Protect and defend (2 page)

The cigarette smoke hung thick in the air as the three men eyed each other with a mix of contempt and suspicion. Azad Ashani did not want to be here. The fifty-one-year-old head of Iran’s Ministry of Intelligence and Security knew what was coming. Sooner or later the bombs would fall and the facility where he sat would be destroyed by an American onslaught. There was of course a good chance it would be the Israelis, but in the end would it be any different? The Israelis, after all, would be flying American-made planes and dropping American-made bunker-buster bombs.

Ashani studied the concrete walls and ceiling of the cramped office. They were fifty feet underground in the Isfahan nuclear facility. Ashani had been reassured by engineers and bureaucrats alike that the facility was impregnable. Above them sat a surface building with a rebar, interlaced, two-meter slab of superhard concrete supported by a skeletal frame of massive steel I beams. Ten feet beneath that sat a one-meter-thick span of concrete and rebar and more I beams. Ten feet beneath that the same thing, and so it went all the way down to the fourth subterranean level. The engineers had told him ninety-nine percent of the American arsenal would be stopped by the massive ground level slab. The second floor was touted to be one hundred percent effective against the one percent that just might be able to get past the first barrier.

This may have comforted many of Ashani’s fellow government officials, but Ashani was a born skeptic, not a blind religious fanatic. The American defense industry was constantly churning out new weapons capable of bigger and more amazing feats of destruction. When American ingenuity was pitted against his own government’s boisterous propaganda, a sane man was left with an easy choice of who to believe. On his original tour of the facility he asked the chief engineer, “If the second subfloor is one hundred percent effective, why bother building the third and fourth subfloors?” The question was never answered.

Ashani had no doubt the facility was marked for destruction, and he was increasingly convinced it would happen within the month. He had firmly, though respectfully, argued against its ever being built. The hard-liners had won, however. They had now poured more than a billion dollars into this facility, the one at Natanz and several others, all while the Iranian economy grew increasingly anemic. Officially, the program was for the peaceful development of nuclear energy. The entire world knew this to be a lie, for the simple fact that Iran was blessed with massive oil and gas reserves. Economically, it made no sense to spend billions developing a nuclear program when cheap oil and gas were abundantly available. What they needed were refineries.

With each passing day Ashani felt a greater sense of impending doom. It reminded him of the feelings he’d had as a graduate student back in 1979. He could see the fall of Shah Mohammad Reza Pahlavi coming as clearly as he saw the ascension of the religious fanatics. Grounded in math and economics, Ashani was pragmatic. There was no denying the fact that the shah was a puppet dictator who raided the national coffers to pay for his opulent lifestyle. This dislike, however, had to be tempered with an acknowledgment of the fanaticism of Ayatollah Khomeini and his band of blackrobes. While in graduate school at Shiraz University, Ashani had watched the religious zealots draw his fellow students to their cause. In time, they boarded buses and headed to Tehran for the protests. Ashani remembered thinking that they had no idea what they were getting themselves into.

Revolutions were a tricky thing, and this one would be no different. Hard-line clerics fanned the flames of the populace’s rage and created in the shah a villain far greater than the facts would support. Young students and professionals who wanted to throw off the censorship and yoke of the shah’s secret police had no idea that they were making an alliance with a group that was no friend of free speech, feminism, and the enlightenment of Persian education. The youth of the country, however, was swept up in the storm of change like an angry uneducated mob. Very few bothered to stop and think what things would be like after the shah was removed. Ashani knew, though. In the end, revolutions were almost always won by whichever group was most willing to slaughter any and all opposition. Nearly three decades, a marriage, and five daughters later it was clear to Ashani that many of those students regretted what they had done.

This was Ashani’s third trip in as many weeks to the underground facility. He had been ordered by the president to escort Mukhtar himself this time, as if somehow their mere presence would help protect the place from the impending aerial bombardment. Ashani had absolutely no authority over Iran’s Atomic Energy Council or the Supreme Security Council, both of which oversaw the operation of the half dozen not so secret facilities that Iran had invested so heavily in. Nonetheless, they imagined spies at every facility and they wanted Ashani and his secret police to catch them.

That was the reason they gave for demanding more and more of his time, but Ashani knew the real reason. It was classic politics. The writing was on the wall, and the leaders were looking to hedge their bets. There was now a consensus that the Americans or their surrogates would attack. A couple of well-placed bombs could bring billions in investments and talent to a catastrophic halt. Unemployment was over twenty percent, and close to half of the country was at or below the poverty line. All of this while sitting on massive reserves of natural gas, oil, and coal. They were in the third decade of their vaunted Islamic revolution and the people were faring no better than they had under the shah. This nuclear gambit was in danger of bankrupting the government, and if Ashani knew anything about the religious zealots, it was that not a single one of them would accept blame. They were now lobbying for his support. Those who had championed the development of nuclear weapons were now telling him that they had always held reservations.

The second reason Ashani had been asked to make the trip was sitting next to him. Very few people made Ashani anxious, but Imad Mukhtar was one of them. The Lebanese-born terrorist was the most ruthless man he had ever met. Cold, calculating, and full of hatred, there was nothing he wouldn’t do for the cause. One of Ashani’s least favorite aspects of his job was dealing with Mukhtar, but there was no avoiding it. As the leader of Hezbollah in Lebanon the man had become a crucial part of the broader Iranian strategy.

The third man in the meeting was Ali Farahani. He was in charge of security at the Isfahan nuclear facility, and he did not like visitors from Tehran. Especially these two. Farahani leaned back and put his feet up on the metal desk. He took a long pull from his cigarette and announced, “The Americans do not have the balls to attack us.”

Ashani had subtly warned the Supreme Security Council that Farahani was not up to the job of running security at the nation’s most important facility. His family was very well connected, and as was often the case in Iran, nepotism had played a significant role in his posting. Ashani turned to the master terrorist beside him to see how he would handle the brash confidence of a fleshy bureaucrat.

Mukhtar’s already narrow eyes grew more so, as he studied the silly man across from him. He leaned back and said, “So you don’t think they will attack?”

“No.” Farahani shook his head and scratched his heavy black beard. “They have been mauled in Iraq, a divided country half our size. They do not want to pick a fight with the rising Persian Crescent.”

“And the Jews?”

“Let them come. The new S-300 anti-aircraft missiles from Russia are in place. The Jews will not get within a hundred kilometers of this place.”

Mukhtar glanced sideways at Ashani, who gave him nothing but a blank expression. Turning back to Farahani, Mukhtar said, “I trust those Russian missiles as much as I trust you.”

Farahani paused and then in a reasonable voice asked, “Why do you insult me?”

“Your security doesn’t impress me. I saw half a dozen lapses on my way in, and I haven’t even started my surprise inspection.”

“Inspection?” asked a shocked Farahani as he pulled his feet off his desk. “No one said anything about an inspection.”

“That is why it is a surprise, you imbecile!” Mukhtar stood so fast his chair shot backwards, scraping across the concrete floor.

A nervous Farahani stood as well and after a moment regained enough composure to say, “Under whose authority?”

“The Supreme Council’s,” Mukhtar snapped.

Farahani looked to the head of Intelligence and Security for confirmation. His own brother sat on the council! How could it be that he had failed to inform him?

Ashani nodded and said, “Our friend from Hezbollah specializes in unconventional warfare. He is here to see how vulnerable you are to things other than aerial bombing…”

“A ground assault?” The head of security sounded incredulous. “Impossible.”

Mukhtar started for the door. “We shall see.”

Ashani looked at his watch and kept his disdain for the two men in check. This was going to be a very tedious day.

The half-mile swim out to the boat took just under twelve minutes. Rapp could have done it in less time, but he was more interested in stealth than speed. He circled around to the bow, only his head above water. A dim light glowed from two of the portholes. The others were all dark. Under the cloudy night sky he was nearly impossible to see. Rapp took off his mask, snorkel, and fins. One by one he stuffed them into his swim bag and tied the bag just beneath the watermark to the anchor line. He then swung around the starboard side, close to the vessel, listening for any hint that Garret or his wife might be up and moving about. When he reached the stern he stopped and peered around the corner to check the swim platform. It was large, fifteen feet across and six feet deep. More importantly, its teak deck was empty.

Rapp had spent a lot of time in and around water over the last fifteen years. In terms of clandestine operations it offered many advantages, stealth being chief among them, but there was one big drawback. Noise traveled great distances and with great clarity on a relatively still night like this. Now, as Rapp listened, the only sound he heard was water lapping up against the sides of the boats and the occasional clanging of a line against the mast of one of the sailboats anchored in the harbor.

He slowly pulled himself out of the water until his upper body was resting on the teak platform. The boat was big enough that he didn’t need to worry about rocking it as he climbed onboard. His chief concern was that some insomniac stargazer on a nearby boat might catch a glimpse of him. He listened intently for several minutes and kept his eye on a sailboat and cruiser anchored several hundred feet closer to shore. Satisfied that no one was watching, he eased himself entirely onto the platform. Staying on his stomach, he rested his head on his forearms and remained motionless.

Rapp had played this one over and over in his mind’s eye for months. He’d envisioned a variety of scenarios where Garret might meet his death—some more satisfying than others. The efficient practitioner in him wanted to play this one safe. Take no risks. Hit him before he even knew what was happening and get it over with. But there was another part of him that desperately wanted to see the fear in Garret’s eyes. The man was a disgusting narcissist who hadn’t lost a wink of sleep over the innocent people he’d had a hand in killing, and the many more who were physically disfigured and emotionally scarred from the blast. Simply putting him out of his misery would be letting him off too easily.

Everything about this operation had to be analyzed with two main objectives in mind. Garret’s wife could not be harmed, and his death needed to look like an accident. With the advances made in forensic science these were no small tasks. Rapp had focused on Garret’s affinity for boating almost from the start. Thousands of people died every year in boating accidents—collision, fire, drowning, electrocution, or simply disappearing were all options.

Each time a new surveillance report arrived from the West Coast, Rapp took the time to read it thoroughly and in the context of his options. After a while a pattern began to emerge. Wanting to see things for himself, Rapp traveled to San Diego on a private plane. He arrived after dark and left before sunrise. From the balcony of a rented condo he spent an entire evening watching the marina where Garret kept his boat. That one night confirmed the opening that Rapp had detected in the surveillance reports.

For several months now, Rapp had imagined killing Garret more than a dozen ways, but only two stood up under scrutiny. When they found out about the trip he was planning with the new boat, everything fell into place. Even after he told Rivera that she would take point, Rapp continued to play the two scenarios in his mind. He thought of killing Garret so often that it almost felt like a memory.

Virtually every time he closed his eyes he pictured himself exactly where he was right now—on the aft swim platform of Stu Garret’s yacht. His low profile would rouse no suspicion. Under a clear moonlit sky he would look no different from a rolled-up tarp. On a night like tonight he would be nearly invisible. All that was left to do was wait for Garret.

The janitor pushed the cart down the hallway at a slow pace that appeared to be the result of either an injured left leg or a lack of enthusiasm for his job. He was wearing faded green coveralls with his security badge clipped to the flap of his left breast pocket. His black hair and beard were shot with gray. Over the last year and a half he had swept, scraped, scrubbed, and mopped virtually every room, hallway, and stairwell in the facility. He was respectful to his superiors, upbeat, and in general, well liked by the other people who supported the important scientific work that was being done.

The name on his security badge was Moshen Norwrasteh. He was sixty-six years old. Born and raised in the southeastern Iranian town of Bam, he had lost his wife, two children, and three grandchildren in a devastating earthquake that had killed over 30,000 people in 2003. Norwrasteh had struggled for years to find work after the quake, and then one day a cousin who worked for the Atomic Energy Organization found him a job at the Isfahan Nuclear facility. At first, his coworkers did not accept him. With unemployment rates so high the competition for any job, even janitor, was extremely intense. The locals whom he worked with were resentful of this outsider taking one of their jobs.