The Last Refuge (18 page)

Nava kept walking, shutting the door to his office, and went to his desk. He dialed his brother.

“What is it?” he said into the phone. “They said it was urgent. Is it Father?”

“No,” said Nava’s younger brother, Davood. He spoke softly, as if he was crying. “It’s Harui.”

“Harui?”

“He’s dead,” moaned Davood. “He was on a business trip to Ukraine. Israel murdered him.”

“How do you know this?”

“They let a man live. The Israelis said they will keep killing until Meir is returned.”

For several seconds, Nava stared at the phone, as if dazed.

“I’m sorry, Brother,” he said, anger in his voice. “But if it means anything, Harui did not die in vain.”

26

BEIT RAHBARI

TEHRAN

Nava climbed out of the back of a black Mercedes limousine. He walked up the steps of the Beit Rahbari, House of the Leader, a former palace, through a set of heavily guarded steel gates. He went by a small coterie of worshipers and imams. Inside, he was met by one of Suleiman’s assistants, who nodded to Nava.

“Mahmoud,” he whispered.

“Imam,” said Nava.

“The Supreme Leader is expecting you.”

They went down a long, dark corridor, illuminated by candles. They came to a large wooden door, the top of which was arched like a half-moon. Suleiman’s assistant knocked on the door.

“Imam,” he said. “The president is here.”

The door handle turned, then the door opened. Ali Suleiman, a short man like Nava, stood behind the door. He waved his hand quickly.

“Come in, Mahmoud,” he said.

Inside, six other men, all dressed in the attire of imams, sat in chairs along the walls. The office was small and had a single window that looked out on the mosque and behind that, in the distance, mountains covered in snow. It was a simple office, with a table beneath the window, and no artwork. It always amazed Nava that the Supreme Leader of the country, who could have availed himself of any material comfort he so desired, would choose to exist so simply.

Nava bowed, holding his head in fealty for several seconds, then stood again.

Suleiman shut the door behind him.

“Please, Mahmoud,” said one of the clerics. “Sit down. Take a load off, as they say.”

“Thank you, Imam,” said Nava.

Nava sat in a wooden chair at the end of the line of clerics.

“You have asked for this meeting of the Supreme Council, Mahmoud.”

“Indeed,” said Nava. “Members of the Assembly of Experts, thank you. I will get to the point. Today, I believe, has the potential to be an important day in the history of the Islamic Republic, one of
the
most important, perhaps the biggest day since February first, 1979.”

Nava looked around the room, meeting the eyes of the bearded clerics one at a time. He ended with Suleiman.

“Our Iranian scientists have made all citizens of Iran proud,” continued Nava. “I am pleased to report that the first nuclear device has been completed. Today, I seek the official sanction of the Supreme Leader for the use of the device.”

“The use of the device?” asked one of the clerics. He looked at Suleiman. “Were you aware of the completion of the nuclear device, Imam?”

“Yes,” said Suleiman, nodding.

“And you didn’t inform the assembly?”

“Since when do I have to inform the assembly of anything? If you don’t like it, appoint someone else in my place. I grow tired of your complaining, Mashiri. Besides, are you not here today? Am I imagining this meeting? Please, someone pinch me; Mashiri seems to think today’s meeting isn’t in fact taking place.”

Several of the other clerics started to laugh as Suleiman shook his head back and forth, a wide smile on his face beneath brown, bespectacled eyes.

“The assembly has been fully aware of the process for the development of the nuclear device,” Suleiman continued. “It was completed less than two weeks ago. We have not had a meeting of the assembly in this time. Besides, Mashiri, I have no need to tell you or anyone else. I am aware of many things. Until there is a call for some sort of action, I have no obligation to blather to you or anyone else about developments.”

“Iran has completed its first bomb!” said the cleric.

“That’s right,” retorted another cleric. “Under the leader’s guidance! Stop your complaining!”

Suleiman stared at Mashiri, then raised his hand and, in a casual flicking motion, dismissed his comments.

“Continue,” he said, staring down the cleric.

“Yes, Imam,” said Nava. “Today, with the blessing of Allah, I seek the sanction of the Supreme Leader for the use of the bomb. It is time for Iran to begin the process of wiping the Zionist from the face of the earth. I believe we must detonate the device in Tel Aviv.”

The room was silent. For several moments, the clerics, to a man, stared at the ground in contemplation. Then another cleric, a short, rotund man to Suleiman’s right, cleared his throat.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because we are the chosen ones who will stab the blade of Allah into the Zionist,” said Nava. “First, with the capture and, soon, the execution, of Kohl Meir. Then, when the dust has settled, and the Israelis believe they can take no more punishment, we shall ignite Tel Aviv with the majesty of Iranian technology.”

The room was silent. One of the clerics looked up from the ground.

“What will happen after we drop the bomb?” he asked. “How many weapons does Israel possess of its own?”

“Yes,” said another cleric. “So we drop one bomb, our first bomb, and Israel drops ten bombs. Soon, how much of Iran is destroyed?”

“But therein lies the genius of our plan,” said Nava, smiling. “We will move the bomb by water into Tel Aviv. A small fishing boat is all that is needed. Israel won’t even know it’s Iran that has done it.”

“Who will do this?”

“Hezbollah,” said Nava. “Colonel Hek will oversee it. The bomb is in hiding. It will be transported to the port at Bushehr. A martyr from Al-Muqawama will then spirit it into the belly of the beast, Tel Aviv.”

“What about Washington?” asked another cleric. “Surely, they would come to the defense of Tel Aviv?”

“How?” asked Nava. “They won’t have a clue. None of them will. And when they want revenge, which they will, who will they blame? They will have to blame the entire Middle East. Look at how weakened the Americans are. They were badly scarred by their failed experiments in Iraq and Afghanistan. They’re impoverished by their debt to the Chinese. Their economy is in ruins. Perhaps most important, Israel’s main ally, Rob Allaire, is dead now. President Dellenbaugh is a weak, naïve man. Will he come to the rescue of Israel?”

“I agree,” said another man, seated next to Nava. “Please don’t any of you take this the wrong way, but Iran is not entrapped by the logic and moral quandaries of the West. America will not respond because America is shackled down by its own rules, laws, congresses, treaties, but most of all by its own Western morals.”

“Well put,” said Nava.

“It’s not the United States I’m worried about,” said one of the clerics. “It’s Israel. They
will
counterattack. They know one rule, and it’s self-defense. If necessary, Israel would drop a bomb in every city in the Middle East in order to survive.”

“So what are you saying?” asked Suleiman.

“I’m against it,” said the cleric. “We have a bomb.
Iran has the bomb!
Let us celebrate that. Kill the Jew Meir. But must we kill a bunch of Israelis? Let us not forget that many of these Israelis will be children.”

“I must tell you something else,” said Nava. “In the past twenty-four hours, no less than half a dozen Iranians have been murdered by what we believe to be Israeli Mossad agents. This includes the Iranian ambassadors to China and Portugal. Two officials at NICICO were killed, including my own nephew. Imam, I implore you: let me take this next step.”

Suleiman looked at Abdollahi, the cleric who was against the strike.

“Your concerns are sincere, Abdollahi,” said Suleiman. “And well considered. But the blood of the child is part of the tide that will wash away Israel forever.”

Suleiman stood. He stepped to the window.

“Kill the Zionists,” said Suleiman.

27

RUMIANA FARM

MIDDLEBURG, VIRGINIA

The sun was rising, bright orange on the horizon, as Dewey drove slowly along Washington Street, through downtown Middleburg.

Middleburg was a picturesque rural town in Virginia horse country; neat brick and clapboard homes, shops, inns, and municipal buildings located a little more than an hour outside of Washington, surrounded by horse farms and fields, streams and forest. The town itself was a simple grid of streets lined with antique shops, restaurants, gourmet food stores, and other establishments catering to Middleburg’s equestrian set. There was even a place to arrange a private jet out of nearby Dulles Airport, about a half hour away. In the town center, the shops, restaurants, and inns transitioned quickly into small homes, then the land opened up and spread out, becoming rolling country of large estates with fields of verdant blue and green, stone walls, big, sweeping, tree-filled vistas leading to the Blue Ridge and Bull Run mountains in the distance.

The estates were owned, for the most part, by old-line Virginia gentry and their descendants, along with the new wealthy; businesspeople working along the tech corridor near Dulles. Every year, the area was the site of well-known equestrian events, including the oldest horse show in the United States, the Upperville Colt and Horse Show, and the Gold Cup, a day of steeplechase racing attended by most of Washington’s elite, sponsored by Tiffany’s, BMW, Range Rover, and other luxury brands.

After passing through town, Dewey went left on Zulla Road, driving his rented Chevy Tahoe for precisely three and a quarter miles, along a thin winding road. Dewey had flown into Dulles the night before from New York City, staying at a Marriott near the airport. He’d risen at 4:30
A.M.
, showered, then checked out, grabbing a coffee at a gas station in Chantilly.

The meeting had been hastily arranged the night before. Dewey was to meet two ex–CIA agents, Katherine Foxx and Rob Tacoma, at the farm that served as the headquarters for their firm, Riscon. Legally, Riscon LLC was a consulting firm that specialized in risk management. Its only official listing was in the tax rolls of the town of Middleburg and the Internal Revenue Service. Riscon had no phone number, Web site, or other means of identification.

Dewey knew there were many entities such as Riscon sprinkled throughout the Virginia and Maryland countryside. As with any government agency, the CIA had plenty of people who ultimately tired of the relatively low pay of being an agent, just as other executives in other branches went into the private sector.

Other than speaking briefly with Foxx on the phone, Dewey had done no research or background checking on Riscon, Foxx, or Tacoma; he was relying solely on the recommendation of Calibrisi. He had no idea what to expect. But then again, this world was somewhat foreign to Dewey. His interactions with the CIA when he was in the military were limited.

When he was in Delta, he was used to receiving detailed operational plans. The design of the operations themselves was always done by someone else, someone who knew more than Dewey about the various aspects of an operation necessary for success. Travel arrangements, funds flow, armaments, local political situations, everything was done, for the most part, by someone else.

In the Pakistan coup, the key to Dewey’s success had been based on three factors. First, research conducted by the CIA, in conjunction with a team of UAV pilots and analysts out of the Pentagon. It had been the CIA’s National Clandestine Service and its Political Action Group who knew the political lay of the land well enough to select the right military leader to replace Omar El-Khayab. The second key was Special Operations Group, the other arm of the National Clandestine Service, who planned out the on-the-ground tactical support Dewey needed to take out El-Khayab, including the weapons planning and intra-Pakistan travel, from automobiles to the chopper that took Dewey and his small team from Islamabad to the Kashmir war front in order to find Bolin, El-Khayab’s replacement. The third factor, of course, was Dewey and his team and their in-theater decision making and actions.

But in Iran, it would all be different. Dewey didn’t have the CIA to help him this time. With Calibrisi sidelined, Dewey couldn’t count on any support whatsoever, whether it was the basic logistics of travel inside Iran, or weapons. Even manpower.

Dewey had never been much of a planner; he was the one who executed the plans of others, no matter how chaotic, fluid, or dangerous the environment. He was also good at improvisation. But now, he knew, he needed a plan. And he needed to design it in such a way that he kept certain end goals hidden.

As he rounded a corner on Zulla Road, edged with a low stone wall and a faded yellow ribbon tied loosely around the trunk of a tree, he checked his watch: 5:38
A.M.

He slowed, then went right onto a pebble driveway that meandered between white horse fence, thick pine trees every hundred feet or so, then, beyond the trees and fence, green fields that were neatly cut. Dewey drove for half a mile and came to a set of steel gates. The gates opened as his SUV came closer. The pebble drive continued for another quarter mile, opening up into a large circle, behind which was a simple, pretty two-story house, with white shingles, green shutters and dormers.

Standing in the middle of the circular parking area was a man dressed in an orange T-shirt, running shorts, and flip-flops. He was tall, with a mess of brown hair that looked like it hadn’t been brushed in several weeks. He also had a mustache, which looked slightly out of place. He was young, athletic, with thin arms. He leaned back against a mud-covered white pickup, a cup of coffee in his hand.

Dewey pulled up alongside the pickup and climbed out. The man walked toward him.

“Hi, Dewey,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m Rob Tacoma.”

“Hi, Rob,” said Dewey, shaking his hand.