The Last Refuge (12 page)

“When I’m planning my own funeral, yes,” said Dewey.

Dewey stared at Qassou. He couldn’t imagine how he’d hijack a nuclear device; he would have to involve the CIA. He thought of Calibrisi, Polk, and the rest of the team that had helped execute the coup in Pakistan. He thought of Jessica. He would need their help.

But then, he realized, if he were to tell any of them, no matter how much they promised, they would have to elevate it. Especially Jessica.

“How much time do we have?” asked Dewey.

“Days,” said Qassou. “Taris will e-mail you. I’ll try to figure out how to free Kohl before they execute him. But you have to know something. I probably won’t succeed.”

“Why are you doing this?” asked Dewey.

“Why?”

“You heard me.”

“Not every Iranian hates Israel. You wouldn’t know that, would you? The day Iran destroys Tel Aviv will be celebrated by a very small, very vocal minority of Iranians. Most of us will be deeply embarrassed, ashamed, and angry. I would not have been able to live with myself if I didn’t try to stop this. When I die, I want to be proud of what I did while I was alive.”

With those words, Qassou stood, walked to the door, and disappeared into the night.

Dewey sat on the sofa for several minutes, closing his eyes, trying to think. Finally, he stood up and went to the minibar. He took the final bottle of whiskey from it. He stepped to the window. Lights dangled from lampposts along Arcadia Beach every hundred feet, illuminating the sand in small, eerie tan circles. He unscrewed the bottle and, as he put it to his lips, suddenly saw Qassou walking beneath the lights of the the boardwalk back to his hotel. Dewey slugged the whiskey as he continued to watch Qassou trail away.

Dewey was exhausted, both mentally and physically. He’d barely slept the night before, staying at a run-down motel near the airport in Tel Aviv. His flight tomorrow was at 11:00
A.M.
He would sleep in. There was so much to think about now, the complexity of a mission whose parameters had just changed, a mission he could tell no one about. His mind was too frazzled to think about any of it.

“Tomorrow,” he whispered aloud.

He would figure it out tomorrow. He watched as Qassou’s dark frame receded down the boardwalk to the left. He put the small bottle to his lips and drained it.

And then he saw it.

Out of the corner of his eye, to the right, along the beach. Almost imperceptible. A shadow passing beneath a lamppost. Then, whatever it was disappeared as it moved to the left, to the south, tracking Qassou at a distance.

It was at the opposite end of the beach from where he’d just seen Qassou, at least two hundred yards away.

Maybe it’s nothing
.
A shadow. A whore. Nothing.

But he knew it wasn’t nothing.

Then, at the next lamppost, the dark figure appeared from behind the shadows, stalking. He was large, a tall man, dressed in black. He moved calmly.

Was Qassou followed? Was
I
followed? Was it the man from earlier?

The man below, whoever he was, now was aware of Qassou’s meeting with Dewey.

Dewey picked up the Stechkin off the bed and ran to the door. He stepped into the hallway, then ran toward the elevators.

As he rounded the corner to the elevators, he came upon an agent in a leather jacket, bearded, young, olive skin, carrying a weapon Dewey recognized immediately, a H&K VP70M. Instinctively, Dewey stopped in his tracks, ducking as bullets tore from the muzzle. He pulled himself back, behind the corner, as bullets struck sheetrock next to his shoulder.

Shielded by the wall, Dewey moved backward, toward the fire stairs, as fast as he could, pressing his back against the wall, his right arm raised, pointing the Stechkin back at where he knew the gunman would emerge. His head swiveled between the corner of the wall, near the elevator, where he knew the killer would be coming, and the door to the stairs.

Then, with a suddenness that caused Dewey to jump back against the wall, the glass in the fire stair door shattered as shots were fired from the stairwell. There was a second killer.

Dewey flattened his back against the corridor wall and fired, causing whoever was in the stairwell to duck. Dewey’s eyes shot in the opposite direction, back to the elevator, as a black cylinder emerged from behind the corner of the wall. Bullets sailed blindly down the hall in his direction.

In front of Dewey was a hotel room door. As a hail of silenced slugs encroached now from both directions he raised his right foot and kicked the door violently in.

A woman inside the room screamed, her voice pitched with terror. Dewey lurched forward into the hotel room, sprinting. He fired one last round toward the stairwell, striking the Iranian in the forehead, dropping him. The woman screamed as Dewey crossed the carpet, running toward the deck. He fired toward the glass as he ran for his life, taking out the terrace door with a slug. The sound of shattering glass mingled with the young woman’s hysterical screams.

The other killer entered the room, weapon out, cocked to fire. He pulled the trigger. The girl’s screams were abruptly silenced as a slug ripped into her head, slamming her hard against the headboard, killing her instantly.

Dewey sprinted through the terrace door, onto shattered glass, then jumped, right foot first, to the railing, then out into the open air. As he leapt, he turned, rotating, and looked back up at the terrace. His legs flailed wildly as he fell. When the dark-haired killer stepped onto the terrace, Dewey fired a slug that ripped into his head, kicking the Iranian backward. A moment later, Dewey crashed into the swimming pool, back first, striking the water with a painful splash.

From three stories up, hitting the water was not like it was with a casual dive, but more like falling onto a piece of plywood. Dewey slammed down into the hard water of the pool; the wind was knocked out of him immediately. But he expected it, anticipated it, and in the moments after landing he let his body relax. He absorbed the trauma, swallowing the pain, then kicked his way slowly back to the surface. He left his gun at the bottom of the pool, swam to the shallow end of the pool, and stood for more than a minute, catching his breath.

He climbed from the pool, slowly now, leaning over and coughing. He tasted whiskey, cigarettes, and chlorine. He walked down the deck of the pool. His wet shoes made a sloshing noise. He took a set of stairs down to the beach. It was desolate, the only sound the soft, lazy patter of surf slapping atop the sand at water’s edge.

In the shadows beneath the boardwalk, he stopped and removed his shoes, socks, pants, and shirt. He was now dressed only in a pair of soaking-wet navy blue underwear. He ran down to the water, in the darkness, then sprinted along the surf line toward the south, running parallel to the path Qassou had taken back to his hotel.

Dewey felt his lungs burn as he ran. Looking up, the lampposts along the beach and street cast diffuse yellow light. After several minutes of hard running, Dewey spotted the red ember of a cigarette in the shadows along the dark buildings across the street. He slowed to a jog, moving along behind the ember. It was Qassou.

He scanned the sidewalk. The dark figure appeared again, a quarter mile or so behind Qassou, who was oblivious to the man tracking him. He was big and tall, and walked with the bowlegged gait of an athlete or soldier.

Dewey moved to the edge of the concrete boardwalk, aiming toward a midpoint between two lampposts, a place that was in total darkness. He hunched over next to the overhang, waiting for the man to pass, watching him. When the man was a hundred feet farther along, Dewey reached up and pulled himself onto the boardwalk. He stepped silently across the cobblestone street. He began a slow run along the edge of the dark buildings, beneath canopies, hidden by shadows. He came to within five feet of the dark figure; close enough to smell cologne; close enough to hear him breathing.

Dewey took the final barefoot steps in silence, timing it so that he reached the man beneath a restaurant canopy. In one swift motion, he wrapped his right forearm around the front of the man’s neck and his left forearm across the back of his neck, locking his left hand to his own armpit, rendering the man’s neck in a vise-like grip that was unbreakable.

The killer was solid, resilient, and he struggled, flailing his arms wildly, fighting to pull Dewey’s arms away from his neck, but it was futile. He kicked backward, then attempted to pull Dewey over, but Dewey was simply too strong. Dewey yanked back with his right forearm, snapping the man’s neck like a tree branch.

Setting the body down, he searched his jacket and clothing, finding nothing except some money, a fixed-blade combat knife, and a black Glock G22C. He took the gun and the knife. Making sure no one had seen him, Dewey ran back across the street and jumped down to the cold sand. He threw the knife and gun as far as he could out into the surf.

He ran back to the hotel, barefoot, in his underwear, along the water’s edge. Near the hotel, he retrieved his wet clothing and shoes. Looking down, he saw that his feet were bleeding from rocks and shells along the beach that he hadn’t even felt.

He needed to get out of Ukraine before the proverbial shit hit the fan. But beyond that, he needed help. He was in over his head, far over his head, and he knew it.

15

MINISTRY OF INFORMATION

PUBLIC RELATIONS COMMUNIQUÉ ROOM

TEHRAN

“The dais is prepared. Whenever you’re ready, sir.”

“Good. How many reporters are there?”

“The usual pool.”

“Are any of the U.S. networks there?”

“Yes. Fox has a camera. The others will pull off the pool. The correspondent from NBC, Richard Engel, has requested an interview afterward.”

“Tell Mr. Engel I will be happy to do it, after
Al Jazeera
gets their turn. Who is the correspondent?”

“El-Bakhatr.”

“That’s good. That’s very good.”

“Please, Mr. President, remember my advice. Do not smile. Do not gloat. This is about
justice
. This is about holding a
criminal
accountable. You must stick to the message.”

President Mahmoud Nava adjusted his glasses as he studied the paper in front of him. He lowered the glasses on the bridge of his nose, then looked across the mahogany desk at his minister of information, Lon Qassou.

“But how can we not gloat today, Lon?” asked Nava, smiling.

“Please, sir,” said Qassou. “As it is, the announcement will be a lightning bolt across the sky. A majority of world opinion will be deeply critical.”

“We’re used to that.”

“Yes, but if you gloat you’ll only build sympathy for Israel. Even from our natural allies. You cannot express personal satisfaction. This is about
justice
.”

Nava stood up.

“I understand. Do you think we would be better off if the adjutant justice made the announcement instead of me?”

Qassou shook his head, closing his eyes, his frustration impossible to hide. “Yes, you know I think Rafsanjani should make the announcement. I practically begged you. You are once again needlessly politicizing this. But that is your style. It will be your downfall. And now it is too late. Rafsanjani is not even in Tehran and there are fifty hungry reporters out there.”

Nava watched with a big smile on his face as Qassou railed at him.

“You know me too well, Lonnie.” Nava laughed. “No one could deprive me of this announcement. This will be the greatest day of my presidency. This will strike like the plague on all of Israel. There will be only one thing better, the day we drop—”

“Stop,” interrupted Qassou, anger in his voice. “It’s all a joke to you.”

Nava stepped to the door, opened it slightly. The sound of the crowded communiqué room, filled with reporters, burst inside the office. He stared out through the crack, into the room.

Nava, still facing the door, searched the crowd of reporters through the crack, then looked back at Qassou. A maniacal smile crept like a small garter snake across his lips.

“Justice will be when we have wiped Israel from the face of the earth.”

*   *   *

A thousand miles to the west, near the center of Jerusalem, in a heavily guarded six-story building made of tan-colored Jerusalem stone, Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Shalit rubbed his eyes.

The cabinet room, a spacious room down the hallway from the prime minister’s office, was crowded. Jerusalem was enjoying an unusual heat wave and the air-conditioning in the cabinet room wasn’t working. The members of Shalit’s cabinet sat around the square wooden conference table, cigarette smoke cantilevered in hazy lines across the sunlit air, sweating.

A door to Shalit’s left burst open.

“Mr. Prime Minister, excuse me, sir,” said the young man nervously. He looked about the room. “Come quickly.”

Shalit, followed by his cabinet ministers, walked quickly down the hallway. In the cramped press office, a large television was turned on.

“Hurry,” said Eli Ziegler, Shalit’s press secretary. “He’s about to come on.”

“Who is about to come on, Eli?” demanded Shalit.

“Nava,” answered Ziegler, ashen.

On the screen, a long, empty conference table with a cluster of microphones at the center. Behind the table, on the wall, to the left, the red and green flag of Iran. Next to the flag, three photos: Iran’s president, Mahmoud Nava; Iran’s supreme religious leader, Ali Suleiman; and the ubiquitous photo of Ayatollah Khomeini.

Beneath the screen, which was empty, the ticker scrolled:
LIVE PRESS CONFERENCE WITH PRESIDENT NAVA.

Shalit, tired and angry, stepped to the television and stood directly in front of it.

From the side of the screen, Iran’s president, Mahmoud Nava, entered and took a seat behind the microphones.

“Just over three years ago, a group of Israeli soldiers killed four Iranians. This was not a battle. These Iranians were ambushed on a boat in the Strait of Hormuz by Israeli special forces. One of those men was positively identified. His name is Kohl Meir. Mr. Meir was indicted by the highest court in Iran for his role in the deaths of the four Iranian citizens.