“Iran’s undersecretary for economic development.”
“Economic development, my ass,” I said. The only economic development that the mullahs and The Twelver were interested in was military development, and that meant we’d scored a hit on the guy in charge of channeling drug money into the government’s nuclear weapons program. “We’re onto something. Good work.”
“It’s a crack in the door, but it’s only as good as you can make it,” he said. He was right. An official like Sepehr Tale could not be bribed or reasoned with. He was a tool of the regime. He might have believed wholeheartedly in what the mullahs were selling, but probably not. And it didn’t matter. He was controlled by a single element: fear. Who knew how many men and women he had seen hung up by their necks at the end of a derrick crane. Who knew how many people he had seen die in Evin Prison. Sepehr Tale was a means to an end. A tool to be used and discarded. I looked forward to doing both. “Listen, report back after your meeting with Moradi, right?”
I said, “Right,” but by now I was working every angle, including the possibility of a loose cannon in the Pentagon, General Tom Rutledge’s own backyard. I was watching his face. His gaze tightened, and his presence was so electric that it was like he had teleported into the room beside me. I almost smiled. Instead, I said, “Lay it on me.”
“This probably goes without saying, but I’ll say it anyway: everyone seems pretty darn convinced that the Iranian government and the MEK are like oil and water. Serious foes, blood enemies. All that crap. But you and I know there’s a lot of overlap when it comes to agendas and loyalties. Watch yourself, okay?”
The general had it dead on. It didn’t matter what side of the fence they were on — progovernment or antigovernment — they were all more or less criminals, no better really than the narco-terrorists I’d hunted for two-plus decades. I looked at the three-star general on the other end of the phone and grinned. “Keep those chest medals polished, my friend.”
“Will do.” Tom signed off.
His e-mail had come through and provided a local telephone number and a couple of recent head shots of Kouros Moradi, the MEK kingpin. He’d changed since I’d last seen him. In the first photo — probably a passport shot — he was facing the camera in a stiff pose. A deep crease down his forehead bisected unkempt eyebrows that almost touched. His wavy black hair was smoothed back and needed combing. Wide jowls met with a thick neck. A dense mustache hung beneath a proud nose. In the other photo he was looking past the camera and seemed to be walking in a hurry. It was a candid shot, grainy, as if taken from a security video. Appearances aside, I knew better than to underestimate a guy with as much influence as Moradi had in this town.
I sent him a text confirming our meeting, and we finally settled on a warehouse in the Haarlemmerbuurt district. I wanted to arrive at least an hour early, so I took a quick shower, dressed, and went downstairs and grabbed a taxi.
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.