The Last Refuge (15 page)

“I have very little money—”

“Unlock the doors and you won’t die,” she whispered in perfect Mandarin. “Now. Use your right hand. Keep your left hand on the steering wheel. If the car moves even an inch, I will blow your head off. Understand, Mr. Ling?”

“Yes,” Ling responded.

Ling had reached down with his right hand, crossing it over his left arm, finding the unlock button, pushing it, raising the locks.

A moment later, the passenger door had opened.

“Keep your eyes on me,” the young woman had said. She thrust the black steel hard into his left eye.

Ling heard the sound of a man climbing into the passenger seat, to his right, then the door shutting. Then, he felt the hard steel of a gun against the back of his neck. He looked one more time into the blue eyes of the girl. Suddenly, she pulled the weapon from his eye, tucked it into her jacket, then abruptly turned, disappearing into the crowded sidewalk along Cho.

“Face the front,” said the man in the passenger seat. His Mandarin was not nearly as good as the girl’s, but it was proficient. It was good enough. “No sudden moves, Ling. Hand me your cell.”

Ling had turned to face the front. He reached into his pocket, grabbed his cell phone, handed it to the man. Ling dared not look in the direction of the passenger seat.

“We’re not after you,” the man said. “Do exactly as I say and you will be home to see Tammy and your two children tonight.”

Those final words.… Ling had not, to that point, harbored thoughts of trying to do something, to be a hero, or even notify someone. Those words guaranteed what would be, over the next few minutes, his absolute fealty to the stranger in the passenger seat.

*   *   *

Ambassador Tariq Ghassani, in the backseat, was reading some papers by the lamplight. Ling thought briefly about trying to do something. After all, Mr. Ghassani had been so kind to him. The only thing he could think of would be to drive the right-hand side of the Mercedes into something hard, to try and crush the intruder.

He glanced down at the gunman. As if the intruder somehow knew what Ling was thinking, he slowly moved his head from left to right, then back. The message was clear: whatever you are thinking, Ling, stop thinking it.

Ling saw the red light ahead. He came into the traffic lane behind a red delivery truck. Less than a block away was the Penghao.

The intruder moved. He crawled forward, knees atop the leather of the seat, weapon out. He thrust the muzzle of the handgun forward, over the top of the seat. Ling saw, in the rearview mirror, the ambassador’s eyes as he suddenly became aware of the gunman. There was a brief moment of silence, then Ghassani lurched for the door handle.

The commando fired. A dull thud, then an arc of blood sprayed across the black glass behind Ghassani. Ghassani reached for his throat, where the bullet had entered. Then, as he held his throat, the assassin said, in Persian: “This was for Kohl Meir.”

The gunman fired again. This bullet ripped into Ghassani’s forehead, blowing the back of the ambassador’s skull across the back bulletproof glass of the limousine, killing him instantly.

The killer turned, aiming his weapon at Ling.

“Railway station,” he said calmly.

Ling’s hands, shaking like leaves, gripped the wood veneer of the Mercedes’s steering wheel as he drove toward the massive Beijing central train station.

At Beijing Railway Station, the man opened the door, climbed calmly out, then stepped away from the Mercedes. He disappeared into the busy crowd.

21

NEW YORK CITY

Dewey walked out of the Pierre Hotel, crossed Fifth Avenue, then took his time meandering through Central Park, which, at 8:00
P.M.
on a Thursday night, was filled with people.

Reaching the west side of the park, Dewey exited at Sixty-first Street, crossed Central Park West, then walked north. He looked at his watch: 8:45
P.M.
He still had time to kill. At Eighty-first Street, just past the Museum of Natural History, he took a left. At Columbus Avenue, he went left again, doubling back downtown. He walked down Broadway until he saw the fountains of Lincoln Center.

He walked around the big, softly lit fountain in front of the white granite opera house. A crowd of people was gathered around, mostly couples, a few smoking, all dressed in formal evening wear, long dresses on women and tuxedoes on men. It was intermission, and he’d timed his arrival perfectly.

Dewey was dressed in a blue blazer on top of an orange T-shirt, khakis, Frye boots. His brown hair was short, cut somewhat unevenly, as if he’d done it by himself. He was starting to get a layer of stubble. As he walked around the fountain, a few of the women standing outside watched him. He was handsome, tan, big, muscular; but it was something more that drew their eyes to him.

As usual, Dewey didn’t notice the women, or pretended not to anyway, as he walked around the perimeter. Standing on the far side of the fountain was a large, slightly overweight man with black hair combed neatly back. It was because of how neat his hair was combed back that Dewey at first didn’t recognize him.

They made eye contact. The man turned and started walking away from the fountains. Dewey stayed behind him, at a safe distance. The man walked briskly to Columbus. At Seventieth Street, he went right. It was a quiet residential block of pretty town houses. A third of the way down the block, the man climbed a set of stairs and disappeared inside.

Dewey registered the width, the location, the look of the town house as he passed by. He walked for ten minutes up Columbus, turned around, then walked back down. He went left on Seventieth and entered the town house.

On the third floor, Dewey knocked twice on the door. A moment later, the man in the tuxedo opened the door.

“Hi, Dewey,” said Calibrisi. “That’s the first time I’ve ever been followed by you. It’s not a very pleasant feeling.”

“If I ever come for you, you won’t know it, Hector.”

Calibrisi laughed. “That makes me feel better.”

“What happened to your hair?” asked Dewey.

“What do you mean?”

“I didn’t recognize you. You look like Liberace.”

“It’s my cover,” said Calibrisi.

“Why the logistics?”

“Because I’m disobeying a direct order from the president of the United States, that’s why,” said Calibrisi, exasperation in his voice.

Dewey followed Calibrisi down a hallway, into a living room. They sat down across from each other.

“You wanted to see me,” said Calibrisi.

“I need to tell you something and trust that you won’t tell anyone. I need your word.”

Calibrisi reclined, then folded his fingers together across his belly.

“What is it?” he asked finally.

“Do I have your word?” asked Dewey. “You can’t tell the president. You can’t tell Harry Black. You can’t tell Jessica. You can’t even tell your dog.”

Calibrisi grinned.

“Yeah, you have my word.”

“Iran has a nuke,” said Dewey.

He removed a small stack of photos from his jacket and handed it to Calibrisi. Calibrisi pored through the photos.

“Kohl was working with an informant inside the Iranian government,” said Dewey. “High up. A top aide to Nava. They were working on an operation.”

“An operation? Why? What is Iran planning to do with the bomb?”

“Bring it into Tel Aviv, by water.”

“Why didn’t Kohl go to Menachem Dayan?”

“The Chinese have a mole inside Mossad. They’re relaying any information they get back to Tehran. By the way, Mossad, as you probably already know, has spies inside Langley.”

“That’s debatable,” said Calibrisi.

“Well, the point is, Hector, if Iran knew that Mossad or the U.S. had knowledge of the bomb, they’d move on Israel preemptively. It’s why Kohl couldn’t tell Dayan or anyone inside IDF or Mossad. It’s why you can’t share it with anyone.”

Calibrisi nodded.

“I met with the Iranian in Odessa,” said Dewey.

“Do you trust him?”

“I don’t trust anyone. But I’m not playing with a full deck here. I don’t have a lot of options. Do I believe him? I have to believe him. Kohl believed him. I’m not sure I can exfiltrate Kohl, but if he was working on preventing the Iranians from detonating a bomb in Tel Aviv, then I feel it’s my duty to complete that mission.”

“I don’t agree,” said Calibrisi, “but I get it.”

“The Iranian is a guy named Qassou,” said Dewey. “He was being tracked by Iranian intelligence.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I killed three of them. There could’ve been more. I didn’t have a choice; they marked our meeting.”

“Jesus Christ,” said Calibrisi. “They already suspect him?”

“Yes,” said Dewey.

“Let me take it to Dellenbaugh,” said Calibrisi. “To Shalit and Dayan. We should invade the fucking place.”

“You and I both know that’s not an option. Besides, the point is, the moment Tehran gets an inkling we or Israel knows about the bomb, they’ll move to detonate it.”

Calibrisi shut his eyes. He reached his hand up and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

“You trusted me to lead the coup in Pakistan,” said Dewey. “If you’d found this out on your own, would you have come to me, Hector?”

“No,” said Calibrisi.

“Why not?”

“Because Iran is different. Pakistan was mismanaged. Disorganized. Chaotic. I knew you’d be able to weave your way into that chaos. Iran is a different place altogether. It’s structured, disciplined, and highly competent, especially VEVAK. I have a bad feeling about this, Dewey.”

“What would you have me do?”

“I would say to you, let me tell Menachem Dayan.
Let Israel deal with it.
They’re the ones facing the threat. They’re not encumbered by bed wetters and second-guessers in Congress or a new and inexperienced president. And their military isn’t spread thin.”

Dewey was silent. He knew Calibrisi was right. But he also knew it didn’t matter.

“I need help,” said Dewey. “That’s why I called. Non agency. The best you have.”

“You have a design?”

Dewey was silent. He looked at Calibrisi, staring into Calibrisi’s eyes.

“No.”

Finally, Calibrisi smiled. He wrote down a phone number on a piece of paper.

“These guys left National Clandestine Service a couple years ago,” said Calibrisi. “Set up their own shop. You’ll get a recording saying you’ve reached a senior citizens’ home. When it comes on, hit the number eleven. Then leave a voice mail saying Red Rover told you to call and leave a number for them to get a hold of you.”

“What part of NCS were they?”

“Special Operations Group. One of them, Tacoma, is a former SEAL. The girl, Katie, came to Langley right out of the University of Texas.”

“You know their work?”

“Yes. They’re very good.”

“Are they good with computers?”

“They have a couple beefed-out analysts and an absolutely top-notch hacker they brought out of NSA. Let’s just say they may have been peripherally involved with Stuxnet.”

Dewey reached into his pocket. He removed a pack of cigarettes.

“So they know Iran?”

“Yes.”

“Do you mind?” he asked, lighting a cigarette.

“No,” said Calibrisi. “What else? I have to get back.”

“I need a weapons expert.”

“What kind of weapons?”

“The kind that go boom, Hector. A nuke expert. I have an idea and I’ll need some help.”

“Go on.”

“I want to build something that looks like that one. A fake bomb.”

“A fake?”

“If we could steal the Iranian device and replace it with a fake, I could buy myself time to get it out of the country.”

Calibrisi sat back, deep in thought.

“Has anyone ever told you you’re nuts?” asked Calibrisi. “Even if some agency could do this—the Pentagon, Energy, Langley—it would ring huge alarm bells. If you go outside of those groups, you’d still need someone who knows what the hell they’re doing. That’s not a big group of people and every nuclear weapons expert, intermediary, midlevel yellowcake runner, are being watched, by us, by MI6, by Russia, by China. Plus, that thing probably weighs several tons. I don’t see how you could do this anonymously.”

“What’s your point?”

“You need a rogue. You need an arms dealer. A powerful arms dealer.”

Dewey stared at Calibrisi as the CIA director stood up. He walked to the window and looked out on the street. Calibrisi was deep in thought, and Dewey left him in silence.

“There is one,” said Calibrisi. “A real beast. A German. His name is Borchardt. We try to avoid him, but it’s hard to; he’s at the center of a lot of weapons activity, particularly advanced satellite systems and centrifuges. He’s very powerful. And very dangerous.”

“Where is he?”

“London. I’ll get you his address. There’s something you should know, though.”

“What?” asked Dewey.

“You have a history with Borchardt. He’s the one who sold photos of you to Aswan Fortuna, the photos they used to find you in Australia. He almost got you killed.”

Dewey was stone-faced, remaining silent, then a slight, almost imperceptible grin flashed across his lips.

Calibrisi opened his briefcase and removed a pad of paper, then jotted down some notes.

“What else?”

“What I asked you for over the phone,” said Dewey.

Calibrisi reached into the briefcase and took out a manila folder.

“You need to burn these after you memorize them.”

There were four sheets of paper inside, each with a photograph in the corner, and a biography.

“These are the top assets Iran has in the United States,” said Calibrisi. “Either current or ex-VEVAK.”

Dewey quickly scanned the bios. Two of the Iranian operatives worked in the private sector: one as an accountant for a meat-processing plant in Georgia; the other as a staff attorney at NBC.

The other two VEVAK operatives were on the staff of the Iranian Mission to the United Nations.

“Why don’t you guys kick these guys out of the country?” asked Dewey. “Or kill them?”

“We can’t touch the UN guys unless they commit a crime on U.S. soil,” said Calibrisi. “The other two are a pipeline. We know everything they’re doing, we listen to every conversation, read every e-mail. They’re a source of information, even though they don’t know it.”