They had arrived in the country six weeks ago, each one of them taking separate flights to Syria. They had then joined the refugee travelers who were fleeing that country to escape from the war and devastation wreaked by Daesh and the continuous infighting between the government’s military and rebels.
Each one of them had paid hundreds of dollars to secretive middlemen who arranged such travel. From Syria to Iraq and then across the land border to Iran. A new route, the brokers claimed, that would avoid the entry blocks that were being put up by various countries to stem the flow of migrants.
The travel would take them through the northwest of Iran, across the border to Turkey, from where they would be led to Europe.
The Agency operatives broke away from their respective travel groups near Urmia, a remote town. Promises of new lives and passports in Germany, France or the United Kingdom didn’t interest them.
Zeb was the first to arrive at the rendezvous on the outskirts of Lake Urmia. The rest of his team arrived over the next twenty-four hours. All of them in good shape, none of them detected at any of the border patrols in the countries they had traveled.
Getting to Tehran was the easiest part of their infil into the country.
Each one of them had Iranian names and the credentials to back them up. Their employer was a charity that helped educate children who were orphaned in war. Such an organization did exist and conducted its activities all over the Middle East. Its CEO, Jeff Ryker, was the lead undercover CIA officer, long established in Iran and had readily taken on the Agency operatives.
He and Zeb had history, of the good kind. Besides, it was a new era of cooperation between the CIA and the Agency. Catlyn Feder, the Director of the US’s most recognizable intelligence outfit, had gotten to know Clare and her team well in a previous mission. She had found she had a lot in common with the Agency head and the women had become friends and allies.
Zeb and his crew looked Middle-Eastern and blended easily in the local populace.
All of them except Bwana. Impersonating as Ebrahim Yekta, his cover was that he had been adopted by an Iranian couple when they had worked in the West Indies. They had returned to Tehran and which was where he had grown up. Despite the water-tight legend, their plan was to minimize his street-time. Anyone looking like him would attract attention in Iran and they didn’t want that.
Zeb had suggested that Bwana stay back in New York, but the operative had put up a stormy protest and that had decided the issue.
Roger had grumbled that he too stood out. ‘I’m good looking,’ he had grouched. He had thrown his hands up in surrender at the baleful glares he received. ‘Anything for the team,’ he had declared manfully.
Meghan and Beth wore brown contacts and masqueraded as Susan and Ghazal Abdi. Chloe as Soraya Yazdani, needed no disguise.
They were in Iran for a specific mission, the deadliest one they had undertaken.
Take down Siavash Mostofi, head of the Quds Force, the man who had almost succeeded in bringing the United States to its knees.
‘Five vehicles,’ Zeb said as Beth continued the circuit around Shahriar. ‘Positioned around the garrison.’ He outlined his plan as the convoy rolled along, weaving in and out of traffic. A driver did a double-take when he saw Beth and had to swerve sharply to avoid smashing into a bus. Women drivers weren’t uncommon in Iran, but they weren’t seen that much on busier routes.
‘Remind me again,’ Bwana growled, ‘why we are doing this? We came to Iran to get Mostofi, didn’t we?’
‘Because,’ Chloe sighed wearily, ‘we need to rescue Jori Reuben and Zeha Benisch. We owe them.’
‘Why can’t Mossad extract them?’
Zeb grinned when Beth rolled her eyes at him. Bwana was going over ground they had already covered. He didn’t interrupt however. It’s how we go over mission details, making sure every one of us knows our roles.
He looked beneath his seat while the younger twin explained, checked his go-bag with his Glock and magazines hadn’t rolled back, settled in his seat as Chloe broke down the operation.
Reuben, a Mossad operative, was undercover in the garrison, impersonating as Haroun Kabali, a Syrian terrorist. He had been rescued by Quds Forces soldiers and brought to the garrison to train other fighters. His cover was an elaborate construct to covertly pass on vital intel to Tel Aviv.
Benisch was another Mossad agent, whose legend was that of a high-class brothel owner. She periodically visited the garrison and had made it look like she had fallen for Kabali.
Mostofi suspects someone inside the garrison leaked the identities of those ten terrorists. He’s locked down the entire camp, Zeb thought as he stared blindly at passing vehicles.
Benisch, who had been visiting Kabali, was trapped inside the base. Neither she nor Reuben were suspected, but it’s a matter of time. Their covers are good, very good, but they won’t hold up to the scrutiny that Mostofi will bring. He’ll torture and kill until he finds the informants.
He shifted in his seat and stretched. Avichai Levin, the Mossad ramsad, its Director, would have run a daring raid to free his operatives. The lockdown’s cramped his operations. Mostofi’s men along with the IRGC had made it difficult for any foreigners to enter the country. Levin did not have enough people in Iran to pull off the rescue. Which is where we come in. We arrived before Mostofi sealed the borders.
Their rescue would also help the Agency’s mission. It’ll deplete Mostofi’s resources. It would also send a message that Quds Forces weren’t invincible. It would give hope to the millions of Iranians who suffered under the brutal regime of the Supreme Leader, one which was ruthlessly enforced by the IRGC and Quds Forces.
‘Seen enough?’ Beth spoke over Chloe’s run down.
‘Yeah,’ Zeb straightened. ‘Let’s get some missiles.’