indefinitely.”
Among the nine people sitting around the polished table was Lieutenant General Thomas Varlowe, U.S. Army (Retired), the gray presence who never quite shed the three stars he once wore. As chairman of SSI’s advisory board, he had little financial stake in the firm but remained interested in the fascinating projects that came down the Beltway. Though he seldom spoke up in board meetings, the situation called for an exception.
“Ahem.” Heads turned toward the former West Point track star. “I wanted to talk to Admiral Derringer before the meeting but I didn’t get the chance. In case there’s any doubt about the company’s lack of work, I can elaborate.”
Derringer barely managed to suppress a tight smile. The two retirees were “Admiral” and “General” to one another in SSI meetings but friendly rivals named Mike and Tom the rest of the time — especially in November for the Army-Navy game.
“Go ahead, General.” The Navy man knew what was coming.
Varlowe shoved back from the table. “It’s that job with the Israelis. Damned poor situation to get into…” He came within an inch of adding,
“I’ve been traveling in Europe, General. What
Derringer interjected. “Dr. Shumard, the mission summary is still being prepared owing to, ah, security concerns. But the short version is, our training team in Chad got involved in a double play set up by the Israelis, presumably against the Iranians. Colonel Leopole can provide some operational details, but basically our tasking changed from instruction to interdiction, preventing a load of yellow cake from being shipped to Iran.”
Shumard shook her head. “I’m sorry, Admiral. As I said, I’ve been away and didn’t know the particulars. But why would Iran want ore from Chad? I mean, Iran has its own mines.”
Derringer nodded to the chief of operations.
Lieutenant Colonel Frank Leopole looked, talked, and acted as Central Casting would expect of a Marine Corps officer. He was tall, lean, and hard with a high and tight haircut that screamed “jarhead” to the Army and Navy men in the office. His tenure with SSI had been marked by some notable successes and few failures.
“Deniability, ma’am. At least that’s what our intel said. Presumably Tehran wanted foreign yellow cake to use in a weapon and avoid the nuclear fingerprints of its own ore. So our team went chasing off across Chad and Libya, then through the Med and down the west coast of Africa to overhaul the shipment. All the time we were working with the Israelis, who provided most of the information and logistics. We caught the ship, which was scuttled with its cargo, so presumably everybody was happy.”
“But I take it nobody really is happy.”
“Nobody but the Israelis,” Varlowe added. It was an uncharacteristic interjection from the normally taciturn soldier. “As I was going to say, our team — this firm — was stiffed by Mossad. The Israelis concocted the plot in the first place to distract us — the U.S. — from their genuine concern. They had their own operation going against Iran’s nuclear program but were afraid we would learn about it and bring pressure to bear. Apparently their real plan failed but what matters is, they tossed us a straw man: something credible that we could pursue and leave them alone.” He gave an eloquent shrug. “It worked.”
George Ferraro spoke up. “See, that’s what I don’t understand. We did what the government and the administration wanted done. So why are we the heavies now?”
“There are several major players,” Derringer replied. “Not least of which is the CIA. The agency accepted the Israelis’ ploy, apparently almost at face value. Our own sources — mainly David Dare — sniffed out the facts but too late to affect the operation.”
Shumard accepted that explanation without reservation. Though not involved in intelligence or operations, she and everyone connected with the firm knew the eye-watering reputation of the former NSA spook. It was said that if you wanted to know what Japanese porn film Kim Jong Il watched last night, ask Dave Dare.
“So Langley’s embarrassed that SSI figured out what was going on, and wants to cover its hindquarters.”
Derringer spoke again. “It’s bigger than that, Doctor. We’ve taken hits before from various agencies, and I admit that a few were justified. But usually when some agency tries to stiff us, it’s as you say: embarrassment or jealousy or some sort of perceived rivalry. In this case, we’re criticized by State and Langley and to an extent by DoD.” He grimaced, then adjusted his glasses. “In a way I can understand it. Considering the high stakes involved in any Israeli-Iranian conflict, nobody this side of the pond wants to be blamed if something goes wrong.”
Marshall Wilmont spoke up for the first time. As SSI president and chief operating officer, he had a finger in most of the company pies. “So much for the reason for our drought. What I want to know is, what can we do about it?”
The question hung suspended above the polished table, lurking in brooding silence.
The dream returned again.
At the command, the executioners assumed their positions: squatting or kneeling with their rifles aimed at the condemned men’s chests.
The sequence usually resembled a grainy black and white newsreel, for the sleeper was one of those who seldom dreamed in color. When awake, in the rare moments when he had nothing else in mind, Ahmad Esmaili sometimes pondered the odd situation. As a participant in the event that stalked his nights, he expected to relive the glorious, dreadful moments from behind the sights of a Heckler & Koch rifle. But more often his perspective was that of an observer, seeing himself and his colleagues from several meters away.
In 1979, at eighteen, Esmaili’s first full-time job had been on a revolutionary firing squad. The first day had been dreadful, and if anything the second day was worse. But by the end of the week it was tolerable. After a while, to display his revolutionary fervor, he notched the wood stock of his G3 for each of the Shah’s vermin he shot. However, as the imams noted, hell was reserved for infidels— those who rejected Islam. Presumably even Muslims who oppressed others of The Faith had a chance to achieve Paradise.
Apart from former government officials and Savak policemen, Esmaili also had dispatched evildoers such as drug addicts, perverts, and Kurds.
Esmaili had to admit that most of the dictator’s men had died reasonably well, some with the Koran in hand. Resigned to their fate, they had stood their ground, eyes bound but hands free, and accepted the ayatollah’s justice delivered almost from powder-burn distance. But the former revolutionary guard seldom alluded to that aspect of the process. A few early attempts from twenty meters or more had resulted in some messy episodes, and eventually the range was diminished almost to muzzle contact.
Esmaili felt the heavy trigger pull, then somebody was shaking him awake. It was two hours before dawn.
Forcing his consciousness to swim upward through the haze of REM sleep, he surfaced to think:
He was right.
Esmaili sat upright on his cot, rubbing his eyes and stifling a yawn. He merely said, “Tell me.”
“It is Malik’s team.” The tone of the messenger’s voice told Ahmad Esmaili as much as the words. “They are all with God.”
The Iranian was fully awake now. He focused on the face of his colleague, a young man from Tyre who called himself Hazim: Resolute. He was more enthusiastic than capable but occasionally he showed promise. Esmaili had decided to cultivate him.
“All of them?”
Hazim nodded gravely.
Esmaili swung his bare feet onto the floor of the small house. His toes found his sandals and slid into them, rising in the process. Otherwise he was already dressed. “When?”
“Early this morning. We only got word a little while ago.”
