90

Jenny did not explain how.

Not yet.

She still had to convince the man that al-Masri really had gone rogue and was, in fact, playing them for fools. To do so, she pulled a small digital voice recorder from her pocket and pressed Play. What Abdel Rahman heard next were a series of intercepted telephone calls between senior Hezbollah leaders and some of their commanders in the field. In one recording after another, Amin al-Masri was declared an “enemy of the movement” who had “betrayed the cause” and must be “hunted down and killed immediately.” The last was actually a conversation between the Sheikh himself and Mahmoud Entezam, head of the IRGC.

“What do you mean you don’t have the prisoners?”

“General, this wasn’t my operation. It’s still not clear to us who authorized the attack, but I assure you it wasn’t me.”

“Then why didn’t you say this when we first spoke?”

“I don’t know. I was still in shock. It was all happening so quickly. I thought it was possible—unlikely, highly unlikely, but possible—that one of my men had ordered it. If that were the case, I was prepared to be held accountable, to take responsibility myself. But we’re now certain. All of my generals were as blindsided as I was.”

“You should have told me this immediately.”

“I know, and—”

“We ordered you to fire your missiles because we thought—”

“Yes, I realize that, and I’m—”

“This is a disaster. Do you know how much damage you have—?”

The recording was cut off there, but it was clear from the look on his face that Rahman knew the voices. He could not, of course, have any idea how the Americans had intercepted the calls, nor that it was in fact Unit 8200—Israel’s equivalent of the NSA—who had done it. But there was no doubt in his mind that the recordings were authentic and that Jenny was telling him the truth.

“The airport,” Rahman said, pain thick in his voice. “One of the cargo terminals.”

“Which one?”

“Turkish.”

“Turkish Airlines?”

“Well, Turkish Cargo, but yes.”

“Not Iran Air?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Rahman shrugged.

“Doesn’t that seem strange?”

“What?”

“Using the Turks instead of Iran?”

“I guess,” Rahman said. “I didn’t really think about it.”

“How do you know?”

“Know what?”

“That al-Masri is using Turkish Air?”

“Because we went there.”

“Who?”

“The colonel and me and his aide.”

“His aide?” Jenny asked. “Who’s that?”

“His name is Zayan.”

“What’s his full name?”

“Zayan ibn Habib.”

“Who is he?”

“He’s on our team. He’s young. But I think he’s being groomed for a more senior role.”

“How old is he?”

“I don’t know. Twenty-six—maybe twenty-seven—I never asked him.”

“And the three of you went there together?”

“Yes.”

“Why you?”

“I’m the colonel’s driver. He trusts me.”

“Why aren’t you driving him now?”

“I told you—he said to wait here and come when he called.”

“When did you go?”

“Where?”

“To the airport, to the cargo terminal.”

“Last week.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean, why? To prep everything—you know.”

“No—tell me.”

“Please,” said Rahman. “I need some painkillers. I can’t—”

But Jenny cut him off. “Shut up and answer my questions.”

Rahman shook his head but then thought better of such defiance and kept talking. “We went to the office.”

“The Turkish Cargo office?”

“Yes.”

“Where is that?”

“Just past the taxi stand, on the south side of the airport—next to UPS.”

“Okay, and?”

“And the colonel went inside.”

“Not you?”

“No.”

“Zayan?”

“No, he told us to stay in the car. He went in alone.”

“How long?”

“Five minutes.”

“That’s it?”

“Maybe ten—but no longer.”

“And then?”

“Then he came out with a manager and told us to follow them. We went into the cargo terminal. The man led us to a storage area, gave us the keys, showed us the layout, and that was that. The colonel thanked him, and we left.”

“Cameras?”

“What?”

“Were there security cameras?”

“Of course.”

“Inside and out?”

“Yes.”

“Are there guards out front?”

“Yes.”

“How many?”

“Just one, in a booth—he’s the one authorized to open the big garage doors so you can move your containers or boxes or whatever in and out.”

“Is there any other way into the terminal?”

“In the back—that’s where all the forklifts and other equipment move the cargo from the terminal to the planes.”

“What about the sides of the building? Are there entrances?”

“On the north side, yes.”

“With a guard?”

“No, just a keypad—you swipe the card they give you, and the door opens electronically.”

“How far is that entrance from the storage area the colonel rented?”

“I don’t know—forty meters, fifty maybe.”

Jenny pulled out a notepad and pen from the pocket of her flak jacket and tossed them onto the man’s lap. She nodded to Callaghan to remove his handcuffs.

“Draw me a map,” she ordered, then took a step back and aimed her pistol at Rahman’s head, just in case.