“They’re almost there, sir — they’re almost to the tunnel,” Shimon said, pleading with the prime minister to authorize the drone attack now and get it over with.
“No,” Naphtali said. “They’re making too many twists and turns. I don’t want to run the risk of missing.”
“Don’t worry, sir. The missile will lock onto the heat signature of the truck. I guarantee you we will hit the truck and nothing else.”
“We will hit them,” Naphtali finally agreed, “but we’ll do it on the other side of the tunnel — that will be the cleanest shot, on the straightaway as they’re coming out of the tunnel.”
The second they entered the Tohid Tunnel, Rashidi let out a whoop and said a prayer of thanks to Allah. He had no idea they were being tracked by an Israeli drone, no idea a heat-seeking Hellfire missile was waiting for them three kilometers away. He just prayed the next phase of the plan worked as well as the first.
Halfway through the tunnel, Rashidi suddenly yelled at the driver to stay in the right lane and then to slam on the brakes and stop the truck. Several hundred yards later, the air filled with the smell of burning rubber, they were safely stopped at the tunnel’s midpoint. The four elite IRGC bodyguards — all changed into suits and ties again — burst out of the back of the hazmat track, brandishing automatic weapons. They checked to see if there was any traffic behind them, but no one was around.
Rashidi, meanwhile, jumped out of the front seat and took a look for himself. Confident the coast was clear, he walked about thirty yards behind the truck. There he found a door marked Authorized Personnel Only. As per the plan, it was unlocked, and when he opened the door, he found five young schoolgirls waiting for him. They ranged in age, he guessed, from about nine years old to maybe fifteen or sixteen. All wore chadors covering their heads. Their faces, what he could see of them, were ashen, and their eyes were full of fear. They had no coats and they were trembling, but perhaps more from the situation than the cool March temperatures.
Rashidi gave the all-clear sign to the security detail and then ordered the girls to head for the truck. The agents, meanwhile, helped the Mahdi out of the hazmat truck and directed the girls to take his place in the back. Rashidi noticed the Mahdi did not even acknowledge the girls. He did not greet them or even make eye contact with them. He treated them as though they were… what? Impure? Unworthy? He was not entirely sure. But the Mahdi did not pray for them or bless them or even speak a word to them. Rather, he moved quickly and without emotion toward Rashidi.
The security men grabbed their own equipment and closed the rear door of the truck, locking the girls inside. Then they ordered the driver to continue on, which meant continuing south through the tunnel before driving back to the fire station near Azadi Square. The driver did as he was told, and now, with the hazmat truck gone, the agents hustled the Mahdi through the door Rashidi was holding for them.
They raced through a narrow hallway that opened to the tunnel on the other side, where three lanes of highway took traffic in the opposite direction from the section of the tunnel they’d just come from. Today, of course, there was no traffic. This section of tunnel was completely devoid of vehicles except for a yellow school bus waiting for them. The bus was empty but for the driver, who was idling the engine. Rashidi, the Mahdi, and the others quickly piled inside, and then Rashidi ordered the driver — in this case the Ayatollah’s personal driver — to race north through the tunnel and out of Tehran as rapidly as possible.
The prime minister stood and stared at the screen transmitting the live video image from the Israeli drone hovering over the southbound exit of the Tohid Tunnel as his defense minister and the director of the Mossad stood at his side, similarly transfixed. A vehicle suddenly came racing out of the tunnel and into view. Naphtali’s pulse quickened, but it was not the hazmat truck. It was a military truck of some sort, and as quickly as it entered their field of vision, it was gone.
“Can you zoom that image out a bit?” the PM asked. “Can we get a wider shot?”
Dayan was holding a phone to his ear, a hotline connecting him directly to the Mossad operations center in Netanya, which was responsible for controlling the drone. He relayed the order, and within moments the shot widened. Another vehicle came into view, but this was not their truck either. This was an ambulance, its lights flashing, clearly racing to the scene of another emergency.
“What’s going on?” Naphtali asked. “Why’s it taking so long?”
“Patience, sir,” said Shimon. “We’ll see the truck at any moment.”
But they waited a few moments more, and no more vehicles came through.
“Something’s wrong,” said Dayan.
“No, Zvi — quiet — everything is fine,” Shimon insisted. “Please, everyone, we must—”
But before he could finish his sentence, the bright-yellow hazmat truck came barreling out of the tunnel.
“There!” Shimon shouted. “That’s it — that’s our target!”
Sure enough, it had Unit 19 painted on the roof in large black letters. All eyes turned to Naphtali, who didn’t hesitate.
“Take them out,” the prime minister ordered.
Dayan immediately relayed the order to the Mossad’s director of operations, who instantly relayed it to the drone controller.
Naphtali could see what looked like a bolt of lightning flash from the bottom of the screen. That was the missile with the Mahdi’s name on it, and Naphtali watched it streak downward toward the hazmat truck, and suddenly the truck was no more. The screen erupted with fire and smoke. Through the haze, he could see tires go flying and large chunks of the engine and the chassis soaring in all directions. He could also make out the outlines of five burning and motionless bodies. And then he saw a sixth figure trying to crawl through the raging inferno, trying to make it to safety, but in less than a minute, that one stopped moving as well.
But Naphtali could not cheer. He was grateful to have taken out the Mahdi, but he was by no means certain this war was really over. Then something in him tensed. His body grew strangely cold, and at first he had no idea why. He stared at the screen while others slapped each other’s backs in congratulations. He took a step closer to the screen, increasingly oblivious to the celebration going on around him. Naphtali turned his head and looked closer at the flickering images on the monitors, and then he turned to Dayan and asked him to order the controller to zoom in further.
“Why?” the Mossad chief asked. “What’s wrong?”
“Just have them zoom in,” Naphtali said, praying he wasn’t seeing what he thought he was seeing.
Dayan relayed the order, and a moment later the controller got the word and the image began to zoom in.
“What’s going on?” Shimon asked, noticing Naphtali’s rapidly rising discomfort.
“That one,” Naphtali said finally, pointing to the body of the figure that had been crawling. “Zoom in on that one.”
Dayan passed his order along and then stepped closer to the monitor as well.
“There, in the left hand,” said the prime minister. “What is that?”
The room was growing quiet now as everyone noticed Naphtali wasn’t reacting as they were and as everyone’s eyes focused on the screen where he was focused.
And then Naphtali gasped. “That’s a toy,” he said. “That’s a little girl, holding a toy — a doll. Look, none of them are men, except for the driver. They’re all children. They’re all little girls.”