Targets of Deception (44 page)

The Asian stared down at him. Then, without speaking, he gave a slight nod, and another blow was inflicted from behind, this time just below the left side of Seyed’s neck. The young Iranian crumpled face-first onto the cracked tiles.

“I asked you to tell us the truth, and was hoping to conduct this inquiry in a civil manner,” the Asian said. “The offer will not be made again.”

Seyed twisted his head slightly, excruciating pain searing through his neck and shoulders as he struggled to look up. The Asian waited, but all Seyed Asghari muttered was
“Allahu Akbar.”
He already knew he was a dead man.

* * *

Ahmad Jaber had not survived these many years in his violent profession by taking chances or relying on the competence of others. When Seyed came to his home and revealed what he knew about this mission, Jaber realized that his own life had taken an inexorable turn. There was no way that a major assault was being planned by the IRGC without Jaber taking part, not unless his own people had turned against him. This left only two possibilities.

The less probable scenario was that the IRGC was indeed involved and that Jaber had been betrayed for reasons he did not know. The more likely alternative was that outside forces had initiated this scheme and decided to exclude him. In either event, Seyed Asghari would not have been permitted to roam the streets of Tehran without surveillance, or perhaps an escort—Jaber had to weigh the possibility that Seyed was being used to set him up.

Whichever of these was true, Jaber was certain that his enemies, whoever they were, already knew of the meeting. Whether Seyed put him in harm’s way by mischance or was a willing instrument of his demise, Ahmad Jaber understood that he had become expendable.

Whoever was running the operation had no choice but to liquidate him. If the situation were reversed, Jaber grudgingly acknowledged, he would do the same thing.

Living one’s life as a terrorist requires this sort of cold pragmatism. It also involves constant vigilance and the need to maintain any number of escape strategies. Whatever the facts proved themselves to be at some later date, he had to move swiftly to save himself and so, shortly after Seyed had departed that afternoon, Jaber initiated his plan.

Only his wife, Rasa, and their servant, Mahmud, shared the house. Their sons had died years ago, in faithful service to the forces of Iran in its struggles against Iraq.

He called his wife into the study, shut the door, and calmly explained that she must immediately take her car and leave for Tabriz to visit her sister. He offered neither an explanation nor a final goodbye. “If anything should happen, if you should hear anything that gives you cause for worry, you must then depart from Tabriz and follow the path to safety we have spoken of in the past.”

After years of marriage, Rasa Jaber had come to terms with the constant danger that was a part of their lives. The tragic loss of both children had hardened her, and so when Ahmad explained what she must do, she asked no questions. Only when her husband completed his instructions and handed her a case containing a large amount of cash did her dark, trusting eyes well with tears. They had been through difficult moments before, but this time she felt an eerie sense of finality.

“We will always meet on the bridge to paradise,” he told her, invoking the name Al Sirat. Then he added, “Allah be praised.” He spent the next hour with her, seeing to it that she packed and was on the road before nightfall.

Once his wife was gone, he told their servant that he would also be leaving for several days. He knew that in their absence Mahmud would avail himself of the luxury of his master’s bedroom, a far more comfortable situation than his own. Since he and Mahmud were approximately the same age, height, and weight, this would serve Jaber well.

After dismissing Mahmud, Jaber locked himself in his den, where he opened the wall safe and removed its contents. Then, using a keypad secreted on the wall inside the safe, he entered a series of codes. He had long ago planted explosives throughout his home, which remained benign until the day arrived when it became necessary to bring them to life. He was convinced that day had arrived. Once activated, they could be set off with the remote detonator he now held in his hand.

* * *

As soon as darkness fell, Jaber bid Mahmud good night, wished him well, and left the house. He took the various papers, weapons, and cash he had removed from the safe and placed them in his car. He then drove off, as if he were leaving town, but eventually circled back to his own neighborhood, arriving on the bluff high above his home. He parked, got out of the car, and took a position on the hill, where he prepared to wait.

Jaber had no doubt they would be coming for him, and he suspected it would happen soon. Given what little Seyed had described of his mission, it was obvious that the planned attack was a major offensive. Loose ends would not be tolerated. Assuming that everything Seyed had told him was the truth, the young man was already dead, or at least in custody, and anything they did not already know about his visit with Jaber would soon be revealed. Seyed might try to protect him by lying, but they would know the two had met and would not take any chances.

Even if they did not make their move against him tonight, Jaber understood that his time was limited. He was willing to spend a few hours here to see if he could discover anything, at least about the identity of these people. Either way, he was prepared to take the action he knew he must and make his escape. His plan was simple. If the assassins arrived tonight he would wait until they entered the house, then set off the explosion. It would kill his servant—who was standing in for Jaber in this tableau—as well as the men who would have come for him. If they did not arrive, he would initiate the explosion anyway and, by all accounts, Ahmad Jaber would be reported as the victim of some Western reprisal, a martyr in the cause of Allah, an Iranian hero.

Either way, it would take time for the authorities to properly identify the mutilated corpse in his bedroom, which would give him the opportunity he needed to follow his route to safety, through the back roads of his native land, moving west and into the border area near the Iraqi city of Erbil, where several Iranian diplomats were seized a couple of years before by American Special Ops personnel. The last leg of his journey would take him into the Sulaymaniyah province of Iraq, a Kurdish territory controlled by the United States. There he would turn himself over to the Americans, who would gladly accept the surrender of a senior IRGC official.

He allowed himself a grim smile as he sat on the stony ground, staring at his home below. .is was a well-to-do area by Iranian standards, the houses set comfortably apart, offering that illusion of privacy enjoyed in residential areas everywhere. It left Jaber to wonder who among his neighbors might have guessed at the secret life he had led all these years. What a convoluted world he inhabited. What an ironic end to his illustrious career.

As the night wore on, he could not help but consider another option. The notion of his own redemption was nearly irresistible. What if they came for him and he managed to capture one of these assailants, to have the chance to question him, perhaps to learn what all of this was about? What if he could then prove that he was still loyal to the cause, that he had not betrayed his country? A tempting prospect, of course, but he admitted to himself that he was not suited to such a confrontation. He was a terrorist, not, as the Americans would call it, a gunslinger. His job was to plan destructive actions to be carried out by others, not to put himself in the line of fire.

For the present, escape was the most viable path.

As the moments dragged slowly by, Jaber had no problem remaining alert—the fear of death is a dependable adrenal trigger. He spent the time staring at his home, a squarish structure of classic architecture. He looked around this affluent neighborhood, set just to the north of the Pasdaran district. Unlike the modern towers that reached to the sky near the Niavaran Highway, this was a quiet area, set among hills, with a view of the Alborz mountain range in the background. He allowed himself a melancholy thought, realizing how much he would miss this home and this life, while knowing that things had developed too quickly for him to allow emotion to influence his judgment. He had made his decision and would yet have to make other difficult choices in the moments and days ahead.

And then, as he rued this situation, he saw three men approaching his house from three different directions.

Very professional, he observed approvingly.

Even in the darkness he could make them out through his small field binoculars. They appeared to be Hispanic, just as Seyed had told him, and each was carrying an automatic weapon slung over his shoulder, each wearing a backpack. They stopped and removed their packages, then laid out the materials before them.

Interesting, Jaber thought as he watched them prepare incendiary devices. It had not occurred to him that they might arrange his death by planting explosives instead of a straightforward assassination, such as a gunshot to the head or a knife to the throat. Whoever they were, they wanted it to appear that he was a victim of terrorists, not thieves. From the look of things, they also wanted to leave no trace of him behind.

He wondered who these people might be, these foreigners who were so well organized and equipped, operating with such impunity in his own country. .ey could not be IRGC, he decided, and for a fleeting moment he reflected again on a reversal of course. Perhaps he should let them believe they had successfully played out their murderous plot, then he could arrive this very morning in IRGC headquarters to report everything he knew.

But what if he was wrong? What if the IRGC had condoned their plans? He would be walking into a firing squad, and suicide was certainly not a path Ahmad Jaber was prepared to travel, not even for the glory of Allah. That sacrifice, he had long ago decided, was best

left to others.

He shook his head as if to wish away all of this double thinking, then quietly rose to his knees. Leaning on a pile of rocks that protected him from view, he had a better look at the proceedings below. As the three men continued to prepare their materials Jaber became convinced they were not going inside the house before setting off the explosives. .at meant they would be able to make their escape before Jaber could detonate his own blast.

What a pity, the Iranian reflected bitterly.

He could ignite his charges first, when these three assassins approached the perimeter of the house. Perhaps the explosion would kill them, and there was certainly gratification in the idea. But what if one or more survived and came after him then and there? No, he decided, these were enemies he would have to fight another day.

He would set off his charges immediately after theirs, and they would be allowed to flee. They would be unlikely to notice the additional conflagration as they ran from the scene, but Jaber’s bedroom would certainly be vaporized and any chance of positive identification of the body inside would then be impossible, unless the government spent the time and effort to recover body fragments and do DNA testing. Even if they were so inclined, he would be far gone by then.

Jaber watched with a sense of morbid detachment as the three men went about the business of placing explosives around the base of the walls to his home. When they had completed their work they met at the bottom of the hill, where one of them suddenly pointed upward. Jaber crouched down, his pulse quickening. He waited a moment, then peered out into the darkness from behind the rocks. He felt his heart pounding even harder as they began climbing in his direction. He drew back, weighing his options. He realized his handgun and limited physical resources were no match for these three younger men. He had no time to run; the rocky hillside would give him away as soon as he moved.

Then he thought about setting off his own charges. The distraction might give him enough time to get away. It might even trigger their explosives, which would surely create enough mayhem to provide him an opportunity to get to his car.

Before he acted he risked one more quick look and was amazed to see that they had stopped halfway up the steep incline. As one of them pointed off to his right, Jaber understood. He had not been spotted. Apparently they had only been looking for a better position.

Jaber drew a deep breath as they clambered to a spot a hundred or so yards off to his right. He slumped down with his back against a large rock as he tried to control his heavy breathing. He stared at the detonator in his hand and prepared to wait.

He did not have to wait long. As soon as the three men settled in at a safe distance from the house a booming noise rocked the night. Seconds later Jaber hit the red button on his remote, and a combination of fire and noise lit the sky and filled it with a deafening thunder and a spray of stone and dust.

People in the homes all around them were jolted from their sleep, rushing to their windows to see what had happened. The damage was confined to Jaber’s home, but the explosions propelled debris into the dark sky.

Jaber held his ground, not moving until the three men had stolen away over the hill. He allowed himself a final look at the flaming remnants of the place he had called home for so many years, feeling a sadness he had not expected. Then he turned and began his journey to safety.

About the Author

Jeffrey Stephens was born in New York City and graduated from the Bronx High School of Science at the age of 16; he completed a B.A. in Creative Writing from Pennsylvania State University at 19. Jeffrey began his first novel in 1970, which would not be completed for several years as he entered the Fordham University School of Law. His private legal practice has included extensive civil and criminal courtroom experience, and he has represented a wide range of celebrity clients. Continuing to practice law while completing several novels, he only recently decided to pursue his career as a novelist in earnest, with the encouragement of his wife, Nancy.
Nancy and Jeffrey live in Greenwich, Connecticut, where they raised two sons, Graham and Trevor. All avid skiers, golfers and tennis players, they have traveled extensively as a family throughout the United States, Europe, Asia and the Caribbean, including a fateful trip years ago to Portofino, Italy, the setting for the climax of TARGETS OF DECEPTION.