The Last Refuge (38 page)

Meir turned slowly toward the soldier. Meir didn’t know the soldier’s name, but he had been the one who lifted Meir from the concrete floor of the interrogation room, brought him to his cell, cleaned him up, and brought him a fresh change of clothing.

Meir tried to make out his face. But his eyes were so swollen it was impossible to open them. For a brief moment, Meir allowed himself to fantasize, to hope, to imagine:
Is this the one who was sent by Qassou to save me
? Then he laughed, a low, sad laugh at the utter ridiculousness of his thought.

Qassou is dead. And so are you.

Next to the cup of wine was a leather-bound book. It was a Torah. Meir stared at it, then looked up at the guard, this time forcing his left eye open. Thank you, he thought, though he didn’t say it.

But somehow, the Iranian guard understood.

“No man should die alone,” said the guard, smiling kindly. “I’m sure, if the tables were turned, you would bring me the Koran and a glass of wine.”

Meir nodded.
I wouldn’t have,
he thought to himself.
I was a great man, but not a good one.

He reached forward and picked up the cup of wine. He took a sip; it was very sweet and too warm. He gulped the rest of the cup down.

The guard laughed heartily.

“I’m glad you like it,” he said.

The guard looked from Meir to the clock on the wall.

“It’s time to go, I’m afraid.”

Meir stood up from the steel chair.

“I would like to take your ankle cuffs off,” said the guard. “So that you may walk in dignity. May I do that without you trying to hurt someone, Mr. Meir?”

“Yes,” he said.

The guard leaned over, inserted a lock into Meir’s ankle cuffs, unlocked them, and pulled off the heavy chains.

Outside the cell, two more guards joined the first. They went down three flights of stairs. Another corridor was brightly lit and clean. They passed what looked like a small auditorium with rows of chairs and a lectern at the front of the room, the Iranian flag on the wall behind it.

Two doors down, the guard opened a room. Sunlight came in through the door. Meir followed the guard to a courtyard. The ground was grass, brown and yellow in places. Three walls were concrete, and windowless. The fourth wall was two stories high; above it stood the white-capped summits of the Alborz Mountains. As Meir walked toward the wall, he noticed that it was spattered in black; the color of dried blood.

The guard led him across the courtyard.

“Good luck to you, Mr. Meir,” he whispered. “Would you like a blindfold?”

Meir stared at the black strip of material in his hand.

“No,” said Meir. “But will you say a blessing?”

“A blessing?” asked the guard. “I’m not Jewish.”

“A blessing in your religion,” said Meir.

The guard smiled and nodded. He closed his eyes and put a hand on Meir’s forehead.

“And the dawn came to the trusted ones,” he whispered, closing his eyes, “and He who had cast them out returned, and it was then that the light was shone…”

*   *   *

Bhutta stood in front of the leather sofa, flipping between the BBC and
Al Jazeera.
It was already twenty minutes after he’d called Nava and still the Iranian president had yet to call him back. Bhutta paced the room nervously. For he knew that the moment Meir died, his own reason for living would be gone.

The door to the suite opened and Danny stepped in.

“Try again,” Danny ordered.

Bhutta went to the desk and sat down. He dialed a number. After several moments, it began ringing.

“Office of the president,” came the voice.

“Qasim, this is Ambassador Bhutta again,” said Bhutta. “I must speak with him. It is an emergency.”

“Mr. Ambassador, he’s away from the office,” said Nava’s executive assistant. “I tried. He can’t be reached.”

“You must reach him,” said Bhutta. “It is a matter of national security.”

“I can’t,” said Qasim. “Even if I wanted to—”

“
They’ve stolen the bomb!
” screamed Bhutta.
“Find him!”

There was a short pause.

“Hold the line,” said Qasim.

*   *   *

Nava’s motorcade pulled through the front gates of Evin Prison, then moved swiftly to a side entrance, where the commandant of the prison was waiting, along with a photographer to record the historic moment.

“Good morning, Mr. President,” said the commandant.

Nava followed him through the door and down a brightly lit corridor. At the end of the hallway, Nava stepped into a dimly lit room. A soldier went to the wall and moved a curtain aside, revealing a long, thin window. Through the window was a sun-splashed courtyard. Against the left wall of the courtyard stood a line of soldiers, rifles aimed at the ground; the firing squad.

Across from the firing squad, against the far wall, stood Kohl Meir.

Nava stepped to the window.

“Are you ready, Mr. President?” asked the commandant.

“Yes,” said Nava, rubbing his hands together.

Footsteps were heard as someone approached, running from down the hallway. As the commandant turned to give the orders to proceed, the door to the room flew opened. A young soldier burst in, his face contorted in a sheen of perspiration. He held a cell phone.

“How dare you interrupt!” barked Nava.

“I’m sorry, sir,” said the soldier frantically. He extended the cell. “It’s your assistant. He says it’s a matter of national emergency.”

Nava grabbed the phone.

“What do you want?” Nava yelled. “I’m in the middle of something that is more important than—”

“They have the nuclear device,” came a familiar voice, though not Qasim’s. Nava quickly processed the sound of the voice and knew who it was.

“Amit?” asked Nava. “Where are you? We thought you were dead.”

“The Americans,” said Bhutta. “They’ve stolen the bomb.”

“No, it’s impossible,” said Nava.

“
It’s over, Mahmoud!
” yelled Bhutta. “They kidnapped me for the single purpose of making this phone call. They have the nuclear bomb. They’ve known about it, stolen it, and now they have it. If you don’t believe me, go to the warehouse in Mahdishahr and look for it.”

Nava’s face turned ashen. His excitement was gone, replaced by a look of sadness, then anger.

“If you don’t believe me, call Colonel Hek or Paria,” continued Bhutta. “It’s gone. And before you do anything to Kohl Meir, you had better listen to what they have to say.”

“What do you mean ‘the Americans’?” asked Nava. “The U.S. government has no idea—”

“One American. A rogue sent to free the Israeli. Andreas. He has the bomb. They were working with Qassou.”

Footsteps echoed down the hallway. The door to the room opened; it was Paria, a pained look on his face.

Nava stared at Paria’s sweat-covered face.

“Is it true, Abu?” asked Nava.

Paria looked at the soldiers in the room, then pointed at the door.

“Get out,” Paria ordered.

When they left, he slammed the door.

“You speak of this in front of prison guards?” asked Paria. “You stupid idiot.”

“Is the bomb gone or not?” countered Nava.

“Yes, it’s gone.”

Paria reached for the cell phone, pressed a button that put the call on speaker.

“This is Abu Paria. What’s going on? Who is this?”

“It’s Amit,” said Bhutta. “As I was telling President Nava, an American—Dewey Andreas—has stolen the bomb. They’ll make a deal for it, but they want the Israeli back.”

“Shut down the borders,” interrupted Nava. “Stop him!”

“Shut the hell up, Mahmoud,” said Paria, who towered over Nava, looking as if he might punch the Iranian president. He looked at the phone. “What do you mean a deal?”

“A trade. The bomb for the Israeli.”

“Why would America, or Israel for that matter, trade a nuclear bomb for him?” asked Paria.

“It’s not America or Israel,” said Bhutta. “It’s Andreas. He’s not interested in anything other than getting Meir back. Meir saved his life after the Pakistani coup. He has conditions.”

“What are they?” asked Paria.

“He wants you and you alone at the handoff, Abu.”

Paria glared at the phone.

“Why me?”

“I’m just a messenger, General,” said Bhutta.

Nava shook his head, staring at Paria, then held his index finger up, moving it back and forth.

“No,” Nava said. “No, no, no, no, no. This was
my
day.”

Nava pointed at the courtyard, at Meir in the distance. A pained look crept across his face as he realized Meir would not be executed.

Paria raised his right arm, then swung it through the air, striking Nava with the back of his hand and sending the short, frail Nava tumbling to the ground.

Paria opened the door. He looked at the commandant.

“Bring him in,” said Paria.

He pressed a button on the cell phone, taking the speaker off, then put the cell phone to his ear.

“The bomb is our priority,” said Paria to Bhutta. “What are the details?”

“We have the great-grandson of Golda Meir!” pleaded Nava from the ground. “The people demand his death. We must proceed with the execution! Let him keep the bomb, we’ll make another!”

“Mahmoud,” said Paria calmly. “I’m afraid that’s not your decision to make.”

*   *   *

Ten minutes later, Paria walked into the command center of the Revolutionary Guards headquarters. Colonel Hek, the head of IRGC, stood, a phone on each ear, staring at a large plasma screen, which displayed live on-the-ground video of Mahdishahr, taken by an IRGC videographer. Firefighters were spraying water at the Range Rovers. Another screen showed the warehouse, which was now a burned-out bomb site, with flames dancing along the scrub bushes surrounding the crater where the structure had once stood.

A third screen had a live
Al Jazeera
feed of Khomeini Square.

Hek looked up at Paria, moving the phones to his chest. His look said it all:
It’s true
, their serious, furious edge seemed to say.

“It’s gone,” said Hek.

“What are we doing to get it back?” barked Paria.

“I have more than thirty reconnaissance planes in the air,” said Hek.

“Where are you looking?” asked Paria.

“We’re scouring every road between Mahdishahr and the border,” said Hek. “I assume he’ll go to Iraq and the waiting arms of the U.S. Army, but I’m also looking at Turkey.”

“We can’t let him escape,” said Paria.

“Every border crossing will be a fortress,” said Hek. “A chipmunk won’t be able to get out of Iran without my say-so.”

“What about Afghanistan?” asked Paria. “Azerbaijan? Turkey?”

“Every border is shut,” said Hek. “Every border crossing, every road, every dirt lane leading from a small village. It’s a nine-thousand-pound bomb. He won’t get it out of Iran.”

“How much time do we have to find it?”

“The logical border is Iraq. That’s where the search is concentrated. But Turkey is only a seven- or eight-hour drive. That’s where our focus is also. In a few hours, if we haven’t found him somewhere between Mahdishahr and Iraq or Tabriz, then I’ll put resources into the Afghan theater.”

“Get more planes in the air,” said Paria. “Helicopters. Get the State Police out on the roads.”

“Yes, sir,” said Hek. “It’s already done. I must tell you, the plan to move the device to Tehran in an anonymous-looking truck is now our greatest challenge. There are many large silver trucks driving the roads. There was a battle and we’re looking for bullet holes.”

“Bullet holes?” asked Paria. He shook his head in frustration. “Now is the time. They left Mahdishahr only a few minutes ago. What about roadblocks?”

“Do you know how many roads spread out from Mahdishahr?” asked Hek. “Too many. Abu, be patient. We are searching everywhere. We will find the bomb. If not, we will catch him at the border. I have to repeat this. He’s carrying a nine-thousand-pound bomb! There is simply no way to get it out of the country without a truck. A big truck.”

Paria pointed at the
Al Jazeera
feed on the plasma screen. A sea of people filled the square and the streets. Signs with photos of Nava and Suleiman were everywhere. But by far the most signs showed photos of Kohl Meir, all of them with a red X across his face.

“What will we do about the crowd?” asked Hek, pointing at the
Al Jazeera
feed.

“Get rid of it,” said Paria.

*   *   *

The 350-foot container ship
Milene
moved through the black waters of the Caspian Sea at twenty-two knots, a little more than twenty-five miles per hour. The ship was painted black, its name in bright yellow along its stern, along with the words
BAKU, AZERBAIJAN
painted beneath.

A skeleton crew of eight men were on board. The trip was a special charter, arranged by the ship’s owner, an Athens-based shipping company called Caspian Trekker, LLP.

The ship’s captain, a gruff, thin old Azerbaijani who spoke little English, was nevertheless smiling on this hot, windy day as his ship came into sight of land. After all, it wasn’t often that he could make in one week what he was used to making in four or five years aboard the
Milene
. But it was true. The only condition was to keep quiet and not bother the pair of Americans responsible for the largesse.

When the captain caught sight of land, he nodded to his first mate.

“Go tell the Americans we’re in sight of land,” said the captain.

“Yes, Captain.”

Two minutes later, Katie Foxx and Rob Tacoma emerged from a doorway on the main deck. Tacoma wore a blue sweater and jeans. Behind him, Foxx wore a red, white, and blue North Face raincoat, jeans. On Tacoma’s face was a big grin; he looked like a kid out on his first boat ride.

They walked to the front of the
Milene.
At the front of the ship, they stood side by side, watching the approaching port city as it came slowly into view.

“That crap is going to kill you,” said Foxx, shaking her head as she watched Tacoma put a pinch of Copenhagen in his mouth.