The Last Refuge (16 page)

Dewey laid all four sheets out across the table.

“This isn’t going to work,” said Dewey.

“What do you mean?”

“I need someone high up,” said Dewey. “Someone with the clout to make a phone call at the right moment.”

Calibrisi leaned back, folded his hands across his chest, then smiled.

“There is somebody else,” said Calibrisi.

“Oh yeah?”

“He’s got clout. He might even have some knowledge of their nuclear program. He would be missed.”

“I’m listening.”

Calibrisi reached into the steel briefcase. He pulled out a piece of paper. He pushed it across the coffee table to Dewey.

“I’m handing you a piece of C4,” said Calibrisi. “And I don’t want you to get mad when it blows your hand off.”

Dewey unfolded the piece of paper. It was a photocopy of a
Wall Street Journal
article entitled
THE MOST UNPOPULAR AMBASSADOR AT THE UN.
It was a profile of Iran’s ambassador to the United Nations, Amit Bhutta.

“Oh, this is perfect,” said Dewey. “You weren’t kidding, were you?”

“About what?”

“About the C4,” said Dewey. “I’m guessing there’s some sort of rule against killing these guys when they’re on U.S. soil?”

Calibrisi stared at Dewey and laughed while shaking his head.

“How well guarded is he?” asked Dewey.

“Are you kidding?” said Calibrisi. “Like a fucking rock star. You got a better chance of kidnapping Queen Elizabeth.”

“I’ll need to borrow
Double Jeopardy
,” said Dewey.

Calibrisi paused, his mouth dropping open. He stared at Dewey.

“How do you know about
Double Jeopardy
?” Calibrisi asked.

Dewey returned Calibrisi’s stare with a wide smile.

“It doesn’t matter how I know,” said Dewey. “The point is, I’m gonna need it.”

22

RESTRICTED AREA

NEAR DARBAND CAVE

MAHDISHAHR, IRAN

The crane operator maneuvered the steel jib at the top of the crane over the bomb, then slowly released the thick wire rope. A large steel hook came down just above the bomb.

Four workers, two on each side of the bomb, lifted the sides of the steel hammock beneath the bomb, wrapping the heavy sides of the hammock up and around the top of the bomb. At the top of the steel hammock was a pair of large steel rings. The crane operator inched the hook down and the workers pulled the rings over the end of the big hook. The crane operator moved the cable slowly up, until the wire rope was taut.

Dr. Kashilla watched from a chair at the side of the room as the crane operator lifted the four-and-a-half-ton nuclear device into the air. When the bomb was a few feet off the steel platform, the cab of the crane wheeled around, then moved forward, toward the back of a semitruck. The top of the truck trailer was open, and the operator moved the bomb inside the trailer as the workers guided it to a specially designed steel container inside the trailer. The semitrailer sagged noticeably under the weight as the bomb was lowered. The workers unhitched the steel rings from the wire rope and the operator raised it back up, then moved away from the truck. They shut the top of the steel container.

Kashilla stood and walked across the concrete floor to the truck. He watched as the workers, using ladders at each side of the trailer, closed and sealed the roof hatch.

It was a silver trailer, anonymous-looking even down to the license plates, which gave no indication as to its contents. Kashilla looked up at the shiny container holding the bomb, then reached his arm out and touched the side of it, wanting one last moment of connection to that which he’d spent so long creating.

“Can you believe it?” one of the workers said to him.

But Kashilla ignored the worker. He looked at his watch. It was late afternoon. They would come for the bomb at midnight.

“Do you need a ride home, Doctor?” asked one of Kashilla’s assistants.

“No, thank you. I will wait until it’s gone.”

23

USKARIPA ROAD

MUKACHEVE, UKRAINE

In the foothills of the Carpathian Mountains, a pair of shiny silver Audi S8s moved quickly along a winding mountain road. To the north, the white tops of the Carpathian Mountains were visible in the distance.

The meeting had gone well, Yuri thought, relaxing in the backseat of the lead car. Now they would all go to dinner at the Star, drink the best wines in Mukacheve, then retire for the night. Normally, Yuri would have asked Victor, his assistant, to procure a few of Mukacheve’s best
poviya
. Perhaps having them waiting in his guest’s hotel rooms to seal the deal with some of the Ukraine’s legendary female companionship.

But not this night.

The Iranians were different. They were Muslims. There were plenty of Muslims in Ukraine, but when it came to how devout and what sort of particular practices each sect and country had, Yuri thought it best to avoid introducing elements that could strain what was a business relationship. He didn’t like religion, didn’t understand it, and found it was better to just leave it all alone. So no whores tonight; at least not for the Iranians.

They would have a hearty meal at Star, go to sleep, get up, and sign the letter of intent. And by this time two months hence, if due diligence went smoothly, he would be worth more than a billion dollars.

“I’ll be a billionaire,” said Yuri from the backseat. “A fucking billionaire.”

“Yes, yes,” said Victor, who was seated next to him. “I know.”

“You say that as if you’re disappointed,” said Yuri. “What’s with the attitude, Vic?”

“Nothing,” said Victor. “The end of an era, that’s all. I don’t like the Iranians.”

“Like them or not, it doesn’t matter. They like my copper. And that’s
all
that matters.”

“Yes, yes. They like your copper. And you and Olga can go live in Paris. But I’m from here and this is all I know.”

“I’m sure you can still work for them if you want,” said Yuri. “They will need someone to run the operation. You heard them.”

“I don’t want to work for the Iranians,” muttered Victor, running his hand back through his longish brown hair. “They smell.”

“They smell?”

“The cologne. My God.”

Yuri started laughing and looked at his assistant, who had grown into his closest friend. Victor tried to show no emotion, but Yuri poked his elbow once, then twice, and Victor grinned.

The Audi moved quietly along the curvy road that laced the hills near the mine operations. It was still light out, barely. The road was remote, cutting around a series of mountains at their tree-rung bases. A sign for the M06 appeared. Soon they would see the lights at the outskirts of Mukacheve’s quiet, quaint downtown.

“Are they still behind us?” Yuri asked, looking in the rearview mirror at the driver.

“Yes, sir, Mr. Anton,” said the driver. “That’s them, the lights just behind.”

Yuri nodded, saying nothing. His grandfather, after whom he was named, had bought the land from the Ukrainian government, using political connections to win the bid for the valuable state-mining operations near Mukacheve, paying little and being allowed to repay the government with a cut of the profits.
What a deal,
thought Yuri, shaking his head. It wasn’t Ukraine’s biggest mining operation, nor its most profitable. Just a little mine, enough to make one family very rich, and that is all.

Now, at age forty-four, Yuri would turn that simple transaction into more than one billion dollars.

*   *   *

Inside the tail Audi, a stone-faced Russian driver stared straight ahead as two men in the backseat spoke to each other in a high-pitched, rapid dialect that the driver couldn’t understand. The third Iranian, who sat in the passenger seat in the front of the expensive vehicle, remained quiet.

The men were the three top executives at the National Iranian Copper Industries Company, or NICICO, one of Iran’s largest mining conglomerates.

“You read the engineering report,” said Esh, one of the men in the backseat, speaking in Persian. “They have barely scratched the surface of territories fourteen and fifteen.”

“I know, I know,” said the other man in the backseat, Harui, NICICO’s vice president for development. A tall man, younger, with a thin mustache, he was giddy with excitement. “If they were smart, they would expand the operations, then sell. We’re lucky they’re not charging us five times the price.”

“Yes, but there is the cost to get it to market,” argued Esh. “This detracts from the beauty of this deal.”

“How much does it detract?” said Harui. “Really, come on. We are stealing this mine from the stupid Russian.”

“He’s Ukrainian,” said Esh.

“Ukrainian, Russian, who cares.”

The man the front seat suddenly whipped his head around, a cold stare of anger on his face.

“Shut up,” barked the man, looking at Harui, then Esh, nodding ever so slightly at the driver. “Your wild tongues will see this deal ruined. Or worse, the price doubled. Keep your mouths shut.”

The man, Marsak, was NICICO’s chairman and chief executive officer.

Marsak stared for several more seconds at his underlings, scolding them with his eyes, then turned back to the front of the sedan. Glancing at the driver, he saw that the big man had had no reaction. Still, he hated the lack of discipline from his vice president. He made a mental note to fire him after the deal closed. Fire him, that is, if he could. After all, Harui was the son of Nava’s brother. Perhaps he could just demote him instead.

Marsak leaned back and stared out the window. He loved traveling, especially to places that had colder climates than Tehran. That would be one of the biggest benefits to the deal, he thought. He would visit Mukacheve once a quarter, bringing his wife, Kessola. It was getting darker outside by the minute.

The Audi came to a sudden stop. The red brake lights of the forward car were bright, the car having come to an abrupt halt on the winding, remote mountain road.

“Buck,” said the driver in rough English, so that they could understand. He pointed toward the front of the car. “Buck. In road. Deer. Big deer.”

Slowly, the driver maneuvered the vehicle next to the other Audi, then stopped. Lying across the road was a massive deer, a fourteen-point buck by the driver’s quick count. On the buck’s chest, next to its leg, was a large bullet hole. From the front legs down, blood covered the big animal’s brindle coat.

Next to the animal, backs turned, stood two men, inspecting the buck. Hunters. As the vehicles came to a stop, the men remained standing over the dead buck, still as statues, not turning.

“What is it?” asked Harui from the backseat.

“A deer,” said Marsak, smiling. “Let’s go see.” He reached for the door handle.

The Ukrainian driver, a former officer in the Kiev Police Directorate, reached for Marsak’s arm.

“No,” the driver said, “I will look.”

The driver opened the glove compartment and removed a handgun.

“What’s wrong?” asked Marsak.

“Perhaps nothing,” said the driver. He opened the door to the car.

As if choreographed, the two hunters turned. Each clutched not a hunting rifle, but submachine guns: HK MP5s, sleek, tight to the torso, long black suppressors screwed to the muzzles.

Yuri’s driver stepped on the gas pedal, sending the first Audi lurching toward the gunman on the right. At the same time, the driver of the second Audi started shouting.

“Down!” he screamed as he tried to get behind the now open door.

The first Audi aimed at the hunter to the right; he stepped nimbly aside and started firing his SMG. The Audi slammed into the 1,500-pound buck as the gunman pelted the car with slugs. The windshield shattered, then bullets struck the driver. The gunman moved the weapon methodically along the driver’s side of the car, stepping toward the vehicle as he did so. He mowed down Yuri and Victor in the backseat.

The hunter on the left opened fire, sending bullets beneath the second driver’s door, into the driver’s legs, who screamed for a brief moment until, through the Audi’s aluminum, a tungsten-tipped bullet cut through the door and killed him instantly, his large frame falling to the road next to the car.

The gunman stopped firing and stepped to the side of the Audi. He looked inside the car, counting three men.

“Mr. Najar?” he asked politely in perfect Persian, stepping over the dead Ukrainian driver, aiming the weapon and looking inside the car at Marsak in the passenger seat.

Car lights suddenly danced in the distance, coming toward the scene.

Marsak’s fear-filled eyes flew from the gunman, hopefully, to the oncoming vehicle.

“It’s our car,” said the gunman. “Sorry.”

He aimed the tip of the silencer at Marsak.

“Whatever you want,” said Marsak, pleading.

He fired the MP5, riddling Marsak’s chest with a short spray of bullets.

“Who is Harui?” the gunman asked, again in Persian, looking onto the backseat.

“I am,” said Harui with surprising confidence despite his predicament, perhaps believing he was to be saved.

The gunman aimed, then fired, ripping a quick slug through the Iranian’s head.

The gunman stepped back, aimed the weapon at the car’s tires, then fired. He punctured all four tires. He leaned into the driver’s seat and looked at the last remaining person alive, Esh.

“Today’s your lucky day, Mr. Zamia,” said the gunman to Esh.

The gunman opened the door. Esh, whose cheek was now covered in blood spray from Harui’s skull, stepped from the back of the automobile.

The gunman grabbed Esh by the collar of his jacket and directed him around the dead driver.

The headlights of the approaching Mossad recon team moved in behind the dead animal.

The gunman pushed Esh to the buck.

The other gunman waiting there took a pair of flex-cuffs and put one on the base of the buck’s antlers, then looped the other end around Esh’s wrist. He yanked tight.

“I will freeze to death out here,” said Esh.

“No, you won’t. Someone will come along. If not, here, take this.”