Kabali and Hadar. They were the leaks, Mostofi thought savagely as he surveyed the ruins of Shariar Garrison. He had no proof other than his gut. It told him his guess was right.
‘Is the canteen working?’ he asked Dara.
‘No, agha, but I can arrange some food and chai.’ Tea.
‘Do that,’ the Quds leader barked and continued his inspection. His mood darkened as he surveyed the destroyed comms tower and the remains of one Javelin which was half-buried in dirt. He kicked at it bitterly and brought out his cell phone. There were bars on it.
‘All communications were down during the attack,’ Dara said hurriedly. ‘No phone networks. Nothing. I think the attackers were jamming our equipment. Our phones are dead even now. I had to send someone to a house outside the compound, to get them to call you.’
Drones, Mostofi deduced as he scanned the sky which was turning golden with the emergence of the sun. Some kind of EMP blast. Every garrison had been designed to withstand enemy attacks; however, drones and missiles weren’t scenarios they had envisaged. The Quds’ assumption had been that if such attacks happened, then the country was already at war.
‘You think Kabali had something to do with this?’ Dara asked. ‘And Hadar?’
He retreated when Mostofi glowered at him. The Quds boss continued with his inspection. The major and his men followed at a safe distance.
Despite his rage, he couldn’t help but admire the plot. Brilliant. A Syrian terrorist found injured in war, whom everyone had heard of. A brothel owner who fell for him.
Who could be behind them?
The Americans? Sure, they had the capability. But did they have agents of Kabali and Hadar’s caliber? They didn’t. Then he thought of Carter and reconsidered. That American agent, he could pass for any Middle-Eastern operative. He and his team were the deadliest enemies Mostofi had come across. They could pull off such an attack. However, they didn’t work with other operatives and neither Kabali nor Hadar matched their profiles.
No, Mostofi brooded, it wasn’t the Americans.
He turned when Dara approached, carrying a plate of food and a mug of tea. He nodded curtly and dug into the food, chewed slowly and downed it with a sip of chai. Food and drink, they made him think better, controlled his wild bursts of anger. He wiped his hands against his uniform when he had finished and handed the empty plate and mug to Dara, just as his phone rang.
‘Nassour,’ he recognized the number. ‘Yes?’
‘Agha, check the link I just sent you.’
Mostofi held up the phone, clicked on his aide’s message and pressed on the hyperlink. It opened to a website, a news agency that pumped out information on covert operations around the world. It was well-known in the intelligence world for the accuracy of its reports.
The Quds leader stared at the site for long as he stood there under the rising sun with the remains of Shariar Garrison around him.
He now knew who was behind the attack.
Mossad.