Now was the time for a bold move. The first supreme leader had certainly not envisioned using PERIWINKLE in this fashion, but the built-in mechanism of the operation could work. If PERIWINKLE could give the ayatollah a way to steer the United States’ foreign policy to his advantage, it was worth a shot.
Iran’s reluctance to fulfill its obligation on the nuclear deal was a masquerade orchestrated by the ayatollah to force Vienamin Simonich—Russia’s president—to offer his assistance. Kharazi thought the nuclear deal treachery was a superb example of realpolitik. With Muller announcing he intended to sell half of the United States’ strategic oil supply on the open market two days after the Russians and the Saudis—the top two oil producers—agreed to extend output cuts for another year, the ayatollah had seen the opportunity of a lifetime to rally an annoyed Russia to its cause by exploiting Simonich’s frustration toward the Americans. After all, Simonich had tried to bring a deadly virus into the United States less than a year ago. In bed with the Sheik, he had almost succeeded.
For a second, Kharazi wondered if the rumors were true: was the Sheik really dead? Even though he once was touted as the most elusive and dangerous man on the planet, the Americans had ultimately defeated him, and his complex terror network had soon after imploded. As brilliant as he had been in his prime, the Sheik had underestimated his enemies. Kharazi wouldn’t commit the same deadly sin.
Nor would the ayatollah.
The economic sanctions imposed on his country by the United States could become quite expensive for the Russians, who had already started to build eight nuclear power reactors in Iran. And that wasn’t counting the S-300 air-defense system Russia had agreed to sell to Tehran.
For Moscow, the sanctions had to go. They had too much capital already invested in Iran. And with their own not-so-flourishing economy, they were committed. If the Americans had had the stomach to start a war against Russia, they would have done it the moment they learned about the botched biological attack.
Kharazi expected to hear from Richard Phillips very soon. Part of him wished the Americans would say no. He’d love to see what number “8” could do if activated. Russian involvement or not, if number “8” was given the green light, Kharazi doubted war could be avoided. The supreme leader might disagree with his assessment, but Kharazi didn’t believe war was such a bad thing. The Americans and their allies had much more to lose.
Truth was, if Radman Divecha succeeded in shutting up the traitorous bitch Sassani, and Davari and his men were able to seize or destroy the data General Adbullahi had smuggled out, there’d be no need to activate number “8.” He could be saved for later use.
There was also the capture of Meir Yatom to consider. It had put him in a good mood. The ayatollah might have given him a thorough tongue-lashing about it, but that was the supreme leader playing politics. With nothing connecting Meir Yatom’s kidnapping to Iran, there was even a possibility that Kharazi could exploit the whole thing to his advantage. If he could repatriate Yatom to Tehran, extract the secrets he had in his head, he’d not only consolidate his power as the commanding general of the Quds Force, he could blackmail his way to the very top and coerce the Assembly of Experts to select him as the new deputy supreme leader of Iran. Even though the Assembly of Experts hadn’t elected a deputy supreme leader since the deposition of Hussein Montazeri in the late eighties, there were rumors they’d be open to doing so if the right candidate came through. He’d make sure the Assembly of Experts would see him as the right candidate.
CHAPTER 58
The White House
Charles Mapother stood in front of President Muller. DNI Richard Phillips sat on one of the couches behind him. Mapother could hear him typing angrily on his smartphone. Mapother wasn’t sure where he stood with Phillips. Phillips had recently advocated for terminating the IMSI. The existence of the IMSI alone was enough grounds for Congress to call an impeachment hearing, but with the IMSI’s recent successes, it was a tough sale. The president was a strategic man and he’d cut the IMSI loose the moment he felt it caused more harm than good to the country. That was a risk Mapother was ready to accept.
“Richard told me about your outfit’s involvement in Greece,” Muller said. “Well done.”
“Thank you, Mr. President,” Mapother replied.
“He also brought me up to speed regarding the intelligence you fumbled upon.”
Mapother didn’t feel the need to correct the president but he wasn’t convinced fumbled was the right choice of word.
“Do you know who General Kharazi is, Charles?” Muller asked but caught himself. “Don’t answer that. Of course you do. Can I presume Richard shared Kharazi’s demands with you?” Muller continued.
“He did.”
And they’re outrageous.
President Muller seemed lost in thought for a moment. Then he said, “My next meeting is with the members of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. I’ll ask them to come up with viable military options against Iran.”
“I’m not sure there are any, sir,” Mapother said. “Unless you want to face the Russians too.”
“That’s exactly what I told him,” DNI Phillips said from his couch. He got up and took a few steps until he stood next to Mapother.
“I didn’t think you two agreed on anything,” Muller said.
“I do when he’s right, Mr. President,” Mapother said.
Phillips flashed him a dirty look.
“Kharazi made it clear he had Simonich in his corner,” Phillips finally added.
“That sonofabitch!” Muller slammed an open palm on his desk. “I was naïve to think he’d lie low after we captured the Sheik.”
“It’s not like him to lie low, sir, but it was worth a try,” Mapother conceded.
“Now what? We can’t let Ayatollah Bhansali and Simonich bully us like this. They want fifty million a day, gentlemen. A day.”
“Maybe the Security Council—” started Phillips but Muller stopped him by raising both his hands.
“Don’t even start with the Security Council.”
President Muller wasn’t the United Nations’ biggest fan. As far as Mapother knew, Muller had no respect left for the organization.
A knock at the door and Yash Najjar—the senior supervisory Secret Service agent on duty—took a couple steps toward the president.
“The Joint Chiefs are waiting for you, Mr. President,” Najjar said.
“Please let them know I’ll be right there.” Muller rose from behind his desk, walked to Mapother and placed his hands on his shoulders. He looked him straight in the eyes.
“With what happened to Prime Minister Ducharme, we can’t afford not to take the Iranians seriously. Somehow, they found a way to harm us. They’ve been at it for decades, or so it seems. I don’t want to go to war with them, or the damned Russians.” Muller paused for effect and then asked the questions Mapother expected all along. “With the intel you’ve got, can you find these Iranians within the next sixty hours?”
Mapother knew what was at stake here. With all the pressing domestic issues Muller had to deal with, the last thing he wanted was to get the country into another war the nation couldn’t afford. So far, the intelligence acquired from General Adbullahi had been spot on. The IMSI had the names of seven SAVAK colonels. That was a good start.
But the clock was ticking. Fast.
“Yes, Mr. President, I can.”
An immense weight seemed to lift off the president’s shoulders. Muller’s gaze switched to his director of National Intelligence. “You give him everything he needs, Richard. I want the IMSI to take the lead on it. But if they need support from another agency, you’ll make it happen.”
To Mapother’s pleasure, Phillips replied without any hint of hesitation. “Yes, sir.”
There might have been friction between him and Phillips, but Mapother knew he could count on the DNI when it was
crunch time.
“What are your orders, sir?” Mapother asked.
“Kill them all. This is war.”
PART TWO
No Mercy!
CHAPTER 59
Washington DC.
Exhausted, Yash Najjar entered the breakroom and slumped into the largest available sofa. He hadn’t gone home to his wife and four children since the assassination of the Canadian prime minister. The attack against Mayor Church had further guaranteed he’d be sleeping at the White House for a while. It didn’t matter if Church was still alive; the fact that a lone wolf had almost succeeded in killing him live on television had resuscitated the fear that an attempt on President Muller was imminent.
Najjar’s request to get more men was approved and a fresh contingent of Secret Service agents, who’d previously served on the presidential protective detail, was on its way. Najjar would assign these men to the existing teams to allow some agents to rotate off-duty for thirty-six hours or so. Of course, Najjar would stay in position at the White House. As an American Muslim, he always felt at a disadvantage, that he had to do more to keep his friends’ and peers’ trust. His first four years with the Secret Service hadn’t been easy. He tried to fit in but 9/11 had left a mark in the minds of many of his colleagues. Najjar didn’t blame them. At first, Najjar doubted the wisdom of proclaiming his devotion to Islam. His father, a former US ambassador to the United Arab Emirates, told him to listen to his heart, and to do what he thought was right for him, his family and his country. After a period of reflection, Najjar became one of the strongest advocates of Islam within the United States Secret Service, proving there was a way to serve his country proudly while practicing the faith of his choice. His volunteer positions within many American-Muslim civil rights groups all around Washington made him popular amongst the fellow Muslims at the White House. Appreciated by his colleagues and trusted by President Muller, Najjar was exactly where he wanted to be spiritually and professionally.
“Sir? Sir?” Someone’s voice intruded into his reverie.
Najjar jerked awake on the sofa, taking short fish gulps of air. Alan Laurence, a young agent on his detail, was shaking his shoulder. “Sir, the new agents are here. What do you want me to tell them?”
Shaking his head to clear the cobwebs, Najjar stretched to release the tension in his neck and back. He got up, walked to the closest mirror and fixed his tie.
He needed coffee, a fresh suit, and a toothbrush.
“Sir?” Alan repeated.
“Bring them to the briefing room, Alan. I’ll brief them personally.”
“Of course. I’ll take care of it.”
“And Alan,” Najjar added, “make sure there’s a fresh pot of coffee. I’ll be there in five minutes.”
Once Alan was gone, Najjar called home.
“Hey, it’s me,” he said to his wife.
“Everything okay, Yash?” Her voice sounded sleepy. She must have been napping, cuddled next to their newest child, a beautiful nine-month baby girl.
“I miss you guys, that’s all,” he replied truthfully.
“When will we see you?”
Najjar sighed. He had no idea.
“Not sure, hon. It’s kinda busy around here.”
“I had to turn off the television. I can’t watch it anymore. So many lies.”
Najjar couldn’t fault her for that.
“Just be careful, okay?” his wife added, clearly worried. He could hear his baby girl fuss in the background.
“Always.”
“We love you.”
“Kiss everyone for me, will you? I’ll see you guys soon. I promise.”
CHAPTER 60
Tel-Aviv, Israel
Zima Bernbaum took a moment to admire the men and women working in the small, windowless office housing the command center of the MOSSAD Special Operations Division. They had lost many of their own in Bethlehem less than twenty-four hours ago, but the atmosphere wasn’t one of loss and despair but of resolve and determination. A few nodded at her, but most kept their eyes glued to their screen.
A small but bulky man stood in the middle of the room, his hands crossed behind his back. He turned to Eitan.
“Thanks for coming,” he said.
“Zima, please meet the legendary Matthias Sachar,” Eitan said, making the introduction.
Sachar took a small bow and kissed the top of Zima’s hand, the one with the missing finger.
“And Matthias,” Eitan continued, “this is Zima Bernbaum. Formerly from the Canadian Security Intelligence Service—”
“Now working for the International Market Stabilization Institute, and the first woman to win our Eitan’s heart.”
“Happy to meet you, Mr. Sachar—”
“Matthias, please.”
“Matthias, I just wish it was under other circumstances.”
“So do I. At your wedding maybe?”
Zima involuntarily took a deep breath. She blushed, just a little. How nice would it be to get away from all this with Eitan? Maybe one day. The mere contemplation of Meir Yatom being tortured right at this moment made her feel guilty about entertaining such delightful thoughts. But, for a moment, her eyes met Eitan’s and a warm feeling enveloped her.
One day.
“So what do we know?” Eitan asked, breaking the spell.
“We were able to repatriate the bodies of our fallen,” Sachar said.
“That’s something.”
“But wait until you see this.” Sachar led them toward a map with a bird’s-eye view of Ramallah.
Located about six miles north of Jerusalem, Ramallah was the biggest city in Palestine. The hilltop city was home to the headquarters of the Palestinian Authority, a couple of beautiful parks, some of the most chaotic markets in the world and the tomb of Palestinian leader Yasser Arafat. It could also become, in a heartbeat, the most dangerous place on Earth.
On the interactive map, a small orange dot was visible.
“What is it?” Zima asked.
“This is the last known location of Meir Yatom,” Sachar informed her, using his fingers to zoom in.
“So he’s alive?” There was nothing Zima desired more.
“He was two hours ago when one of our sources sent us this,” Sachar said. He swept the interactive map away with his fingers. A grainy picture of man being carried on a stretcher appeared. “I presume the picture isn’t as clear as we’d like it to be because it was taken while our source was on the move.”
“Are we sure it’s him?” The picture quality was such that Zima didn’t recognize the man being carried away.
“Ninety-three percent sure.”
“I want in,” Eitan said. “Whatever you’re planning, I want in.”
“Me too,” Zima added. “That’s why I’m here. I owe Meir my life.”
Sachar smiled, squeezed himself between Eitan and Zima and wrapped his arms around their shoulders. “I’m glad you said this, because you two are the key players in our strategy to get Meir back.”
CHAPTER 61
New York City, New York
Lara Firouzgari took the sim card out of her smartphone and dropped it in the kitchen sink. She pushed it into the garburator with her finger. She added a couple of pieces of cucumber and opened the water faucet. She turned on the garburator and kept it running until she was sure the sim card was no more. She was a deep-cover asset for the Iranian government and her direct contact was none other than the Quds Force commanding officer, General Jalal Kharazi.
Her father, Colonel Forood Firouzgari, had trained her from a very young age. Home schooled, she’d never had the opportunity to develop friendships with other children her age. Her father had taken the roles of mentor, friend and superior officer. He had taught her everything she needed to know to one day fulfill the mission he knew he couldn’t do himself.
His sickness had been brief. And for that, she thanked Allah every day. Before passing away, he had introduced her to another single cell, a man named Radman Divecha, who worked for the New York State Police. She had met him only once, but he had seemed capable enough. Radman’s father had entered the United States the same way her own father did decades ago. She wasn’t sure why Radman seemed to think he was in charge, but Lara suspected it had to do with the fact she was a woman. Muslim or not, she sometimes wondered why women weren’t treated equally in Iran. It was true the Americans lived a degenerate lifestyle, but at least their women weren’t mistreated.
Lara went to her bedroom and lifted her mattress. She pushed it off the box spring and opened the compartment hidden beneath it. She picked a few items and crammed them into her purse. She wouldn’t need much for this job. If everything went well, she’d be back in time to watch her favorite television show.
CHAPTER 62
Presbyterian Hospital, New York City
Radman Divecha parked his unmarked Crown Victoria in one of the numerous spots reserved for police vehicles. With Mayor Church still in intensive care and the number of police vehicles already parked at the hospital, it was a small miracle he had found a parking space so close to the main entrance.
Divecha was still debating if he’d follow the orders he had received from Kharazi or go with his guts. His orders were simple enough. Go in, kill Mayor Church, and take down as many NYPD officers as he could.
But he didn’t like that plan. In fact, he hated it. Why? Because he wasn’t yet ready to die. Of course, taking down a few cops and the mayor would be easy. Like any terror attack, if the perpetrator was ready to give his life in exchange for mission success, triumph was almost guaranteed. But he wasn’t a terrorist. He was a soldier, just like his father. His gut told him to take an entirely different path.
Kill the bitch that had betrayed them, get out, and wait for another opportunity to kill the mayor. Since Sassani had failed so miserably, he didn’t see why the other woman would be any different. He had met Lara Firouzgari only once, but her attitude hadn’t impressed him. Just like Sassani, she had been in America too long and he feared her commitment would falter at the critical moment. If she failed to kill Sassani as he had ordered her to, they were in trouble.
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