“Their rifles are Iranian-made AKMs,” Mark said.
“How can you tell?”
“Black plastic stocks.”
Her uncle had been right, Daria thought. This hadn’t been worth it. She should have done something decent with her life. Her uncle should have done something decent with his life. Instead they’d both devoted their lives to a failed cause.
A couple of minutes later a woman wearing a red headscarf emerged. She was shorter than the armed men who’d preceded her, and wasn’t carrying a weapon.
“Heads up,” said Mark.
But Daria had already seen her. She stiffened as she focused the telephoto lens on the camera and leaned forward against the wall. The woman in the red headscarf began to walk back and forth across the small walled-in yard behind the farmhouse. Each time she reached the far end, her full body was visible.
For the first time since hearing Decker’s story about the graves, Daria felt something approaching hope.
“That’s Minabi!” she whispered.
“You’re sure?”
“She walks a little duck-footed, often with her hands clasped in front of her. The way she’s walking now. Besides, I can see her face well enough.”
“You’ve met her in person?”
“A few times. If Minabi’s alive, there’s a chance…”
“A chance.”
There was a chance her uncle was still alive too, she thought. If Minabi had been spared, her uncle and other top MEK leaders might have been too. She eyed the guards around Minabi, taking better stock of their weapons, feeling a little flicker of that old familiar anger return.
When Minabi finally went back inside the farmhouse, it was clear from the way the guards gestured with their guns that she’d been ordered to do so.
Mark said, “So it’s the middle of the night, Minabi’s locked up in a room, maybe sleeping maybe not, and suddenly you slip in and tell her to hightail it out of there with you while Deck and I deal with the guards. Does she trust you? Does she recognize you? Does she scream?”
“I’m not sure. Depends on how I approach it.”
If her uncle was in there, she’d get him.
“Think about it. You got all day. Meanwhile we’ll keep watching.”
66
From a pay phone on Twelfth and Madison, Amato called National Security Advisor James Ellis at his home in McLean, Virginia.
Ellis picked up after two rings, sounding alert but speaking softly. Trying not to wake up his wife, Amato assumed.
Amato often called at night, when Ellis was reading in bed — the man hardly slept at all — and it was always the same routine. In a moment Ellis would walk to his study.
“We need to meet,” said Amato.
“Hold on.”
Amato heard the sound of Ellis’s footsteps as he padded from his bed to his study, then the sound of a door closing shut.
“What’s going on?” said Ellis.
“Not over the phone.”
Ellis was silent for a moment. “How soon can you get here?”
“Your guards will record it if I come.”
“For Christ’s sake, Henry, you’re my assistant. Who cares if they record it?”
It occurred to Amato that in all the years he’d worked with Ellis, it had apparently never once occurred to his boss that taking the Lord’s name in vain, repeatedly and excessively, might somehow cause offense.
Ellis sighed. “Where, then?”
“The Vietnam Memorial. As soon as you can get there.”
“Give me twenty minutes.”
“There’s a bench on the north side,” said Amato.
“I’ll be there.”
The half moon that had hung in the sky earlier in the night had by now dipped below the horizon, but the weak starlight that remained illuminated the pale, dry grass in front of Amato. In the distance he could just make out the looming black shadow of the long stone wall.
Amato thought of all the names he recognized and wondered what the men who’d served under him would think of what he was about to do. Then he wondered whether Ellis recognized any of the names on the wall, or whether the multiple deferments that had allowed him to pursue a doctorate in international relations had completely insulated him from the madness of that era.
Amato checked his watch, feeling remarkably calm as he considered the situation. He’d tried to avoid having things get to this point, but he’d failed and now he had to act accordingly. There would be no second-guessing. His only real concern was timing.
In the distance, through a grove of trees, he saw the white glow of the Washington Monument, and beyond that the Capitol, its dome all lit up from below. He checked his watch again, and began to pray. O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee, and I detest all my sins because I dread the loss of Heaven and the pains of Hell but most of all because they offend Thee, my God, who art all-good and deserving of all my love…
Even at a distance, and in the dark, Amato was able to recognize the black silhouette of Ellis’s narrow shoulders as his boss approached from the south.
“Thanks for coming,” he said when Ellis reached the bench and sat down.
“For Christ’s sake, Henry. What’s this about?” Ellis wore a suit but no tie. On his head was a dark navy-blue Georgetown baseball cap, reminding Amato that Ellis’s son played college ball.
Amato spoke quietly. “A surveillance team has been detected at Minabi’s house outside of Auvers.”
“Have the Iranians been notified?”
“Yes.”
“We know who it is?”
“No. But from thermal profiles and process of elimination, I suspect it’s Sava and Buckingham. The Iranians are planning the takedown. I don’t trust them to do it right so I ordered our team to—”
“Call them off.”
“The Iranians will need help. Buckingham and Sava aren’t civilians, they won’t be an easy grab.”
“We’re to avoid any type of engagement on French soil at all costs. That order, by the way, comes from the top. So don’t go getting your ass in an uproar, Henry, or thinking you can convince me otherwise.”
“And I’d like to go to France to help with the interrogations.”
“What the hell is the matter with you, Henry?” When Amato didn’t answer, Ellis said, “We agreed no foreign travel for either of us for three weeks prior to launch.”
“That was before the complications. That was before Sava and Buckingham got involved.”
“You’re not even trained for interrogations.”
“That’s not entirely true.”
“No, Henry. You’re staying right here and the Iranians are going to handle it without our help. Is that all?”
Amato closed his eyes for a moment. He’d tried to give Ellis an out; that was all he could do.
His right hand rested in his coat pocket, and he could feel the cool metal chain against his palm. With his thumb and index finger he made his way, link by link, down to the end of it. The metal jingled a little, as if he were fiddling with change in his pocket.
He could still taste the stale grappa in his mouth. The stink of alcohol sweating out of his pores was mildly repulsive even to himself.
“No, James, there’s one more thing we need to talk about,” said Amato. “It’s more of a personal matter, though.”
“Be quick about it.”
“Walk with me. I’ll go in your direction.” Amato stood up and waited for Ellis to do the same.
Ellis exhaled loudly through his nose as he pushed himself off the bench. “I’m parked on Twenty-First.” He began walking.