The Tehran Initiative

  “Not for Hadassah,” the prime minister countered. “She didn’t trust him blindly. She knew everything about Mordecai because she was raised by him, which is why she listened to him. And besides, he was Jewish, just like her. He was in exile, just like her. They had a common heritage. They were facing a common threat and the same fate. What about your Mordecai, your man in Susa, as it were? Is he Jewish?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Is he going to perish with us if Iran fires eight nuclear warheads at us?”

  “No.”

  “Then why should I trust him?”

  * * *

  Near Alamdasht, Iran

  David jumped back in the car and started the engine.

  “Reposition the Predator over the hotel,” he told Eva.

  “I can’t do that.”

  “You have to. I’m going back to the hotel, and I’m going to need as much intel as I can get.”

  “Only Jack is authorized to retask the Predator.”

  “Then get him,” David ordered as he drove down the dirt road.

  “He’s in a meeting.”

  “Pull him out.”

  “He’s in a knock-down, drag-out fight with Tom.”

  “Over what?”

  “The president is refusing to let Roger share with the Israelis what we’ve learned about the two warheads the Iranians have in the Med.”

  “We’re not talking to the Israelis about it?”

  “No.”

  “Why not? That’s crazy. They’re the best ally we have over here.”

  “That’s Jack’s point. He’s trying to tell Tom we have a moral obligation to tell the Israelis—off the record, at least—what we know, even if the president has forbidden any official briefing, but Tom’s not buying it.”

  David pulled onto Route 37 again, heading west into Khorramabad. He was infuriated with the president and with Murray, and he was fearful for the Israelis, who were in growing danger of being blindsided. But at the moment, he didn’t have time for politics. “Eva, I don’t care how you do it. I need that Predator over that hotel in the next ten minutes. Just make it happen. I’m counting on you.”

  He hung up and sped back to the hotel, trying to develop a plan. His first problem was that Morteza Yaghoubi was going to be waking up soon in his trunk. The guy was a trained killer. What exactly was he supposed to do with him? If he left him in there, Yaghoubi would soon be screaming bloody murder until someone came to get him or until David put a bullet in his forehead. But he didn’t want to kill him. Not unless he had to. The man was the enemy, but David was now a follower of Jesus. Wasn’t he supposed to love his enemies? Still, he couldn’t just dump him at the side of the road. If he got to a phone and alerted anyone, David was a dead man. That said, Yaghoubi was the least of his worries.

  David was about to take on three IRGC operatives who were equally vicious, each of whom was armed and incredibly dangerous. Even if he could figure out a way to isolate Khan and get him away from the others to interrogate him—something he still wasn’t sure how to do—he couldn’t figure out how to do it without killing at least one of the four operatives, and maybe all four. Again, if even one of them made a phone call to the missile base, he was a dead man. If a hotel guest overheard any of them fighting or struggling or even raising his voice, he was a dead man.

  David assessed his options, but there weren’t many. He had no way to tie up any of the men or keep them quiet, and the CIA special forces team was still two hours away.

  He got back to the hotel and pulled into an alley on the opposite side of the building from the parking garage. His phone rang. He took it on the Bluetooth again so there was no chance of Yaghoubi overhearing.

  “It’s done,” Eva said. “I’m streaming the live feed to your phone now.”

  He opened the video feature on his phone and punched in a passcode that allowed him to receive a video stream rather than send one. A moment later, he was looking at pictures directly from the Predator, three miles above them.

  “Can you switch to thermal imaging?” he asked.

  “Sure, one second. . . . Okay, there—can you see it?”

  “Yes—got it.”

  He could now see two of the Revolutionary Guard security men in room 203. He could also see Khan and another security man in room 201, though he couldn’t tell which was which. What was the best way into 201? He could pose as a room service guy, but that had risks. He’d have to wait for them to order, and he’d have to intercept the actual hotel employee, and what would he do with him? David immediately ruled that out. Another option was posing as a maintenance man. But under what pretext could he try to do repairs in room 201 so early in the morning without raising suspicions? He ruled that out as well.

  Even if he could get the men in 201 to open the door, was there a way to get Khan out without alerting the men next door? He had a silencer. But he’d have to kill the security man, and what if he screamed? What if Khan yelled? And which one was Tariq Khan? He’d never even seen a decent image of the man. True, he had photos of all the IRGC operatives, but he couldn’t take the risk that he’d kill Khan by mistake or in the cross fire.

  He remembered he had Yaghoubi’s key. Maybe it was to room 201. He reached into his pocket and pulled it out. No such luck. It was stamped with the number 203. So that was that.

  David turned off the engine. He took the pistol off the passenger seat and put it in his jacket pocket, got out of the car, and locked the door. Then he reentered the hotel through the side hallway, carefully stepping over the room-service tray. The lobby was empty and quiet, and the clerk was nowhere to be seen, so he ducked into the stairwell and double-timed it to the second floor, pausing at the exit door to draw his weapon and make sure again the safety was off.

  48

  David had never felt guilty holding a pistol before.

  Now he did.

  He’d had no time to think through what his newfound faith meant to his job, and there was no one to ask, at least not now. What would Birjandi tell him? What about Marseille? Then again, Charlie Harper might be the closer analogy. He’d been an NOC. He’d been trained at the Farm to kill without a moment’s hesitation. He’d surely been told again and again, “This is war, and you’re the good guy, and he’s the enemy—never confuse the two.” It was true, even wise, as far as it went. But had Charlie been a follower of Jesus when he’d served in the CIA? David seriously doubted that. His life, sadly, showed no evidence of having been changed. And he hadn’t raised Marseille to love Jesus. She certainly hadn’t been a true follower of Christ when they’d been together in Canada. Marseille seemed to have come to faith in college, or maybe late in high school, but not as a child. Maybe Charlie Harper was no help at all.

  He peeked through the small window in the exit door. There was no one in the hallway. He was free to move. But when he glanced down at his phone, he noticed a new complication. As he looked at the thermal images from the Predator, it appeared as if the men in rooms 201 and 203 were passing through walls, back and forth. It took him a moment, but then he realized that the door between the two rooms, which were side by side, had to be open. Now he was even more at risk of killing Khan by accident.

  “We have a problem,” he whispered.

  “You don’t know which one is Khan,” Eva replied as if reading his mind.

  “Right. I don’t want to go in there and pull out the wrong guy or accidentally blow him away.”

  “Actually, you’ve got another problem,” Eva said.

  “What?”

  “I’ve got NSA covering all the phones in those two rooms. They say Khan just took a call from someone at the missile base. They need him back immediately. They’re not going to be in those rooms for long.”

  Yaghoubi’s phone began to vibrate in David’s pocket. They were looking for him to get the truck and take them back to the base. David was out of time. He had to move now.

  “Do you see which one is making a call right now?” he asked.
br />   “Yes,” Eva said.

  “Is that Khan’s phone?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Whoever it is, he’s calling Yaghoubi. They’re about to leave. This is my last chance. What should I do?”

  Eva had an idea. “Call Khan,” she said.

  “What? Are you crazy? He doesn’t know who I am.”

  “No, use Yaghoubi’s phone. Dial him just before you enter the room. Whoever’s on the phone when you go in will be him.”

  “Okay, that’s good. Now, look, can NSA jam or cut off the other mobile numbers so none of those guys can call out?”

  Eva said yes, but it would take a few minutes.

  “Do it now. Yaghoubi’s phone is ringing again. They’re getting desperate. I have to move.”

  David was about to head down the hall.

  “Wait!” Eva yelled.

  Startled by her vehemence, he stopped, backed into the stairwell again, and pressed against the wall, not knowing why. A moment later, the door to room 201 opened, and someone came out.

  “Who is that?” David whispered.

  “I don’t know.”

  “It can’t be Khan,” David said. “They wouldn’t let him move by himself.”

  Whoever it was came down the hall, pushed the button for the elevator, and waited. David debated what he’d do if the man came into the stairwell. At least he’d have the element of surprise.

  But it didn’t happen. The elevator bell rang, the door opened, and the security guy got in.

  That created a new problem. Once he got to the parking garage and found the tire flat and didn’t find Yaghoubi, he’d know something was wrong. He’d alert someone, and then what would David do?

  There was nothing left to think about, David decided. This was war. These people weren’t innocent civilians. They were terrorists. They were working for an apocalyptic, genocidal regime. They were working for a false messiah. They were trying to kill six million innocent civilians in Israel and 300 million more if they could ever reach the United States. He didn’t want to kill them, but they were armed and hostile, and if he had to do it, he wasn’t going to feel guilty about it. He didn’t have the luxury.

  He glanced back down the hall. It was clear, so he adjusted his headset and moved quickly and quietly through the exit door, the pistol in his right hand, his left hand dialing Khan. It started ringing. He pulled out the key and slowly inserted it into the door of 203.

  “Hey, man, where are you?” Khan said.

  “I’m here now,” David said, muffling his voice slightly and turning the key.

  “Where?”

  “You ready?”

  “What?”

  David shoved the phone in his jacket pocket. Then he turned the handle and kicked the door in and entered the room quickly. One of the security detail wheeled around. The look of shock on his face registered instantly. He went for his weapon and David put two rounds into his forehead, dropping the man instantly. The second man dove through the open door between the two rooms, shouting in Farsi, “Get down! Get down!” David saw him jump on Khan and pull him to the floor between the beds. Khan’s phone went flying.

  David pivoted around the corner and squeezed off a shot, but it missed and shattered a lamp on the nightstand. He pulled back behind the wall as the security man fired two shots, then two more. David waited a fraction of a second, then spun around the corner again and squeezed off two shots of his own. Someone screamed out in pain. Blood splattered all over the wall and the bedspreads. David didn’t hesitate. He charged into the room and saw the security man grabbing his shoulder and writhing in pain. But at that moment, the man turned and saw David’s face. His eyes went wide. He raised his weapon again and David double-tapped him in the head.

  Now Khan was screaming.

  David couldn’t tell if he, too, had been hit, but he pointed the pistol at Khan’s face, which was covered in blood.

  “Silence,” he commanded in Urdu, “or you’re next.”

  Khan appeared stunned to hear his native language and shut his mouth. David, suddenly grateful for the trips into Pakistan when Zalinsky had him working with Mobilink and hunting al Qaeda operatives, pointed to the pistol on the floor and told Khan to kick it to him. Khan did as he was told. David picked up the pistol, removed the magazine and put it in his pocket, then tossed the gun.

  “Get up—move,” he ordered.

  Khan stood to his feet, trembling.

  “Use a pillowcase. Wipe the blood off your face and hands.”

  Khan complied.

  “Now get your phone—and keep your hands where I can see them.”

  Khan walked over by the desk and picked up his phone.

  “Toss it to me.” David caught the phone and put it in his jacket pocket. “Now stand there for a moment.”

  Again, Khan obeyed. David now backed into Room 203 and glanced at the two dead men on the floor. They weren’t moving, but he put another round into each of them, just to be sure. Neither so much as twitched. He quickly cleared their weapons, took their magazines, wallets, keys, and IDs and put them in a pillowcase, tied the end of the case in a knot, and tossed the bundle to Khan.

  “Come here,” David ordered, careful to keep his voice down.

  Khan cautiously stepped into 203. His hands were trembling.

  “Stop.” He checked to make sure his Bluetooth was still on. It was.

  “Where’s the fourth man?” he asked Eva.

  “He’s at the SUV, checking out the tire, looking around,” Eva replied.

  “His phone is jammed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Is the hallway clear?”

  “It is for now.”

  “Okay, we’re coming out.”

  David looked at Khan. “Move. Now. Or I will put a bullet through your skull. Open the door. Turn right. Go quickly down to the end of the hall and into the stairwell. I’ll be right behind you.”

  Khan opened the door, and they started moving rapidly. David practically pushed the man through the exit, then down the stairs. They burst out onto the first floor, and to David’s shock the lobby was full. A tour bus was parked outside, and dozens of senior citizens were milling about. What stunned David most, though, was the sight of two uniformed military officers checking in at the front desk. The noise of the stairwell door opening so quickly and slamming against the wall shocked everyone and drew their attention, including the officers. Their eyes went wide and David assumed they were staring into Khan’s terrified eyes. This was not going as planned.

  Instantly the officers drew their weapons. David fired two rounds at each, felling one of them but only wounding the other. He pushed Khan down the back hallway.

  “Go, go, go!” he yelled in Urdu, then heard the explosion of a .45-caliber pistol behind him.

  The rounds went high, but David couldn’t take any chances. He pushed Khan through the exit door, then wheeled around and tried to fire back at the officer, but he was out of ammunition. He hit the deck as the man shot two more rounds, and he could hear the bullets whizzing over his head. He quickly scrambled out the back exit, pulling a second magazine from his pocket, ejecting the spent magazine, and reloading. He reached the Peugeot just as the officer crashed through the door. David ducked behind the trunk of the car, then popped out and put four rounds in the man’s chest.

  With no time to waste, he grabbed Khan, unlocked the car, and threw him in the backseat.

  “Get on the floor, facedown, and don’t get up!” he ordered, again in Urdu.

  He hadn’t thought of how to keep Khan restrained or quiet. He had nothing to tie his hands, nothing to stuff in his mouth. He couldn’t afford the risk of Khan knocking him out as he drove or seizing him by the throat or, God forbid, jumping out of the moving car. He needed this prisoner alive above all else. He needed to interrogate him quickly and find out everything he knew about the warheads and their locations. But under no circumstances could he let Khan escape or take the initiative.

  He did
n’t want to do it, but he had no time and no choice. He fired a bullet into the back of Khan’s right knee.

  The man screamed in pain, but he wasn’t going anywhere.

  49

  A bullet sizzled over David’s head.

  Then another. Both smashed into a brick wall behind him.

  David ducked behind the car. He peeked around the side and saw the fourth man running flat out from the parking garage, gun in his hand. David squeezed off two rounds. He missed but sent the man diving for cover. He didn’t have time for more. He jumped into the front seat, slammed his door shut, and started the engine.

  The back window exploded. The man was firing again.

  David lowered his head, hit the gas, and raced down the alley. The security man was running hard behind him, firing again and again. Tires screeching, David peeled out onto the main street, narrowly missing the tail end of the tour bus in the process. The Peugeot was fishtailing. Fighting to regain control, he turned the wheel hard to the right, then back again to the left. He was about to accelerate when a pickup truck filled with crates of vegetables suddenly pulled out onto the street in front of him. David swerved hard to the right to miss it but clipped the back of the truck and spun out.

  He jammed the car into reverse and started backing away from the pickup, but as he looked into his rearview mirror, he saw the final Revolutionary Guard operative dragging a businessman out of a silver Mercedes W211 at gunpoint, throwing him to the street, and jumping into the driver’s seat. David maneuvered away from the pickup as quickly as he could, then slammed the car into drive again and tromped on the accelerator on a straightaway through the center of the city. He was gaining speed—forty kilometers per hour, fifty, sixty, seventy—but the Mercedes was accelerating as well and rapidly closing the gap as the man continued firing at the Peugeot. David could hear round after round hitting the trunk, what was left of the back window, and the rear bumper.

  “Stay down!” he ordered Khan.

  As their speeds kept accelerating and the security operative kept firing, David now feared the man’s objective might not be to run him down as much as to kill the man he was sworn to protect, to prevent him from talking.