Muller pressed the mute button again.
“Didn’t you say there were eight of you?” Muller asked.
“I’m missing one, I’m afraid,” Sassani replied. “The one in the White House. I don’t know who he is.”
CHAPTER 101
Tehran, Iran
The American news media were all over the incident in Brooklyn. This and Mayor Church’s assassination attempt were the only two subjects they talked about. Even the murder of the Canadian prime minister had been pushed aside for the time being. There was a panoply of police cars, fire trucks and ambulances on site, but, so far, the media were kept at bay. The only images coming in were from a couple of news choppers flying over the area, but even those were asked to move out.
Was Colonel Davari dead? Kharazi certainly hoped so. Despite his promise he’d be willing to do a prisoner exchange with the Americans if Davari was caught, he never intended on keeping it. The political blowout would be too high. Furthermore, Meir Yatom was worth more than Davari. Much more. So, until he was named deputy supreme leader, he didn’t want to weaken his already tenuous position with the ayatollah.
In less than an hour, a team of Quds Force operators he had hand-selected would be arriving in Ramallah to take possession of the Israeli spy. Kharazi had lost contact with his man on the ground but he wasn’t overly concerned. Poor communication with the Palestinians was a common occurrence. No one in Hamas would be crazy enough to defy his order. Not if they wanted to live.
As for the ayatollah’s plan, there were twenty-four hours left before he gave his special asset the kill order. He had hoped that the attack on the covert facility would have prompted a call from DNI Philips, but it was radio silence on that front too. Part of him wanted to call his asset now to make sure he was still in play. Had Davari actually succeeded? By Kharazi’s count, in addition to his special asset, there were still at least three single cells in operation. They weren’t trained shooters like the others, but sometimes words were stronger than bullets. If the Americans had figured out who they were, they would have been arrested by now. Kharazi had checked their Twitter feeds half an hour ago and they were more active than ever.
But what about Divecha and Firouzgari? They hadn’t checked in since he had activated them. And there had been no new announcement about Mayor Church. Should he assume the worst and scratch their names of the list for good?
His personal cellphone pulsed on his desk. Very few people had this number.
“Yes?”
“General Kharazi? This is Colonel Mizraei, sir.”
“How did you get this—”
“He’s coming after you. You need to get out. Now.”
Mizraei’s words struck a chord. He’s coming after you. Kharazi swallowed hard.
“Slow down, Colonel,” Kharazi said, with a calm and reasonable voice, even though his heart was racing. “What’s going on? Who’s coming after me?”
“The ayatollah.”
Kharazi was in analysis paralysis; his mind was going one hundred miles an hour but wasn’t making any decision. Why would the ayatollah come after him? Mizraei was still speaking but Kharazi wasn’t listening.
Wasn’t he the architect behind the ayatollah’s plan, and a trusted advisor? Maybe a little less so since he had kidnapped Meir Yatom without authorization, but a trusted advisor nonetheless.
A couple words made it through the thick fog around Kharazi’s brain.
“What? Say that again?”
“It’s because of Meir Yatom, sir, he’s . . . Well, he’s gone, sir. Some kind of special forces team secured his release an hour ago. The ayatollah knows.”
The news stunned him. No, this couldn’t be true. Mizraei was lying. He had to be.
“I’m sorry, sir.”
The line went dead.
Kharazi slouched in his chair and leaned his head back, trying to make sense of it all.
A knock at his door made him jump to his feet. The door opened before he had the chance to wipe the perspiration off his forehead.
“Major General Kharazi,” said the newcomer. “May I?”
Kharazi forced a smile. “Of course, General Hajizadeh.”
“Thank you. I promise not to take too much of your valuable time. I’m told you’re quite busy at the moment.”
Brigadier General Ali Hajizadeh was the commander-in-chief of the Law Enforcement Force or LEF. The LEF was the uniformed police force of Iran and counted over sixty thousand police personnel. Hajizadeh was tall, maybe an inch or two above six feet, and was dressed in an immaculate uniform. He was a favorite of the ayatollah. Hajizadeh’s presence in his office was bad news. Although Kharazi held a superior rank, he had to tread carefully around Hajizadeh.
“What can I do for you?” Kharazi asked.
“I had the chance to dine with our supreme leader,” Hajizadeh said, pausing for effect. “And your name came up.”
Kharazi didn’t say anything. He waited for his guest to continue.
“He shared something with me, and I thought I’d come to you first before, you know, ordering my staff to take action.”
Kharazi felt his face turn red. He did his best to suppress the anger that was rolling up in his gut. He spoke only when he thought he could control his voice. “And what would that be?”
“I’m told you’ve launched an unauthorized operation against the Americans,” Hajizadeh said, a tiny smiled appearing on his lips. “Something called PERIWINKLE. Isn’t that so?”
Kharazi didn’t need to hear more. The ayatollah had betrayed him. Why was he pulling out? There was still a chance the list General Adbullahi had leaked out had been destroyed by Colonel Davari’s raid on the American compound. If this was indeed the case, PERIWINKLE had to continue. Not only did they have a shot at some much-needed cash influx, but the latest polls suggested Maxim Ghasemi would become the next governor of the state of Michigan. And who knew where he could end up ten years from now? The idea of the White House wasn’t as farfetched as it once was.
Again, why was the ayatollah pulling out now?
“Is that true, Major General Kharazi?” Hajizadeh repeated, louder this time.
Kharazi sighed and rolled his shoulder like a broken man. “You know as well as I do the ayatollah was behind everything, Ali. But if he wants me to take the fall, I will, and with great honor. I’ll do it for him, for Allah, and for the good of our country.”
Hajizadeh seemed pleased by his answer. “I’m sorry it didn’t turn out the way you wanted, Jalal. I’m glad you understand.”
“What now?”
“Go home, get some rest, make love with your wife,” Hajizadeh said. “You’ll be arrested first thing in the morning.”
Kharazi knew this was pure bullshit. One of Hajizadeh’s men was probably sticking a bomb under his car as they spoke. That’s what he’d do if he was in Hajizadeh’s shoes. You didn’t leave a powerful and resourceful man like Jalal Kharazi out of your sight.
“Thank you. I appreciate the gesture. May I ask you something?”
Hajizedeh looked at his watch and then nodded, as if he was doing Kharazi a huge favor.
“Why? We were so close to our objective. Our two most important assets are still in play.”
“It doesn’t matter anymore. The Russians withdrew their support, Jalal. If you were to go ahead with the last phase of PERIWINKLE, it would force the Americans into an all-out war. A war we couldn’t win. You understand?”
Damn these Russians. Cowards of all them. The Americans must have promised them something the Iranians couldn’t match. A loosening of the economic sanctions against Moscow, maybe? A back-channel deal regarding the North Korean threat? Whatever it was, Simonich’s decision had placed the ayatollah in an unsustainable position and he had decided to cut his losses. And blame me.
“Yes, I understand.”
“You had your chance,” Hajizadeh said, getting up. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
In one swift movement, Kharazi snatched the silenced pistol from the holster Velcro-ed under his desk. He aimed it at Hajizadeh’s heart and said, “No you won’t.”
The brigadier general opened his mouth, a look of terror on his face. Kharazi pulled the trigger twice. Two neat, dark crimson holes appeared on the general’s tunic. He fell right back in his chair.
For a brief moment, Kharazi considered not going through with the last phase of PERIWINKLE. The Americans would respond in kind, and more. But he’d be far away by then.
Ayatollah Bhansali’s betrayal couldn’t go unanswered. The supreme leader shouldn’t have tried to push him over.
He made the call.
CHAPTER 102
The White House, Washington DC
United States Secret Service Supervisory Special Agent Yash Najjar was in the White House mess eating a green garden salad when he got the call.
“Hello, Yash, it’s your uncle.”
Najjar didn’t have any uncles, or aunts for that matter. He recognized the voice anyway. It belonged to General Kharazi. He swallowed hard, apprehension roiling his gut.
“Everything okay, Uncle? I wasn’t expecting your call.”
“The timing has changed, Yash. It has to be now. Will it be a problem?”
“What about my family?”
“I’ve already talked to your father. He’s on his way to pick them up. There’s a plane waiting for them at Dulles.”
Najjar wished he could have spent one more day with them, but knowing they’d all be safe in Montenegro soothed his anxiety. His father had worked tirelessly for years preparing for this. Everything was in place. New identities had been created for his dad, his wife and his children. He even knew which school his kids would go to. He had built the perfect life for him and his family.
He had built the perfect lie.
“Thank you,” he said, finally. “I’ll do my part.”
“May Allah bless you . . . And may He guide your hand.”
Najjar and Kharazi had spoken a total of five times before. All of their talks had been face to face. His father, an Iranian American and former US ambassador to the United Arab Emirates, had been there during these meetings. Recruited in 1978 by Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini himself, his father had been the highest mole the Iranian government ever had within the United States. He had been granted the rank of colonel. But his record had been eclipsed by his son the minute Yash became a member of the Secret Service presidential protective detail.
........
Najjar hadn’t expected to be activated for another twenty-four to forty-eight hours, if at all. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t be able to accomplish his mission, but it wouldn’t be as clean as he wanted it to be, or as easy. But Kharazi had said now.
He knew he was the most important asset of a grand plan crafted by the first supreme leader almost four decades ago. His dad had told him the truth about his real identity only once he had been accepted by the Secret Service. His father had used his significant influence to get reference letters for Najjar’s application. Reference letters from former and current United States ambassadors and two ex-secretaries of state had played a role in getting Najjar noticed among the thousands of applicants.
Surprisingly, Najjar wasn’t shocked when his father admitted he was working for the Iranian government, and that he’d been a personal friend to Ayatollah Khomeini. His father’s spy stories fascinated him. His father had offered him a way out, not wanting to force his son into a life that wasn’t of his own choosing. Najjar and his wife, also a young Iranian American, had agreed to move forward. Who were they to challenge the will of Allah? If the supreme leader needed them, they would answer the call.
Najjar checked his phone, which gave him access to the president’s schedule, and realized that Charles Mapother and DNI Phillips were in the Oval Office. This was good news. These were powerful men and their deaths would only contribute to the overall success of the mission. He made his way from the basement, where the White House mess was located, to the Oval Office on the first floor. Two agents would be positioned right outside the Oval Office. It was standard procedure when the president met with his DNI. Hugh Thompson, one of the two special agents, was a good friend. The other agent’s name was Jeffrey James. He was the youngest agent on the presidential protective detail. He was cocky, but he was currently holding the record for quickest draw. Najjar would use caution.
The knot in his stomach grew larger, tighter, with each step that brought him closer to the Oval Office.
This is it. This was so surreal. Najjar almost felt as though it couldn’t possibly be him walking to the two agents standing guard. He knew what was going to happen, and they did not. The knowledge made him feel powerful, confident.
“Hey, Hugh,” Najjar said, “need a break?”
“I’m good, Yash,” Thompson replied. “Thanks.”
“You’re sure? The garden salad is spectacular down at the mess.”
Thompson looked at him with disdain. “I hate salads, Yash, don’t you know that?”
Without warning, Najjar pulled out his Sig Sauer and shot Thompson through the right eye point blank.
One down.
Najjar pivoted forty-five degrees to his right and fired two rounds into James’ chest, pushing the young agent against the wall. To his credit, James’ pistol was already out and he even managed to fire one round that grazed Najjar’s right calf before Najjar’s fourth and fifth rounds hit him an inch above his vest.
Two down.
James slowly slid down the wall, painting it dark with blood, a gurgle of aspirated blood the only sound he made as he slumped to the floor. Najjar didn’t hear any of it; he was charging into the Oval Office.
........
Charles Mapother stiffened when he heard the gunshot.
They’re here. In the White House.
When the second and third shots rang, Mapother was already in the air over the Resolute Desk. He landed on top of President Muller—who was seated in his chair behind the desk—and both men fell when the chair tilted backward.
By the time the fourth, fifth and sixth shots were fired, Mapother had his Smith & Wesson firmly in his right hand and was pushing Muller’s head down onto the rug with his left.
DNI Phillips was standing in front of the Resolute Desk, like a deer caught in the headlights. A second later, there was a knock on the door and Supervisory Special Agent Yash Najjar barged in, his gun pointing down in the low-ready position.
“Quick, Mr. President, we need to go.”
He seemed in control of the situation, and Mapother would have probably listened to his commands if it wasn’t for the intelligence Sergeant Sassani had delivered to them only a few minutes ago.
You’re about to get hit, Mr. President . . .
Something wasn’t right here.
........
Najjar was running out of time. More agents were coming in. He could hear them in his earpiece. An aide had seen him shoot his colleagues and had identified him to the other agents. There was nowhere for him to go. He had about twenty-five seconds before they arrived. Charles Mapother had taken cover behind the Resolute Desk with the president. DNI Phillips was standing in front of them, his eyes fixed on Najjar’s gun. Another second or two and the DNI would try something. Of that Najjar was sure. Somehow, they knew he wasn’t there to save them.
Allahu Akbar.
Najjar raised his pistol and aimed at DNI Phillips who, to his credit, didn’t even blink. He shot him once in the middle of the forehead. Phillips’ head snapped back and he fell over backward, half his body resting on the Resolute Desk.
Najjar couldn’t get an angle on Muller or Mapother so he moved sideways across the Oval Office, pumping rounds into the Resolut
e Desk to keep them pinned down.
........
Splinters of wood flew everywhere around Mapother. The president was in fight or flight mode, and the flight side of his brain was winning. Half of Mapother’s focus was on keeping Muller on the ground. The shooter was moving from right to left and soon would be in a position to hit something.
Where the fuck was the cavalry? Fuck this.
“Stay down, Robert!” yelled Mapother, before leaping to the side and firing his pistol while in midair.
........
Najjar saw Mapother diving to the ground to his right, bright flashes coming from his pistol. A bullet whizzed over his head, another scratched his left knee and another missed to his right. Mapother had gotten out three shots at him before Najjar pulled the trigger. He hit Mapother high on the shoulder as Mapother’s next bullet sliced against his neck, hot and sharp.
Then Muller made his move in a mad dash from the Resolute Desk to the closest exit door. Najjar spun on himself but could only pull the trigger once before Mapother’s next round mushroomed in his brain.
CHAPTER 103
Oval Office, Washington DC
President Muller knelt next to Charles Mapother. Mapother was hyperventilating from the pain and gasping for breath. And he looked pissed. Muller had never seen him like this.
“You took one in the shoulder,” he said to Mapother.
“What were you thinking, for Christ’s sake,” Mapother said. “You could have gotten yourself killed.”
Muller thought about it for a second and then said, “Honestly, Charles, I had no idea what I was thinking. The only thing I knew was that you were down and about to get shot again. I didn’t think. I only wanted to get his attention so could you shoot him before he shot me.”
“He got one off,” Mapother said. He winced in pain as Muller helped him to his feet.
“He did, but he missed, and you didn’t.”
A storm of agents rushed into the Oval Office and whisked the president to safety.
CHAPTER 104
A Thick Crimson Line (Mike Walton Book 3) Page 27