The Last Refuge (26 page)

“You’re referring to this morning’s story in the
Post,
Mr. President?” remarked Calibrisi.

Dellenbaugh tossed the paper down onto the glass coffee table.

“Yes,” said Dellenbaugh. “I’d like to know what’s going on.”

Calibrisi glanced at Jessica.

“
The Washington Post
has been known to make mistakes, sir,” said Calibrisi.

“Did they make a mistake?” asked Dellenbaugh.

“I don’t know,” said Calibrisi.

“I think you do, Hector,” said Dellenbaugh. “What happened to Amit Bhutta?”

“My guess is he’s not missing,” said Calibrisi. “If the article is correct, however, then it’s probably Mossad.”

“So this wasn’t Langley?” asked Dellenbaugh.

“No, sir,” said Calibrisi.

“I would think we could find out who did it.”

“Maybe,” said Calibrisi. “But Mossad keeps their own counsel, sir.”

“I just read the line-by-line of the negotiation session yesterday between Iran and the Swiss ambassador,” said Dellenbaugh. “The Swiss have succeeded in getting Iran to agree to halt their nuclear program. We’re talking about stopping it. A completely transparent inspection framework; monitors on the ground feeding real-time data into IAEA; unlimited, unannounced on-demand inspections, access to their centrifuge supply chain; everything we wanted.”

“Mr. President,” said Jessica, “the Iranians are the most dishonest group of people on this planet. They’re playing the Swiss. They’re playing you.”

“You can’t honestly say that and mean it, Jess,” said Dellenbaugh.

“Yes, I can. And I do mean it. I don’t trust Nava and Suleiman one bit.”

“I don’t trust them either,” said Dellenbaugh. “But not everyone over there is evil. There are good Iranians.”

Dellenbaugh sipped from his coffee cup.

“That might be true, but we’re negotiating with the bad ones.”

“I’ve decided to accept President Nava’s invitation,” said Dellenbaugh, staring down Jessica and Calibrisi. “I’m going to meet Nava and sit with him onstage. I’m willing to take the risk in order to get the possible reward. If there’s even a ten percent chance Iran will rejoin the civilized world, isn’t it worth the risk?”

Jessica was silent, as was Calibrisi.

“Does what happened to Kohl Meir not alter your thinking, President Dellenbaugh?” asked Jessica. “Meir was abducted on U.S. soil by the Iranian government. They killed two U.S. citizens in the process and now they’re going to execute him.”

“One life, even Meir’s, is irrelevant in the larger course of human events,” said Dellenbaugh. “We have the opportunity to bring peace and stability to the Middle East. Not to be blunt, but isn’t that worth the sacrifice of Kohl Meir’s life?”

Dellenbaugh paused. He stood up.

“The time and place have been set,” said Dellenbaugh.

“Tehran?” asked Calibrisi.

“No,” said the president. “The Swiss thought we should do it on neutral ground. It’ll take place in Buenos Aires. Jessica, I want you there. In the meantime, I want to reiterate what I said about leaving Iran the hell alone. Once they sign the agreement, we’re going to be all over them. For now, we need to steer clear.”

Jessica seethed, saying nothing.

“Yes, Mr. President,” said Calibrisi.

*   *   *

Jessica let Calibrisi enter her West Wing office then slammed the door behind her. Calibrisi’s head turned, jolted by the noise.

“Thanks for supporting me,” said Jessica. “What the hell was that?”

She walked around to her chair and sat down. Calibrisi remained standing.

“We’re stepping right into Nava’s clever little trap,” continued Jessica. “And we’re abandoning Kohl Meir. Frankly, we’re abandoning Israel. I’m resigning over this.”

Calibrisi stared at her.

“Say something, Hector.”

“What is there to say?”

“You know something, don’t you?” she asked.

Calibrisi remained silent.

“
Was
that you? My God, Hector. That was on U.S. soil. Do you realize what would happen—”

“It wasn’t me,” said Calibrisi.

For several seconds, Jessica studied his face. He remained calm, placid even.

“What are you not telling me?” she asked suspiciously. “It’s Dewey, isn’t it?”

Calibrisi’s face remained blank.

“You’re lying to the president of the United States.”

“No, I’m not. Dewey doesn’t work for me.”

“You just told Dellenbaugh you thought it was Mossad who took Bhutta.”

“Maybe it was,” said Calibrisi. He turned to leave.

“Where are you going?” asked Jessica. “We’re in the middle of a conversation. I want to know what the hell is going on.”

“I just told you.”

“No, you bloody well didn’t.”

“Yes, I did.”

Jessica stood up. She leaned forward, looking angrily at Calibrisi.

“I want to know what the hell is going on, Hector.”

Calibrisi met her angry stare with a look of placid frostiness.

“No, you don’t,” said Calibrisi.

Jessica’s face flushed red. She marched around the desk and moved in front of Calibrisi. She was shorter than Calibrisi, and much thinner, but her Irish temper was blazing and she looked as if she might reach out and slap Calibrisi. She raised her right hand and jabbed her finger into his chest.

“You tell me what the fuck is going on,” she said. “Right now.”

“You want to know what’s going on?” countered Calibrisi, leaning closer to Jessica. “Then you better be ready to put aside your little goddamn rule book, Jessica Tanzer, national security advisor. This is the real fucking world now.”

Jessica stared into Calibrisi’s brown eyes.

“I’m ready,” she said, calmer now. She paused. “I want to know. I want to help.”

“Then get your shit. We have a flight to catch.”

35

JEAN-LUC

TEHRAN, IRAN

The restaurant in the Azadi Grand Hotel in downtown Tehran was packed with people. Jean-Luc was Tehran’s most exclusive restaurant, run by a Frenchman named Jonas Le Chene, whose father, Jean, had started the restaurant in 1966. Somehow, the Le Chenes, devout Catholics, had managed to stay in business through the massive, violent, radical Islam–fueled upheavals of the late seventies up to the present, remaining agnostic to it all, allowing the stunning gourmet food, the timeless, intimate atmosphere of the restaurant, to transport its customers away from the chaos.

A favorite of Westerners, journalists, businessmen, along with European and Russian diplomats, Jean-Luc was always crowded. Its deep wood walls, abstract French oil paintings, thick carpet, its blocked-off, smallish interior rooms, all helped to muffle the noise of so many patrons, to foster intimacy, to hush the outside world.

But on some nights, even Jean-Luc couldn’t get away from it all. Tonight was one of those nights. The capture of Kohl Meir and the announcement by Mahmoud Nava had the entire city of Tehran on edge. Would the Israelis invade? Would they launch missiles?

The mood at Jean-Luc was electric; a combination of celebration, excitement, even pride. But with that victorious feeling, there was also a sense of foreboding, sadness, anger, and even embarrassment.

The announcement of Meir’s capture the week before, like every other political development in Iran, impacted people in sharply different ways. Some Iranians, a growing number, it seemed, were happy about it. These were the people who hated Israel, of course. But more than that, they hated America. These were the supporters of Mahmoud Nava. And Suleiman Islamic jihadists. It used to be that this coarse group was confined to the countryside. Increasingly, they were willing to make their presence known even in Tehran, the country’s political and cultural epicenter.

Just as strong, however, was a feeling of remorse among the moderates within Iran. This was by far the larger number. The Iranian government’s dirty little secret: most Iranians were kindhearted and fair. They craved democracy and peace. They were religious, but they hated extremism. Seventh- and eighth-generation Iranians, descendants of a time when Iranians—Persians—were known throughout the world for their stunning artistic achievements, writing, philosophy, and even more so for their kindness.

It was a dangerous time, ever since the days when Ayatollah Khomeini had come to Iran from Paris and established the Islamist Republic. Some Iranians had fled the country. But many didn’t, couldn’t afford to, or didn’t want to, believing it would all soon pass, this temporary insanity, and Iran would get its country back. But the temporary insanity had grown into permanent schizophrenia. The moderates now didn’t dare make too many waves, didn’t dare fight too hard. Everyone knew what would happen if they did. Everyone had a family member or a friend who had disappeared at the hands of the Revolutionary Guard or VEVAK. For this group, the quiet ones, the kidnapping of the Israeli soldier was yet another embarrassment in a long list of embarrassments. It was the beginning of yet another dark chapter brought on by the malevolent, cancerous tide that was slowly but inexorably destroying their beloved country.

At the restaurant’s long, crowded, and elegant mahogany bar, a series of flat-screen televisions behind the bar were turned on, volume down. They usually showed a football match. But tonight, all the television channels in Iran had been preempted by coverage of the trial of the Israeli soldier.

Every channel on the screen now showed, for the umpteenth time, a replay of Nava’s press conference that day. The clip of the press conference would soon be followed, also for the umpteenth time, by a biased report by an
Al Jazeera
correspondent named Samir el-Bakahtr discussing all of the crimes the Israeli soldier, Kohl Meir, had supposedly committed, as well as still photos of Meir from the trial.

Iran’s Minister of Information, Lon Qassou, the man who had given the order to state TV to preempt all other coverage, the man who had hand-fed the bogus charges to the
Al Jazeera
reporter, sat at the end of the bar, a stone expression on his face.

He watched his handiwork, the clip of his boss, President Mahmoud Nava, impassively. He sipped a glass of bourbon. It was his third of the night. Like every night, he would stop after four, after he was numb enough to go to sleep. Only he and Karin, the beautiful bartender, knew that he drank bourbon. Nothing illegal about that, but it wasn’t something he wanted people to know, that he drank the most uniquely American of whiskeys.

Qassou looked around the bar. The bar was packed two deep, mostly male, a few women. He didn’t see many Westerners. Not a journalist in sight, but there were a few Europeans. On nights like this, after a big, hateful, anti-American speech by Nava, or an announcement by Nava about the nuclear program, it seemed like the Americans and Brits in Tehran remained inside their apartments and hotels, holed up, fearful of the cutting edge that always lurked in Tehran. For 1979 would never leave the city, it would always be there forever, an indelible mark, to some a defining event, to others a permanent scar.

Qassou had removed his Prada glasses, tousled his long, black hair. He did this every night. He was one of the most recognizable faces in Iran. But by altering his appearance slightly in this way, he was able to enjoy relative anonymity on Tehran’s streets, and especially in the slightly darkened atmosphere of Jean-Luc. Had Qassou not altered his appearance in this way, he would not have been able to unplug from it all. Had he not messed up his hair and put in his contacts, he would not have been able to listen, as he did now, to the true, unvarnished opinions of Iranians.

To his left, two Iranian businessmen sat at the bar, one drinking a beer, the other a glass of red wine. Without looking, pretending to ignore the pair, Qassou stared at the TV screen.

“It sounds like Meir committed crimes.”

“Bullshit, Mohammed. Bullshit by the midget. Are you that gullible?”

“He ordered a missile strike on a hospital.”

“Right. And I discovered oil in my front yard this morning. They abducted him on American soil. Have we lost our minds?”

“Do you think America will invade?”

“No, of course not. They might bomb us, though.”

“I think Israel will bomb us. That’s what I think. And we deserve it. This time we deserve it.”

“Listen to your talk. VEVAK would drag you away if they heard you.”

At the end of the bar, Qassou noticed a woman staring at him. She had long brown hair, her hijab pulled down to her neck to show her face and pretty smile. She looked out of place, academic, a little older than a college student.

Qassou moved down to the seat next to her. He ordered another whiskey.

“Hello, Taris,” said Qassou, speaking to Taris Darwil, a reporter for
Al Jazeera
.

“What does it mean?” Darwil asked, barely above a whisper, a hint of urgency in her voice. “With Meir gone?”

Qassou pulled a bill from his wallet. He placed it down on the bar. It was an innocuous gesture; still, someone inspecting the bill closely would have noticed the handwriting, written in pencil, in the corner of the bill.

“Everything remains the same,” said Qassou. “There is somebody new. When I find out the location, I will call you. Send the location to this address. That is all.”

“But Meir—”

“Shush!” hissed Qassou, under his breath, glancing about nervously.

“But what about him? Were you aware of this abduction?”

“No, of course not,” snapped Qassou under his breath.

“Are you any closer to finding out the location?”

Qassou nodded. He glanced at her.

“He’s taking me tomorrow.”

“What if the American never contacts me?”

“Do you think I’m not trying?” he asked.

“Perhaps you can talk Nava out of it,” said Darwil.

Qassou stared at Darwil, expressionless.

“I’m worried,” said Darwil.

“You should be,” said Qassou.

He stood up, turned, and walked out of the bar.

*   *   *

In a low, plain-looking six-story apartment building in the Norlina neighborhood of east Tehran, Paria sat in a wooden rocking chair, staring at a television set. The news was on, volume down.