The Shield of Darius (19 page)

Ben reached the edge of the city by evening on his second day, tottering along for brief stretches, crouching beside walls with silent beggars who sat with hands extended, leaving the street to squat beneath a chinar tree in an alley when he needed to check his bandage or empty his bowel. His left side from armpit to waist was purple-black and he clutched the
chador
with his left hand to keep the arm pressed tightly against his side and the bundle of food.

The Tehran of Ben’s boyhood was gone. The open space that had once separated the city from Mehrabad Airport was filled with houses, shops and office buildings. On the third day away from the prison, five kilometers beyond the airport, an approaching police car pulled up beside him, the officer on the passenger side shouting to him sharply in words he didn’t understand. He pulled his wrap close about his eyes and responded in high-pitched, thick-tongued noises, shaking his head loosely from side to side until the men sniffed in disgust and drove away.

Once beyond Mehrabad, he traveled only at night, dozing fitfully during the day in secluded clumps of brush, remembering that it was in this dry brush land that he had once seen a lizard he thought was a Gila monster. Black and pink over its beaded back. But it was the roaming packs of dogs that sniffed at him as he tried to sleep that kept him from any true rest. Each evening he changed the dressing, biting back his cries as he forced what infection he could from the wound by reaching around his left side with both hands and squeezing the swollen flesh. Only a few tattered strips of shirt remained.

When dark came, he walked with the
chador
wrapped about his waist, keeping the highway nearby but staying beyond the glare of passing headlights. At one cluster of brick homes, he scaled the mud walls until he found water; an open cistern that he knew must teem with bacteria that would eventually give him diarrhea or dysentery. Three leather-tough pieces of
sangyak
remained in his food bundle and he rationed them to one a day, but it was thirst that plagued him most. Deep, sapping thirst that cramped his stomach until he pitched forward with dry heaves, throbbing at his temples and piercing his punctured side like a jagged spike. He had to drink the contaminated water or stop moving all altogether.

Ben rounded the hill overlooking Karaj several hours before dawn of the fifth day and stooped beside a brown rocky outcropping to catch his breath and survey what was now a sprawling city. He had come only forty kilometers from Tehran - forty kilometers that had at one time been open country, but now provided only occasional stretches of dry brushy land. Walking had sapped most of his strength and extended the bruising on his back down into his left hip. The bullet now bulged against his ribs like a small tumor and seemed to have sucked all of the moisture from his body, leaving his lips swollen and cracked and his skin clammy and yellow.

He leaned against the rocks, watching for movement along the road that skirted the shallow riverbed that ran through the edge of the city, a course of sand and gravel cut wide by raging floods that once had surged down each spring from the Elborz Mountains to the north. The bed was almost dry and he guessed that the giant Amirkabir Dam, built before his family was in Iran, now blocked and controlled the river high above Karaj, diverting precious water and electricity to other regions of the country.

He remembered that the city had once been known for its agricultural college which stretched with greenhouses and fields of grain and vegetables west beyond the town. An American school friend had lived here, a friend with horses on which they had galloped across the barren desert flats bordering the farm. Outside of the college grounds, the village had been typically rural Iran; brown brick buildings hidden by high mud walls, and narrow dirt
koochay
s lined with thin, straight poplars. The trees, which even in mid-summer seemed only partially in leaf, sucked life from the
jubes
, shallow smelly ditches that served as sink, laundry and bath to most of the village peasants. In the growing silver light of dawn, Karaj now looked more like Tehran, and Ben feared momentarily that he had been staggering in a hazy circle. 

He rose stiffly and shuffled down the hill to the road. Below and to his right a bridge crossed the streambed, with a row of low shanties lining the far side of the wash. He remembered the bridge, and that a common public well had drawn clusters of
chador
ed women with tall earthen jars to a small grove of poplars on its far side. If it was still there and he reached the well before daylight, he could wash his wound and drink before the women came. Then he would find a place to sleep. He was too weak to cross the mountains to the Caspian. He would sleep, and then decide if Jim Cannon had been right. Perhaps he would never get out alive.

EIGHTEEN

When he needed to think – seriously think—Christopher Falen always went to the island. He kept an apartment at Chincoteague across Chesapeake Bay, down the coast into Virginia. Here he found that the neat framed cottages with their tidy fenced gardens had a certain other-worldliness about them that took him away from the frenzied seriousness of the Capitol. From his condominium, he rode a bicycle the few miles out to Assateague National Seashore where the brine air of the gray Atlantic cleared his head, and the rhythmic sloshing of rippled waves against the rocky beach opened his mind and let his thoughts move freely.

The thing with Javad had shaken him. He had been careless and he knew it. The Sunday following his visit to the farmhouse, he walked slowly south toward Chincoteague Inlet in shorts and an open shirt, gazing absently over the gently rolling water of the Atlantic. As he walked he rubbed his chain-bruised neck and systematically turned the puzzle that Javad had completed for him in his head. It was a pretty slick operation. Steal thirty Americans from every part of the country whose kidnappings, once made public, would provoke widespread outcry and consternation – and then just hold them. Warehouse them. When things got hot, drop them in the U.S. Government’s lap like a whole new Tehran Embassy crisis – but in six undisclosed locations.

Javad had been right about tapping the national weakness. Americans would do just about anything to save a civilian life, even if it got a bunch of people killed. And when the country was run by the drive to get re-elected, to hell with public good and right decisions. Politicians did what needed to be done to get back in office. Every citizen, informed or not, had a right to vote, and if locked away where he couldn’t, was connected to a million other voters by blood or sympathy. And a million voters who wanted to make a fuss about something could override just about any elected official’s good judgment. Iran had learned from the 1980 hostage crisis that in the United States, national interest is a slave to special interest. Iran had Uncle Sam by the balls, and if the man in the striped pants and top hat raised his fist over the Persian Gulf, he was going to feel the lasting pain of a sharp, twisting jerk.

Fisher’s people had picked up the Majorca kidnapping team after Broom’s transfer. Like Javad, the captive Persians had all silently disappeared. Falen had no idea what had happened to them. He didn’t really care. His problem now was figuring out what to do about the thirty Americans being held in the Rubaiyat Hotel and he didn’t have much time. When whoever was running this operation in Tehran learned that Javad, Baktiar, and the Majorca team were missing, the hostages would be moved around the country. He’d called Fisher, hoping the faceless voice would have answers. He was relieved when Fisher answered himself.

“I have some information for you. How confident are you in the security of your line?”

“Very. Do you have reason to question it?”

“No, but this is big. You may want to handle it face-to-face.”

“There are no face-to-face meetings. You know that. A face-to-face compromises both of us more than an insecure line.”  Fisher’s aged voice showed irritation.

“What about an intermediary?”

“Is this something you want handled through a third party?”

“No. Not really.”

“I didn’t think so. The line’s secure. Tell me what you have.”

Falen outlined in as little detail as necessary the Iranian warehousing operation, beginning with the passport office and finishing with the delivery location in Tehran. Fisher didn’t interrupt and a long pause followed Falen’s account.

“You think there are that many?” Fisher asked finally.

“Perhaps more. That seems fairly certain.”

“Any idea where they plan to take them when they spread them out?”

“No idea. I’d assume the nuclear reactor sites and what they consider to be the other most strategic target areas. Bandar Abbas, Abadan, Ahvas. – with some left in Tehran, of course.”

“And you think that will happen within a week or two?”

“I’d guess ten days to two weeks at the outside.”

“What do you see as our options?”

It was Falen’s turn to pause. “I’ve gone over and over this, and I don’t think we have options.”

“There are always options”

“Well then, I don’t think we have good options.”

“Explain.”

Falen reviewed the thought that had been developing since he left the farmhouse.

“It strikes me we have two things working for us. The first is the way the Iranians are running this operation. No one knows these people are alive. In every case, they’re gone without a trace and, in most, they’re presumed dead.”

Fisher grunted acknowledgement.

“The other advantage,” Falen continued, “is that as far as we know they’re all still together. If we lose either of those two factors, this could become a real mess.”

“I agree with that.”

Falen selected his words carefully. “If we try a rescue, we’re probably going to lose the advantage of secrecy. The news people will find out somehow and spread this all over page one. Plus, if a rescue fails, Iran will scatter the hostages around and immediately compound our problem. Our success with rescues has been mixed, and we’ve never had to go into central Tehran. I think that’s a bad choice.”

Again, Fisher grunted his agreement.

“We could leave them there and hope the situation never develops that will force Iran to play its hand. If that happens, after awhile they’ll take care of the problem for us by eliminating the hostages before anyone knows they have them.”

“You believe the situation
will
develop though, don’t you,” Fisher guessed.

“Yes. If we don’t provoke it, I think they will. They’ll be like a kid with his first ten bucks. Even if he can’t find a way to spend it, he likes to flash it around to make sure people know he has it. This Shi’ite-Sunni division in Iraq is getting more serious again and Iran’s threatening to intervene more actively. Syria might provide another provocation. I think they’ll do something soon if we don’t”

“Why don’t we let them?” Fisher suggested.

“
Let them
?”

“Yes. Let them start something and announce they have the hostages.”

“Are you serious?”

“Dead serious. It may be just what we need. An international incident that will force this country into action – and others who see this kind of international blackmail as having gone way too far across the line.”

Falen considered the suggestion skeptically. “For one thing, it will make us look like idiots, letting thirty people disappear without knowing or doing something about it. Plus, you’ve got more faith in the American government than I have. They won’t react in a responsible way. The public is pretty sick of our two Middle East wars. They won’t be very excited about another.”

“The State Department is very aware of the unusual number of disappearances,” Fisher said. “They just don’t know why, and aren’t sure what to do about it.”

“I haven’t seen or heard anything about it,” Falen said.

“Part of their confusion – and again to our advantage. They are hoping it doesn’t become public until they have some answers. But it does suggest we could look pretty foolish if this came to the public’s attention. Iran’s developing nuclear capability, and something has to be done. There’s no guarantee they will use it responsibly. We’ll have to take some action.”

“Believe me,” Falen said, remembering his FAC days as Eddie Warren. “We won’t do what you think we should. These Iranians have played it smart. They’ve snatched people we won’t be willing to sacrifice. Can you imagine what would happen if we hit a place where the public knew five housewives with little kids at home were being held? Hell, they’d have every head in Washington. Not likely.”

“So, what do you suggest?” Fisher prompted.

“We can’t wait. We’ve got to act within a week and we’ve got to act in such a way that this doesn’t become public knowledge.”

Again there was silence at the other end.

“Is there a way that can be done?” Fisher asked finally.

“I’m not sure. But I believe so.”

“Are we talking about these people disappearing for good?’

“That’s the way I see it.”

“I’m not sure I can support that….”

“See what I mean?” Falen muttered. “
You
even have trouble with the idea. Do you think the President would do anything to Iran if the whole country knew about it – and what the likely result might be?”

“The risks are significant.”

“Fewer than the alternatives.”

“I’m not sure I have the resources to get this done,” Fisher said.

“Hell, I thought this is exactly the kind of thing you did. You sure as hell knew when I was getting choked by that crazy Iranian bastard.”

“I didn’t. The man I had watching him did. And, by the way, he was watching without sound so he didn’t know what the Iranian said. We don’t need to worry about him.”

“The least of my concerns,” Falen said. “What about this other deal?”

“I’d hardly call it routine. The international implications are enormous.”

“But we’ve got the situation and can’t just let it go.”

“We’d need someone inside,” Fisher suggested.

“Not necessarily.”

“You sound like you have a plan.”

“The beginnings of one, and it would leave you with complete deniability. Do you want to leave it to me?”

Fisher paused. “The Government can’t be implicated. That’s out.”

“Hell, I know that. But you’ve got to give me free rein otherwise.”

“You realize you’ll be on your own.”

“I’m always on my own. You made that clear up front.”

“If it goes badly, it’s all yours then.”

“Shit,” Falen spit into the phone. “What would you guys do without us? Take responsibility for something? Or just not do anything?”

“Listen. You know the way it works. That’s why we’ve taken such good care of you all these years. You’re the one who suggested letting you handle it. And I’ve been a bit worried about you lately. It’s wasn’t like you to get careless with the Iranian.”

“You’re right. But I’ve got that worked out. And I’ll handle this for you and keep the government clean. Just don’t come back on me if you don’t like the approach.”

“That doesn’t sound good. A messy operation’s likely to attract attention.”

“It won’t be messy. In fact, I haven’t even got it all worked out, but I don’t hear any better ideas. I need free rein.”

“It’s your operation,” Fisher said. “I think the Pentagon is planning some action in the Gulf, but I’ll try to keep everything under control here until you get it taken care of.”

“A week,” Falen said.

As Falen now looked out over the cold gray expanse of ocean, he wondered if he’d over-estimated his ability to deliver. He also wondered if he was as sure about limited options as he’d expressed to Fisher. His FAC days still inclined him to see the best solution as calling in an air strike.

He turned back north along the beach, cutting across the dunes toward his bicycle. As he walked and rode the three miles back to Chincoteague he refined the plan, anticipating and working around potential problems. At the apartment he placed a call through one of Fisher’s secure links to Israel, then to American Airlines Flight Reservations. With his meeting arranged, he pulled a Baltimore number from his billfold, dialed Kate Sager and assumed his Washington sophisticate persona when her voicemail answered .

“Kate? Chris Falen. Listen, I hope I’m not intruding. Last time we talked, I didn’t leave on a very good note and hoped I could make it up to you. I’ve rented a place on the beach out at Chincoteague. Just south of Pocomoke City. Wondered if I could talk you into coming out for dinner this evening? I’ve gotta leave for Europe first thing in the morning to see what I can find out about these passports that are being taken. It might help if we could go over everything one more time. Just dinner. Do you have some time?”

.  .  .

Had Chris Falen phoned four hours earlier, Kate might very well have accepted. She’d had kids up to her eyebrows the night before and would very willingly have abandoned them for a night almost anywhere. She had also been about to enter a session with David King and representatives of CommTech to discuss a buyout offer on the company when her mother called. Mom just wanted to see if Kate was “spending as much time with the children as she should be,” and had capped the conversation with quotes from an article in the latest issue of
Good Housekeeping
. The article was proof positive, Mother assured her, that children of single working women were less well-nourished, prone to neurosis, and scored poorly on SAT tests! To put it mildly, it hadn’t been a good morning.

Kate was also finding it increasingly difficult to tuck the children in at night and stretch out alone on the king-sized bed to read until she slipped into uneasy sleep. She was lonely and sick of having to do everything by herself. And she was finding that the enigmatic Mr. Falen was the only person in her life who seemed to understand what she was trying to deal with. Plus, his voice had a constant calm to it - never tense or overly emphatic, but rich and reassuringly mellow. The admission that she found his company soothing made Kate feel guilty and she certainly wasn’t looking to replace Ben. But some calm reassurance was just what she needed on a day like this, and she wasn’t finding it anywhere else.