The Last Refuge (17 page)

The gunman reached into his pocket. He pulled out a folding combat knife. He handed it to the Iranian.

“If no one comes, gut the animal and climb inside. It will keep you warm. It’s better than dying, yes?”

Esh looked down in horror at the blood-soaked animal, just in front of his black Gucci loafers.

“Who are you?” Esh asked as the two men stepped around the animal and walked to the waiting Range Rover.

The gunmen ignored the question. The first gunman climbed into the backseat of the SUV. As the second gunman, a Mossad operative, opened the passenger door, he turned to Esh.

“Go back to Tehran,” he said. “Tell them everything that has happened. Tell the midget we will find you anywhere you walk. Tell Nava no Iranian is safe, not until Kohl Meir is returned.”

24

WANG BAO HE

SHANGHAI

Wang Bao He was, as usual, crowded. At half-past eight on a Friday evening, the large waiting area of bamboo chaises and window seats was filled with those people who didn’t have reservations. Out the door, a neat line stretched halfway down the block, beneath the restaurant’s garish, mammoth red signs that hung overhead.

Past the lobby, a central dining area held a dozen tables, all filled with patrons. A din of laughter and chatter, in Mandarin, inhabited the space as waiters moved quickly between tables and the kitchen in back, porting bottles of Shaoxing wine from the small bar and food—the hairy crab was the house specialty—to the tables. The restaurant was filled with wealthy patrons from Shanghai, mostly Asians but a few Aussies, Americans, and Europeans. Wang Bao He seemed to always be crowded, but rare was the customer who walked out afterward thinking it hadn’t been worth the wait—and the cost.

Most diners, however, were not in the public dining area. A pair of corridors stretched out and around the perimeter of the establishment. Down each dimly lit hallway were private dining rooms; intimate, windowless rooms set off from public view, with a large round dining table in the center and a beautiful crystal chandelier hanging overhead. If the central space held walk-ins, last-minute reservations, or tables set up by a concierge from a Shanghai hotel, these private dining rooms were the provenance of Shanghai’s elite. On any given night, one of China’s newly minted millionaires was entertaining colleagues in one of the private rooms.

In the last one down a corridor, a neatly attired waiter slid the bamboo and paper door aside, then stepped in. He was carrying a tray with two large plates piled high with Xiao Long Bao, the restaurant’s famous crab roe dumplings. Though the table seated eight, it was occupied by only two people, a pair of gentlemen dressed in suits, one Chinese, the other with darker skin, short-cropped black hair, slightly overweight, with a sinister, almost sneering look on his wide face. They halted their conversation as the waiter placed the plates down on the table.

“Another bottle,” said the Iranian, his Mandarin flawless, holding up his wineglass. “Colder this time.”

The waiter nodded without saying a word, without even making eye contact with either man. He took the empty bottle of Shaoxing from the table, and left, sliding the door quietly closed behind him.

“Your fears are an illusion,” said the Iranian, leaning in toward the other man. “There is no way anyone knows.”

The speaker, Hasim Aziz, was an operative with VEVAK. He was, in fact, head of VEVAK in China. The man he was seated with was his main point of contact within the Chinese Ministry of Intelligence, Liu Ban Ho.

“It’s not my fears,” said Ho, reaching for his plate and picking up a dumpling. “It’s the fears of my superiors. What do you do with our secrets? We’re concerned about what happens when we tell you something. It is imperative that the Iranian government not react immediately upon receipt of information.”

Ho stuffed the dumpling in his mouth.

“You’re referring to the abduction of Meir?” asked Aziz.

“Yes, of course,” he said with his mouth full. He swallowed, then washed it down with a gulp of wine. “Minister Bhang is very concerned. He himself spent more than a decade cultivating the relationship with our friend inside Mossad. He is among our most valuable assets. Not only is he privy to what is happening inside Israel, he is always on the receiving end of information out of Langley. We cannot see him put at risk.”

Aziz leaned back in his chair. He took a sip from his glass.

“And what would you do if somehow General Dayan discovers this mole?” asked Aziz. “You jump to the conclusion that somehow it is Tehran who has erred.”

“We would never jump to a conclusion, Hasim. We would investigate. And if it was discovered that somehow Tehran had outed our man and got him killed, suffice it to say, Beijing would be very upset.”

“And if Tehran were falsely accused of committing some form of error that led to the exposure of China’s agent, we would be upset too,” said Aziz. He squinted his eyes, then let a maniacal smile come to his lips. “In fact, I believe the oil ministry would be more upset than perhaps any other part of the republic. And I don’t need to tell you what that means.”

“Right,” said Ho, laughing. “The only thing more powerful in Iran than hatred of the Jew is greed. You would sell oil to Satan if he had cash in his wallet.”

Aziz grinned.

“Perhaps,” said Aziz. “Though it is unfortunate your Sinopec holes are always so dry. China has many wonderful things.” He reached out, picked up a dumpling, nodding to it. “Oil is not one of them.”

Aziz tossed the dumpling into his mouth.

“Your threats are meaningless to me, Hasim. I am a deliverer of a message. The point is, be careful with our asset.”

Aziz finished chewing and swallowed, then washed it down with the last sip of his wine. He reached his hand out and patted Ho on the shoulder.

“We value your asset perhaps even more than you do, Liu,” said Aziz. “For China, it’s a game. For Iran, we are talking about life or death. Israel is our mortal enemy. We would never do anything to compromise what Bhang and the ministry have created inside Israel. Never.”

Ho smiled.

“I know that,” he said. “I just need to remind you from time to time.”

“No, you don’t,” said Aziz.

“Yes, I do,” said Ho. “For I have a particularly juicy and delectable present for you tonight, my friend.”

Aziz’s eyes widened.

“I’m all ears, Liu,” he said, leaning closer to the Chinese agent.

The door abruptly opened and the waiter from before stepped inside the room. He quickly slid the door shut, then turned, arm raised, in his hand a dark object; the green bottle of Shaoxing. Ho and Aziz remained silent, waiting for him to finish his business. He refilled the glasses, then placed the bottle in the middle of the table. He turned and left, sliding the door shut behind him.

“What is it?” asked Aziz. He took his wineglass and gulped nearly half of it down.

“An accidental discovery,” said Ho. “Uncovered by Mossad. A juicy little morsel that will make Abu Paria get an erection.”

“For God’s sake, tell me,” the Iranian whispered, urgency in his rasp.

Ho reached to his left. He lifted a thin silver briefcase from the ground and placed it on his lap. He adjusted the six-digit lock out of sight of Aziz, then popped open the case. He removed a manila envelope, then handed it to Aziz.

“Happy birthday, Hasim,” said Ho, closing the briefcase and placing it back on the ground. He reached for another dumpling, tossed it in his mouth, then picked up his wineglass.

Aziz ripped open the envelope. He pulled out a small stack of photos. All were black-and-white, grainy.

The first photo showed a tall, handsome man walking with a gorgeous dark-haired beauty; both were Middle Eastern.

“Do you recognize him?” asked Ho.

“Yes,” said the Iranian. “Lon Qassou. A cabinet member. Of course I recognize him.”

“These photos were taken less than an hour apart, at Odessa Airport.”

“Odessa?”

“Yes.”

“Our Kiev chief of station was killed in Odessa last weekend,” said Aziz, flipping to the second photo. “Two Quds soldiers too.”

“Do you know what date?”

“Yes. September tenth.”

Ho reached out and yanked the top photo from Aziz. It showed a digital time stamp:

10-09-12

Aziz placed the second photo on top, at first his head seemed to jerk backward ever so slightly at the subject. The photo was the clearest of the three. It showed an American with short hair, unkempt. He wore a suit coat with a button-down shirt. He was good-looking. But the camera also caught something else in his demeanor; his dark eyes had an angry edge. A silent wave of electricity, composed partly of fear, moved through Aziz. He reached for his wineglass, then drank down the remaining wine as he continued to stare at the photo of the man.

“Who is he?” asked Aziz.

“His name is Dewey Andreas,” said Ho. “Have you heard of him?”

“No,” said Aziz. “Should I have?”

Suddenly the door opened again. Aziz swung around just as the waiter was entering, a tray full of food on his shoulder.

“Out!”
barked Aziz, his voice trembling with anger. “Now!”

The waiter almost dropped the tray, but managed to hold on. He slipped quickly out, then slid the door closed.

“He’s American,” said Ho calmly. “He’s the man who led the coup in Pakistan.”

“Special Operations Group?”

“No,” said Ho. “He doesn’t work for the government.”

“What do you mean he doesn’t work for the government?”

“You heard me correctly. He’s a free agent, a former Delta. He’s a mean son of a bitch.”

“Mean?”

“Very. He’s the one who stuck a knife into Khomeini’s brother more than a decade ago.”

“Bali?”

“Yes.”

Aziz flipped back through the six photos. He swallowed hard.

“What’s going on?” asked Aziz.

“I have no idea,” said Ho. “And frankly, I’m not sure China cares. You, however, would seem to have a situation on your hands.”

“It could mean anything,” said Aziz.

“Or nothing.”

“You don’t believe that.”

“No, I don’t. Perhaps Abu should grab a cup of coffee with Mr. Qassou.”

Aziz stood up. He quickly put the photos back in the envelope. Aziz stepped quickly toward the door.

“You’re welcome,” said Ho. “By the way, Minister Bhang has a simple favor to ask. Not urgent, but if you happen to think of it … If the situation presents itself.”

“What?” asked Aziz.

“Kill Andreas, if you have the opportunity. For all our sakes, Hasim. It’s not good to have an American running around with such—how shall I put it—
skills.
”

25

PRESIDENTIAL PALACE

TEHRAN

Mahmoud Nava walked down the hallway next to his office to a private elevator that led to the basement garage. Instead of pressing the button that would take him to the garage and one of his waiting limousines, Nava pressed the button for basement two, one floor below. When the doors opened, he stepped out into a dimly lit hall.

He walked quickly to the right, to a door at the end of the hall. He looked back over his shoulder; he thought he had heard something, but he saw no one. He took a silver key from his pocket and unlocked the steel door. A black Range Rover sat just outside the door, idling, windows completely dark in black tint. Nava stepped over to the SUV, opened the front door on the passenger side, climbed in.

Seated in the driver’s seat was a man in a khaki military uniform, sunglasses, a beard and mustache, longish black hair.

“Colonel Hek,” said Nava, climbing in.

“Mr. President.”

*   *   *

An hour later, the shiny Range Rover moved quickly through the half-paved, half-dirt streets of downtown Mahdishahr. Dust churned into the afternoon air behind the black SUV as it sped through the crowded streets, as many pedestrians on the streets themselves as on the sidewalks. The vehicle attracted stares but for the most part it blended into the general chaos of the small city, sixty miles east of Tehran.

They turned off the A83 Highway south of Mahdishahr. At a traffic light at the end of the exit ramp, they went left. Trees dotted the sidewalks, bushy cypress that provided little relief from the scorching sun that had the city, at 2:45
P.M.
, cooking at 101 degrees. They drove into an area of warehouses and lots piled high with industrial equipment. At one of the warehouses, a light yellow unit with nothing particularly distinguishing about it, the Range Rover slowed and entered the parking lot. Hek pushed the vehicle quickly across the parking lot, then around back. He sounded the horn once and a door at the back of the warehouse began to slide open.

They drove inside and the door quickly slid shut behind them.

Bright lights shone down on a clean concrete floor, the building empty except for one item. In the middle of the floor, a big semitruck; eighteen-wheeler, blue truck cab, a long silver trailer hitched to it. A dozen soldiers stood with weapons pointed at the SUV. Colonel Hek was the first to climb out, followed by Nava.

Nava followed Hek across the concrete floor. At the back of the truck, Hek stepped up a small set of steps. Nava followed him, his eyes growing wide as he climbed.

Resting inside the trailer was a long object that resembled a steel can, except that it was much, much bigger. The underside was emblazoned with Persian lettering. The object was squat—no more than ten feet long—and bulky. The front was shoulder-height to Nava.

Nava was speechless. His trembling hand arose from his side. He touched, gingerly, the steel tip of the missile. He ran his finger down the cone, then along the smooth side of the missile, his eyes like a child’s on Christmas morning. Nava traced the lettering on the side, shaking his head.

“It is magnificent,” Nava said, barely above a whisper.

“Yes, Mr. President,” said Hek. “That is the perfect word for it.”

*   *   *

An hour later, as Nava walked into the entrance foyer to his office, his assistant held up a piece of pink paper.

“Your brother called, Mr. President. He said it was urgent.”