The Last Refuge (32 page)

As the first man screamed in pain from the bullet in his leg, Dewey pulled the gun from the other, who now lay on the ground next to his blood-covered friend. He held his neck with both hands and stared, bug-eyed, up at Dewey, fighting for air. He would live, in fact, both men would live, but they wouldn’t be hijacking trucks for a while.

“You two might want to consider a different profession,” said Dewey.

43

TEHRAN

Marwan and Pavil sat in the front of the brown Samand sedan, across the street from Qassou’s apartment building.

The rain had again picked up, and both men strained to watch the front entrance, waiting for their man, Vesid, to bring out Qassou. It was likely that Qassou would be walking, but groggy from the tranquilizer.

After fifteen minutes of waiting, both VEVAK operatives began to get antsy.

“Where the hell is he?” asked Pavil.

“I’m sure he’s coming. We know Qassou wouldn’t have put up a fight. He’s probably heavily sedated and Vesid doesn’t want to carry him out.”

After waiting another ten minutes, Pavil reached for the door handle.

“I’m going up.”

The possibility that Qassou had subdued Vesid didn’t occur to either man. Qassou had come to the front entrance, looked out through the window, and spotted the two men sitting in the sedan. Upon seeing the two agents, Qassou turned and walked quickly through the service entrance, out the back alley, then hurried several blocks to a taxi stand in front of the Grand Tehran Hotel.

Qassou entered the presidential palace at half past seven. He was drenched and his skin looked ashen. As he approached the security desk, he realized it was only a matter of time before the VEVAK operatives put two and two together and discovered he’d escaped. Whether it was Paria himself or someone lower on the totem pole, they would quickly seek to arrest him. Still, the fact that they had tried to take him surreptitiously meant that Paria was suspicious but not certain. Paria had likely not told Nava.

You have time.

He walked up to the uniformed soldier and handed him his laminated government identification. The soldier inspected it, then passed it beneath the scanner.

“Good morning, Minister Qassou,” he said. “You’re here awfully early.”

“What is it to you when I arrive?” asked Qassou.

“It’s nothing,” said the soldier. “I was just making conversation.”

“Sorry,” said Qassou, attempting a smile. “I have a busy day in front of me, that’s all.”

“Good luck,” said the soldier.

He walked to his office and shut the door. From his leather case, he removed his change of clothing and quickly got out of his wet clothes. He went to his computer. Nava had yet to respond.

“Fuck,” he yelled.

He went to his private bathroom, closed the door, then looked in the mirror above the marble sink. His eyes were badly bloodshot, and the skin around them looked purplish. His skin had a sheen of sweat on it, which he tamped with a hand towel. He was pale, ashen even.

He went back into his office, sat behind his desk, and kept a close eye on his e-mail.

At a little after eight, his door opened and he jumped up from his seat. It was his assistant, Firouz.

“What?” he barked.

“Morning to you too, boss,” said Firouz.

“What do you want?”

“Nothing,” said Firouz. “They said you were already here and I had to see it for myself.”

“You’re funny,” said Qassou. “Your tongue will land you in the unemployment line.”

“Would you like an espresso?”

“Yes. Now close the door.”

Qassou picked up the phone. He dialed the number he knew by heart.

“
Al Jazeera
,” said the voice.

“Taris Darwil,” said Qassou.

“May I tell her who’s calling?”

“The Minister of Information.”

“Yes, Minister Qassou, I apologize. Right away.”

He waited on the line for several seconds.

“Lon,” came the soft voice of Taris. “Where have you been?”

“I can’t talk. Listen to me: I will call your cell and leave the name of a place. If I don’t, it means Paria has found me. If they do, I fear they will find you. Leave Tehran.”

“Lon—”

“Don’t argue.”

“What will happen with Meir?”

“It’s over,” said Qassou. “The only possibility is to stop the bomb. Meir has been sentenced to die.”

“Should I call the Americans?”

“I can’t think anymore. Call whoever you want.”

Qassou hung up the phone just as his door opened. It was Firouz with his espresso.

“Here you are,” said Firouz, handing him the small cup.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Now get out.”

Firouz’s smile turned into a frown. He turned and walked toward the door.

“By the way,” Firouz said, turning at the door. “The president just called a minute ago.”

“Why didn’t you put him through?” asked Qassou angrily.

“You were on the phone.”

“If, God willing, I’m here tomorrow, I will fire you.”

Qassou went to his desk.

“Now shut the door,” he commanded. “Now!”

He dialed Nava’s office as Firouz stepped out. Nava’s assistant put him through.

“Hello, Lonny,” said Nava. “An important call, yes?”

“Yes,” said Qassou. “Though that bonehead should’ve interrupted me.”

“We’ll have him beheaded,” said Nava, laughing. “How about that?”

“You kid, but the thought did cross my mind,” said Qassou.

“What’s wrong, Lonny? You’re finally getting your big wish. Shouldn’t you be happy?”

Qassou winced.

“Can you go earlier?”

“I can leave right now,” said Nava.

*   *   *

Pavil stepped off the elevator on the fourteenth floor. The floor was empty. He went until he found a door with the number four on it. Looking around one last time, he saw no one. He removed a handgun from his shoulder holster, took two steps back, raised his right foot and kicked the door just above the doorknob. The door ripped open, a chunk of wood falling to the ground from the sash. Pavil stepped inside and shut the door.

He moved, weapon out, down the hallway. In the kitchen, he smelled burning coffee. He moved from the kitchen to the bedroom. Several drawers on a desk were open, as was the top drawer of the dresser.

He ran down the hallway to the bathroom, where he found the VEVAK operative, Vesid, unconscious. Beneath his head was a pool of blood that had spread out like a red pancake around his head.

He saw the grotesque pool of black liquid in Vesid’s eye. Kneeling, he felt for a pulse on the wrist. He was alive.

“I think we have a problem,” he said into his cell phone, speaking to Marwan, waiting in the car below.

“What is it?”

“Qassou isn’t here. Vesid is unconscious, tranquilized by his own gun. Someone stabbed him in the eye. You better call General Paria.”

“Right now? He’s going to be pissed. Should we at least give ourselves a few hours to look for him?”

“Don’t be a fucking retard,” said Pavil. “Make the call. Then get an ambulance over here.”

*   *   *

They moved east from Tehran in a dark green Range Rover customized with bulletproof glass and steel and with every inch of its glass tinted black. Nava was paranoid about the possibility of being followed, something that the presidential motorcade would have practically guaranteed. A watch car with soldiers trailed a quarter mile back.

Nava and Qassou sat in the backseat; in the front were two Revolutionary Guards, both armed, the soldier in the passenger seat holding an UZI SMG across his lap.

Tehran spread out in the vale of the Alborz Mountains. Iran’s largest city was in some ways similar to another mountain-ringed metropolis half a world away, Los Angeles—both chaotic, traffic-filled cities that were confusing to all except those who lived there. After pushing through a mess of traffic near the government center, the Range Rover climbed onto the highway and went east.

Nava slouched back in the seat and smiled, relaxing. He reached out and put his small arm around Qassou’s neck affectionately.

“You’re sweating like a pig, Lonny,” said Nava.

“It’s ninety-five degrees out.”

“You know, it is very hard to trust people when you are the leader,” said Nava, looking out the window. “So many people want things. I realized yesterday that you have never wanted anything, Lon. Not once have you asked. That is why I am showing you.”

Qassou nodded to the front seat, referring to the two soldiers.

“Are they…?” asked Qassou, his voice trailing off.

“Trustworthy?” answered Nava, whispering back. “Let me see. Tarik, Anwar: Can you two be trusted?” His voice was louder as he posed the question, then he started laughing.

The two soldiers did not look back, instead they glanced at each other, their faces remaining stone-cold.

“Yes, Lon, they can be trusted,” said Nava. “They’ll be driving it to the port.”

*   *   *

Paria was in a meeting when the call from Marwan came in. His assistant knocked on the office door, then peeked his head in.

“Excuse me, General. Marwan is on the phone. He says it’s urgent.”

Paria picked up the phone on his desk.

“What?” he demanded.

“He’s not here,” said Marwan.

“What do you mean he’s not there? You had him under your surveillance an hour ago. Am I correct?”

“Yes, you’re correct, General Paria. But he escaped. When Vesid came in through a window, Qassou stabbed him in the eye with a toothbrush. He’s on his way to the hospital.”

“I don’t care about Vesid. Find Qassou!”

“What do you want us to do?”

Paria was silent. He held the phone against his ear, thinking.

“Nothing. You two fucked this up. So go fuck yourselves back to Baghdad.”

Paria hung up the phone. He looked at the two men seated in front of his desk.

“What is it, Abu?” asked one of the men, his top lieutenant.

“There’s something going on,” said Paria quietly, his eyes searching the room as he appeared lost in thought.

“What happened?”

“He escaped,” said Paria.

Paria looked down at his desk. Other than his telephone console, the desk was bare—except for two photos of Qassou and Andreas, the American.

“This is no longer a discreet project,” said Paria, opening his desk drawer and removing his shoulder holster. He wrapped it around his left shoulder, then tightened it. From the same drawer, he pulled out a handgun. “I want an All Points Warrant for the immediate arrest of Qassou put out. Get it out through VEVAK, then disseminate out to Tehran central police as well as the Guard. Lon Qassou is working against the Republic. I’d bet my life on it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Dead or alive. He is to be considered armed and dangerous. An enemy of the state. I don’t care if he’s in a meeting with the president himself: shoot this son of a bitch before he does something to harm us all.”

*   *   *

The green Range Rover exited the A83 Highway near Mahdishahr. At the end of the exit ramp, they went left. They drove through the town of Mahdishahr, through the small city’s crowded main street, then into an industrial area of warehouses, scrap yards, a long line of large gasoline tanks, then more warehouses.

Qassou registered the name:
Golestan Street
.

At one of the warehouses, a light yellow unit with rust along the building’s roof eave, the Range Rover slowed and entered the parking lot. The driver pushed the vehicle quickly across the parking lot, aiming for the corner of the building without slowing down, punching into a thin alley that ran around back. They sped along the edge of the warehouse into another parking lot out behind the building. The driver stopped in the parking lot, the front of the SUV aimed at the middle of the warehouse. They waited for nearly a minute, then a large door at the back of the warehouse began to slide slowly open.

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

Inside, a dozen or so soldiers stood; their weapons trained on the Range Rover. Nava was the first to climb out, then Qassou. One of the soldiers inspected the inside of the vehicle, the trunk and engine, then the undercarriage; when he held his left hand up, signaling that it was clean, the others moved their weapons down to their sides.

“Good morning, Mr. President,” said the soldier who had just conducted the inspection, a middle-aged man with graying hair and a mustache. “We weren’t expecting you until after lunch.”

“A change of plans, Colonel,” said Nava.

Qassou stepped around the SUV.

“Follow me,” said Nava.

There were several military vehicles parked inside the warehouse, including a pair of tanks, which Nava pointed at.

“An old army storage facility,” said Nava. “Rather than build something new and raise suspicions.”

They walked through the empty warehouse, past piles of parts, tools, a Dumpster. They came to a shining silver chain-link fence, which looked brand-new. The fence was built in a square box, twenty feet wide, ten feet high, twenty feet deep. Behind the fence, a silver semitrailer was parked.

Qassou looked down and saw that his hands were shaking. He put them in his pockets. He felt, all at once, a sense of sickness and triumph, anger and jubilation. His plan had worked; he was within a stone’s throw. It was the nuclear device Iran had denied trying to make for the past decade, a bomb that, had its existence been known, would likely have led to an invasion of the country. He felt triumph at his having made it here, to the center of it all.

But, in the same moment, he felt incredible regret and shame. The brilliance of the scientists who had created this object was now to be used to destroy countless innocent people whose only sin was to have been born Jewish. How could a country, a people with such skill be capable of such an atrocity? he asked himself as Colonel Hek unlocked the chain-link fence and stepped inside the protected enclosure.

Qassou followed Nava. A set of stairs was set against the back steps of the truck. Nava stepped first into the open bay. Qassou followed him inside.

A pair of halogen lights, set on temporary orange parapets, shone down on a shining steel table. On top of the table, tied down with steel wire rope, was the bomb. It was dark silver, with a patina of scratches and small dents. Qassou was surprised at the shape of it; like an elongated soup can. At one end, the bomb was tapered and pointed. At the other, a rectangular attachment, the size and shape of a shoe box, made of a different shade of steel, jutted out.