by Chase Austin
There was still some time before his drop. Wick scanned the thin file in his hand once again. He had already committed it to memory, but he had nothing else to do for the next fifteen minutes. Reading the file again seemed as good a way as any to pass the time.
He turned over the first page and looked at the bold headline: Iran’s Minister of Culture and Islamic Guidance, Heyder Mohammad Najjar, says a meeting of clerics will convene in Tehran on 29th November for promoting religious harmony.
Clerics from the United Arab Emirates, Pakistan, Saudi Arabia, Myanmar, Syria, Iraq and Turkey had been invited to the convention. Tehran’s Mayor, Fazlollah Golshaeeyan, would host the convention along with Minister Heyder Mohammad Najjar. This was where their target would arrive.
With the change in the US administration, the sanctions on Iran had been re-imposed. Other nations, fearful of angering the US government, had started distancing themselves from the country. The leadership of Iran feared that if the situation continued to deteriorate, the temporary alienation could soon be a damning reality. The country was getting cornered on the world stage and needed a shot in the arm to re-enter the fold of its brethren. Iran’s Supreme Leader had given Heyder Mohammad Najjar the responsibility for regaining the support of other Muslim nations. This cleric convention was the first step in that direction.
Wick went back to the first page that showed a picture of his target for this mission—Majeed el-Abdullah. The man in the picture wore specs and had a long, snowy beard. His eyes looked cold and calculating. He had been the head of Iran’s hardline judiciary for the decade from 2001 to 2011, during which he had carried out more than two thousand executions, including four adolescents, despite Iran having signed the UN Convention on the Rights of the Child, which prohibited such killings. He had also allowed the arbitrary arrests of political and human-rights activists, the torture of prisoners, and the closure of reformist newspapers that supposedly tarnished Iran’s image.
Recently, Iran’s Supreme Leader had appointed Majeed Head of the Expediency Council, a body intended to resolve disputes between parliament and a watchdog body, the Guardian Council.
Majeed had been born in the city of Najaf in Iraq to Iranian parents. In the 1970s he had been jailed and tortured by Saddam Hussein’s security forces because of his political activities. He had moved to Iran after the Islamic revolution in 1979 and risen rapidly through the ranks. In recent years, Majeed had aimed to raise his profile in Iraq as a replacement for the top Shi’ite cleric.
He had, time and again, given statements to the effect that Iran had been created to conquer the Christians as per the prophecy made in Hadith.
“Iranians should consider themselves fortunate that Allah has bestowed on them the honor of waging war against evil forces like the US,” Majeed was recorded saying recently in a rally attended by more than 50,000 people.
In the same rally, Majeed had also claimed that the Prophet had predicted there would be a war soon, and Iran was destined to win and rule its neighbors and the western countries. “The genesis of Iran was prophesied to defeat the evil forces of Christianity,” he had declared.
But Wick knew that behind this facade of a religious fanatic lay a keen brain that was plotting the fall of America through chemical warfare.
CHAPTER 8
Majeed descended the stairs into a small bunker on the outskirts of Tehran. He had fifty minutes before he had to leave for the convention.
The bunker was one of many built by a terrorist group that acted as a front for Al-Qaeda in Iran. Public perception was that Al-Qaeda regarded Shia Muslims as heretics and attacked their mosques and gatherings, and the group had been designated a terrorist organization by Iran. However, Al-Qaeda and Iran had allied during the 1990s when Hezbollah had trained Al-Qaeda operatives. Iran had detained hundreds of Al-Qaeda operatives who entered the country following the 2001 invasion of Afghanistan. Even though the Iranian government had held most of them under house arrest, limited their freedom of movement, and closely monitored their activities, the U.S. had expressed concerns that Iran had not fully accounted for their whereabouts, culminating in accusations of Iranian complicity in the 2003 Riyadh compound bombings.
The terrorist group that acted as a front for Al-Qaeda was formed in December 2010, when about eighteen groups had united under the leadership of Baitullah Maksud. Its objectives were resistance against the western states, enforcement of their interpretation of sharia, and a plan to unite against NATO-led forces in Iraq.
Baitullah Maksud was a ghost; no one knew what he looked like. The CIA had tried hard, but they had not been able to find a recent photo of him. All they had in their files was an old, hazy image of Maksud which had hitherto proved useless in their attempts to trace him.
Once Maksud and his men deserted the bunker, others had tried briefly to take it over, but they soon had to abandon it and run for their lives. Since then it had remained desolate, until Majeed took over the fields that Maksud had once owned.
Outside the bunker, an army of militants sporting AK-47s secured the area. Inside the dark cellar, Majeed and his trusted aide Abdul Farhad approached the two steel chairs in which two badly bruised semi-conscious bodies were tied—US army officers.
“Your government is very stubborn. We asked them to comply with our demands and yet they are dawdling. No respect for your sacrifice. I feel sad for you and your families.” Majeed threw a copy of the Washington Post on the floor. “Look at the headlines, they are talking about Russia and China. They are busy twiddling their thumbs. They have already forgotten about you.”
There was no response.
Majeed looked at Farhad. Majeed was still reeling from the setback he had had to face a few years ago, and he knew that since then America had never left him alone. It also meant that the new underground facility he was building beneath a mountain could be under surveillance.
Yet there wasn’t any warning. Maybe they were waiting for the right time. What could be the right time?
If he were in their shoes, he would plan a strike near D-Day.
Once he understood the dynamics, he had accelerated his plans. His understanding had opened up new options for him. Being a religious leader, he knew that his position was secure, but the facility had no such veil of safety. The compressed timelines meant moving the D-Day forward. This time he was ready for any surprise. Because this time he would not fail to deliver.
His team had grabbed two US military officers a few weeks ago to keep DC off guard. He had planned their deaths today. The backlash would allow him some breathing space while the whole world watched and condemned the murder of two US soldiers.
CHAPTER 9
Majeed picked up the copies of the Washington Post and shoved them into the torn military uniforms of the two soldiers.
He asked Farhad to get the mission files. The dossiers were a product of months of tedious and meticulous work. Each file represented hours and hours of surveillance notes, in-depth subject profiles, and maps of chosen neighborhoods throughout the D.C. metropolitan area. He wasn’t going to bomb the whole city. Instead, Majeed had chosen his targets carefully—the who’s who of DC, and of the White House.
Majeed and his select mercenaries knew when the police patrolled the designated areas, when the newspapers were delivered, who jogged at what time, and most importantly: where their targets slept and what time they awoke. He and his men had stalked them for months, watching and waiting, patiently discerning which part of their daily routine could be exploited and when they would be most vulnerable. In the next four days, his men would start their mission to decimate the Americans on their soil. The time, places and targets had all been chosen. In less than a week, the course of America would be changed forever. Every minute detail was now stored in a USB flash drive hanging from a gold chain around his neck.
Stuffing the files along with the newspapers into his prisoners’ clothes, Majeed turned to Farhad. “Burn them when I reach the convention center.”
> CHAPTER 10
The minivan had stopped in an alleyway, some two miles from the convention center. First, Olivia and Elijah left the minivan to scope out the scene. Not a single person in sight. They opened the back door of the minivan and Wick stepped out.
Inside the van, Logan sat with his eyes glued to small laptop screens, his earpieces in place. The team had clear orders from the TF-77 command center. They needed Majeed alive at any cost. There was no room for error, and that’s why they had Wick on the mission.
As Wick walked away from the minivan, Logan decided to check the comms one more time.
“Wick, can you hear me?”
“Crystal. Over.” Wick checked his watch. He still had four hours before darkness set in.
He had to cover the remaining two miles on foot. He already had the security details of the convention center imprinted in his eidetic memory, but he wanted to see it firsthand.
Walking down the busy Tehran street meant leaving a lot of eyewitnesses for the police, but no one looked at Wick twice. The disguise was impeccable. The dirty, grey, unkempt beard, and a white headscarf rubbed with scum and now almost greyish black, hid his features. His clothes smelled as if he had shared a sty with a bunch of pigs. Most people refused to acknowledge his existence. The smell ensured they kept their distance. They never looked at the two mildly brown eyes on a face which, when cleaned and shaved and bathed, would be the most good-looking one on the whole street. For them, he was just another beggar, a normal sight on the city streets, a sight to be ignored.
Wick walked towards the convention center, not too slow, not too fast, just the right shuffle of a person who was hungry and had difficulty walking.
Three hundred yards from the convention center, the security started to thicken. Local uniforms crowded the area, deployed for security. The tight security cover was unusual for a religious convention, but he saw a few beggars loitering near the convention center. The sight gave him some hope.
Wick saw two policemen on duty, standing and talking to each other at the corner of the sharp turn that led to the convention center.
“Hundred yards away from the convention center. Over,” he whispered in the earpiece plugged in his ear, hidden by the headscarf. He kept walking.
One of the two policemen glanced casually in his direction and then went back to his conversation.
“Everyone ready?”
The acknowledgements on the receiver assured him they could hear him. Everything was on track. He maintained a steady pace towards the policemen.
As he neared them, both men turned to look at him, wrinkling their noses at the smell. Wick didn’t pause or stop.
“Disgusting, how can anyone be so filthy?” one of the police officers commented to the other.
“Shoo, shoo.” The other gestured with his hand for Wick to keep away, but Wick kept his head down and pretended not to hear. The distance was reducing. Soon both uniforms wanted nothing more than for the smell to go away. With one hand covering their mouths and noses, they started to yell at Wick. Wick continued to approach them, throwing his arms in the air, making a gagging sound like a retard.
They had to make a decision soon. The stench was unbearable. One of the two policemen raised his baton at Wick, who made an unsure gesture with his hands to block the incoming blow.
“Shoo!” his colleague yelled thinking Wick would bolt out of the fear of getting beaten up, but Wick wasn’t going to back out so easily. In his attempt to save himself, he knowingly tripped and fell on the ground, making wild howling noises. The moving baton hit his right arm but couldn’t connect properly due to Wick’s fall. The policeman raised the baton again but a man’s voice from behind made him pause.
“Hashem, what the hell?” Both policemen whirled around and straightened perceptibly; the voice obviously belonged to their superior. “The caravan is arriving, why is that side of the street still not cleared?”
The policemen forgot all about Wick as they rushed to clear the part of the street that had attracted their superior’s ire. Wick quickly got up and started to walk.
Wick turned the corner and continued to shuffle on. He didn’t turn around to see what the two uniforms were doing behind his back, but he could imagine them directing the pedestrians and cars to clear the street.
The turn opened into a new street that had more uniforms patrolling on both sides. A few of them glanced at him casually but no one paid much heed. They were busy with their superiors shouting orders at them to keep the streets clear.
“Target is arriving from the north. Over.” Wick’s earpiece crackled.
“Copy. Over.”
He stopped and turned towards the cavalcade's entry point in the north. There was a whirring sound of rubber on gravel and seconds later an entourage of three white Toyota Fortuners came down the street, headed for the convention center’s elevated entrance. The SUVs slowed at the stairs leading to the large gate of the center. As soon as the vehicles came to a halt, the minister and the mayor came hurrying down the stairs to welcome their guest of honor for the event. Ten gunmen rapidly got out of the first and third SUV and rushed towards the vehicle in the middle. The left side passenger seat door opened and Majeed leisurely stepped out.
“As-salāmu Alaykum,” Majeed greeted the minister and the mayor.
“Alaykum as-salām Janab,’” they replied in unison. ‘We are glad that you are finally here. Hope the journey was peaceful.’
“Insha Allah, it was good, except for the traffic.” He smiled.
Wick studied Majeed and his security detail from across the street. Majeed looked older than in the photo. But there was no doubt it was him. His target was finally here. A few feet away from him.
Wick decided to linger at the same spot till the uniforms let him be. He had already earmarked a few places near the center where he might head if he was shooed away from here. Now he had to wait till the convention ended. Another seventy-five minutes or so.
Once settled, Wick started to scope the area carefully. On the ground, the center was surrounded by uniforms, no snipers though. Wick had checked with Logan, too. No communication intercepted about any snipers. Still, for a religious convention, the security detail was unusual.
Remaining where he was, he glanced at the predetermined exit routes. The alleyway left of the building was secured by three uniforms. They could be an issue, but if the plan went perfectly, he wouldn’t have to worry about them.
His eyes swept the street from left to right to see if anything could derail the plan.
The guests had arrived, and the convention had probably started. Traffic started to drip onto the street again.
Wick sat in a nondescript spot on the footpath, head down. He took a stale piece of bread from his inner pocket and started to chew on it. If another uniform demanded to know what he was doing there, he could always point to the bread and begin a long, woeful story that would hopefully see him through the situation. No one did. Wick’s focus was on the large entrance of the convention center to his right and the exit road to his extreme left.
It didn’t take long for traffic on the street to return to its chaotic norm. Pedestrians and cyclists made it worse. A sedan took the wrong lane and brought the entire traffic to a standstill. One of the uniforms, who looked like a higher-ranking officer, yelled at two of his underlings to clear the mess.
The two uniforms grudgingly left their positions to take up traffic duty.
Wick’s habit of continually scanning his surrounding area was in overdrive. His instincts checked for any anomaly on the crowded street. And then he thought he saw something.
A seven or eight-year-old boy was walking on the opposite pavement. He looked sad, with eyes swollen from crying.
After standing at attention for several hours, the uniforms were relaxing till the convention was over. The two officers busy on traffic duty were closer to the boy, but their focus was on unsnarling the traffic. Amid all the loud honking, innumerable vehicles and pedestr
ians, no one had the time to wonder what a boy was doing alone on that street. No one except Wick.
He was trained to find anomalies in perfectly normal situations, and the lone boy was an anomaly. His wearing a jacket in the sweltering heat of Tehran under a blazing sun was an anomaly. And the swollen eyes—maybe he had been crying hard or sleeping less or maybe he was angry.
Sadness with a strong hint of visible anger was an anomaly. The slow measured walk towards the center’s entrance was an anomaly.
If one looked close enough, there were signs written all over the kid that he was about to derail months of intricate planning in seconds.