ABSARD, TEHRAN PROVINCE, IRAN—11:45 / 11:45 A.M. IRST
The lug wrench popped the nut loose, and Nir spun it off. Once it was free, he threw it off into the field, then blew on his fingers to warm them before starting on the last nut. The temperature had reached 11 degrees Celsius, but it was humid, and the moisture was giving him chills.
Through his com, he could hear Lahav and Imri arguing.
“To the left. Your other left, Einstein!” Lahav shouted.
“That is my left!”
Nir could hear the slight phase separation between Imri’s digitized voice in his earbud and the real thing coming from the back seat of the beater sedan.
Lahav paused. “Oh. Yeah, my bad. But if you guys had parked the car straight, we wouldn’t have to be repositioning the camera.”
“Quit whining and do your job,” Nir said.
So far, Lahav had been remarkably professional during the operation. But now it seemed the stress was getting to him.
The final nut removed, Nir sent it flying after the others. Leaning down again, he pulled the rear driver’s side wheel from the car. “Be careful up there, Term 5. I don’t know how stable this jack is.” Term was short for Terminator, chosen because of the futuristic nature of this operation’s technology.
“Root.”
“Okay, the camera is good,” Lahav said. “Listen, guys, I want to apologize if I’m coming across as a little abrasive. It’s just that I’ve never—”
“Term 6, shut it. No one is interested in your feelings,” Nir said.
“Uh, root.”
“Term 2, ready for you.”
“Root,” Yaron replied.
Nir helped Imri ease out of the back seat. Both were dressed like they belonged in rural Iran, wearing light jackets, dark cotton pants, and off-brand sneakers. Nir was wearing a black wig because he normally kept his hair cut tight to his scalp. Yaron and Doron had joined him in that particular disguise. Imri had glued a beard to his normally smooth face.
A blue Nissan Zamyad pickup pulled onto the shoulder. Covering its bed was a large, dark-blue tarpaulin. Yaron nodded from the front seat. Nir lifted the tire he’d removed from the car and set it in the passenger seat of the truck. Then he followed Imri into the bed, where Doron was already waiting. Once inside, Doron slapped the rear window, and Yaron pulled out. Immediately, he made a U-turn around the center median. Ten seconds later, he turned right.
“Is it staying stable?” Nir asked Doron, nodding to the truck’s cargo.
“Holding tight. Been a little bouncy but not bad.”
“Bouncy?” came Lahav’s voice. “How bouncy? We can’t have bouncy.”
“Relax, Term 6,” Nir said, trying to keep Lahav from getting wound up again.
After the truck had traveled three-quarters of a mile, it slowed and stopped. Then they all jolted back and forth as the pickup eased up and over a high curb. It went forward a few more meters and repositioned itself on a small rise parallel to the curb and a low barbed wire fence. The front door opened and closed, and Nir heard Yaron slap the side of the truck.
That was their okay signal, and the three of them got to work while Yaron walked away.
Bolted to the bed of the pickup was a metal tripod. Fastened to that stand was a FN MAG machine gun. Belgian-made, it fired 600 7.62×51mm NATO rounds a minute and was known for its accuracy and reliability. The person who got in its path didn’t stand a chance, as this Mossad Kidon team was hoping to prove this afternoon.
The problem was that this target field was in Iran, an hour east of Tehran. Anyone whose finger was on the trigger of the gun had no chance of escape—unless the trigger of the gun was hours away.
Designed 2,000 kilometers from this location in Herzliya, in the heart of Israel’s Silicon Wadi, this killing machine was fully automated. Not only could it be directed and engaged remotely, but the artificial intelligence incorporated into its computerized brain meant it could shoot a fly off the backside of a cow without even eliciting a moo.
After the robotic gun was designed and manufactured, it was broken down into individual pieces. Over the last four months, those parts had been smuggled one by one into Iran. Once it had all arrived, a team of Sunni Baloch engineers had reassembled the weapon and installed it into the bed of one of the tens of thousands of blue Nissan Zamyad pickups that filled the streets of Iran.
While Imri fired up the electronics and began system-checking the cameras, Nir and Doron readied the gun. Lifting the cover, Doron laid in the ammunition belt. Then once he closed it back up, he pulled the cocking lever to charge the weapon. Stepping back, Nir moved in to check everything Doron had just done. He didn’t expect to find any mistakes, but in this kind of operation, you check everything twice. Meanwhile, Doron had moved on to ensure that the explosive charge was armed and ready to blow.
“This is Term 6. Everything is a go on my end,” Lahav said after a few minutes.
“Everything is a go here. Move to pickup.” Nir looked at Doron, who nodded.
“Root,” sounded off each member of the team—except for Yaron, who was already walking up the road.
After making sure no traffic was coming, Imri and Doron dropped out from the back of the truck. They would follow Yaron’s path. Nir hit the timer on this watch, set for four minutes, then began to position the tarp so the barrel of the gun had a clear shot.
So far, all had gone smoothly for Operation Unholy Father. Nir laughed when he first heard the name, mainly because it was so perfect for their target—Dr. Mohsen Fakhrizadeh, known as the Father of the Iranian Bomb. His official title was head of Iran’s Organization of Defensive Innovation and Research, or S.P.N.D. As all in the Mossad knew, though, this was just a fancy way of saying he was the one most responsible for the weaponization of Iran’s nuclear program.
Fakhrizadeh had been on a Mossad target list for more than 14 years, but he was almost impossible to get to. More than one assassination attempt had been prepared, then aborted. When Nir heard Netanyahu call the doctor out by name during his vault press conference, he had a feeling Fakhrizadeh had graduated to the top of the Mossad’s kill list. He just didn’t know his team would be the ones doing the killing.
Even as Israel became more diligent in their efforts to target the doctor, he was allowing his security to become more lax. For a decade and a half, he’d been told he could be killed at any time. But the intel Nir’s organization had received was that he was getting tired of hearing it. So many people had cried “Mossad” that he was starting to ignore the cries. This slipshod security reached into his carpool, and he’d begun to drive his own vehicle, relegating his protection team to cars in front and in back of his own. Nir and his agents would be counting on that sloppiness today.
Nir’s watch beeped. He climbed out of the back of the truck and started walking up the road. Soon, he heard a vehicle slowing behind him. The side door of the van was already open. He stepped in, and Lahav closed the door behind him.
“This is so cool,” said the analyst, obviously excited. “It’s like real secret agent stuff.”
“Go sit down before you blow a blood vessel.”
Nir opened the door for Imri and Doron, then again for Yaron before moving to the front passenger seat opposite Dima, who was driving.
“Hi, sweetie,” Nir said to the Russian whose disguise consisted of a woman’s headscarf and a long black dress. Dima glared at him. “Wow, hon, you don’t seem happy.”
Nir heard laughter in his coms as he reached to pull out his earpiece. “Great work, guys,” he called back. “Relax for the drive. Our babushka here has promised us a smooth trip.”
Let’s hope it’s smooth, Nir thought. Three hours from now we’ll be past Tehran and set up in Kaveh Industrial City. And three and a half hours from now, the unholy father will be meeting his unrighteous end.