intelligence we are getting?”

  “In a way,” Khalaji said. “The time and target information has continued to be accurate, but the elements conducting those operations have evolved.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We were able to stop the attempt on Qalibaf with the intelligence you provided, but just barely. The identities of the attackers were not what we expected, and the mayor was almost killed because of it,” Khalaji said.

  “I am never able to provide identities, only the dates and estimated times of the attacks,” Raad said. “Since when does Tehran require the specific names of Mossad assassins before they are terminated?”

  “These men were not Mossad,” Khalaji said. “They were Iranian. We anticipated Israelis, and our people were not looking for locals. Qalibaf’s driver was shot before the attack was stopped.”

  “Mujahid?”

  “Not that we could surmise, though they may have received training from that group.” Khalaji shook his head. “No, from what we have found, it appears their mission was sourced through Ansar al-Furqan.”

  Raad stood and moved to the single office window. He pushed up a few sla
ts on the blinds and looked at the back alley. “No ties to Israel at all?”

  “We are still looking into the matter, but it does not appear so.” Khalaji watched as Raad sat on the front of the desk and squeezed the bridge of his nose. “That bothers you?”

  “It concerns me,” Raad said.

  “How?”

  “Every attack before this was Mossad. Joint operations between the Americans and Israel, coordinated by The Council and executed by Mossad, so the American president and his government could maintain the falsehood of no longer conducting assassinations,” Raad said.

  “Assassinations that don’t involve drones,” Khalaji commented.

  “The world knows Israel was responsible for the previous attacks. Israel is even investigating the possibility of a leak from its own people,” Raad said. “But if Mossad was not involved in this attack, then questions will be asked that draw suspicion away from Israel.”

  Khalaji shifted in his chair and studied his colleague. Raad had been in America for a few years and in the West in general for longer than that. Khalaji did not know Raad well enough to determine if his familiarity with the American way of life—valued as that knowledge was—had also led to a complacency of thought that caused him to miss the change in the American-Israeli operations from Mossad to internal Iranian opposition forces carrying out the assassination attempts. But he needed to find out if Raad fully understood the implications of that change and the danger it posed to Iran’s own efforts in America and the unprecedented access it currently enjoyed.

  “That is not our problem,” Khalaji said. “IRIB will figure out a way to tie Israel to al-Furqan. Trust me, the Zionists will still be blamed,” he added, challenging Raad to take his previous thoughts to conclusion.

  Raad shook his head. “Both Israel and al-Furqan will deny that accusation,” he said, becoming louder and more agitated as he continued. “Neither will admit working together, if that’s the case, and I doubt al-Furqan would take credit for a failed operation in the first place. On top of that, the rest of the world knows Iran Broadcasting is the government’s propaganda machine. If we say al-Furqan did it, the West will first ask, ‘who is al-Furqan,’ and they will not believe the Zionist connection because of where the information came from. The Americans will stand by the Jews, condemn the accusations, and defend al-Furqan’s position while decrying its methods. The right-wing media in the U.S. will no-doubt raise the possibility that their left-wing government is supporting the Ansar al-Furqan terrorist group. And there will be increased scrutiny to determine exactly what that support entails.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “The media in this country is politically polarized—especially with the upcoming presidential election—anything that can be construed as a liability in the eyes of voters will be exploited. And the American people are sheep,” Raad said. “They do not think for themselves, but merely adopt the stance of the loudest voice on television as their own.”

  “So they brand the American president as a supporter of terrorists,” Khalaji said. “That is what is bothering you?”

  “No! It’s the investigation that will lead to that branding that bothers me,” Raad fumed. “The more aggressive reporters and congressmen won’t give up until they find that one damning piece of evidence, or some connection, that will ruin any chance of the incumbent political party winning the presidency in 2016. And there are countless people in Washington who would gladly speak to the press about anything. It is like a disease with these people. My concern, General, is that one of them may say the wrong thing and expose The Council...and our asset.”

  Khalaji smiled. “Good.”

  “Good? That is anything but good.”

  “Easy, my friend. I only meant that it is good you understand the significance of the problem.”

  Raad stared unblinking at his visitor. “You came almost halfway around the globe to make sure I knew how to do my job?”

  “Things are different now.”

  “Of course they’re different,” Raad shouted. He instinctively looked to the door and lowered his voice. “Of course they’re different. I recruited the most valuable asset Iran has ever had in America, and I’ve protected him ever since.”

  “You have,” Khalaji nodded. “And you’ve done well. But now Mossad is in the country hunting our asset.”

  “And we are hunting Mossad,” Raad shot back. “I have people tracking a Kidon assassin as we speak.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes,” Raad said. “We know who the assassin is, and we are close to eliminating him.” Raad dabbed sweat from his forehead. “It is possible he is dead already.”

  “Possible?”

  Raad swallowed hard, wishing he had a bottle of water. “My men were to intercept the Israeli last night, but I have not heard from them yet.”

  Khalaji’s eyes grew wide. “You have not heard from them?”

  Raad looked at his watch. “It is early, yet,” he said without much conviction. “They likely hit the target after midnight and are just following protocol—keeping low until they are sure no one is looking for them.”

  “Is someone looking for them?”

  “There was no news this morning of any bodies being found in the area where the hit was to take place.”

  “No idea if the police are looking for anyone for anything else?” Khalaji asked.

  “No.”

  Khaliji stood. “Then it appears your men are at least alive. Or they were killed somewhere else.”

  Raad clenched his jaw. “You assume the operation failed. Perhaps they took the target to a more private location and disposed of the body.”

  Khalaji laughed. “Like an American crime drama on television.” He shook his head. “Your men were not going after a cheating husband or an amateur drug dealer, Dr. Raad.”

  “My men are trained killers, as well,” Raad shot back.

  When he reached the door, Khalaji turned. “My money is on the Israeli,” he smiled. The smile quickly vanished, and with a stern face and a tone of voice more characteristic of a superior addressing his subordinate, he added, “Please inform us when your men report in. I will be leaving tonight, and I will talk to headquarters when I get back about possibly instituting other measures to address the problem.”

  “What other measures?”

  “All you need to concern yourself with is protecting the identity of the asset,” Khalaji said. “You have done well so far, but you do not have the experience to handle this new threat. There are others in our organization who will deal with the Zionist spy.”

  Khalaji nodded his goodbye and was gone. Raad knew he would not be seeing the general again. He resented Khalaji’s assessment of his inability to take care of the Mossad threat, but he also knew the man was right. Raad had never been an operator—not the same way others lived in the violent, life-or-death world of clandestine operations where the players don’t even have names. Raad’s world of spycraft was different. He was effective precisely because his name was known.

  Raad moved to his desk chair and rubbed his eyes. His hands fell on the folded newspaper in front of him. He put on his reading glasses and turned to the editorial page.

  Chapter 29

  Casey tried the buzzer to Andie’s apartment again. Five. He pushed it again, this time holding it in for a continuous ten seconds before he let go. Six. The speaker crackled, and Casey grabbed the box with an urgency that might have seemed obscene to people passing by if there were any.

  “She’s not fucking home!”

  A man’s voice. Strained by too much booze and too many cigarettes. “S-s-sorry,” Casey said, his tongue too frozen to speak clearly. It took all of his energy and concentration to say, “I wath looking for A-a-ndie Jacks-Jackson.” Without his jacket, Casey knew he couldn’t stay still for much longer, or he would be in danger of going into shock or collapsing from hypothermia exhaustion.

  “No shit,” the voice said. “I hear it through the fucking wal
ls. She ain’t home, and some of us work night shift, so beat it, pal.”

  Casey got the message. He stumbled down the short flight of concrete steps to the parking lot and sat on the curb. He began shivering immediately despite his best efforts to generate warmth through friction by rubbing his arms. When he lost feeling in his hands, he tucked them in his armpits to defrost until he could start the friction therapy again.

  This fucking sucks, he thought, his diction apparently still intact when he didn’t have to open his mouth. After five more minutes, he moved closer to a trio of bushes near the walkway and curled into a ball to preserve as much body heat as possible. Casey closed his eyes, and though his body continued to shiver uncontrollably, fatigue proved the more powerful influencer, and he was soon fast asleep.

  “Casey!” a familiar voice called from the darkness. Casey opened his eyes and looked up just as Andie got to him.

  “What happened?” she asked. “And where the hell is your jacket?”

  “Never mind. Let’s get him inside.” Cohen helped Casey to his feet while Andie unlocked the front door.

  When Casey was seated on the couch with a heavy blanket wrapped around him, the chattering and quaking began to subside. Andie brought him a cup of warm coffee and a granola bar to help the internal warming process.

  “You’re lucky we came back when we did,” Andie said as she sat down next to Casey. “Another hour and that ‘mild hypothermia’ wouldn’t be so mild.” She watched as Casey devoured the granola and downed the coffee. “Do you think you’re okay enough now to tell us what the hell happened to you?”