Khomeini's Boy: The Shadow War with Iran (21 page)

“He doesn’t have people. He doesn’t cry in his sleep. He doesn’t even give a name when people ask. The boy
is
this war.”

Ambrose didn’t want to look at him any longer. He had fixated on those pinks eyelids, and now he couldn’t stop imagine being hit by chlorine and feeling his own insides leak out from his tear ducts. “So where am I taking him, friend?” Ambrose pressed.

The man’s eyes were leaking again, but this time the blood was watery, mixed with tears. “Take him to our brothers. That’s all he has. The survivors of our militia split two ways. The wounded fled here, to our bunker, because it was closer. The healthier survivors went to the next battleground when they heard Hezbollah had finally launched a grand offensive out of Lebanon.”

Ambrose grimaced. “Qusair. You want us to leave a boy with your gas-stricken, outmatched friends in the middle of a warzone.”

The man responded, “So will you take him back to America with you instead? Will you keep him safe in Wisconsin or California?”

“I’m not going to America.” Ambrose rubbed at the cut on his brow. “I guess that means I’m going to Qusair.”

He walked down the hallway towards the radio transceiver, hoping the French-speaking, god-fearing Syrian economist would be dead by the time he got back.

* * *

Ambrose knelt in front of the battered radio transceiver and blew some dust off the front knobs. The boy said he’d used it recently, but grit must have accumulated quickly down in that shaft. He wasn’t sure how it could get any kind of signal, buried halfway down a mineshaft, but enough wires connected to the transceiver box to give him faith that at least one of them snaked off to do something useful beneath open sky. He hit the button marked ‘power’ in Russian and turned it on; Ambrose didn’t speak Russian per se, but he was a quick study who had lived in places where a bit of Russian went a long way. A promising crackle came out of the box.

He reached into his ugly bag and pulled out his moleskin notebook. Ambrose had carried a notebook like that since he was nineteen years old, when he admitted to himself that he had a terrible memory for phone numbers and his ever-increasing drinking regimen wasn’t likely to sharpen that memory over time. Seventeen years later he was on his ninth moleskin, and since this was one of his field operations notebooks, most observers would have taken it for pure gibberish. That’s because Ambrose took all of his notes in Thai. Thai had seventy-odd letters, was only spoken in and around Thailand, and was even less phonetic than English. If someone bested him, took his red notebook, and managed to decipher Thai shorthand, Ambrose reckoned they were welcome to whatever he’d jotted down.

The latest Thai entry was a set of radio coordinates more than twenty numbers long, along with a list of call signs and code words. He’d transcribed them from Wayne’s dossiers on the long boat ride from Cyprus to Latakia. Ambrose turned the knobs on the transceiver back and forth, listening to vacant sub-frequencies crackle and whir until finally the ambient noise evaporated into a pure silent void.

He picked up the handset and spoke into it, “God Almighty, this is Seraph. I have Cherub, and we’re flying to Heaven.”

Wayne, this is Ambrose. I have Celestine Lemark, and we’re going to get Tuva.

A velvety hiss-crackle told him a human was fiddling with whatever companion device had picked up his signal. If that human didn’t answer back in English, things would get much more complicated.

“Seraph, this is God Almighty. Good to hear from you.” Wayne Shenzo sounded tired. Ambrose could imagine him sitting at that map-covered table, surrounded by half-finished whiskey bottles and sleeping on his arms as he waited to hear the message Ambrose had just sent him. Bosses came worse.

“Good to be heard, Sir. Copy my last message.”

“Copy, but request clarification. Do you know where Heaven is?”

Ambrose flipped to another page of the moleskin, where he had painstakingly attempted to reproduce a randomly numbered grid map of western Syria from Wayne’s dossier. “Cherub believes it is close to the heart of Zebra-Three,” he said.

Lemark thinks it’s near the city of Homs itself.

Background noise came through Wayne’s end, which meant he was talking to someone. When Wayne responded he said, “Seraph, be advised that Mormons have gathered in Romeo-Ten. God Almighty does not think you can pass unmolested from…where are you?”

Hayes, Hezbollah is crawling in the area south of Homs. No fucking way you’re getting through there to reach Homs itself.

Ambrose passed a bloodshot eye over his map. He answered, “Seraph and Cherub are in Echo-Eight, I thinks. Seraph was tortured today, though: his faculties are sub-optimal.”

Ambrose and Lemark are who-the-fuck-knows-where in the desert east of Homs.

Wayne didn’t bother covering the handset this time when he started whispering to someone on his side of the connection. Then he responded, “Seraph, God Almighty just conferred with Underworld, and Underworld advises the following: from Echo-Eight you cannot safely make it to Zebra-Three, because Mormons have amassed a full congregation at the heart of Romeo-Ten, and are going door-to-door converting the neighbors. If you pass through Romeo-Ten, Underworld believes you and Cherub will be converted also.”

Gideon Patai says an entire Hezbollah battalion has gathered south of Homs, killing everything in sight. Try to get through there, and Gideon says you and Lemark are dead.

Ambrose looked over the map, momentarily pretending he hadn’t understood the code. He nodded, pursing his lips before he spoke. “Seraph copies, God. Thank Underworld for the intelligence, but be advised: Seraph and Cherub
are
passing through the heart of Romeo-Ten. Seraph is compensating for new mission parameters.”

The response came almost immediately from Gideon Patai’s clear, carefully enunciated voice slicing through the crackle of the radio. “Underworld here. Mission parameters have not changed, Seraph. Underworld concurs that Zebra-Three is a promising location for Heaven. You and Cherub must proceed there immediately, bypassing Romeo-Ten and all Mormons en route.”

“Copy, Underworld, but there
has
been one change in mission parameters. Seraph found a new asset, and that assets needs dropping off at the heart of Romeo-Ten,” Ambrose said, getting tired of speaking in code.

“Seraph, Underworld did not copy that message. Repeat.”

“I’m going to Qusair, Underworld. I promised someone I would, and I also doubt we can make it overland through the wilderness to reach Homs directly. If Hezbollah is in Qusair, that also increases the odds we’ll run into Sorcerer in that city.”

Gideon’s voice cut like a knife, “God Almighty and Underworld strongly advise against that, Seraph. Electronic intelligence suggests that Heaven is indeed closer to Zebra-Three, and Romeo-Ten is a deathtrap. Strongly advise against current course of action, repeat.”

“Acknowledged, God Almighty and Underworld. Seraph isn’t happy about this either.” Ambrose took his finger off the hand piece for a moment and held its cool metal against his forehead. He needed to sleep; four fitful hours in a sweltering train car hadn’t done the job. Then he turned the handset back on, asking, “Underworld, assuming that Seraph and Cherub are whole, request advice on how to navigate Romeo-Ten and proceed onward to Heaven.”

Gideon answered with more of an accent that normal. His composure was slipping. “Seraph: Underworld believes that an Elder commands the Mormons. He may know the whereabouts of Heaven as well as Sorcerer. Suggest you ask politely.”

A senior Hezbollah commander is at Qusair. He may be able to find Tuva and Jamsheed Mashhadi. Torture him for the information if you can.

“Seraph copies, Underworld. God, are you still there?”

Wayne’s voice came through the speaker. There was a storm around Cyprus, he thought—Wayne was breaking up. “God Almighty here, Seraph. Make it quick.”

“God—Wayne—I need you to answer something honestly for me: how long do I have before Underworld’s contingency plans activate?”

“God Almighty is unaware of any Underworld contingency plan, Seraph...but get to Heaven soon.”

Gideon’s voice took over. “
Soon
, Seraph. My regards to Cherub.”

Then the other end went dark.

He walked back to the barracks chamber, where Celestine was on her knees talking to the boy. The Syrian men were dead.

Chapter Thirty-One

Wayne Shenzo watched Gideon hang up on Hayes, annoyed that the Israeli had dropped the connection before he had another chance to communicate with his operative. Gideon sat down the receiver quickly enough to suggest that he was upset at something and trying not to show it. Ambrose Hayes could have that kind of effect on people. Then the Israeli lit a cigarette, pulled out his cell phone, and walked onto the veranda speaking in Hebrew without so much as an “excuse me” to his American counterpart.

While Gideon Patai schemed in Hebrew, Wayne sipped on scotch and looked over the big map of western Syria that they’d laid across the table. His eyes flitted back and forth between the city of Homs and the small town of Qusair, roughly thirty miles south of it. The bitch of it was, really, that Hayes and Gideon were both right: an entire Hezbollah battalion
had
amassed at Qusair and turned it into a virtual death trap, as Gideon had said. But at the same time, that meant a high ranking Hezbollah commander would be in Qusair to lead them, and Wayne would have bet every B-2 bomber on Guam that such a commander would be a prime contact for Jamsheed Mashhadi. Between the two of them, someone would know the location of Tuva. Hayes, stubborn motherfucker that he was, had intuitively set himself on the right course; he and Lemark were going to Qusair, and Qusair was a milepost on the way to their end game…if nothing intervened.

He walked onto the veranda overlooking the dark Mediterranean night and tapped at Gideon Patai until the man got off his phone.

“I’ll take a cigarette, Gideon.”

The Israeli nodded and gave him one of those shitty-tasting French coffin-nails. Wayne borrowed a light from him as well, then sucked in slow. He hadn’t smoked since 2002, and it tasted like shit going down. He hadn’t even meant to
ask
for a cigarette, but ex-smokers often have a way of surprising themselves.

Gideon broke the silence with a chuckle, saying, “You look terrible, Colonel. If you’re trying to bring something up casually, stop wasting my cigarette and just ask.”

Wayne handed the cigarette over gladly, and Gideon took a drag like he’d never lent the thing out.

Head swimming with nicotine, Wayne said, “Seraph made a good point, Gideon—“

“Seraph is an idiot, and he is going to get one of my favorite people killed by Hezbollah.”

Wayne talked over him, “Gideon: what kind of contingency
are
you planning if this doesn’t work? If you make me guess, I’ll assume the worst.”

The Israeli spy leaned forward on the balcony railing and stared seaward. The back of his balding head looked yellow in the porch light. “Nothing fancy, Colonel. Just an F-16 strike on the weapons themselves, to make sure all of Tuva is destroyed. High explosives after any air defenses are removed, then back to Cypriot airspace,” he said casually.

Wayne wished he had that cigarette back. “Gideon,” he stretched out the –n- with singsong intonation, “There’s a high probability that’ll mean an Israeli airstrike on an Iranian Revolutionary Guard officer. That’s what this whole thing was meant to avoid, remember?”

The Israeli nodded, looking out at the water. “Colonel—Wayne—do you know why my English call sign is ‘Underworld?’”

“Because you’re a sinister son of a bitch, Gideon?”

He looked at Wayne over his shoulder and smiled, choosing to take that for the compliment it wasn’t. Gideon said, “It’s a reminder to myself of how things are. The ancient Hebrews didn’t believe in a heaven. When they died, they went to a cold grey pit full of nothing but other ghosts. They never saw God or had any kind of afterlife we would imagine. They were just
gone
. Forever. Many Jews still think that way, more or less. So for us, this life is all that we have, and there are no second chances.” He flicked his cigarette off the balcony. “For you Americans, supporting Israel is a hobby. Sure, your right wing Christians and American Jews like my country, but when the day finally comes, America will just leave the Middle East for good, washing its hands of the whole damned place. You’re already doing it, with Obama’s redeployment of so many forces to confront China in the Pacific,” he shrugged in a surprisingly human gesture of fatigue, “And I don’t fault you for it; your homeland is five thousand miles from Jerusalem, so you have the right to take your ball and go home whenever you want. I don’t have that option.
Israel
doesn’t have that option. Because for us there is only this life, then the underworld of the Hebrews. We don’t float up to see Jesus, or go to some green paradise like a Muslim martyr when he detonates a suicide bomb. There is only this life, and I will do everything in my considerable power to protect it.”

“What does that mean, Gideon?” Wayne asked.

“It means I just ordered four Israeli F-16s to arrive at a Cypriot airfield, fully armed, in preparation for a strike into Syria. It will take most of a day to assemble my squadron quietly. In the meantime, your man Seraph will die in Qusair and almost certainly take Celestine Lemark down with him.” He rubbed at the scar tissue beneath his dead eye. “Instead of dwelling on
that
, I’m going to spend the intervening hours trying to piece together where Tuva actually is, and I’ll direct the planes accordingly. Then they will vaporize the location, regardless of whether Jamsheed Mashhadi or any other Iranian is at the scene. If Iran strikes back, we will respond appropriately, even if it means turning every one of their cities into black glass, along with Beirut if Hezbollah joins the attack.”

“You’re talking genocide.”

Gideon stabbed a finger at Wayne’s chest and said, “
They
are talking genocide. That’s the difference between us, Colonel, and I wish you Americans would acknowledge it: we in Israel have the power to kill all of our enemies
tonight
, yet we refuse to do so. If Iran had a nuclear arsenal and an air force to match ours, do you think they would show such restraint?”

Wayne snorted. “I think that’s what you Israelis tell yourselves so that you’ll all feel better if you do attack preemptively to stop the Iranian nuclear program. I think Khamenei and his ayatollahs are five times saner than you want to believe, and they’re
playing you
into looking like the aggressor if Iran and Israel ever do start a war.”

Gideon spoke like a man dismissing an age-old fallacy. “They started that war years ago; what do you think this pathetic excuse for a mission is all about? We deployed Seraph like any piece of specialized hardware, and his inevitable failure will just mean we need my F-16s to win that battle using implements that actually work, not some broken piece of human shit that is kept around for its sentimental value.”

Now it was Wayne’s turn to look away towards the Mediterranean as he collected his thoughts. He asked, “Nothing I say will stop you calling in that strike, will it Gideon?”

“No, Colonel.”

“No matter what will happen to you, personally, when your prime minister finds out what you’ve done? No matter what may happen to Israel if you stage this attack without America’s approval?” Wayne probed.

“I’ve survived prime ministers worse than Bibi Netanyahu, and Israel has survived more American displeasure than Obama has the willpower to throw at us.” Gideon couldn’t keep the icy confidence out of his voice.

Wayne replied, “Thanks for being honest with me, at least. But do me one favor, Gideon. I won’t warn Washington about this conversation, or let any of my other Israeli friends know that you’ve gone rogue, if you agree to one compromise.”

“Compromise isn’t my strong suit. What do you want?”

Wayne pointed inside, towards the table. “I’m going to send out a lackey for more scotch and more cigarettes and maybe even some more Ouzo, Christ help us. Then we’re going to get some food delivered, and we’re going to sit at that table listening to radio chatter until the eleventh fucking hour. And we’re going to spend every second of that vigil assuming that Ambrose Hayes is alive,
and he is going to succeed.
”

The Israeli snarled, “No. Not if it risks letting Tuva get into Lebanon.”

Wayne made a fist until his knuckles popped. “I’ll get a satellite dedicated to nothing more than that stretch of border. You’ll know if anything big enough to carry an arsenal starts rolling towards Hezbollah territory. If so, take your shot. Otherwise, your entire plan is on hold for twenty-four hours. You’re giving Hayes and Lemark a full day to get through Qusair, reconnoiter with Hezbollah, and find Tuva. Worst case scenario, you said it would take your pilots that long to assemble anyway. Now you call your pilots and I’ll call the schlubs who operate my satellite.”

Gideon smiled like a man who knew he’d won and was trying not to show it. “Best order that liquor, Colonel. I’ll drink Ouzo on special occasions.”