Nir slid down from the front seat to the pavement below as the SandCat was coming to a halt. Off to his right stood four men, one in heavy green camouflage and the other three in civilian clothes. The three in the back, he didn’t recognize at all. The one smiling in front, however, was a relief to see.
Catching his feet under himself, Nir strode up and took the man in a bear hug. “Mustafa! So good to see you.”
“May Allah bless you and keep you,” replied the Kurd, returning the embrace. When Nir had first met Colonel Mustafa Nurettin, the man had been a major in the People’s Protection Units, a Kurdish militant group that operated mostly in Syria. Nir, Dima, and the late Doron Mizrahi had found themselves on the ground in northern Syria due to an operation that had devolved to the point that a certain prisoner had jumped out of a helicopter. The sound of gunfire led them over a hill to a place where they witnessed a small battle taking place. Unfortunately, the major and his team were pinned down and hopelessly outnumbered by a Syrian army patrol. The three Israelis decided to even the odds, and the Syrian soldiers were quickly dispatched. When the battle was over, a grateful Nurettin promised Nir that he would return the favor whenever and in whatever way possible.
The colonel continued. “What those Hamas animals did to your country was unconscionable. What is done to combatants is fair game. But the way they treated the innocents—no one should get away with that. From my leaders to yours, you have our condolences and our support.”
“That is what I would expect from a true Kurd who has been under oppression for many years. It’s also why I called you.” Nir noticed that Yaron and Gil had joined him. “Colonel Nurettin, this is my team. Yaron Eisenbach and Gil Haviv.”
Nurettin shook the men’s hands. Then, indicating the three men with him, he said, “Behind me are three of my most loyal men. They are also three of my greatest undercover assets in Iran, so you’ll pardon me if I withhold their names.”
“Of course. Will they be seeing us to Tehran?”
Standing up straight, Nurettin replied, “I will be seeing you to Tehran. Your request came to me, and I accepted it. I will ensure that all goes according to plan.”
This was unexpected, but also a huge relief. You can trust the Kurds only as far as the Kurds can be trusted, which wasn’t always that far. Knowing the colonel would be with them gave Nir a much stronger sense of security. “Thank you, Mustafa. I am truly honored.”
“You saved my life once, heval. I owe you. My goal is to finish my life with no debts but those owed to Allah.”
Nir shook the man’s hand once again. “Fair enough. Are we in the box truck?” His eyes went to the stained, white vehicle with faded lettering parked behind the Kurds.
“Accommodations fit for a king,” laughed Nurettin.
The three Israelis went back to the SandCat to get their gear. Then they dismissed Jafarov, the driver, and hauled their bags to the back of the truck. After tossing everything in, they climbed up.
Nurettin jumped in with them, moving to the rear of the cargo area. “Join me—this will be where we stay. Sadly, my Persian is not at the level where I won’t raise suspicion. So, you are stuck with me. But don’t worry; we will not be alone.” Then he pulled a bottle out of a bag already tucked into a corner. Nir recognized it as Lebanese arak, something he hadn’t expected from a devout Muslim.
Nurettin caught Nir’s eye and winked. “Allah understands that warfare allows for certain indulgences that aren’t normally accepted. Twelve hours in the back of a truck to get to Tehran will require more than cards and stories.”
“Fair enough,” Nir said with a smile. If this man trusted his crew enough to sip a little spirit, Nir felt he had no choice but to do the same. The four men got themselves comfortable in the small space up against the rear of the cab. Then two of Nurettin’s men put a false wall in place, while the third started up the truck. Within minutes, they were bouncing along the broken road.
This ride probably would have been a lot smoother a few months ago before the tracks of Azerbaijan’s armor had rolled in. War is the great destroyer, even of the mundane.
Nurettin splashed drinks into four plastic cups and passed them around. They toasted Israel. They toasted the Kurdish People’s Protection Units. They toasted vengeance and their friends who had passed before them. An hour and a half later, when they reached the Iranian border, the four men in the back were each feeling a glow. But Nurettin had promised them that they need not worry. His men were the best, and within ten minutes, they were through.
It took another 90 minutes for the Kurdish colonel to start running out of stories. Another 15 passed before he began snoring in his corner of the cramped space. Nir tilted his head back against the frame of the truck and closed his eyes.
That man has way too many words. But we couldn’t do this without him.
As the glow of the Lebanese spirit lubricated Nir’s joints, his mind went to their upcoming target. Emad al-Natsheh was born in Jordan in 1970. Balding and bearded, most people would dismiss him as a mid-level CPA. At least, if they didn’t know his strong terrorist ties. In reality, as Hamas’s representative to Iran, al-Natsheh was a stone-cold killer. If Tehran was a faucet of terrorist funding, this man was the handle that twisted open the flow of money and weapons to Gaza.
Without al-Natsheh’s tireless advocating, Hamas could not have pulled off the October 7 attack. It was his constant promotion that drew in cash for small arms, rockets, and the parachute rigs that the first wave of attackers used at Nova. His hands were as bloody as if he were pulling the triggers himself. That blood was about to be avenged.
Despite his violent work, rather than hiding in fear, al-Natsheh lived a very comfortable life in Tehran. Home was a large, well-furnished apartment. He ate well and played very well. All of this was done with little fear of repercussion, due to the well-armed guard team that accompanied him wherever he went.
Your guards will not be enough to protect you. You came into our homes and destroyed our peace. Now I am coming to you to destroy you.
When Nir had sat with the team in CARL, they had weighed their options. The Hamas man stuck very closely to his routine. For most, that would be a fatal flaw. But for al-Natsheh, that routine was what protected him.
“It’s like he’s using all of Tehran as his personal human shield,” Dafna said. “You can’t hit him without taking out about a dozen others.”
Which was true. The man was never by himself—ever. He never traveled out of the city, nor did he ever take any less-used back roads. Truly insulated, he was surrounded by his bodyguards, who were surrounded by Tehran. Because of his routine, it would be child’s play to give him the Soleimani treatment and send a Hellfire down his gullet. But, as Dafna had pointed out, a dozen or more innocents would instantly lose their lives with him. That was unacceptable.
“We will not kill any innocents,” Nir had told his team at CARL. “That’s exactly what Hamas did to us. We will not sink to their level.”
Gil asked, “Can we run someone into him on the street? Give a VX hit like what Kim Jong-un did to his half brother?”
“Ein matzav. Security is too tight,” answered Lahav. “You may get someone in, but you wouldn’t get them back out. It would be a one-for-one death swap.”
“What about a magnetic mine, like an anti-tank mine?” asked Imri. “I know they’ve learned to direct charges a whole lot better.”
That opened up some good discussion until Yaron shut it back down. “Ultimately, it is too fine of a line. Too little explosion, and you risk your target’s survival. Too much explosion, and you face collateral damage. Trust me, I’d love to go and slap a magnetic mine under the fool’s car, but it just isn’t feasible.”
The meeting had gone long into the evening until Avi Carmeli came up with an idea. They talked it through, building and destroying several iterations. But the more they worked it through, the better chance it seemed to have of success. This plan was what brought Nir, Yaron, and Gil into the wolf’s den of Tehran with two magnetic mines, a couple motorcycle helmets, and a few other little surprises. They wouldn’t leave until al-Natsheh was dead.
Nir rehearsed the plan over and over in his mind until he fell asleep. He woke up a few hours later, disappointed to see they were still more than eight hours away from their destination. The men passed time playing cards, checking their weapons, and listening to Colonel Nurettin, who was back telling his stories.
By the time the false wall was pulled out at the safe house, they were all ready to stretch their legs before getting some real sleep.