The Natanz Directive (7 page)

It was a fifteen-minute drive, and I used the time to send a brief e-mail to Mr. Elliot. I didn't use the iPhone. I used a disposable I'd bought at the airport.
May need backup. Current cast dirty.

His e-mail reply was almost instantaneous:
So what's new!
And then:
Look for the color blue.

I broke the phone apart and tossed it piece by piece out the window. I saw the taxi driver watching me in his rearview mirror. I said, “Bad connection.”

We drove west from Central Station and turned west into the Haarlemmerbuurt. The district was old even by Amsterdam standards and was now a place where shops and cafés and restaurants had turned quaint into fashionable. Where else could you find a candy store, a vintage shop, a nightclub, and an abandoned warehouse on the same block, all illuminated by streetlamps and gaily decorated storefronts?

I paid off the cabbie and scouted Haarlemmerstraat for ten minutes, just another tourist enjoying a “not to be missed” section of the old city. I crossed the street to a bistro with “Glazen Huiz” written above the entrance. I followed two couples inside.

About twenty customers occupied the bistro, all pleasantly oblivious to the high-stakes game in play. I allowed an extremely attractive maître d' to lead me to a table near the back. I had a dozen other diners between myself and a window and a clear view of the warehouse entrance.

It was six thirty. Time for another text. This time I invited Moradi to bring along Kia Akbari, the man who had been following me earlier. It was a not-so-subtle message that I knew I'd been tailed and had given his bloodhound the slip. Moradi replied to this with a not-so-subtle question mark. A question mark and nothing else. Interesting.

While I waited, I ate a light dinner and drank coffee. Right on time, a Volvo—identical to the sedan I'd seen earlier—halted along the curb before the warehouse. The tall, lanky Akbari exited the front passenger's-side door. He adjusted the hem of his jacket, a telltale sign of the gun he was trying to conceal, and scanned the street.

A man emerged from the backseat of the car. He was powerfully built, with a thicker chest and a big, lumpy face.
Kouros Moradi
. Older, but no less menacing. He wore a black woolen coat and a cloth hat. Older, but still a fashion disaster. He held a cell phone in his hand. I imagined he always had a cell phone in his hand.

Just then, a second car pulled up, the door to the backseat flew open, and a third man jumped out. This one was almost as tall as Akbari. Sunken eyes and wildly dramatic eyebrows dominated his slender face. I recognized him at once. The MEK's second-in-command in Amsterdam, Ora Drago. Drago hadn't been so well placed when last we'd met, but even back then I'd made him for an up-and-comer.

The cars moved away and disappeared down the block. Moradi and his team turned toward the warehouse entrance, but I put a halt to their progress with another text:
Tell Akbari to stay where he is. You and Drago go to the middle of the street.

Moradi read the screen, then lifted his gaze to sweep the area. He said something to Akbari. Then he and Drago walked into the street again and stopped. Moradi opened his palms as if to say,
Happy?

I sent another text:
The bistro. Come inside.

Moradi read the text. He looked into the Glazen Huiz's windows and searched for me among the patrons. He tucked the phone into his pocket. He and his second-in-command advanced into the bistro, arms hanging by their sides, hands loose, faces calm. Old hat, these kinds of clandestine meetings.

The maître d' approached them, but the two acted as if she didn't exist. Ignore a woman who looked like her? Crazy. Well, to each his own.

Moradi unbuttoned his coat and looked across the restaurant. We locked eyes. His jaw tensed, and his eyes slitted with unabashed mistrust. I used one hand to motion him and Drago to the empty chairs at my table and kept my other on the table. I was armed. I didn't intend to hide the fact, but it wasn't necessary to make two guys who lived just this side of paranoid any more paranoid than necessary.

Moradi placed his large, hairy mitts on the table. The gold band of an expensive watch clasped his wrist. I wondered how much of the MEK's budget was diverted to personal expenses. His eyes crinkled in amusement, like we were playing five-card draw and he was holding all the cards. He said, “Mr. Green,” with just a hint of sarcasm. “So that's the name you're going by these days.”

“It's been a long time, gentlemen,” I said, looking from Moradi to Drago and grinning crookedly. “You've taken a couple of steps up the ladder, Drago. I'm impressed.”

“Last we heard, you were dead or put out to pasture,” he replied coldly.

“Negative on both counts,” I said. “Glad to see that we're playing on the same side of the ball again.” I saw the blank look on Moradi's face. “It's a football expression.”

“I hate American football,” he said. “Are you armed?”

“Damn right. When things get twitchy, I find a Walther PPK/S makes me feel just a little more secure. And things have apparently gotten a little twitchy.”

“I assume you're referring to Kia. Let's begin there.” He arched his thumb in the direction of Kia Akbari, who hadn't moved a muscle since his bosses moved inside. “He was following you, you say. Are you certain?”

I opened my iPhone to the picture I had taken of Akbari and his driver. I held it out for the man across from me to see. “Look familiar?”

“This is troublesome,” he said, glancing at Drago.

Drago shook his head as if “troublesome” didn't describe it. He looked at me. “I put Kia on the tail. No offense, but you were coming into our house, and I wanted to make sure a meeting like this wasn't compromised.”

“And you did so without my consent,” Moradi said flatly.

Drago looked at Moradi, opened his palms. “I thought you had enough to worry about,
moaellem.
”

Moaellum
? Teacher? Master? I wasn't sure, but it seemed to be a statement of respect, and Moradi seemed satisfied, as if his second-in-command had taken initiative. He turned his gaze back to me and shrugged. “Okay?”

I didn't reply. What was I going to say?
You're both liars. That's what you do. Lie.
Instead, I said, “Let's discuss why we're here.”

Moradi chuckled sardonically and answered in Farsi. “You're going to enter our country. You need help. And once you're in, you'll need more help.”

I also switched to Farsi, clumsy as it was. “Good guess.”

“There are only two reasons why a man like you would want to get into Iran.” Moradi placed his weight on his elbows and crowded the space between us. “One would be to assassinate Mahmoud Ahmadinejad. How grand would that be! The other would be to stop his nuclear weapons program. Not an easy thing to do.”

“Let me get into the country first, then we can get into the details of why,” I said evenly.

Moradi laughed, showing big teeth, as shiny and white as the dinner plates. “Fair enough.” His cheeriness vanished. “Mr. Green, let's you and me come to an understanding. I want Mahmoud Ahmadinejad gone. I want the mullahs who keep him in power gone. I want my country back.”

“On that, you and I agree.” Did I really think the MEK would be any better? I wasn't so sure.

“If you're going to ground in my country, you'll need contacts. I can provide those for you. If you need a way in, well, we have the people for that, too.”

“Good. I knew I could count on you. How soon?”

He shrugged. “Tomorrow. Maybe the next.”

“Tonight, Moradi. I need the contact info tonight. I don't plan on being here tomorrow.”

Moradi's eyebrows arched above his thick, fleshy face. “Fine. Tonight. But not here. Not in public. We'll use one of our places.” He started to reach for his cell phone. “I'll get my driver.”

“No. We'll do the caravan thing. You, Akbari, and me in a cab. Drago in his car. Your driver in his,” I said. “Give me the address. I'll make a call.”

Moradi shrugged; caution was not something he disapproved of. He wrote the address on a napkin, showed it to me, and then crumpled the napkin in his fist. It disappeared into his coat pocket. I checked the address with my iPhone. The location was in the Dapperbuurt district, a neighborhood of apartments and small businesses just east of here.

I called a taxi, stood, and motioned to the door. Moradi and Drago started out, and I kept two arm's lengths behind them.

When we emerged from the restaurant, Akbari straightened. His hand moved exactly four inches closer to his jacket, and therefore four inches closer to his weapon. It wasn't those four inches that worried me.

“Kouros?” he called. “Everything okay, boss?”

“Your boss and I are getting along fine,” I answered. “But even so, keep your hands where I can see them, if you don't mind.”

“Do it,” Moradi ordered. “This is a friendly party.”

He glanced at Drago.”Stay close, but not too close.”

“Got it. Both cars are on the way,” Drago replied.

Our taxi arrived thirty seconds before the MEK cars. Moradi and I climbed into the back. I took the seat behind the driver. Akbari sat up front, on the other side of the partition. Nothing like a little bulletproof glass between you and the man you least trust, especially one with a gun in his coat.

The cab made two quick turns and pushed through a yellow light onto Prins Hendrikkade. I looked back. Drago's driver got caught at the red, and I didn't know whether this was good news or bad. To our left, a sprinkling of green, red, and white lights blinked off the surface of the canal, and music spilled out from a houseboat overflowing with college-age kids. To our right, multistoried buildings built of stone the color of dull bronze rose like a gauntlet next to the street. Double-decker buses, bicycles, and bright lights made the city sparkle like a theme park.

I kept mindful not only of what was ahead of us but behind as well. I could see a set of headlights drifting from lane to lane, and it didn't take more than a quick moment to recognize who and what they belonged to. I was expecting Drago's Saab, but it wasn't. It was a Volvo sedan Moradi had arrived in.

“Why is your guy driving like a maniac?”

Moradi turned his head toward the rear window. “What do you mean?”

“Your driver.”

Moradi's eyes and eyebrows bunched together in a tight knot, and his slack mouth curled into a scowl. Something was wrong. We hadn't gone another block when the Volvo began flashing its headlights. Something was definitely wrong, and then Kia Akbari was shouting from the front seat.

“Watch out!” He was pointing at the oncoming traffic.

I saw it then. A delivery truck was rumbling over the center median and careening toward us. My first thought was to bail, but we were traveling too fast. My second was to grab Moradi and jam him against the back of the front seat.

The taxi's brakes screeched, and the horn blared.

It was too late.

 

CHAPTER 7

PRINS HENDRIKKADE, AMSTERDAM

The delivery truck careened over the median and plowed headlong into us. I had three thoughts that more or less raced through my head at the same time. One, this wasn't a drunk driver or an overzealous commuter; the driver of the delivery truck hadn't touched his brakes or made the slightest attempt to swerve. Two, Kouros Moradi's driver knew something bad was afoot, because he'd been trying to run us down for nearly a block; but if he knew something, why not use his cell phone to warn us? And three, I could have been at a barbecue in my own backyard instead of playing bumper cars with a three-ton delivery truck.

Our taxi was slammed backward, metal crunching, glass shattering. The crash rattled pretty much every bone in my body. The instant everything stopped, I bolted upright from behind the front seat and took stock of the situation. Up front, Kia Akbari and the taxi driver blinked in dazed shock, their faces chopped up by the rain of sharp glass fragments from the shattered windshield. At least they were alive.

Around us, cars were screeching to a halt. I heard shouts and screams echoing from the sidewalks.

The delivery truck sat before us, the front bumper and grille smashed in and a fountain of radiator fluid spewing into the air. Light from the streetlamps tricked across the strewn wreckage, and shards of glass glimmered like uncut jewels. Kouros Moradi uncurled himself from the floor, his face contorted and pale.

“You okay?” I didn't need the head of the MEK in Amsterdam dying just then. I still needed him.

“Okay. I think,” he said.

A man clambered out the passenger's side of the truck cab, pistol in hand, and shouted in Farsi, “Find the American.”

I'm not normally a betting man, but I was willing to lay odds just then that he was talking about me.

“We gotta move,” I shouted at Moradi.

I jerked open the door and grabbed him by the collar. We spilled out of the car and he landed on all fours on the asphalt. I fell in next to him.

“Go! They want me, not you. Go,” I shouted, pushing the huge Iranian toward the curb. He shambled into a crowd of astonished pedestrians who, not five seconds earlier, had been out for an evening stroll and were now witnesses to some very serious mayhem. If it were me, I'd be diving into a doorway for cover right about now.

I drew the Walther from inside my jacket and popped the safety. At the same moment, I heard the taxi's front door swing open and caught a glimpse of Kia Akbari darting around the back of the taxi, gun drawn.

He looked straight at me. At this range, I was a sitting duck, and all I could do was berate myself for a lack of good judgment.
Well done, Jake.
But of course the Iranian was a sitting duck, too. But rather than empty a full magazine into my torso, Akbari flattened himself against the trunk of the car, held his pistol in a two-handed grip, and aimed at the truck.