FIFTY-EIGHT
Sultan al-Habsi’s four-car motorcade arrived in Pankow, just to the north of Berlin, under low gray skies and mist, and then the rain kicked off in earnest as the vehicles made their way onto quiet, two-lane Hauptstrasse. Three minutes later, when they turned off the street and onto a gravel driveway that ran between a pair of high brick walls, thunderclaps and lightning rattled the motorcade.
A large brick warehouse sat eighty meters back from the road, hidden by the wall and by a scattered row of spruce trees. The vehicles rolled into the open front door of the sturdy but old building, a former tank repair shop for the National People’s Army, the military of the DDR.
When his SUV stopped, Haz Mirza stepped out, flanked on both sides by bodyguards who were, he had decided from their look and countenance, probably from one of the Gulf States. He’d determined the man calling himself Tarik to be from the same area, which made him an enemy, but the young Iranian couldn’t fathom a reason why an enemy would go to the level of trouble Tarik had obviously gone through to bring him here.
The group of men all walked over the concrete floor to a doorway, and then up a set of metal stairs. They came to a door on the second level, and here Tarik stopped and addressed Mirza for the first time since leaving Berlin.
“I will open this door, and it might fill you with more questions than answers, but I assure you, all will soon be explained. I will give you ten minutes before continuing the tour.”
With a flourish he slammed the latch down and pulled open the door.
There, in a large, well-lit room full of military-issue cots and plastic picnic tables surrounded by plastic chairs, Haz Mirza found fourteen men standing, ready to meet him.
Mirza looked the men over as the door was shut behind him. They were in their twenties and thirties; most had dark hair and some had beards, and they all appeared fit, well fed, and comfortable enough, but he didn’t immediately recognize any of them, so he couldn’t say if they were actually Quds.
Until a voice called from the center of the room. “Haz?”
He looked over the man who had spoken for several seconds. Finally, he said, “Ali?”
“It’s me.”
Mirza stepped forward with utter shock, then embraced his friend. When he stepped back from him he said, “I heard you died in Yemen.”
The man said, “Yes, I think that I did, brother.”
Others laughed a little. Mirza recognized a second man now; he was older, his face wrinkled through stress and hardship, but Mirza remembered him from Afghanistan. A third man he recognized as someone he served with in Libya years ago.
The men sat down at the cluster of tables, and Mirza did the same.
Mirza was going to ask what was going on, but then Ali asked him the exact same question.
Haz Mirza remained in a state of shock about all this. “I . . . I don’t know. I have been in Berlin for two years. Commanding a sleeper cell. Tarik and the others, they kidnapped me at a café an hour and a half ago. Brothers, I was five minutes from attacking the U.S. embassy with members of my squad.”
Ali leaned forward. “Why were you going to attack the embassy?”
Mirza was disappointed the question was even asked. “Obviously, since the death of General Rajavi, I knew we had to deal a quick blow to—”
A man stood from his table. “What are you saying? Rajavi is dead?”
Mirza looked around at his countrymen. “You didn’t know?”
The shock, fury, and even sadness in their eyes told him they did not. He said, “I swear I know nothing more than what I have told you about what is happening here. Tarik said something about us attacking America. What can you all tell me?”
Ali and the others spoke of their release from the black site, their journey here, and that they had been waiting here for the last three days, informed only that they would soon meet their leader and receive their orders.
At this Mirza raised an eyebrow. “Orders? Tarik is giving the orders?”
Ali said, “Tarik has ten men here with guns. SIA security men. We talked about rushing them but . . .”
“But what?”
“But, brother, we want to see about this operation. What if Tarik does have a job for us that will deal a blow to America? Wouldn’t we want to take part, especially now that we learn Vahid Rajavi is dead, killed by the Americans?”
Another man shouted, “If Allah wills it, we will fight.”
A thunderclap outside echoed the verve Mirza saw in the unit before him, and in a way he never felt with his own cell of men, he was certain he now held something powerful in his hands.
A few minutes later he sat in a small warehouse-floor office, across a dusty desk from Tarik, who looked utterly out of place in his pinstriped suit.
Mirza knew now that the man who had snatched him off a Berlin street actually worked for the spy service of the United Arab Emirates.
And even though he couldn’t help but hold out some hope that he and the men in the room upstairs would actually be given a real retaliatory mission against America, he was cynical and mistrusting enough to suspect Tarik of playing some sort of a game.
“The men. What do you think?” Tarik asked.
“They are in good spirits. They believe your story, or at least what you have hinted at to them.”
“And they are wise to do so.”
Mirza lifted his chin. “I was in the war in Yemen.”
“I know this. My nation has a file on you.”
Mirza took time to think about this, then said, “I fought in Aden, in Ataq, in Sana.”
Tarik looked into Mirza’s eyes, and he spoke slowly. “My brother fought in Ataq. He died there.”
Mirza clearly did not care. “I had friends who died there.” The two men stared at each other for a long moment before Mirza said, “We are enemies, you and I. Enemies make terrible friends. Dangerous friends.”
To this Tarik nodded. “We are only dangerous to each other if we do not work together. But we are dangerous to our mutual adversary if we do. Are you ready to see the reason I brought you here?”
Mirza was confused. “I thought you brought me here to meet the men.”
The Emirati shook his head. “The men are a crucial element in all this, but they aren’t the main element. Neither are you, in fact.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Let’s go.” The two men walked with Tarik’s assistants and guards arrayed around them across the dank warehouse floor, towards a door at the far end. Their footsteps echoed in the empty space, even over the sound of rain pounding on the corrugated tin roof, two stories above them.
Tarik opened the door without fanfare and beckoned the twenty-four-year-old Iranian inside.
Mirza stepped into a darkened room; the sound of the rain on the roof indicated that this, too, was a massive space, but only when someone flipped on the overhead lighting did he see that it was identical to the first cavernous warehouse floor.
The difference, though, was immediately obvious. The floor here had been cleaned spotless, and on the floor in front of him were two diamond-shaped patterns of objects, each a meter in width, and a half meter in height.
Mirza was instantly familiar with the design. They were quadcopters, drones, and a quick count told him there were forty in all.
He stepped forward to the first device, knelt down, and then finally dropped all the way to the floor to look under it.
After a few seconds Mirza said, “Antipersonnel?”
Tarik smiled. “That one is armed with antipersonnel munitions, yes. Others are high explosive, a few are armor piercing.”
“Size of the warheads?”
“Two point five kilograms for each drone. Hardly a nuclear device, but efficient.”
Mirza rose back up to his knees and inspected the device more carefully. “These are Kargus. Turkish made, autonomous attack drones.” Mirza stood back up. He ran his hand over the camera ball of one of the units. “These are much better than anything I’ve ever used in battle. Easier to operate, or so I’ve read.” He fought a little smile, but the glint in the Emirati’s eye showed Mirza that Tarik had picked up on his excitement anyway. Mirza added, “From what I’ve read, the Kargus can fly in a swarm. Up to fifteen units operating together.”
Tarik shook his head. “Twenty. You have two full squadrons here.”
Haz Mirza was like a kid in a candy store, and he could no longer even attempt to hide it. With his eyes wide, his pupils almost dilated with delight, he said, “With some training, I can pilot these.”
Tarik replied. “I know you can, but will you?”
“I think now is a good time for you to tell me our target. The embassy?”
Tarik said, “The U.S. ambassador, Ryan Sedgwick, is the best friend of the president of the United States. He is also the chief symbol of America in Germany, and one of the most prominent members of the American government in all of Europe.”
Mirza said, “I know this. Everyone knows this.” He shrugged. “Still, even with the drones and the men, targeting one man deep in the massive U.S. embassy will be difficult, impossible perhaps.”
Tarik put his hand on the man’s shoulder. “That’s why we are not going to the embassy. We are going to Finkenstrasse 23.”
Mirza thought a moment, then sucked in a quick breath. “The American ambassador’s residence? We are going to kill Sedgwick?”
Tarik surprised him by shaking his head. “Not just the ambassador. The day after tomorrow he will be hosting an art exhibition at his home. One hundred or so members of the American government and military. Another hundred prominent Western diplomats and bureaucrats. It will be a huge party. And we, as the Americans like to say . . . are going to crash it.”
Mirza cocked his head. “How do you know about this party?”
Now Tarik smiled the widest grin Mirza had ever seen. “Because, brother, I was on the guest list.” He shrugged. “I sent my regrets.”
The two men were back in the warehouse office minutes later, and their discussion had turned into a philosophical one.
Mirza said, “I am a Shia who will kill Christians for a Sunni who wants to destroy Shias. It is a circle.”
Tarik shook his head. “It is not a circle. Look who we are targeting. America. The regime that killed Vahid Rajavi like he was a stray dog in the street.”
“But Iran is your enemy, too. Don’t deny this.”
“Not the Iranian people. The Iranian regime. The regime that controls the freedom-loving people of Iran with an iron fist. The regime whose actions have caused the entire world to impose crippling sanctions on your peaceful countrymen.
“You and I are not the same people, of course this is true. But you and I have common enemies, and I take you as a man smart enough to understand that our relationship is beneficial to us both. Beneficial to everyone you love in this world. Beneficial to Allah.”
Mirza countered quickly. “The Emirates are not enemies of the West. In fact, you are a pawn of the West. You are a pawn of Israel.”
“I am a pawn of no one, my young friend. The crown prince of the Emirates has sent me personally on this mission. Our relationships with other nations provide me with the best cover imaginable.” Mirza said nothing, so Tarik leaned forward over the table.
Tarik said, “My brother. Are you willing to martyr yourself for your people?”
“One thousand times over.”
“As am I. What more is there to know?”
“There is one thing more I need to know. Why do you need me and my men?”
“Obviously you and your men are the bravest fighters.”
Mirza said, “That’s not what’s obvious to me. What is obvious is that you want me and my men to do this, because you want Iran to be implicated in this attack of yours.”
Tarik sat back slowly. Mirza got the feeling he wasn’t supposed to work this part out on his own. The Emirati said, “Does it bother you that you will receive credit for your sacrifice?”
“No, but I want to understand your motivations.”
Tarik nodded; he was clearly impressed with Haz Mirza’s intellect. “Yes, America will learn, as part of my plan, that you and your men are Quds Force operatives. It will heighten tensions between the two nations to a level never experienced.
“We will deal a crippling blow to them, a blow they will have no choice but to retaliate against. Your nation will fight them, they will be forced to do it, because America will attack them first.”
Mirza said nothing.
“Listen to me, brother,” Tarik said. “You hoped your death today would convince others to join you in battle. But there was never any chance of this. Think, man. You lying dead with your intestines on the street around you wasn’t going to spur anyone on to do anything. But with my plan? With my plan there is a guarantee of follow-on attacks after you are martyred, because the act you are conducting will lead right back to Tehran, and America’s president will demand retribution for Sedgwick and the others.”
This was convincing to Mirza, but quickly he added, “How do you know America won’t just fire nuclear missiles into my nation and kill every man, woman, and child, friend and foe alike?”
“The American president will take pains to show that his quarrel isn’t with the people there. The fools in Washington learned in Afghanistan, in Iraq, and in other places that managing the victory is just as important as achieving the victory, if not more so. Trust me, there will be major conflict, all over the world, but the fighting won’t be in Iran.” He raised his hands as if in surrender, and he clarified. “Actually, if the wars of the past twenty years are a guide, then I imagine American special operations teams will come in small numbers, but the Iranian military is not the Taliban, not the fools in the ISIS caliphate, not even Saddam Hussein’s bloated and overrated army. Your nation will fight them off.
“It will take years, perhaps, but the road ahead for Iran is going to be paved with victories.”
Haz nodded. He was sold, and Tarik knew it. Then the younger man said, “There is a part in this process where you will feel the need to remind me that I must martyr myself. Show me some respect. Don’t remind me. I know I cannot be taken alive, because if I were, it would be discovered I’ve been disavowed by Tehran. I am a rogue, working for an Emirati spy pretending to be a friend to his enemies.
“My force and I,” Mirza said, “we will all die in battle against the Americans.”
Al-Habsi beamed the smile of a proud father. “I knew the moment I met you that I had the right man for this important work.”
Mirza stood. “I will join your mission, Tarik. As will my men. I would like to address them now.”
Tarik stood himself. “I will take you back to them immediately.”