Charlie held up his hands like a man surrendering. “You convinced me. Okay? I’m convinced.” Then he gathered three of his bodyguards together and gave them their instructions. “When Bagheri shows up at our designated locations, make sure it’s safe. If he has any baggage other than Moradi, the deal’s off. If he’s clean, we move him on to the next one. If the second one looks secured, we plan our meet for number three. Tayeb?”
“Tayeb,” one of them said.
“Good. Go.”
I watched the three as they jogged toward the back stairs, then I disconnected my iPhone and severed the uplink to the NSA. Charlie’s IT team would remain in the warehouse for another hour before breaking camp. They’d set up again in another location just before sunset and monitor the movements of the eleven men still on our list of potential traitors. With any luck, we’d be one step closer to finding our guy. A very real alternative was that our guy would be one step closer to finding me.
Charlie, Jeri, and I returned to our car. Jeri drove, and I laid in back. We made a quick stop at a café that Charlie owned near the Goodarzi Market just off Daroos. I couldn’t remember my last decent meal. We huddled in a private room off the kitchen. The chef brought rice, cheese, and apricots. Then he served a soup made with pomegranates, a stew he called khoresht, and a yogurt drink known as doogh.
Charlie didn’t say a word. He wasn’t particularly nervous or distracted, just quiet. Not Jeri. She went on and on about Iranian soccer and how the national team had just pounded a team from Greece. I wanted to tell her that everyone pounds the team from Greece, but I was too busy keeping track of Bagheri and Moradi on my iPhone map.
We finished lunch just about the time the surveillance teams confirmed that the two MEK chiefs were alone and safe. Safe was the magic word. Time for a rendezvous.
We left the restaurant and drove to a parking lot next to a strip mall on east Damavand Street. Charlie was on his phone the entire time. His men had swept the area and given the all clear. No MEK. No National Security. They posted lookouts along a four-block radius.
Charlie hung up. He glanced over at Jeri. “Keep an eye out for a white Volvo.”
“He probably took it through the car wash on the way here,” she said with an abundance of sarcasm.
Charlie used a prepaid phone to dial Bagheri’s number. “Park next to the curb. Grab a seat with us, and we’ll get this done,” I heard him say.
A moment later, a white Volvo sedan — spotless, as Jeri had predicted — cruised east on Damavand, slowed, and halted against the curb. Bagheri got out from behind the wheel, a big man in a maroon shirt with a big gold necklace, big sunglasses, and a big mustache. Moradi looked positively dowdy next to his boss.
We rolled out of the parking lot and glided up close to the pair. I unlatched the right rear door and threw it open. “Gentlemen. Climb aboard.”
Moradi slipped in first and slid toward the middle. Bagheri threw his bulk in and slammed the door. Jeri had the car rolling even before the MEK chief removed his sunglasses, and we shot down Hemmat Highway.
Bagheri surprised me by saying, “Thanks for watching our backs. This situation is beginning to piss me off.”
I wanted to say something terribly sarcastic, like, That’s what happens when you recruit second-rate talent, but I didn’t. Hell, for all I knew the office of the deputy director of operations of my own CIA was compromised. Who was I to talk? So instead, I said, “So? You mentioned someone way up the food chain. Who?”
Bagheri said simply, “Armeen Navid.”
“Air force general Armeen Navid?” Charlie blurted. I was impressed that Charlie was so impressed.
Bagheri nodded. He said, “Arteshbod.”
“Arteshbod?” I asked. My eyes flashed from Charlie to Bagheri and back again.
“The big cheese,” Charlie said.
“The head of Iranian Air Defense Forces,” Bagheri answered. “That enough cheese for you?”
“The head of the Iranian Air Defense. I see,” I said. Yeah, I knew they could hear the skepticism in my voice. But intel coming from a source this highly placed was about as rare as finding a good bottle of single-malt scotch in a hamburger joint. “And this guy wants to stick his neck out why?”
“Navid is Persian first and Shia second,” Bagheri replied. He must have see the skepticism flash across my face. “Yeah, I know. A rare bird. But General Navid is a pragmatist. He knows what a nuclear war will do to our country. And if stopping such a war means dealing with the Great Satan…”
“The Great Satan! You wouldn’t be talking about my country, would you, Mr. Bagheri?” I interrupted.
Bagheri shrugged as if to say, Who else? Then he went right on, as if I hadn’t said a word. “… And branding himself as a turncoat, then so be it. General Navid is ready.”
“A man who takes the long view. I’m impressed,” I deadpanned. Jeri had exited the highway. She was wending her way into a residential area, her eyes monitoring her rearview mirror as if the boogeyman himself might be lurking behind us. I asked, “How close are you to the general, Mr. Bagheri?”
Bagheri shrugged. “We’re estranged acquaintances at best. He doesn’t agree with my methods. I don’t agree with his. But if your question is how much do I trust him? As much as you do your friend Charlie here.”
“Okay.” My voice might have been calm and collected, but that had nothing to do with the magnitude of the situation. A guy like General Armeen Navid was the mother lode. He was in a position to confirm everything I’d learned so far, and it sure as hell helped to have more than one source when the end game is a military strike. I said, “So what is it that brings you and Navid together?”
Bagheri didn’t hesitate. “What brings the general and me together is an acute understanding that Mahmoud Ahmadinejad’s proclivity toward the destruction of Israel and the unbelievers who support her will leave Iran in ruins.”
There was a lot of danger here. A mild understatement if ever there was one. But there was also the greatest of opportunities, if the MEK chief was right. I looked over at Moradi. He hadn’t said a word so far, and it was time to get a read on the man from Amsterdam.
“Kouros?” I used his first name. Very personal.
“We worked together how many times?” he said to me. “Five, six times? Always with the same goals. We’re not friends, but there is respect. And you’re not leaving Iran without talking to this General Navid. I know you better than that.”
I gave him credit for holding my eye. He wasn’t lying. He was all in. Just like he’d always been for the last thirty years.
“Okay, but we use my rules,” I said.
Bagheri shook his head. “No, I’m sorry. Navid’s rules. He walks around with National Security draped around his shoulders. There are maybe three or four places where he can actually let his guard down, and one of those is his cousin’s place in Mehran. And it’s already arranged. The meet is scheduled for suppertime. Navid eats there a couple of times a week, so it won’t raise an eyebrow.”
“And what do you suggest I do? Walk up and knock on his cousin’s door? That doesn’t sound too suspicious.” My cynicism was getting the best of me.
Bagheri handled it well. He gave me a cool smile. “You’re a man of mystery. Be mysterious.”
“A nice compliment, I suppose, but I’m actually very old-fashioned. I prefer a solid plan with a solid back-up plan,”