The Screaming Eagles (9 page)

CHAPTER EIGHT The Bank Melli manager lifted the receiver and dialed. The phone was answered on the fourth ring. From a list he had in front of him, he rapidly recited the names of each person who had visited his office that day, and the amount of money he had told them they could not withdraw. When he came to the final name, he said, “Lawrence, two hundred and forty thousand. That makes a total of three million, six hundred thousand dollars today.” “Was that Michael Lawrence?” the caller, asked? Alarmed and fearing some sort of trap, the bank manager panicked. He had under reported Lawrence’s amount by four hundred thousand dollars, as he had been doing on all accounts. With the active support of the general, he had started refusing to pay out funds to bank clients’ four months ago. Sweat poured down his forehead. If he wasn’t believed, he was a dead man. “Do you know this man, Lawrence? Is he a friend of yours?” said the bank manager. “If so, I can release his money to him immediately. In his file, I have his business and home telephone numbers. I can even call him this very night if you so desire, my lord.” “No, keep it. I want it included in today’s figures. As usual, deduct your twenty-five percent. My wife will be there in one hour. My share is to be half in dollars, the balance in Swiss francs. Make sure it is all there. I am making you a rich man, Abdullah, so I hope for your sake that you are not cheating me.” “Cheat you, Mon General? Never, never, as Allah is my witness. I would never even think of cheating you. As long as I live, my children and their children’s children will bless you, my lord. Twenty-five percent is so very generous, for after all it was your brilliant idea. You are most kind. I will be waiting for your wife in the usual place behind the bank. Good night, Mon General. I will call you at the same time tomorrow night. Salaam.” Sadegh put down the phone. He had driven home and packed an overnight bag of important papers and personal things. Nightly, at a prearranged time, the bank manager phoned him. He knew that the manager was skimming off the top, but even so, Sadegh had been receiving over two million dollars a day for the last four months since martial law was declared. So what if the little cockroach cheated. The man was a parasite, disgusting and loathsome. Thank goodness he would only have to speak with him one more time. Sadegh went carefully over his checklist. This was the end of stage two of his master plan. By this time tomorrow night, stage three would begin. His mind totally focused, he continued his work of making sure that everything on his checklist was accounted for. Painstakingly and with great care, checking and double-checking again and again, as was his custom, he continued to pack his suitcase. Ready to leave, Sadegh stood at his desk and dialed the bank manager. “Abdullah-Ebrahim, I have a favor to ask. I know it is late and the bank is closed, but I have just discovered that I will need the full amount in dollars. Can you please assist me? Instead of my wife, I will be at your office within ten minutes to pick up the dollars.” Delighted to have the famous General asking him for a favor, the bank manager replied, “With pleasure, Mon General, with pleasure. My wife, who is my secretary, is still typing next to my office. She will open the back door so that you will not have to walk through the bank. I look forward to seeing you. It will be a great honor.”
* Smiling brightly, the bank manager’s wife opened the door. She moved aside to let him in. Delighted to have a chance to meet the great man, she curtsied as she put out her hand to shake his. “Welcome, Mon General, you honor us with your visit.” Not acknowledging her, Sadegh entered the bank. Instead of shaking her outstretched hand, he put the gun against her chest and shot her. The hiss of the silencer made only a slight noise. She collapsed at his feet. The bank was in darkness, the employees having left hours ago to beat the curfew. Walking though the bank manager’s office door, Sadegh saw him sitting at his desk, a pile of dollar bills stacked neatly in a tray. Looking up, the manager started to rise, his face aglow with pride. “Mon General, you honor … ” He stopped in mid-sentence, his face frozen in horror as he saw a gun pointed at his head. Walking rapidly toward him, Sadegh said, “Don’t speak. Do as I say immediately, or I will kill you. The bank manager took two steps backward, bumping into his chair, his eyes bulging as he stared at the gun. He was fearful of the gun, but more terrified of the man who was holding it. When Sadegh spoke, the manager didn’t look at him, he stared only at the gun. “Open the safe.” Without a word, the manager picked up keys from his desk and walked to the safe. He knelt down, inserted a key and unlocked it. “Open the door. Do not reach inside,” Sadegh said. “Good. You have done well, Abdullah. Now sit in your chair.” The bank manager began to relax as he walked back to his chair. He realized the danger was over as he sat down and let out a sigh of relief. He wiped his mustache twirling one side into a point and started to say something just as the first bullet hit his forehead, sending his glasses spinning across the desk. The second bullet went through his throat, but he was already dead. Quickly, Sadegh emptied the contents of the safe into a duffel bag he had brought. He would sort out later what needed to be destroyed. Opening each drawer of the desk, he emptied its contents. By now, his duffel bag was nearly full. Sadegh climbed under the desk searching for any hidden drawers, but found none. He looked at his watch and saw that he had only taken a little under three and a half minutes. He was pleased. He was a full minute ahead of his schedule. Oblivious of the two dead bodies, Sadegh walked out of the bank.
* It took Sadegh ten hours of fast driving to get to the Turkish border crossing. An hour out of Teheran, he threw the plastic bag down a ravine. During the night, he had been stopped six times at checkpoints, but his white, oval, plastic reflectors allowed him to pass through speedily and his false identity papers were barely glanced at. Near Tabriz, he obtained gas from petroleum trucks that were parked near ammunition stores. His papers were checked, and he signed a receipt for the gas. When the sun rose, and curfew ended, cars and trucks clogged all roads. Driving a military vehicle, Sadegh was able to weave in and out of traffic quickly. Traffic came to a halt to allow him to pass, the white reflectors informing soldiers of his importance. Soldiers kept horses and carts off the highway, forcing them to move slowly with the line of people stretching from village to village. No one was talking, just dragging their belongings, fearful of a future under Khomeni, or what a committee would do to them. Sadegh gloried at their fear and their sense of hopelessness. Dazed and beaten, they looked defeated. The Shah’s people were running from their beloved country. Finally, Sadegh arrived at the border. People were standing in line, trying to persuade Turkish guards to let them through the border post. Pulling off to the side of the road, Sadegh parked under a tree. He turned off the jeep’s ignition and soon fell asleep.
* When he awoke, he ate the last of his food. Esposito, his CIA liaison for the past ten years, would escort him through the border post. Sadegh thought about the next few weeks and how his whole lifestyle would be changed. Once the CIA had debriefed him, plastic surgery to alter his face would be done in Germany. General Muzahedi would have to disappear into a witness protection program as soon, as possible, or the CIA would be seriously compromised. The previous year Sadegh had flown secretly to CIA headquarters in Langley. After debriefing, he made it quite clear he felt no affinity or obligation to remain and work for the CIA. His future plans were none of their business. All the time he worked for them, Sadegh’s aims coincided with CIA’s objectives. He had been well paid by them over the years. However, they admitted on numerous occasions he was by far their best agent in the region. He planned to retire and enjoy life. Sadegh informed his superiors that he had taken the necessary precautions to make sure the CIA would not try to reactivate him ever again. If they tried blackmail, or if he suffered an unexplained accident, three major newspapers would receive over two hundred pages of documents, graphically outlining in detail all of CIA’s activities and the role they played in de-stabilizing Iran. Sadegh insisted all he wanted to do in the future, was to become an ordinary citizen. He had not enjoyed being a spy; it had merely been a means to an end. Both he and the CIA had received what they wanted, and now both would go their separate ways. His decision was not up for further negotiation. In the past, he had proved to the CIA he could be resourceful and at times dangerous. Sadegh suggested that they forget about him completely, make him an invisible man that never existed. Destroy any files they kept and let him walk away. To prove the seriousness of his threats, Sadegh showed them copies of seven of two hundred documents in his possession related to payoffs to Prime Minister Tananka of Japan by Lockheed, and payoffs by Iran to three senior United States senators. He showed them copies of each senator’s Swiss bank accounts. All three sat on the armed services appropriations committee and one had announced his intention to run for President of the United States. CIA special operations in Langley dealt daily in blackmail and recognized this for what it was. They took it in stride, did not argue and thanked Sadegh politely for his services. They asked him when he would be leaving Teheran, and informed Sadegh that Esposito would be standing by in Turkey when he chose to leave Iran. It had been a civilized meeting. No one felt animosity or anger. It was business, nothing personal. Once unrest and rioting began, Iran would be destroyed completely. Sadegh had been an important cog in achieving Iran’s downfall. By helping the CIA implement its policy to destroy the Shah and replace him with Khomeni, he had assisted in the Shah’s downfall. Sadegh had been one of a hidden network of shadowy figures that organized tapes to come in via diplomatic couriers. By his refusal to accuse or arrest the diplomats, he had laid the groundwork for Khomeni’s speeches to be heard in mosques. He had kept soldiers from arresting mullahs who played tapes to their congregations. Sadegh and the CIA arranged where and how to contact Esposito when it was time to get out of Iran. When Sadegh finished his negotiations in Langley, he was flown to Teheran. Effectively he had neutralized any action the CIA could take against him personally, ensuring they would not bother him in the future. Now, his own personal Jihad would begin. His mission would be the downfall and total destruction of the Satan of all Satans?America. At midday Sadegh walked to a side door of the building adjacent to the checkpoint. As he approached, the door opened. He saw Esposito. “Welcome to Turkey, Sadegh. I trust you had a good journey. I see that you cut yourself shaving. Hope the drive from Teheran was not too tedious.”

4:30 a.m. - headlights bouncing as it approached, growing ever larger, the bus engine groaned as gears were changed down, finally shuddering to a stop in front of the man. Rapid-speed-wipers slid evenly across the front windows pushing away small slithers of rain into the darkness. Concertina doors hissed loudly, then opened with a thud, allowing the man to climb the narrow steps two at a time. He stopped briefly to show the driver his weekly pass and watched as the lever was activated to close the doors. Dripping water from his hat and coat, he walked unsteadily with legs slightly apart so as to keep his balance when the bus began moving. He made his way toward the back of the bus and sat down in the last row. The man counted eight passengers plus the driver. Two were sitting together, the others spread out with each sitting next to a window, and all of them wore heavy coats and scarves. Relaxing in the warmth for a few seconds, the man smelled the pungent scent of rain as it steamed up in waves from his coat. Large puddles of water had formed on the floor creating moisture that fogged each window like a thick blanket obscuring the car behind. During the last few weeks the man had traveled this route many times and he knew within seconds that the bus driver would brake, nearly stopping, then cautiously maneuver a sharp turn onto Wacker Drive. Inhaling deeply, the man got up and braced his legs as he felt the brakes being applied. Shifting his weight easily and bending his knees he felt the bus making its turn while he continued placing pamphlets onto his seat. He paused to make sure the papers were stacked in small neat piles so the police would find them easily. When he finished he unbuttoned his coat. Carefully, the man pulled out the gun, which had been hidden in the inner lining of his coat. Resting the Uzi slightly on his hip, he started firing, moving the gun just a fraction from right to left and then right again. Bodies slammed forward, the force of the bullets ferociously propelled each person into the back of the seat in front of them. No shouts or screams. Braking sharply, the driver looked up at the mirror, panic and terror in her eyes. For a long moment, they watched each other in the mirror as the man walked slowly toward her. Unsure what to do next, she gripped the steering wheel tightly, her eyes brimming with tears as she begged the mirror desperately for her life. The man shot her three times, then climbed off the bus. At precisely the same time, in the same manner, executions in buses happened in New York, Los Angeles, Atlanta and Miami. The day of the Screaming Eagles had begun.

THE DESERT BUNKER

Cool breezes from the Persian Gulf quietly dusted the desert. The group of people sitting under an umbrella nursed their drinks watching spectacular red and orange colors deepen dramatically across the sky as the sun set. All turned when they heard a gate open which led downstairs into the desert bunker. A man approached them and bowed. “Excellencies, all reports have now come in. Our strike force performed their missions perfectly. Wire services and television stations opened their programs with pictures of the incidents on the busses. Praised be Allah. We suffered no casualties. Countdown for plan two in Chicago is now seventeen hours, Excellencies.”

“We will all be dead in two days. Why are you wasting time in this shop? You will not buy anything. We must return to our hotel now.” “Massood, Massood, just a few more minutes. I need to savor with passion and delight everything, one last time. Even in paradise, they do not have advanced hi-tech video recorders, stereo equipment, or miniature state of the art wristwatch color televisions. We die Wednesday, it is but a few hours away. Today, I enjoy what little life I have left on this miserable earth. All is brighter, clearer, and more beautiful.” “Hassan does not permit us to be late. The others arrived last night. They will be waiting. I go, I do not want to be part of your foolishness any longer.” “Insha Allah, it is the will of God.” Both men walked out of the store. Michael had been packing cartons into a storage area behind the door when inadvertently he heard men speaking Farsi. Amazed that he had understood perfectly what the men had said to each other for he hadn’t heard or spoken Farsi in nearly twenty years. It worried him to hear how they matter-of-factly spoke of dying though the cavalier acceptance of death was common in Iran. He sensed impending danger. Did the two men know that he stood only a matter of feet away, separated by a thin plywood door so their words directed not at each other, but purposefully said loud enough, would carry for him to hear? Talking about death or about life was a form of hyperbole speech common in Moslem countries. The language assumed a haunting beauty of being able to be spoken with undisguised flowery phrases and great passion. However, if it was spoken by people who’d made up their minds to die, death for them usually followed soon after; but when they died, countless numbers of other people would also die. He recalled his terror and sheer hopelessness as the country he’d lived in for eight years lost control and fell apart. Friendly people who prided their cultural history that spanned thousands of years transformed themselves overnight into crazed fanatics and vicious killers. An entire population suddenly became caught up in a fervor of flaming revolution, becoming sadistic executioners thirsting for blood and more blood. Were the men in his store by mistake? Had he overheard them by chance, or was he being set up? The life he’d lead of shadows was a long time ago a past memory that he’d buried. That life no longer existed, safely hidden away in corners of his soul and locked away. Had he stumbled into something and were the men baiting a hook and drawing him in? Searching his mind for explanations that were rational not emotional he found nothing. He could handle this situation and determined immediately that he couldn’t ignore these men. If he was in danger, he wanted the upper hand. He was not trained to counter punch in his unit? they always hit first. “Be back shortly,” he yelled to Fred and Jill his assistants. “Jellybean lock up if I don’t return before closing.” They were walking fast. He estimated them to be in their mid-thirties. Their clothes had to have been bought in the States by an American who’d instructed them how not to stand out in a crowd. Iranians favored traditional black or charcoal suits with a white shirt buttoned and no tie, most had mustaches or three-day beards. Looking at them casually, they could have been Americans. They were obviously meant to blend in, not look like foreigners. Following them down Oak Street keeping well back, he constantly watched plate glass windows of shops as he walked by, using them as a mirror to see if he was being followed. Twice he crossed over to the other side of the street, looking backward to see if he could recognize anyone on a bike or car. Crossing Michigan Avenue, they entered the Drake Hotel, one of Chicago’s landmarks on its famed Gold Coast, overlooking Lake Michigan. Quickening his steps, he got closer to them as they walked to the front desk. The taller one asked for a key. Turning, the clerk ran her fingers up and along the key compartments to number 412. Withdrawing it, she smiled brightly and gave it to the man. Moving quickly away from them Michael walked around a dozen or so uniformed workmen busily exchanging large plants that decorated the lobby. Plants were hoisted onto small trolleys and rolled away. He sauntered to the bookstore opposite the elevators looking for a place to watch them without being seen, also to see if anyone from the street had followed him into the hotel. Both men walked through open double doors into a carpeted foyer, which housed a bank of elevators. They entered an elevator and punched a floor button. The doors closed slowly, lights blinking—first, second, third, fourth floor. The fourth light stayed on. Soon the elevator returned. Its doors opened; it was empty. They’d exited at the fourth floor and 412 was probably their room. What to do next? He needed to come up with some plan to get into their room. Idly he continued watching the uniformed workmen watering their plants. Each had a large green leaf stitched onto their uniform. Suddenly an idea came to him. His gut told him the men in room 412 were dangerous. If the men were returning to die in Iran, he couldn’t have cared less; but if they were planning on dying in Chicago, then it would be his business. He wondered if they were in any way connected to the bizarre bus killings. Iranian martyrs never killed only themselves. Their belief as fighters was that the best part of paradise was reserved for those who killed many infidels. He felt sure the two men aspired to the highest levels of paradise. The higher they aspired, the more Chicagoans would be killed. At the front desk he picked up a hotel brochure then hailed a cab to take him back to his store. Sitting in the cab he read through the brochure and found that all rooms except the top fifteen floors were efficiencies, including kitchens.
* “Hello, Drake Hotel.” “Hi, my name is Lawrence, Michael Lawrence. Stayed in your hotel last month. Could I reserve the same room? room 412? Fine, fine, I’ll wait. What, it’s taken? Too bad, do you have room 410 or 414 available? You do! Great book me in for one night. I’ll be there in an hour. Lawrence, that’s right. See you soon.” Michael dialed again. “Hi, Les, Michael.” “What’s up, kiddo, want to play tennis tonight? We need a fourth.” “Sorry, Les, can’t. I’m playing a joke on someone and need to borrow your overalls and equipment. I’ll return them tomorrow.” “Is she nice?” “Wish it was a she. No, it’s something else. Tell you about it in a few days if it works.” “When will you pick them up?” “Right away.” “Hell, you’re in a bloody hurry. What’s up? Must be a woman. Come on Mikey, you never move this fast unless it’s a woman. Tell me, what’s she like? Why are you so hot? Listen, pal, if she has a friend, I’m available. I’ll let the other guys play singles. If you’re that hot to trot, she must have a friend. Mikey, be a pal, I’ve had a long dry spell.” “In a few days, Les. I’ll tell you in a few days.” Michael put down the phone waited a few seconds and dialed again. The voice mail connected immediately. “Shalom, I am away from my desk. Please leave a detailed message and I will call you upon my return.” Michael waited for the beep then spoke rapidly in Hebrew. When he’d finished, he replaced the receiver. Hanan would be his backup in case he ran into trouble and couldn’t handle the Iranians at the Drake Hotel alone.