“Exactly, sir. In this case, it’s a file concealed within an image.”
“I would have thought a virus scan would find such a thing.”
“It is often the case but not with ours. You want to know why?”
Colonel Mirzaei was clearly in his element. His pitch had moved up a notch and he was moving nonstop from his left foot to his right and vice versa.
“Please continue.”
“You can download the actual image without risk, but if you run any exec files on it, like facial recognition software for example, the files will find the hidden code within the image and inform themselves what to do next. So the actual virus, or program, arrives in two parts. That’s why it doesn’t set off the antivirus. The image isn’t doing anything malicious. It’s dormant! You understand?”
Kharazi didn’t but nodded nonetheless.
“Okay, good.”
When Marzaei didn’t add anything, Kharazi asked, “That’s it?”
Marzaei frowned. “Yes. You want to know something else?”
“How do we know someone opened it?” Kharazi said, exasperated.
“Because we embedded a code whose sole purpose is to let us know the exact location of the user who opens it.”
“Show me.”
Kharazi followed Mirzaei to his office, a large cubicle with three different computer screens. Mirzaei pointed to a red dot. “Here.”
Kharazi’s spirits sank to a new low. New York City.
Were the Americans working with the Israelis? A joint operation between the CIA and the MOSSAD could mean trouble. But would the person who opened the file understand what he was seeing? Would he act on it immediately? With the second phase of PERIWINKLE completed, he had some leverage, notwithstanding the problems encountered during the third phase. The Americans were scared. They had to be. It was time to press his advantage.
CHAPTER 54
IMSI Headquarters, New York
“What is it, Jonathan?” Mike asked once they were all in the bubble.
Sanchez pointed to his computer screen. “Look who else is on the list?”
A name was blinking on the computer screen.
Colonel Farrokh al-Fadhi. SAVAK.
“That’s Khalid al-Fadhi’s father,” Mike said, anger creeping in at the thought of former colleagues being killed by a traitor. “The RCMP officer who turned against his teammates and killed the Canadian prime minister.”
Mike hoped that any leftover doubts Mapother had about who orchestrated the attack on the mayor were now gone. What Sanchez had been able to put together regarding the links between the attacks on the Canadian prime minister and Mayor Church gave the IMSI a leg up. But how long would it take for the other agencies to add it all up?
“Don’t tell me you’re not seeing it, Charles?” Mike said. “That can’t be a coincidence.”
“I see it all right, Mike, but I don’t want to believe it.”
News was coming in fast. The major networks were all covering the shootout at One Police Plaza. The cop who’d been shot had been identified as thirty-two-year-old New York Police Department Sergeant Tracy Sassani. What the news networks didn’t know yet—but Mike was sure they’d make the connection fast enough—was that her father was the man who had not only shot her but also tried to assassinate the mayor of the largest city in the United States.
“We can’t sit on this,” Sanchez said. “Who’s next?”
Who’s next?
That was the question they needed answered.
“We must find a way to get our hands on Tracy Sassani,” Lisa said. “She knows something.”
“Play it again, Anna,” Mapother said.
Mike moved closer to the screen and watched the playback of the attempt on Mayor Church’s life. It was easy to see that Sergeant Sassani was distracted. She looked nervous and her body language indicated she was preoccupied.
“She knew what was coming,” Lisa said. “She seems hesitant.”
“But why?” Sanchez asked.
“Because when it was time to pull the trigger, she couldn’t do it,” Mapother said with finality. “She was the one who was supposed to kill the mayor. Not her father. He was the backup.”
“So her father shot her because she wouldn’t do it?” Lisa asked.
Mike nodded. “I think Charles is right. The list we got from General Adbullahi contains the names of seven colonels belonging to the SAVAK. What if we were facing off not only against them, but also against their offspring?”
“That would mean there are at least five more cells waiting to strike,” Mapother said. “We need to find these colonels and their children.”
Mike was about to add something when Mapother’s phone rang.
“Charles Mapother.”
Mike watched as Mapother’s face turned pale.
CHAPTER 55
Ramallah, Palestine
There was no denying it now. It would serve no purpose. A cold, naked fear wrenched his gut. Meir Yatom had fought. Hard. He had resisted as long as he could. But he wasn’t a young man anymore. He knew that.
His tormentor knew it too.
He was sitting upright on a wooden chair positioned in the middle of what used to be the basement of a medium-sized factory. His hands and feet were securely bound to the chair. His bindings were tight enough to severely restrict the blood circulation. Sweat and blood dripped down his chin onto his naked chest. Barring a miracle, there was no way to escape this hell. And even if he was able to free himself from the restraints that were cutting through his ankles and wrists, he was too weak to offer more than a token resistance against a well-trained soldier like Asad Davari.
Yatom had lost track of time after the second time he’d fallen unconscious but Colonel Davari seemed to work in patterns of ten minutes. Ten minutes of torture, ten minutes of rest, ten minutes of traditional beating and then ten minutes of rest. Repeat.
His eyes were swollen to such an extent his vision was limited and blurry at best. He could barely make out Davari standing in front of him. It was agonizing to breathe, and he deduced he had a couple of broken ribs. Prolonged beatings from someone who knew what he was doing tended to do that.
“You . . . You don’t have to do this,” Yatom managed to say, panting.
“But I do, Meir, I do,” Davari said, approaching one step closer. In his hand was a power drill he had picked up from the rusted toolbox behind him. Yatom wondered how big was that damn toolbox. How many objects of torture could it hold?
“You see, Meir, you’ve done much worse to my people,” Davari continued, “so your words, your pleas, they mean nothing to me.”
Davari pressed the drill against Yatom’s right knee hard enough for the bit to break the skin.
“I get no pleasure from this,” the Iranian colonel said. “These kind of methods are beneath me, to be honest. But you’re a tough bastard, and I’m short on time.”
In anticipation of the pain to come, Yatom’s pulse was faster than ever. He prayed for a heart attack but knew that was wishful thinking. His heart was too strong.
Davari’s index finger moved to the power drill’s trigger. “Don’t let me do this, Meir. We both know you’ll break. Everybody breaks.”
Davari moved the bit away from Yatom’s knee and pressed the trigger. The screech of the power drill filled the air. Davari released the trigger and the whine died slowly as the bit came to a halt.
“What—”
“What do I want?” Davari asked. “You know what I want. But I’ll tell you again. I need to know what your man was doing in Athens, and I want to know who the other operators were. Simple enough, yes?”
It was time to give Davari a little something. There was no way he didn’t already know why Eitan had traveled to Athens.
“My agent was—”
“What’s
your agent’s name?” cut in Davari.
Was Davari bluffing, or had he really no idea?
“His name’s Ely Loewe—”
The pain was sudden and seared through every single nerve in Yatom’s body. He screamed as Davari drilled into his left kneecap. Yatom jerked and bucked in his chair as new waves of pain washed through him. The smell of his burning flesh and bones reached his nose.
Davari extracted the bit from his knee. Yatom screamed, a guttural, anguished cry of sorrow. Never had he felt such intense agony.
“What’s his name,” Davari asked again, moving the bit to Yatom’s right knee.
“Eitan David!” yelled Yatom. “His name is Eitan David!”
“Thank you. We didn’t know his name.”
Tears of pain and rage ran down Yatom’s cheeks. He had been played and he had just betrayed his man.
“Shall we continue?” Davari asked. “Why did Eitan travel to Athens?”
Before Yatom could reply, Davari raised a hand and said, “Hold that thought for a second, will you?”
........
Davari wanted to throw up. What he had said to Yatom about not enjoying any of this was the truth. It disgusted him to have to torture the Israeli spy. The phone chirping in his pocket was a break he welcomed.
“Yes?”
“New developments have come to my attention, Colonel.”
“I’m listening.”
“It’s been confirmed. The Americans are working with the Jews and they’ve gained access to the intelligence General Adbullahi carried with him out of Iran.”
“That’s inconvenient.”
“Yes, it is, but it’s unclear if the Americans understand what the intelligence truly means.”
“They’ll figure it out soon enough, General.”
“I need you to buy us some time, Asad. You understand?”
Davari understood. General Kharazi wanted him to do whatever was necessary to interfere with the Americans. He didn’t want them to grasp and act upon the intelligence they’d stumbled across. How the general wanted him to achieve that, he had no idea. There wasn’t much he could do from Ramallah.
“Do we know which organization gained access to our secrets?”
“Maybe you could help me find out, Asad? I think your guest might know the answer to that question.”
Davari turned to face the Israeli spy. His face was so bruised and bloody he was almost unrecognizable. His chest was bare and crisscrossed with lacerations. Still, his eyes were open and looking straight at him. Was it defiance? The old man had balls. Davari gave him that.
“We’ll see,” Davari said to the general.
“Do whatever you feel necessary to loosen him up, Colonel. You have another hour or so until you’re relieved.”
“Relieved?”
“Yes, we’ve pretty much pinpointed where the breach took place. It’s in New York City, and I’m sending you and Sergeant Mariwala to take care of it. Our Palestinian friends will babysit Yatom while you’re away.”
CHAPTER 56
Ramallah, Palestine
Meir Yatom wanted the pain to end. He had spent his whole life protecting the national interests of Israel.
At any cost.
There were some things he wasn’t proud of, but he had no regrets. He had never taken a life in vain. The targeted violence he used was for the greater good of his people. In over forty years of service, he had not once betrayed the trust of his superior officers, but, more importantly, he had never let his subordinates down.
Until now.
Yatom was a beaten man. He’d led many successful operations against his nation’s enemies. He had a few failures too, but that was to be expected. Still, every time he had lost a member of his team, a little part of him had died. Even now, with his battered body tied up to a chair, he could remember the names of all the operatives he’d lost in his quest to rid Israel of its adversaries.
Jamian, Mate, Eleazar, Shoshana, Ari . . .
The shock of searing pain brought him back to reality. He opened his eyes, only to see Davari’s fist connecting with his jaw one more time.
“Wake up, Meir, I have one more thing to ask you.”
On principle, Yatom wanted to defy the Iranian, but at what cost? Davari was going to kill him anyway. Why suffer even more?
“We know you’re working with the Americans,” Davari said, picking up the power drill. “I’d like you to tell me which agency they’re working for.”
The IMSI was as covert as they come. Even Yatom wasn’t one hundred percent certain how they were financed and how they were able to access the raw intelligence they had. Following the failed mission he had run in tandem with Charles Mapother in Mykonos to rescue Ray Powell, Mapother had shared his concerns regarding the potential political repercussions if IMSI’s existence was ever uncovered. President Muller’s involvement with the IMSI could be enough to get him impeached. Yatom did not want to be responsible for that, but what choice did he have? Davari had shown he wouldn’t hesitate to inflict pain.
“Meir, what agency are they working for?” Davari said, once again pressing the bit against his good knee.
“What difference does it make?”
“Don’t do this to yourself. Tell me, and I promise you a death with dignity.”
“You already took that away from me,” Yatom spat. “And you’re a bad liar, Davari.”
Davari was lying through his teeth. There was no way a high-value target like him would be allowed to die without a thorough debriefing. His brain was worth much more than the quick gratification his death could give the Iranians. No, if he was in General Kharazi’s shoes—Yatom had no doubt he was the one pulling the strings—he’d insist Yatom be brought back to Tehran for further questioning. Incapable of walking, even less of defending himself, Yatom’s hopes of escaping were gone. But could he push Davari far enough for the colonel to kill him by mistake? That would be the best-case scenario.
Davari smiled. “Well, it was worth a try.”
Davari moved the bit from Yatom’s knee to his left thumb, just below his knuckle. Yatom had never been so afraid in his life, never felt so powerless. His body began to shake with such intensity that when Davari started drilling into his thumb, he had already passed out.
........
Davari stopped drilling the moment he realized Yatom’s eyes had rolled over, but he was already halfway through his thumb.
“Is he dead?” Sergent Mariwala asked.
Davari shook his head. “No, he’s unconscious. He has endured a lot. Honestly, I’m surprised he’s still alive. I don’t think we should continue. A medical team will need to fix him up before we start again.”
“What do you want to do, sir?”
Davari watched the old Israeli spy shiver in his chair, his head slumped on his chest. Yatom deserved a quick death, and Davari wished he could give it to him, but he feared General Kharazi wouldn’t allow it. As the second-in-command of the Quds Force, Davari understood why Meir Yatom couldn’t be killed. But, as a soldier, he wished he could simply put a bullet in the Israeli’s head.
“We’re done for now, Sergeant. We’ll give it a rest. The general needs us somewhere else.”
Mariwala looked surprised. “Tell me we haven’t been ordered to leave him to the Hamas, sir?”
Mariwala wasn’t an officer, but he was sharp. He understood the value of a man like Yatom. Davari was glad the sergeant would join him in New York City.
“General Kharazi is sending a team to transport him back to Tehran where he’ll undergo further interrogation. The Hamas will babysit him until our colleagues’ arrival.”
“What about us, sir?”
“We’re going to visit New York City.”
CHAPTER 57
Tehran, Iran
General Kharazi sat bac
k in his chair, smiling. He had regained most of the self-confidence the ayatollah had sucked out of him. He was moving his pieces across the chessboard. He had the Americans on their heels. His conversation with DNI Richard Phillips—President Muller’s Director of National Intelligence—went better than he had expected. His men from the intelligence division had gotten their hands on the DNI’s private number a while ago, but Kharazi never needed it before today.
At first, Phillips was resistant, not believing the man he was speaking to was indeed the commanding general of the Quds Force. A few accurate details of the attack on Mayor Church quickly changed his attitude.
Kharazi’s demands, which came directly from the ayatollah, were simple. President Muller had seventy-two hours to sign all the sanction waivers he had canceled the prior month due to Iran’s unwillingness to fully comply with the nuclear deal Muller had himself brokered with them.
Publicly, that was the only demand.
Behind the scenes, the ayatollah was also asking for payments of fifty million dollars per day for the next three years. And that wasn’t negotiable. At first, Kharazi was staggered by the amount, but when the ayatollah told him the United States federal government spent more than ten billion dollars per day, he realized fifty million wouldn’t make a dent in their budget. It would, however, jumpstart the Iranian economy. In Kharazi’s mind, the allocation of the lion’s share of the past budgets to current expenditures rather than to infrastructure spending explained why his country’s economy wasn’t moving toward its sought destination. He was also aware that for the last two decades, less than seventy percent of the budget allocated for infrastructure spending was actually funded. Iran’s economy was crumbling. In a shambles really. Another couple of years—maybe less if the current economic sanctions weren’t lifted—and the ayatollah’s vision for the country would be reduced to a mirage. The central government wouldn’t have the means to pay public servants or the military. If that became public knowledge, Iran’s regional position and international reputation would take a giant hit and a military coup couldn’t be ignored. This could lead to a gory civil war.
A Thick Crimson Line (Mike Walton Book 3) Page 14