Trojan Horse (21 page)

The fall of the Shah had been disastrous for the Rahmani family. At the time he’d been living with his father in Rome where a new branch of the family’s successful Persian rug export business had been established. But most of the family’s wealth was in Tehran as was the rest of the family. When things appeared sufficiently settled his father had returned to bring them out, leaving his nineteen-year-old son to tend affairs in Rome. Rahmani had never heard from his father again.

It had been several years before he received word from his mother informing him that his two younger brothers had died as martyrs in the war against Iraq and that his two sisters had both been married and were now widowed for the same reason. She cautioned him not to return and instead to do all he could to someday find a way out of the country for the family, but most of all to take care of himself. That was his only contact with his mother. Afterward, she and his two sisters were lost in the unsettled time that followed the end of the war with Iraq.

The taxi driver tapped his horn to alert three talking women, then stopped beside the four stout pillars planted in front of the two-story building. These were meant to prevent anyone parking here. Rahmani stepped out, paid the driver, then went to the front doors. One of the young women seemed to pay close attention to him and he turned his face away. In the lobby he punched the elevator button for the third floor and waited. He heard the motor engage above, then felt the slight sense of movement as the small elevator descended to him. He glanced surreptitiously outside and noted that one of the other women was taking a photo with her cell phone. He would be in the picture.

He sighed. Nothing to do about it. They were likely harmless anyway. He glanced at his watch. Just after nine o’clock. Not so bad after all.

Rahmani was a diminutive man, though all his features were well formed. He stood just five feet five inches. His hair was luxurious and long. A source of pride, he kept it carefully combed. A closely cropped beard concealed the acne scars of his youth and he wore heavy-rimmed glasses. His usual dress was a dark business suit, though he wore a tie for occasions such as this.

He was greeted as he stepped from the elevator, the man speaking Farsi. They shook hands, then Rahmani entered the meeting room and found it almost full—an excellent sign. Nearly everyone turned to face him, most smiled and nodded in greeting. It was an older crowd with a scattering of young faces, adult children of men and women who had died in exile. For every woman there were three men. He walked to the front and stepped up on a slightly raised platform. There was a lectern and behind it a row of seven folding chairs.

Rahmani was urgently required at the office in Rome and he’d asked to advance the starting time for this meeting, so such a large crowd had come as a pleasant surprise. A woman of about fifty, slightly overweight and a few years old than he, greeted him.

“You see?” she said. “I told you they would come. Everyone is very excited to hear what you have to say.” Her name was Zarah and she’d taken over local leadership of the Iranian community in central Spain when her father had died three years before. She’d proven less effective and contributions were down since then but she was enthusiastic. She wore too much makeup in Rahmani’s view and smelled vaguely of sandalwood. “I know you must leave so I suggest we start at once.”

Rahmani nodded and took a seat.

There were perhaps just fifteen thousand Iranian exiles living in Spain and they were by and large an affluent class. They’d always been generous to the FDI. This though his three largest donors had all died the previous year, two when they were struck by cars, the third having gone missing while sailing, his body later washing up on a beach near Tariff.

As Zarah introduced him in glowing terms his mind returned to the three women outside. It wasn’t like the VEVAK to use women but they were changing their ways. He knew this community was watched and he was all but certain his donors had been murdered. It took courage to oppose evil.

Perhaps it was like that pizza parlor about which he’d read in Jerusalem. It was a special target for suicide bombers and over the years the slaughter had been enormous. But the parlor was always rebuilt and always well attended. The young Israelis refused to be driven away, refused to surrender to the terrorist. This was like that, Rahmani thought.

Zarah was done speaking and he stood to a round of strong applause. He acknowledged old friends in the crowd, then began with an update of FDI’s activities this past year, followed by an account of his travels on behalf of the cause. He reported events within Iran that it was unlikely they’d heard. The mullahs kept a tight lid on the country but the FDI had its ways.

The most significant news from Iran was the progress it was making with its nuclear program. Everything else in the country was falling apart. With but a single gasoline refinery in a nation awash with oil it was necessary to import refined gasoline by tanker. As Iran’s economic condition declined through corruption and mismanagement, there were constant shortages and long lines at service stations. And that was just an outward sign of the chronic deficiencies in nearly everything.

Even the vaunted nuclear program was experiencing serious setbacks. The virus attack surely initiated by Israel had significantly set back the production of enriched uranium. The nation’s single nuclear power plant was very much an on-again–off-again operation. But as badly as the program was progressing, at least it was progress, if that’s how you chose to see it.

Iran will have the bomb soon, Rahmani told his audience. Very soon. And when that happens everything will change. His audience turned sober at the thought. He’d discussed the likely consequences with them before and they were informed people. They knew.

Within Iran, even some of those in opposition to the mullahs took pride in the prospect of their country becoming a nuclear power. India had the bomb; so did Pakistan and Israel. Why shouldn’t they? The bombing of nuclear facilities by either America or Israel would anger many Iranians who otherwise despised the nation’s rulers. It could very likely unite the nation in an unpredictable way.

But no one in this audience wanted to see Iran with the bomb. It would solidify the mullahs’ hold on power and spread more tyranny throughout the region. It could very easily lead to the first nuclear war.

A counterstrike could not be prevented. The United States was pledged to respond with nuclear weapons if they were used against Israel. Israel itself could nuke Iran. Even if the Iranians managed to knock out Israel’s land-based capability with a sneak attack, there were Israeli submarines with nuclear-tipped rockets cruising off the coast of Iran. And they could not be stopped.

What would the inevitable retaliation do to Iran? It would certainly destroy it as a modern nation; cast it back into a new dark age from which it would never arise in their lifetimes. And in so doing, leave it open to foreign aggression. Iran had been invaded and occupied before, and would be again Rahmani was certain.

Without a nuclear bomb the current regime was trouble enough for those listening to him. They had worked hard to establish themselves in Spain. They maintained a low profile, struggled daily against the stereotypical belief they were Arabs, an unpopular group in Spain. They struggled as well to make it clear that they opposed and were victims of the mullahs, not supporters of the theocracy.

As always Rahmani wrapped up on an optimistic note. He didn’t practice the art of frightening people to give. The money should come from the heart. In traditional fashion a fedora was passed and most laid checks or envelopes into it, though a number gave euros. Rahmani would record the cash for the organization’s private records but the money itself would go into his pocket to pay his way. This kept it from the Italian tax authorities.

He finished with his customary farewell. “We will see a free Iran again. I believe it. And you should believe it as well.” He smiled broadly. “Be sure to give us your current address for our newsletter.”

Afterward there was a crush of hands and of words of deep gratitude. Before leaving he pocketed the updated register, then with a warm smile set off. Outside the women were gone. Rahmani took a taxi directly to the airport. On the plane no one seemed to pay him special attention, nor did anyone as he went to get his car.

By that afternoon, he was at his office. He placed the revised register in his safe, making a mental note to update the computer database later. He glanced at his watch. There was much to do and very little time.

MEYRIN, SWITZERLAND

MAIRIE COMMUNE DE MEYRIN POLICE

RUE DES BOUDINES 2

9:34 A.M. CET

U
lrich Spyri entered the police station with a scowl. He’d allowed himself to have hope in what logic and experience told him was a hopeless situation.

“Where is he?” he asked the desk sergeant.

“In the common room, sir.”

“I’ll be there if anyone needs me.” Spyri was buzzed from the waiting area into the hallway leading to the offices and holding cells of the police station. He walked the short distance to the common room. Inside were three tables with chairs, a pair of vending machines, a joint use refrigerator, a microwave and two toasters. Someone had placed travel posters along one wall with pictures of distant and sunny climes.

When the American had been picked up on the Route de Meyrin by a patrol car not long after midnight, Spyri had him rushed to the station. His feet were bleeding and he was struggling to compose himself. He’d been bandaged and provided with a pair of shoes. For all that he’d been through, he gave a good recounting of the kidnapping, of his extraordinary escape, and an accurate picture of where he’d been held and how to get there. He’d conveyed the sense of urgency they all felt.

Within minutes Spyri was confident he knew where the woman was. His lieutenant had been furious as they’d waited the few minutes for the tactical team to prepare for the rescue. The old shoe shop wasn’t three blocks from the police station.

The raid had taken place very quickly and with typical Swiss precision. And to no avail.

The woman was gone. So were the three men.

The forensic team had meticulously combed the van they’d discovered but so far had produced nothing of use. The problem now was that Spyri had no idea what vehicle they’d fled in. They’d questioned everyone living or working along the street but no one had seen anything. With the border to either France or Italy not ten kilometers away they were surely already out of the country and had been by the time the raid was launched. He’d immediately sent an alert but had no expectation it would succeed.

Jeff was sitting at a table with a blanket across his shoulders. A female officer had been assigned to remain with him as experience had shown a woman had a calming effect in such situations. Spyri took a chair that gave a small squeal as he moved it and sat facing the American.

“You’ve been told?”

Jeff nodded. “Yes. I’m disappointed but relieved you didn’t find a body. Do you have any leads?” There were two Band-Aids on his face, three more on his hands. The laces to his oversized shoes were untied. He clutched a mug in his hand.

“We’ve sent an alert to all the neighboring countries. We routinely work with them and they will treat it as if the crime had been committed within their jurisdiction. We’ve also notified our own police in the unlikely event they’ve remained in Switzerland.”

“What did you tell them to look for? Three men and a woman?”

“I’m afraid so. That’s all we have presently.” The American looked exhausted. Well, he would be.

There was a rap at the door and Henri Wille from UNOG entered the room carrying a black athletic bag. Spyri gestured at a chair. “You two met before, I think?” Spyri said. Jeff looked up and nodded in recognition.

“I am very sorry for this, Mr. Aiken. Your government and employers have been informed. I want you to know we are doing everything we possibly can to find Miss Haugen.”

“Thank you.” Jeff drank the now cold tea, then said, “Let me ask you an important question. If they were going to kill her, wouldn’t they have done it where we were held? Then they’d leave? They wouldn’t take her to kill her later, would they?”

They would if they wanted to question her first,
Henri thought, glancing at Spyri, who by his look had reached the same conclusion. “We can’t know what they plan,” Henri said. “They are criminals, terrorists from what you’ve told us. We just must do all we can to find her. Has anything more come to mind since the police last spoke to you?”

“Nothing. I keep reliving it over and over, wondering if I shouldn’t have tried to get her myself.”

“You did the right thing,” Henri said. “It was three against one. And they were armed. You’d have had no chance.” No one said anything for a long moment, then Henri continued. “We found this at the scene of your abduction.” He reached into the bag and extracted Jeff’s laptop bag. “We’ve assumed it was either yours or your partner’s.”

“It’s mine,” Jeff said. “I could use it right about now.”

Henri glanced at Spyri, who shrugged. He handed it over to Jeff, who took it with alacrity. He’d lost his cell phone during the abduction and never expected to see his laptop again. He removed the computer and flipped open the screen.