What an Odyssey, Dale thought to himself, walking across the bone-dry, wind-whipped, sun-scorched tarmac of Turkey’s Erzurum Airport. Total travel time had been over twenty-three hours, involving a Kuwait Airways flight into Kuwait City, then Turkish Air to Istanbul, then finally a beat-up turboprop to this Podunk field.
He donned his Ray-Bans and squinted against the unrelenting brightness of the concrete. Another prop plane was spinning up somewhere down the line, crushing his ears. The smell of aviation gas burned his nose. It was acrid and harsh, but then, it probably smelled better than he did.
He’d found a quickie tailor in Mumbai to produce the light gray suit he was wearing. He’d actually been pretty proud of it on his business-class flight out of India, thinking he could use a suit like this. Back then it had looked appropriate for the French oil executive whose identity he’d now assumed.
But after he’d sweated in airplane seats for twenty-some hours, it was starting to grab in all the wrong places. He really needed to find that hotel room.
For a mere fifty bucks a night, the Otel Zade was actually a pretty nice place. It was a damn sight better than that shithole hostel in Mumbai. It was certainly better than the even shittier hostel he’d stayed in after getting Mrs. Rahimi safely off to the USS Bonhomme Richard as the first leg of her long journey back to DC.
After tipping his Turkish driver generously—he wasn’t exactly sure how many liras there were to the dollar—he left his bag with the bellman and went for a walk around the block. Tired as he was, he knew the right thing was to conduct an SDR for an hour or so before checking in. He’d had a tail since day one of this op, and he wasn’t about to start letting his guard down now.
He’d been to Turkey many times over the course of his former career. But he’d always been down in the extreme south of the country, near the Iraqi border, for his adventures in Kurdistan as part of Broadsword. He’d never been up here in the eastern province, close to the Iranian border.
He liked what he saw. Erzurum, as it turned out, was a pretty sweet gig. Surrounded by sunny green hills, it was an ancient Anatolian city that had been bandied back and forth between the Persian, Roman, and Armenian empires for a couple thousand years. At five thousand feet on this clear day, the thin air was cool, the sun hot. The mountains in eastern Washington were like this; it gave him a brief flash of homesickness.
The city of Erzurum’s defining feature was a hulking madrasa built in the thirteenth century with twin minarets and Byzantine arches. Dale walked around the thick walls of the citadel, gawking like any other tourist.
He took a few pictures, thinking that its pink spires glowing against the smooth green hills would make an interesting painting, particularly if he could capture some of the lined brown Turkish faces he saw. One could read a lot into those faces.
He scanned the crowd through his phone’s viewfinder, seeing no one particularly suspicious, just the serious Turkish men and women. And Russian tourists. That was unnerving, but given the proximity to Russia, unavoidable.
He rounded the corner, doubled back, found a market where he bought a bag of oranges, and kept his eye open for a tail. Nothing. He went back to his hotel room, feeling reasonably secure. He knew the best way to lose surveillants was simply to bore them to death and he thought he’d done a pretty good job of that today. He made up his makeshift bed in the closet, bolted the door, put his devices on chargers, and drew the curtains. He slept for four hours.
After treating himself to a meal in the hotel restaurant, black Turkish coffee, and a couple of oranges, he finally felt fresh enough to handle the call he was so dreading. Meredith was going to rip him to shreds. His list of offenses was long and distinguished.
For starters, he’d ducked out of the consulate in Mumbai as quickly as he’d gone in. Everyone, Meredith included, had thought Dale would be on that Osprey heading out to sea and the safety of an American warship.
But while he needed to get Nadia Rahimi off to safety, he knew she wasn’t the real prize. The mission to nab Cerberus was far from over. The last thing he wanted was to get himself folded fully into the CIA’s clutching embrace, only to have them compromise him again somehow and then send him back out into harm’s way. Fuck that.
What was more, Dale was an experienced Navy man. He knew that once aboard a ship at sea, he’d be trapped. His only way off would be at the mercy of the captain. Dale couldn’t imagine anything worse than being sequestered on that ship, enduring annoying questions via satellite video feeds from clowns like Rance.
No way. That was another reason he’d fled that consulate. He’d rather face the banged-up Russians than a self-righteously empowered Rance.
Besides, he’d been burned twice on this op now. There was something wrong somewhere back at Langley. He continued to trust only Meredith. Even with her, he felt safe enough to drizzle out only tiny bits of information, lest someone somewhere down the line piece together what he was up to. He couldn’t afford that kind of lapse. It continued to drive her nuts, but that was the deal.
He dialed his phone, utilizing the secure app.
She picked up on the fourth ring. He heard a tone as her app also went secure. He realized it was only five in the morning her time. Oh, well. He apologized.
“It’s all right,” she said. She sounded alert and fresh. “I’m getting ready for my run.”
“Are you . . . alone?” Dale was never quite sure how to ask what Meredith was up to these days in the romance department. Jealousies aside, he needed to know for security reasons.
“Yes, John. I’m alone.”
“Cool. Thanks. How is Mrs. R?” he asked.
“We’ve got her set up in a safe house in McLean. She’s been doing a lot of shopping and yoga. She keeps waiting for her husband to call, worrying.”
“So that makes two of you, then.”
“Nope.”
Failing to find a rejoinder, Dale grunted. He parted the curtains and looked outside. The sun was beginning to set behind the hills. He heard bells somewhere in the city. It really was a charming place. Maybe he’d come back here one day, do some hunting in those hills. Or maybe painting. Both. At least divorce granted him that liberty.
“Anyway, Meth. As directed, I’m checking in to tell you I’m in place. Almost.”
“Have you heard from Cerberus?”
“No,” Dale said. “But I expect to. He can’t possibly have much time and we’ve fulfilled our end of the bargain. You saw how she wrote him a nice letter.”
“After the clusterfuck of getting her out, I’d be surprised if the Iranians don’t already know something’s up.”
“Right. Let’s hope not,” he said.
“Not to mention, did you see that the Bushehr nuclear summit with Russia got called off?”
“No.”
“Yeah,” she went on. “It went from being a very noisy PR event to a very quiet cancellation. We’re seeing the IRGC spin up air defense radars.”
“Do we know why?” he asked.
“No.”
“That’s a hell of an intelligence agency you’ve got back there.”
“Fuck off, John. Maybe someone knows at HQS, but I don’t.”
He laughed.
She continued, sounding more like her professional self. “I can only assume it has something to do with the Russians’ extracurricular activity in Mumbai. They probably pulled the plug on Bushehr out of an abundance of caution, thinking we might have something. Anyway, it’s gotten everyone’s attention. The director is running Stalinesque purges, desperate to get some info. He’s pretty focused on keeping Active Archer solid.”
“Yeah, I figured. I’m working on that,” said Dale. “At least you have half the package. Have you gotten any blowback from the Mumbai thing?”
“Not yet. The blonde you saw got away. Nobody else saw her. We recovered three dead guys, though. The two shooters on the bridge and another guy in the wrecked van. All three look like Spetz, as expected.”
Dale said, “Yeah, had to be. I’m getting pretty tired of them screwing up the op. No blowback on you specifically? It was a gutsy call to give the shoot order.”
“I’ll be okay just as long as you can get our man. We played it like you said. Linked it to terrorists. The Russians, of course, have been in full denial. We’ll quietly return the bodies to them. Shit happens.”
“Nice.”
“Right. So, John, this is starting to eat into my run time. What’s up? What do you need to get this thing done?”
He yawned. The jet lag was creeping back in. “Well, first of all, I wanted to thank you for the new credos and the extra dough. Worked like a charm. I didn’t get a second look coming into either K City or Istie. I think we can assume that Reza Shariati is compromised, so you may as well deactivate that old legend, for what it’s worth.”
“Yeah, I suppose so. I’m going to miss him—we had a lot of good times once.”
In the ensuing three seconds of silence, Dale felt like he was supposed to say something. But he drew a blank.
“Anyway,” she said, covering the delay, “I’m glad the new credos worked. You can thank our friends at DGSE for the French passport. What now?”
“Same as before,” he said. “I need a weapon. And a ride.”
“Do you know where yet?”
“Based on Mrs. R’s info, I think our man is somewhere up in the Azerbaijan Province, maybe Tabriz. It fits. Anyway, even if he’s still in Tehran, getting through from Turkey is my best bet.”
“Okay. I go back a ways with the chief of station Istanbul. Pretty solid guy when it comes to Iranian ops.”
She left out that she’d been dating the Istanbul chief of station off and on for the past six months. She’d seen him six weeks ago on one of his periodic trips back to Langley.
Dale left out that he knew as much through Grace. “Thanks,” he said.
“What kind of ride are you thinking about?” she asked.
“There was a guy. We used him to get into Iraq. Smuggler. But it’s been five years. I need you to find him and direct him east, not south.”
“If it was five years ago, then he’s probably not in it anymore,” she said.
“There’s always a guy. You know how it is.”
He could hear her sighing. “I’ll ask around.”
“And, Meth . . .”
“Yes, John, I know. I have to keep it quiet.”
“Right. Even with that Istanbul-chief-of-station guy. I always thought he was a bit of a douche, by the way.” Before she could respond, he added, “Hey, speaking of douches—you’re not going anywhere near Rance, are you?”
“Trying not to. I’m going back channel as much as possible. But he is my boss. Dorsey’s on his ass, so he asks about you all the time.”
“He’s dirty, Meth. Keep your distance.”
“Yeah, well, that’s a little easier this week. He’s in London.”
“Why?”
“Some nonproliferation conference with MI-6 and DGSE. They’re trying to figure out how to handle this Iranian thing. They’re starting to think it’s only a matter of weeks before the Iranians achieve breakout, at least on the low-grade uranium. I think they’re really trying to figure out what to do if Active Archer folds up shop. With Cerberus off the radar, our techs can’t get into the systems back there the way they used to. We’re blind. The Russians are pumping in the ’cake. It’s scary.”
“Yeah, I know. Cerberus will be back online once I bring him in,” Dale said. “He’s going to come in for his wife.”
“She’s already pretty broken up about the daughter. I’ve been very reassuring when it comes to her husband. Don’t make me a liar.”
“I won’t. Just get me a weapon and a ride. I’ll get him. You know I will.”
Javad had been particular about the seating arrangements. He’d asked Zana to sit up front, two rows behind the closed door of the cockpit. The aircraft was a Chinese-made Harbin Y-12, an ungainly high-winged dual-engine turboprop from the early eighties. The fourteen seats were in seven rows of two.
Feeling Javad’s eyes on the back of his head, Zana slumped against the window, looking at the ground three thousand feet below. On this clear, sunny day, he watched the desert scrolling by. The landscape had gone from coastal sands to lowland scrub to high plains to the series of long, ascending ridges that would eventually scrunch up to form the western edge of the Zagros Mountains.
How he longed to be down there, free of this aircraft. Each ridge he passed seemed like one more step up the staircase to Tabriz, where he was sure he would be facing his doom.
For years, he’d done what he could to cover his tracks with the manipulation of the systems. But the Twelvers who ran Zaqqum had done it now. Between the Russians working through the Zippe centrifuges and a concentrated effort on forensic computing, they’d certainly figure out what he’d been doing.
He would be tried and executed as a traitor. But that was only if he lived through the torture he would surely face in Evin Prison first. That was how it always went. He would follow the path of his brother and the scores of other resisters over the years, both innocent and guilty. And thinking of the USB in his pocket, he knew that he’d only delayed them, not stopped them.
The one thing that gave him solace was that he had at least gotten Nadia out. They wouldn’t be able to use her against him. Then of course there was Sahar. He stared down at the desert, trying to think only of his family, trying to convince himself that it had all been worth it, even if he had really only bought some time for the rest of the world.
He pressed a finger against the hard lump in his pocket, watching the desert scroll by. Unless . . . If there were just a way to get through the upload . . . it would be his final, lasting revenge. A bit of code to take down the whole array in one cascading fireball.
The Y-12 was amazingly slow. He wondered if they might be fighting a headwind. The crew said they would be cruising at a hundred eighty knots at best. He kept his eyes focused on some scraggly brown ridges up ahead. The airplane’s engines were revving hard. It seemed to be straining into a climb.
He started to think about what he was going to say when they finally touched down in Tabriz. He could picture the scene. Most likely it would be the base commander, a few MOIS plainclothesmen, and one of the Russians. He supposed that one of the Russians must surely have found him out and said something. He supposed that was really why they had pulled out of the conference in Bushehr. It was all inevitable, like it had been for his brother.
The aircraft bucked with turbulence a few times as it attempted to gain altitude. Zana watched the ridge, wondering what it would feel like when he finally knew they had him figured out. Would he just admit it and accept his fate?
Probably so. He knew he was on his way to an execution either way. There would be no point of withstanding torture first. If he had only taken the time to upload the software the night before, then it wouldn’t matter as much. If they had only just let him take that bus.
He felt the aircraft turning left, heading west. His view was to the south now. He felt the aircraft begin a slow descent. The engines became quieter. Zana wondered what was going on. Tabriz was still a few hundred miles to the northeast. He had yet to sight Lake Urmia, so he knew they were less than two-thirds of the way into their journey. The brown mountains of the foothills receded as the aircraft continued descending to the west.
The door to the cockpit opened and one of the uniformed IRGC pilots shouldered his way down the aisle. He didn’t make eye contact with Zana. He seemed focused on Javad, the ranking officer. They had to shout at each other over the plane’s engines to be heard.
“Strong headwinds,” the copilot said, pointing outside. “We’re going to have to set down and refuel.”
“We have orders to be back immediately,” Javad answered without hesitation.
“Fuel is fuel, sir. We won’t make it as it is. There is a small airfield nearby. It won’t take long.”
Zana chanced a look back at them. Javad’s brow was scrunched. He waved the pilot away with irritation, accepting the reality. He caught Zana looking at him and simply stared back. Zana turned his head toward the window.
Perhaps, he thought. Just perhaps there would be a chance that he could upload the software script while they were on the ground. He would need a few minutes of privacy and a reasonable network. Javad, while treating him like a criminal, had at least not yet taken his laptop.
After another ten minutes of descent, Zana saw the field as the transport went into the downwind leg of the pattern. It was little more than a long dirt strip with a few other light military aircraft parked around it. There was another Y-12 and an old American Huey helicopter fallen into rusted disrepair. He saw a single hangar building and a few parked cars.
Zana felt the wheels touch down and the jostle of the landing gear running over the dirt. The rollout took nearly the length of the dirt strip, but the pilots managed to bring the plane to a halt with a groan from the brakes. They turned and taxied toward the small hangar in a cloud of dust. Finally, the engines went silent and Zana watched the propeller in his window slow to a stop.
“Nobody moves,” Javad announced when it was quiet enough to be heard. “This is just a brief refueling stop.”
The pilots had opened their hatch and thrown open the larger fuselage door. Zana felt a wave of warm air flow into the plane. One of the pilots turned toward them.
“I’m sorry, sir, but everyone has to get off. Regulations. We can’t refuel with passengers on board.”
Zana glanced at Javad, expecting him to protest. He could see his boss wrestling with what to do. He was a slave to regulations and orders.
“Fine,” he said at last. “Let’s go. But everyone stays within a hundred feet of the plane with me.”
Zana edged out of his seat and slung his laptop bag over his shoulder.
They deplaned and stood in the sun, the two Guardsmen, Zana, and Javad. The Guardsmen were intimidated by Javad and said nothing. Javad was apparently in no mood to speak to Zana, so the four of them just stood there, watching as a squat little fuel truck drove out from the hangar.
It was midday and the sun stood high, beating down on them with high-desert intensity. The wind that had caused them to have to refuel raked the airfield, stiffening the orange wind sock that stood at the junction of two dirt taxiways. Peeking inside the hangar, Zana saw a maintenance crew.
“I have to use the lavatory,” Zana said. “May I go inside to find it?”
Javad was watching the fuel truck. He turned and looked Zana over.
One of the Guardsmen said, “I have to go too, sir.”
“All right,” Javad said irritably. “Stay together. We have orders not to separate.”
Zana and the Guardsman walked briskly across the dirt taxiway into the dusty hangar. There were two maintenance men buried to the waist in the cowling of a single-engine propeller plane. The bouncy twang of Azerbaijani folk music creaked out of a radio. A long tool bench stood along the wall. The Guardsman asked one of the mechanics about a bathroom. He pointed to a corner on the opposite side of the hangar.
Given the pace and urgency of the Guardsman, Zana knew the younger man had to go first. He waved the guard inside the greasy bathroom, which had a single toilet and a sink. The Guardsman was grateful.
Zana looked at his phone. There were a couple bars of data signal here on the cellular network. If he could get a few minutes alone in this bathroom, he thought he might be okay. But as insurance, he thought it might be good to bar the door to make sure he wasn’t interrupted. It seemed the only way.
He wandered toward a tool bench. There were some emergency kits—life vests, flares, rations—designed to be stowed in aircraft. They were stacked at one end. Toward the other were a set of screwdrivers and sockets on a black cloth strip about two feet long. Zana rolled the cloth around the tools and stuffed it into his laptop bag.
The bathroom door creaked open and the Guard came out. Zana glanced out at the daylight through the hangar bay doors. The fuel truck was there. The pilots were operating it, fastening the hose to a wing tank. Javad and the other Guardsman watched.
In the bathroom, Zana surveyed his options. The door had no lock. He would need to create some kind of stopper to keep it closed. He removed the lid to the toilet tank and looked inside. There was a rubber float. After choosing from the tools, he jammed two screwdrivers into the rubber float and carefully, quietly, wedged it under the door. He thought the friction of the rubber against the concrete floor would form a reasonable barrier.
He immediately opened his laptop and went through the sequence to establish a connection into the servers at Tabriz. He fumbled through his pocket with a shaking hand to remove the USB and began the upload. The connection was pitifully slow. He wasn’t sure it would work at all. He waited.
Five minutes on, he knew he was in trouble. The data connection kept dropping, delaying the upload. He wondered if he should just leave his laptop behind, letting it upload while he returned to the plane. He could stash it somewhere behind the toilet. But the broken connections kept requiring him to reestablish it.
He heard the Guardsman knocking at his door. “The major is looking for us, sir. Time to go.”
Zana insisted to the Guardsman through the door that he needed more time. Zana ignored the escalating entreaties to return. The knocking became insistent. The Guardsman went away. Zana thought he’d bought himself a few more minutes.
Then he heard Javad’s voice. The jig was up.
“Dr. Rahimi, let’s go,” the major said forcefully.
Zana pleaded for more time, the laptop balanced on his knees.
The major would have none of it. There was a loud bang. The doorstop flew across the floor and the bathroom door burst open. Javad could hardly believe his eyes.