Close Quarters

CHAPTER THREE

Tehran, Iran

Farzad Hemmati made his way through the alleys and back streets of his hometown with practiced ease.

It wasn’t difficult given the fact the route tended toward desertion this time of morning—the Tehran police didn’t feel any particular inclination to enforce the curfew unless someone appeared suspicious. A few of the citizens had work visas to be out during these hours, and Hemmati’s forged papers were enough to pass all but forensic scrutiny.

That’s if anyone bothered to check.

Hemmati had a cover story and had been schooled thoroughly in deception, first by the American CIA and then by his cleric masters. In fact, the head of the Pasdaran had ordered this meeting, summoning him to attend them at their hideaway nestled in the heart of the city’s worst ghetto—as if there could be a worst ghetto. Hemmati didn’t want to break it to his masters, but the fact remained this part of town didn’t exactly have the market cornered on poverty. To call it a ghetto could’ve described about three-quarters of Tehran.

Still, this had been Hemmati’s home for the past thirty years and it had seem him through the toughest times. It had also cost him the lives of his parents when he was ten, turning Hemmati into an orphan since none of his living relatives had either the interest or the money to take care of a growing boy. Hemmati might have ended up another street urchin or dead or even slaving away for the glory of the regime’s war machine. The Pasdaran had spared him that fate, taken him under its wing.

They’d fed him, clothed him, educated and trained him.

And then they’d turned him loose on society and made him earn his way, gaining him the experience he would need to survive. Now he knew in his heart and mind that it was time to repay all he owed them. Hemmati welcomed whatever tasks might befall him with all of the obedience and respect due his masters.

Hemmati reached the rendezvous point and made his way along a very narrow alley that stank of urine and garbage mixed with the occasional whiff of hashish on the air. In the predawn gloom he could make out the hump of a displaced person—there were many throughout the capital—hunkered down and wrapped in whatever tattered cloth they could find to keep warm against the icy nights the prevailed that time of year.

Hemmati reached what appeared to be a wooden door, although it was lined with two inches of lead. He rapped twice—a simple knock, so simple that few would think to duplicate it. A moment later a plate slid aside, a pair of white eyes peered out and then the see-through slammed closed with a thud. The door opened a minute later just enough to allow Hemmati to slide past.

The man attending the door said, “Go right in, Master Hemmati. They await you.”

Hemmati nodded and proceeded down a hallway about half the width of the alley. Only candles provided light. The place had no electricity and for very many good reasons that Hemmati opted not to consider at that moment. There’d be time for daydreaming later. Right now he would need his every wit about him for the task ahead. Hemmati continued to the end of the hallway and then turned to his left. He rapped once on the door before opening it and stepping into a room that was so familiar to him he almost felt as if he were a youth again, kneeling at his master’s knees, studying the Koran and memorizing the fatwas, principles of the jihad.

“Come, Farzad,” a voice called from the shadows on the far side of the room. “You are most welcome.”

“It is good to see you again, Mullah,” Hemmati said as he crossed the room and took a seat on the pillow at the edge of an ornate scarlet carpet covering the wooden floor.

Hemmati heard the rasp of a match against a striker and then a flame flared to life. The flash looked like lightning against the worn, haggard features of his master, but a moment later the wick of the oil lantern the cleric lit cast a glow to his countenance.

Hemmati had no idea how old Hooshmand Shahbazi actually was, as it would’ve been disrespectful to ever inquire of such matters, but the man seemed ancient to his ward. Among Shahbazi’s other students the subject had never been broached, even in private; not that privacy was something they’d ever known. Hemmati and his adopted brothers had eaten together, slept together and defecated alongside each other without shame. They’d never gone anywhere in public, such ventures being rare occasions indeed, without being in the company of at least two others. Shahbazi had insisted on this so they would maintain their purity and not fall victim to the temptations offered by a city out of control.

When they were of age, Shahbazi had brought women into their midst and observed them as they practiced the arts of sexuality. Every part of their lives had been controlled but never by coercion or threat of violence. Hemmati had never seen his master, a man whom he really viewed as his true and only father, lose his temper or even raise his voice. Even his commands were in the softest manner but with an implied imperative that dare not speak of the consequences for disobedience. It just simply was what it was, it always had been, and Hemmati knew fealty and honor to this one man.

“Where are my brothers, Mullah?” Hemmati inquired.

“They are preparing, Farzad,” Shahbazi replied. “The time’s now at hand for us to enact our plans. You’re to lead the way.”

Hemmati’s heart beat a little faster. “Me? I don’t understand.”

“You do,” Shahbazi countered. “You’ve been trained all your life for this. Although I loved each of you in equal portions, it was in you I saw the most promise. You excelled among your brothers, never revealing your superior intellect and skill when you could have flaunted it. This is the mark of a humble man and it’s this humility that makes you the strongest. Do you understand?”

“I think so, Mullah.”

“Then it is well.” Shahbazi smiled, his face wrinkling more. “So now let us talk of what you must do. Are you still in contact with the CIA agents the Americans claim they don’t have operating in the city?”

“I am.”

“You can contact them?”

“I can.”

“You must go to them and tell them you have knowledge of what’s happening in South America.”

“You want me to tell them the truth?”

“It is imperative you do this,” Shahbazi said. “President Ahmadinejad has made a critical error, a misstep in judgment really. We can no longer afford to support him. I’ve spoken with my other brothers in the government, and they agree that the Pasdaran must take control of the city before the president undermines the efforts of our brother Khamenei.”

That didn’t sit well with Hemmati. He’d never trusted Seyyed Ali Khamenei—head of Ahmadinejad’s elite paramilitary forces—despite the fact Khamenei claimed roots as a Basij Islamist. Khamenei had never lifted a finger to help Shahbazi or any of his father’s brothers in government. When Ahmadinejad dismissed a number of high-ranking officials within the Revolutionary Guard for being too “extreme” in their religious views, Khamenei had remained silent, almost stoic, in fact. The thought still burned in Hemmati’s gut.

“Forgive me, Mullah, but I don’t see how revealing our operations in Paraguay will help our cause,” Hemmati said. “Aren’t they still many months from completing the training of the Hezbollah contingent?”

“I received a recent report from Jahanshah,” the cleric said. “If I understood him correctly, they’ve already been discovered. It’s only a matter of time before the Americans learn what’s happened. Jahanshah has bought us some time but it isn’t much. We must act quickly if our plans can succeed.”

“You are planning a diversion.”

Shahbazi emitted a titter of amusement, what passed as the closest thing Hemmati could judge a laugh. “That’s exactly what I’m planning. I’m hoping you can be convincing enough that the Americans will come running here. The local men with the CIA won’t make a move until they’ve consulted with their superiors. Given the unrest in this entire region, the uprisings by our brothers in Egypt and Libya, they’ll see capitulation as only in their best interests. Their leadership is weak and I plan to seize that advantage. I’m confident I can depend on you.”

Hemmati scratched his chin and considered the request, although he already knew he could refuse his mullah nothing. This was an opportunity he’d not considered before, and Hemmati realized that Shahbazi had a side to his personality that hadn’t surfaced until now. Hemmati could only call it as he saw it: his mullah was as devious a bastard as he was wise.

“You can depend on me, Mullah.”

“It’s settled, then. Now I need to discuss with you another matter. One of great importance.”

* * *

HIS PARENTS NAMED HIM Ronald but to his few friends in the Company he went by Jester.

It had little to do with Ron Abney’s sense of humor, as most might have thought; rather it was his way of behaving around others when he felt uncomfortable. As one of his companions at Langley attested, “You start pulling that court-jester routine.” So the name stuck and in some small way Abney didn’t really mind. He only afforded the moniker to others within the Company, however, and they never spoke it in the company of outsiders since it ended up being his code name among the CIA walls of power in Wonderland.

“Hey, Jester,” Stephen Poppas said as he walked through the door of their run-down apartment on Tehran’s west side.

The place didn’t really qualify for the name, being more of a shithole than much else, but it was what Abney and Poppas liked to call home. Both of them had arrived in Tehran about the same time and fast developed a friendship that could only evolve naturally being all but stranded together in a very inhospitable, if somewhat exotic, locale. Abney was new to fieldwork, having only spent about two years abroad, but Poppas—who had to be somewhere on the order of fifteen years Abney’s senior—had been country hopping for the Company since he was “out of diapers” was the expression Poppas favored.

“Yo, Pops,” Abney called back, using Poppas’s nickname, “find anything decent to eat?”

Poppas dropped a greasy paper bag on the small counter that adjoined the kitchenette and replied, “Look for yourself, bro. I ain’t your mother.”

Abney grunted and got up from his position in front of what appeared to be a shortwave radio. The antiquated box was actually a high-tech frequency receiver and transmitter capable of sending encoded voice and data messages to an orbiting Joint Intelligence Task Force satellite. It provided the sole means of communication between the men and their contact they referred to simply as Mother.

“You weren’t followed?” Abney asked as he peeked in the bag and withdrew two paper cartons filled with squared portions of fried dough ladled with a local concoction that was half sweet, half spicy. Really it amounted to little more than a box of greasy bread, but it was better than much of the food served by the vendors on this side of town and a damn sight tastier. It also didn’t have any of the more popular spices in much of the local cuisine.

“You ask me that every time, Jester, and every time I give you the same answer.”

“Okay, don’t be a grump-ass,” Abney said. “You know I have to ask. There’s a system of checks and balances in this business. You taught me that. Remember?”

“That’s only one-way, plebe,” Poppas said. While his expression soured, his tone implied he was doing nothing more than some good-natured ribbing. “We ain’t the frigging Congress here.”

The banter dispensed with, the pair sat at the small table near the silent radio and dug into the food. They ate silently, mechanically, only taking breaks between bites to wash down the Iranian dumplings with bottled water. Nothing but bottled water—that was the rule, and at least one bottle from every grouping had to be sampled for poisons. It was quite a life case officers had to live, particularly in Middle Eastern and African countries, where for the most part they were unwanted. Abney had once asked Poppas, a happily married man of twenty years, if he’d ever told his wife about his experiences, to which Poppas had replied, “Fuck no.”

That had put an end to the conversation and Abney never asked him another personal question.

“So what’s the plan for today, Jester?”

Around a cheek filled with chewy dough, Abney replied, “I haven’t actually checked the book yet but I think—”

A soft rap sounded at the door.

The two men looked at the door, each other and back again before they got to their feet simultaneously and withdrew their pistols. Neither of them said a word. They weren’t accustomed to talking loudly and Abney hoped whoever stood on the other side hadn’t heard them conversing. It wasn’t the landlord. The guy worked a day job and he tended to mind his own business, especially with two Americans who paid rent four times the rate. Frankly, the pair could have been making bombs and the landlord couldn’t have cared less.

Another rap came, this one a bit more insistent.

Poppas made a couple of standard gestures, held his pistol high and level, and then nodded for Abney to open the door. As soon as he did, Poppas reached out, hauled the dark-skinned man inside and tossed him practically the length of the room—not difficult given the size of the place. Before the visitor knew it, he had two pistols trained on him a few inches from his face. He looked frightened at first, holding his hands high, but eventually he smiled and produced a chuckle.

“Damn it, Farzad!” Poppas said. “How many times have I told you never to come here?”

“Sorry, sorry…but it was important.”

“Important enough to break protocol?” Abney said.

“Screw protocol,” Poppas interjected. He waved the muzzle of his pistol skyward and said to Hemmati, “Was it important enough for you to risk getting your head blown off?”

“It may very well be that important, yes.”

Poppas and Abney exchanged surprised glances for the second time that day, then helped Hemmati to his feet. They pushed him onto a dirty, disused couch. It wasn’t outside the rules of the playbook for the Company to recruit local informants if the need arose, and Hemmati had proved useful in the past. If he’d risk coming here, there had to be a pretty good reason for it.

“All right,” Poppas said, taking a chair and fishing a cigarette from his pocket. He offered Hemmati one, who declined. “Sorry. I forgot you’re one of the few Iranians I know who doesn’t smoke.”

While Poppas lit a smoke, Abney asked, “Okay, so what’s going on?”

“I’ve come by information that I think will be of great value to you.”

“It better be,” Poppas said. “Now quit trying to build suspense and spill it already.”

“Recently you had an incident that took place in Paraguay.”

“There a lot of incidents in Paraguay, Farzad, in fact, all over the world. You want to be more specific?”

“I don’t have many details but it’s something about Peace Corps volunteers taken hostage by armed men who could not be identified.”

Poppas looked at Abney, who shrugged. He didn’t have any information about it. In fact, this was first he’d heard of it and the same was true for Poppas, given the older man’s expression. It could’ve been Hemmati was simply looking to dangle a carrot that might not pan out to be anything, but then it might also be the biggest thing to hit the intelligence community since the end of the Cold War. Case officers got junk information all the time from operators on the payroll—many of them working as double agents—which they usually referred to as “soap flakes.” Every so often, however, they hit a gem.

“So what about it?” Poppas said, not willing to let on they knew nothing about what Hemmati was telling them.

Internally, Poppas’s textbook approach amused Abney.

“I know who these men are.”

Poppas took a drag of his smoke before saying, “Who?”

“They are members of the Hezbollah, men being trained by officers in our Guard Corps.”

“You’re full of it!” Abney said. “There’s no way you could possibly know that.”

“There is a way I could know it,” Hemmati said. “I haven’t told you something until now because I needed it as leverage.”

“Why would you need leverage against us?”

“I don’t need leverage against you. I need leverage to get out of Iran, to go to America and never to return this country.”

“That’s a tall order, Farzad,” Poppas said.

“It is something you can do,” Hemmati replied. “Do not pretend that you don’t have the ear of the highest powers in your Washington. I know enough about you to know who you are and who you work for. Let us not pretend that I’m stupid. I went to college in Europe, remember? To be trained to work in the military. I have contacts close to Seyyed Ali Khamenei, you could even call them family. Only because of my bad eyes was I not able to do this. I have told you all this, so I would think my request comes as no surprise to you. Or my price.”

“Your price?” Poppas said.

“Oh, so you not only want us to spend a whole bundle of cash getting you out of here, but you want us to finance your life in the U.S., too,” Abney added.

“You’re a wackadoo if you think this tidbit of gossip you’re handing us is going to buy you a free ride across the pond, joker.”

“I have more,” Hemmati said.

Through a gust of smoke Poppas said, “Okay, tell us your more.”

“A faction within President Ahmadinejad’s officer corps is planning a coup. They plan to move on him soon and establish a new power within Iran. They are seeking the support of the Americans and they’ve sent me to make the offer.”

“Jumping jeebus,” Abney whispered.

Poppas looked at his companion and said, “I think it’s time to call Mother.”

CHAPTER FOUR

Atlantic Ocean

David McCarter stared at the blue-white horizon, the kind that could only look this pure and clean at an altitude of eight thousand feet. The sight liberated him inside, freed his soul and imagination from the cares of the day. Very soon, McCarter knew that feeling would dissipate to be replaced by a range of dangers that most men never experienced.

David McCarter had experienced enough to fill a thousand lives.

The other five men who accompanied him aboard the Stony Man jet could claim very similar circumstances, although none would have boasted about them if given a chance.

McCarter realized the time for introspection was nearly over. According to Jack Grimaldi—Stony Man’s ace pilot—they’d be touching down in Asunción in about ten minutes. McCarter had to consider all the angles of their present mission. Stony Man’s intelligence had been unusually scant. Between the powerful computers overseen by Aaron Kurtzman and the keen intellect of Barbara Price, sending either of the teams into a situation with little intelligence was an exception—a very disconcerting exception at that.