“Do I mind taking a walk with a good friend I haven’t seen in years? No, I don’t mind.” He smiled again. He gave an all-clear nod of his head to his guards, and we turned into the park. His lieutenants followed at a respectful distance.
I steered us to the fountain. The splashing water would mask our conversation from anyone hoping to eavesdrop, and Charlie seemed to understand.
When we were close enough to feel the mist, I glanced his way and said, “Charlie, you seem to have done well for yourself.”
He shrugged, a tad embarrassed by the compliment. “Inshallah. I sell people what they want. Fortunately, there are plenty of Persians who want a taste of life before the mullahs.”
“So you’re selling the good life,” I said.
“Well, that and a few of the essentials.” I loved that. The essentials. Like guns and drugs and passports. Yeah, I got it. He said, “I can’t tell you how much has changed over the years, Jake.”
“You mean like the boy soldiers patrolling your streets?” I hoped I didn’t sound too sarcastic.
“Tip of the iceberg, my friend.” Charlie beat the air with his fist, a heavy gold bracelet sliding on his wrist. “The country is like a tinderbox waiting to explode. Ahmadinejad rants against the Israelis as if they were the source of our problems. He spends billions trying to develop weapons to wipe out our neighbors while our own country is in free fall.”
“Which brings me to my mission.”
“Mission? What are you talking about?” Charlie chuckled. Then he saw that I was dead serious, and he banished every ounce of humor from his voice. “Here? In Iran? That’s why you’re here? Hell, I heard you were retired.”
“Was,” I said.
“If you say so.” He shrugged, but it wasn’t very convincing. “And this mission of yours. What is it?”
I didn’t say anything.
“And your team?” His eyes inched wider in surprise when he saw the tension etched across my face. “You’re not acting alone?”
“No. There’s a team here. Two teams, actually. I have MEK support and DDO backup.”
“That’s your team. Huh! You really know how to pick ’em, Jake,” he said with the greatest of irony.
“Problem is, my op’s been compromised.”
Charlie shrugged. “Proceed without them.”
“Easier said than done,” I replied.
“Of course,” he said, as if he’d just had a revelation. “They know too much, don’t they?”
“I can’t move forward without knowing who the traitor is, Charlie.” He knew what I meant.
“Jake. My dear friend.” He opened his arms toward the picnic area and the playground. Toward a family filled with kids and grandkids and a wife of thirty years. “Look, my friend. Look what you gave me. A man doesn’t forget that. Not ever.”
I heard the emotion in his voice. “You have a beautiful family, Charlie. You really do.”
Now he looked at me, and his eyes were those of a man who knew the rules of engagement and had never been averse to breaking them.
“Anything I have is at your disposal.” He opened his arms. “Men. Weapons. Money. You name it.”
“Charlie, I’ve come to you because you have the one resource money can’t buy.”
“What is that, Jake?”
“Trust.”
CHAPTER 15
Charlie Amadi and I were on the bottom floor of a dilapidated warehouse in Navvab, one of Tehran’s southern districts. The warehouse was situated close to a cement factory and one of the city’s wastewater-treatment plants. A train rumbled along on nearby tracks, rattling our windows and the overhead pipes.
The outside of the warehouse was blighted with stains and flaking plaster. Rusted appliances and stripped-down cars littered the weedy grounds, and dingy broken windows revealed a gloomy interior. The building didn’t just look abandoned but forsaken. In other words, it fit our needs to a tee.
Inside, the warehouse didn’t look quite so desolate, however. It was chock-full of cardboard boxes and sealed containers filled with things like fake Rolex watches and knock-off designer purses, sunglasses and leather jackets, Persian rugs and porcelain pottery, all part of Charlie’s black-market inventory. The local street vendors must have loved the guy.
At the heart of the main floor, stacks of boxes had been pushed aside to accommodate a workstation hastily arranged atop four folding tables. Shop lamps had been clipped to the rafters, filling the space with harsh white light. A bank of five laptop computers rested on the tables, and their monitors flickered with the data steaming through my surveillance software. The laptops were connected to a router, which in turn was connected to my iPhone. A handpicked team of Charlie’s most-tech-savvy men sat at the laptops. Each wore a headset. I sat behind them, reading a text from Mr. Elliot: Russian delivery in transit. Coordinates and specifics encrypted.
I opened the encrypted e-mail, read the specifics, and transferred the coordinates into my map app. A pinpoint of red light settled over the border of Iran and Azerbaijan, on the shores of the Caspian Sea.
I left the screen illuminated, palmed the phone, and turned back to watch the op unfold.
If you looked up counterintelligence in the Agency’s manual, the description was remarkably simple. Well, concise might be a better word. Counterintelligence fell under the heading of actions taken by an intelligence apparatus intended to protect its own security while at the same time undermining any hostile intelligence operations. It wasn’t just an agency or an arm of an agency that ran counterintel. I had become a master of it over my twenty-seven-year-career running outside paramilitary operations. So, while I was running intel ops targeting everything from narcotics trafficking and domestic terrorism to arms smuggling and cyber terrorism, I was also running counterintelligence on the DEA, the ATF, and Justice.
You have to remember, these guys had no idea who I was. In their eyes, I was one of the bad guys. I couldn’t have them stumbling onto one of my ops and thinking they were in for a big-time score. The answer was to stay one step ahead of them, and the best way to do that was counterintelligence. Better safe than sorry. It didn’t always work. Mr. Elliot had bailed me out of some very tight situations over the years, including several very nasty jail cells. One day I’d be behind bars, and the next day I’d be back on the street, doing my job. The boys from the DEA or ATF never knew what hit them.
So here I was again. Familiar territory. Protecting my mission with full-scale counterintelligence and the help of one of Tehran’s most notorious crime bosses. I didn’t care about Charlie’s day job. I needed an ally. Somebody wanted me dead. If the rat was the DDO, then I was relying on Mr. Elliot’s investigation back home to ferret the perp out. If the rat was inside the MEK, then Charlie and I needed to crack open their organization and find him fast. We started with Charlie’s roster of known MEK operatives.
Charlie explained how he happened to possess such a list. “There’s a lot of overlap between my import businesses and the interests of the MEK. Like most underground organizations, they finance themselves helping guys like me smuggle contraband.” He winged a thumb toward the boxes. “The truth is, they need me a lot worse than I need them, so I take full advantage.”
With as much sarcasm as I could muster and a crooked smile, I said, “You, Charlie? Damn, man, I would have never guessed.” Then my expression changed. I held the iPhone up so that Charlie could read the coordinates from Mr. Elliot’s text. “Know where this is?”
Charlie did little more than glance at the screen. “Anyone in my line of work knows where those coordinates are, my friend. Why?”