The Last Refuge (11 page)

14

MARISTELLA CLUB

ODESSA, UKRAINE

In the afternoon, Dewey arrived at the Maristella Club, a modern hotel just up from Arcadia Beach.

A windswept, driving rain had delayed his connecting flight from Prague. He checked in, paid in cash, then went to the suite overlooking the Black Sea. He had less than an hour before he was to be at the restaurant, a place called Khutorok by the Sea.

Dewey glanced out the window. A large swimming pool, shaped in an unusual geometric pattern, like two ovals attached to each other, sat just below the balcony, devoid of people, steam arising into the balmy Odessa air. The ocean was just beyond it, across a small street and boardwalk, the water a black monotone to the horizon. Finally, he went into the bathroom and splashed water on his face.

A few minutes later, he stepped through the lobby and walked down a line of taxicabs. At each driver’s door, he asked if the driver spoke English. At the third cab, the driver said, “Yes,” and he climbed in the back.

“Pawnshop,” said Dewey.

They drove through the city. A mile inland, in a neighborhood bustling with pedestrians, shops, and cafés, the cab pulled up to a small, run-down building with strange lettering on a yellow sign; behind the windows were steel bars; a photo of a Kalashnikov was the only indication of what the shop was in business for.

“Stay here,” said Dewey, handing the driver a small wad of cash.

Dewey stepped inside the pawnshop. He looked at a wall of handguns, picked out a used Stechkin APS 9mm, the only handgun in the place with a suppressor. Dewey paid for the weapon and a box of slugs. He asked the clerk for a piece of twine.

Back in the taxi, he loaded the magazine and pushed it into the Stechkin. He laced the twine through the trigger guard, tied it in a loop, unbuttoned his shirt, then hung the gun from his neck. He rebuttoned his shirt and zipped up his Patagonia fleece.

At Khutorok by the Sea, Dewey took a seat at the bar. He was a few minutes early. He ordered a whiskey—even in Odessa they sold Jack Daniel’s—and pounded it down, then ordered another.

He remembered the words from Tobias Meir, calling him at the hotel to tell him of the arrangements.

“
Be careful; Odessa is a lawless place.
”

The rendezvous had been arranged by Tobias Meir and the reporter from
Al Jazeera
, a woman named Taris Darwil. Odessa was close to both Israel and Iran, and it was a popular destination for vacationers from both countries. Dewey didn’t know what to expect tonight. On one level, he was here to listen to Qassou and any ideas the Iranian might have for stopping the nuclear attack on Israel. But more important than that was sizing up Qassou, determining if the Iranian was telling the truth, or whether he was a pawn in a larger plot that had already ensnared Meir.

At a quarter of nine, a tall, handsome man with longish black hair, combed back neatly, and olive skin, accompanied by a gorgeous woman with long black hair, arose from their table near the front window. The man paid the bill and, as he walked out, made eye contact with Dewey.

Two minutes later, Dewey threw cash on the bar and exited Khutorok by the Sea. Outside, Dewey stood for a moment and looked at the ocean, slapping the shore just across the street. The sound of the ocean’s waves, crashing against the beach, created a steady rhythm.

Straight ahead, Dewey marked the couple, standing on the quay just up from the beach. She was pretty, dressed in a simple, sleeveless white dress. The man was dressed in khakis and a white button-down shirt with no collar. The man’s arm was around the woman’s back. They began to stroll away.

Qassou.

Dewey waited outside the bar for several minutes, watching Qassou and the woman walk away. The sidewalk wasn’t crowded, but there were a few people out, enjoying the clear night and the sight of the ocean. He watched the couple as they receded into the distance.

“He will be with a woman. She’s unaware of the purpose of the visit. Be careful. He might be followed by VEVAK.”

Suddenly, to his left, in the distance, walking down the sidewalk, Dewey’s eye was drawn to a short, roundish man, smoking a cigarette, a wool beret on his head. He looked like an overweight tourist or a retiree and walked like someone who’d overeaten—shuffling, moving slowly, one hand on a thick belly.

Dewey went left, in the opposite direction of Qassou and the woman. He passed a second man, dark hair, a leather jacket. Dewey glanced at him and saw his eyes were searching, tracking, following the couple.

At the next corner, Dewey went left. He walked fast, down the block, then took another left, and kept going for three more blocks. He took one more left, slowing now. The street was thinner and darker, a service street.

After several minutes, as Dewey expected, at the far corner Qassou and the woman were crossing the street from the beach, heading up the thin service street in Dewey’s direction.

Dewey walked on the opposite side of the small, dimly lit street. Halfway down the street, he tucked into a darkened alcove in front of a dry cleaner, now closed. He pressed against the glass, out of sight. Unzipping his fleece then unbuttoning the top button of his shirt, Dewey pulled the Stechkin from around his neck. He watched as Qassou and the woman passed slowly on the opposite sidewalk, chatting to each other, laughing.

Gripping the suppressed 9mm in his left hand, he lifted it into the air as the soft shuffle of footsteps came from down the street. A shadow appeared on the cobblestones, a silhouette, as the lone figure stepped in front of the alcove.

Training the Stechkin at the figure, Dewey prepared to fire.

The silhouette turned, and in a reflection of light, Dewey saw an old woman clutching a shopping bag. He recoiled the weapon, and stood silently as she walked quickly away, filled with fear, yet too old to do anything except flee.

Dewey’s paranoia had nearly caused him to kill an innocent Ukrainian woman.
Wake up,
he thought.
How could you come so close to making such a mistake?

Dewey returned to the Maristella Club. He took the elevator to the third floor, then went to his suite and waited. After ten minutes, a knock came at the door. Dewey stepped to the door and opened it. Qassou stepped inside the room. Dewey shut the door behind him.

Qassou was drenched in sweat. He looked disheveled, even slightly panicked.

“We need to hurry,” he said, in near perfect English. He was as tall as Dewey. “She’s asleep, but if she wakes up she’ll wonder where I’ve gone. A cigarette break lasts only so long.”

“Who is she?” asked Dewey.

“Just a girl. But she’s my alibi.”

“Is it standard operating procedure to track government officials when they leave Iran?” asked Dewey.

“The answer is, I don’t know, Mr. Andreas. Why? Was I followed?”

“I thought so,” said Dewey. “But if you were, I lost him.”

Dewey walked to the seating area of the large suite and sat on a chair. Qassou followed and sat across from him on the couch.

“I have questions,” said Dewey. “If I’m going to put my neck on the line, I need to be able to trust you. And right now, I don’t.”

Qassou stared at Dewey, nodding his head.

“I understand,” said Qassou. “I can’t make you trust me. What I can tell you is that I’ve already taken great personal risk to be here.”

“What about Kohl Meir? Is he at Evin?”

“Yes,” said Qassou. “He’s at Evin. They are going to put him on trial. It will be a farce, but then you know that already.”

“Can you do anything to get him out?”

“I have contacts inside Evin,” said Qassou, lighting a cigarette, “but I don’t see any way to get him out. He was a wanted man.”

Qassou took a piece of paper from his pocket and unfolded it. It looked like an FBI most wanted poster from the post office, written in Persian. There were three lines of black-and-white headshots, photos of twelve different people. In the top corner, a grainy photo showed the unsmiling face of Kohl Meir.

Dewey took the sheet and studied it.

“What is this?” he asked.

“This is a VEVAK capture-or-kill list,” said Qassou. “Agents are authorized to capture or kill anyone on this list.”

“What’s the writing?” asked Dewey.

“Various so-called crimes, real or imagined. Kohl was the number one target. As the great-grandson of Golda Meir, his capture is significant.”

“How were you and Kohl going to find the weapon?”

“I don’t know.”

Dewey leaned forward and took a cigarette, then lit it. He shook his head, unconsciously, for the first time realizing there wasn’t any sort of structure or strategy.

“Tell me about the mole.”

“He works for Beijing. In turn, Beijing relays everything they know to VEVAK. It’s
imperative
Mossad not know of our plan. Mahmoud Nava would detonate the device preemptively if he believes Tel Aviv or Washington knows and might attempt to destroy it.”

“Let me tell Menachem Dayan,” said Dewey. “They run a fucking mole hunt. They know what the hell they’re doing.”

“That is the precise moment when the traitor inside Mossad will call his handler,” said Qassou, “and before the hour is out, the bomb will be sent on its way to Tel Aviv. I know Mahmoud Nava. This is what he will do. We only have a few days, but if he finds out someone is on to his plan, then all bets are off. Tel Aviv will be destroyed.”

Qassou lit another cigarette.

“What about the CIA?” asked Dewey.

“I thought of the CIA,” said Qassou. “I know the Damascus chief of station. With the CIA, it’s a different problem. America will send in the cavalry. It’s your arrogance. If we tell Langley, they’ll want to start bombing ‘in five minutes.’”

“I know people at the CIA we can trust,” said Dewey.

“Mossad has people inside Langley. There is practically an open pipeline.”

“So what if we
did
start bombing? Maybe that’s the best solution.”

Qassou blew out a mouthful of smoke, then smiled. He looked at Dewey.

“I don’t know where the bomb is,” said Qassou. “As you can imagine, this would make it difficult. And before the second American bomb is even dropped, Mahmoud would detonate the nuclear bomb in Tel Aviv.”

Dewey reached out and took another cigarette from Qassou’s pack.

“Look, I don’t love Israel,” continued Qassou. “But that doesn’t mean I want to see half a million people die, no matter what their nationality or religion. When I found out Mahmoud’s plan to use the nuclear device on Tel Aviv, I knew I had to do something. I would like to think someone in Tel Aviv would do the same if they found out someone was going to drop a bomb on Tehran.”

“How did you find out about the nuclear bomb in the first place?” asked Dewey.

“Mahmoud trusts me. As much as he trusts anyone.”

Qassou pulled a small letter-sized envelope from his pocket. He pulled out a short stack of photos. He placed them out on the table.

“They were taken last week. I spent more than an hour trying to guess the password to his laptop. I finally got in, and printed these. If I had been caught, he would have had me killed.”

The photos showed different angles of the bomb. The final photo in the stack showed a plain-looking, new semitruck.

“Do you know the dimensions? The weight?”

“No.”

“Why the photo of the truck?”

“The bomb’s inside it,” said Qassou. “The plan is to move it to a port, then bring it to Tel Aviv by boat.”

“Who else knows about the bomb?”

“I don’t know.”

“Guess.”

“At most a dozen people. The builder himself, Dr. Kashilla, and now, whoever is holding it. The military. Paria, of course. High-level Revolutionary Guard. And of course the Supreme Leader, Suleiman.”

“You have no idea where the bomb is?” asked Dewey.

“If I knew where the bomb was,” said Qassou, “I would simply have told Kohl. Israeli Air Force could get rid of it within the hour, I have no doubt. But I don’t know where it is. It’s the most closely guarded secret Mahmoud has. When I ask him if I may accompany him to see it, he lashes out at me.”

Qassou leaned back. He removed another cigarette and lit it.

“Is the bomb launch ready?”

“What do you mean?”

“Is it on a mobile launcher? Is it in a silo? Do you know?”

“All I know is the plan that Mahmoud has bragged about. It’s going to be sent by water. Hezbollah will bring it into Tel Aviv in a small fishing boat. They’ll detonate it once it’s in Tel Aviv.”

Dewey stood up, shaking his head, his stubble-coated face lined with a look of anger, frustration, and fatigue.

“You have to find out the location. It’s the only way.”

“I’ll find the location,” said Qassou.

There was a long silence. Dewey went to the minibar and took out a beer.

“So you find the location,” said Dewey, unscrewing the bottle of beer. “Then what?”

“That’s why you’re here,” said Qassou, looking at him. “There will be very little notice. You’ll need to be inside Iran. Then, when the bomb is being moved, you’ll have to intercept it.”

“Oh, that should be easy,” said Dewey sarcastically. “I’ll just go up and knock on the door. Maybe they’ll even help me load it into the back of my car. What do you think?”

Qassou was silent for several moments. Then a grin spread across his face. He laughed.

Dewey took another sip and laughed with him.

“I do know that it’s within a two-hour drive of the presidential palace,” said Qassou.

“That narrows it down,” said Dewey. “You’re talking about a massive area.”

“By my math, approximately a thousand square miles,” said Qassou.

Dewey stood at the minibar and slugged the rest of the beer down. He opened the minibar again, pulled out a small bottle of Jack Daniel’s, twisted the cap off, and downed it in one gulp. Then, he grabbed one more beer, another bottle of Jack Daniel’s. He sat down again, unscrewed the cap of the whiskey bottle, and took a sip.

Qassou stared at him in disbelief.

“What?” Dewey asked.

“You like to drink, don’t you?” asked Qassou, laughing.