Assassin's Game

FIFTY-THREE

“I am a Jew, you fool!”

Hamedi said it a second time in English, and the words themselves sank.

Slaton’s tactical mind-set aborted, tripped by the one thing he could never have imagined. Every problem he’d solved, every motive and strategy was suddenly put in a mirror, refracted by four simple words.

I am a Jew.

Hamedi’s hair was matted to his forehead and he was shivering uncontrollably. But there was unshakable conviction in his voice. “I was born in central Iran,” he said. “But I was born a Jew. There are over twenty thousand of us across Persia, and we have been there for three thousand years. My parents—”

“Enough!” Sanderson shouted. “Whatever your story is you can tell it to the proper authorities. Keep your hands where I can see them, both of you!”

In dense silence the three men stood still, each wrestling a distinct set of problems. It was Sanderson who made the next move. He said nothing, but lifted his gun toward the sky with an unsteady hand.

Slaton knew immediately what he was going to do. The detective was clearly ill, certainly incapable of an arrest. So Sanderson was going to fire a shot into the air that would bring the police swarming.

“Wait!” Slaton said. He pointed to Hamedi and addressed Sanderson, “You know who this is, don’t you?”

Sanderson nodded tentatively. “I’ll assume it’s Dr. Hamedi, the man you came here to kill.”

“Really? Think about that. I sank a ship and shot a half dozen men to get this far. Dr. Hamedi is still standing.”

Sanderson’s eyes narrowed. “So what the hell is going on then?”

“That’s what I’d like to know,” Slaton seconded.

They both stared at Hamedi.

Sirens blared in the distance as the three men stood in the lee of the breakwater.

They were less than a mile from the ruin on the lake. Entrepreneur had disappeared, her only remnants a field of charred flotsam drifting amid the sheen of unspent fuel oil. Nearby docks and bridges were overrun with first responders, and the traffic on Quai du Mont Blanc had come to a standstill. The jetty had so far been ignored, the distance enough of a buffer. But for how long? Slaton wondered. Soon the search for survivors would spread to their position. Did he have ten minutes? Fifteen? Whatever the interval, he had that long in which to salvage his life. Yet Slaton knew he was helpless until he understood.

Sanderson’s gun was at his side as Hamedi told his story.

“I was born in a small village outside Isfahan. My parents brought me up in the faith, but by the time I was three it became apparent that I had certain academic gifts. My mother was disconsolate that my talents would be wasted. Jews in Iran, you see, have little hope of a proper education. So my father moved us to the anonymity of Tehran, and we took a Persian name. My mother kept with my religious education but always behind closed doors. Able to attend good schools, I advanced more quickly than anyone imagined. As you know, I studied in Europe at the best universities. Yet I never forgot my upbringing, my ancestry.”

“Did Israel ask for your help?” Sanderson asked.

“No. Israel knew nothing of my background. It was only something in my head, a desire to work for the homeland, perhaps retribution for all those Jewish boys I knew long ago who were beaten and bullied, the ones who never had a chance to succeed. I was given wonderful opportunities in Europe, but one day a woman from the Iranian embassy came to see me in Germany. She was very up front, telling me that Iran needed help with certain aspects of the nuclear program. She didn’t come right out and talk about missile advancements and warhead design, but we both knew what was at stake. I spent many sleepless nights afterward, thinking about what she’d said, what they wanted from me.”

The siren of a police boat suddenly blared behind the breakwater, and Hamedi went silent. The siren and churning diesel altered pitch as the craft passed, and soon the sounds mixed into the disharmony of the nearby rescue. The white octagon of the tiny lighthouse was bathed in a kaleidoscope of flashing lights and stray search beams.

“I don’t understand,” said Slaton. “You claim sympathies to Israel. So why go back and help Iran with the program that is her greatest nightmare?”

Sanderson answered that question, his detective’s brain less handicapped than his body. “Because you didn’t go to help.”

Hamedi didn’t comment on that, but asked Sanderson, “You are a policeman?”

“Yes,” said Sanderson, “at least in Sweden I am.”

“And a good one, I think.”

Slaton said to Sanderson, “I thought you were taken off the case.”

“Officially I was,” Sanderson said. “But I don’t like unfinished business.”

Hamedi then addressed Slaton. “And you? You are Mossad? A kidon?”

Slaton nodded.

“So there you are,” Hamedi said. “We stand here on three different points of a triangle. But what I will tell you next may change that geometry.” He stood next to the jet ski, cold water up to his ankles, dripping hair matted to his head. His voice, however, was steady and brimmed with confidence. “When I went back to Iran I worked very hard. I made several technical and organizational changes to advance the primary goal of the project — the integration of ballistic missiles with nuclear warheads. In time I was given greater authority, and eventually came to oversee the entire undertaking. I suppose I knew all along what I was going to do, in a general way, but the details fell into place quite naturally. In recent months I’ve issued orders for the most critical components, including all highly enriched uranium, to be consolidated at the Qom facility outside Tehran. Thanks to my efforts, Iran’s entry into the nuclear arena is imminent. Five days from today, our first missile-capable warhead is scheduled for an underground test. But it will not happen as planned.”

Sanderson and Slaton were completely absorbed, silent as they waited for the rest.

Hamedi’s voice edged into triumph. “Four days from now, this coming Thursday, I have planned for an early arrival of that blast. In a few milliseconds I will destroy the entire Qom complex and everything within. By my estimate, enough damage to set back Iran’s nuclear plans for seven years, hopefully longer.”

Slaton stood stunned for a time, but then arguments came to mind. “But this doesn’t make sense — Mossad has been trying desperately to kill you. I was sent here for just that reason. Why didn’t you get word to them, explain what you were doing?”

Hamedi looked at Slaton uncomfortably. “I did.”

For the second time in a matter of minutes, Slaton’s well-defined world overturned. Yet it all made sense in a startling way.

Hamedi went on, “My contact with Israel has been very limited. But I can tell you that the director of Mossad has known of my intentions since early this summer.”

“Early summer,” Slaton repeated. “So the assassination attempts, including tonight — they were only for show. None were meant to succeed.”

Hamedi nodded. “Quite the opposite. All were guaranteed to fail. You see, a serious complication arose. One man in Iran became suspicious of me — a man you conveniently eliminated tonight. Farzad Behrouz has been digging into my past, searching synagogues for records of my upbringing, interrogating my mother and searching her home. He was on the right track, but never found proof. Not until tonight when he heard me recite a small prayer in Hebrew. Then he knew.”

Slaton remembered Director Nurin’s plan. It will tell you where and when to strike … a tactical opening that is ideal for a man with your gift. Use it. The director had set him up to die, and in doing so had put Christine at risk. Slaton had to understand completely. “How did it work? Was Nurin feeding the Iranians intelligence? Was he actively sabotaging his own strike teams?”

“Yes,” Hamedi said. “Behrouz told me he had an agent who gave accurate warnings — where and when the attacks against me would come. This agent was clearly planted by Nurin.”

“So good men were sent to the slaughter, sacrificed.”

Hamedi, his face riddled with angst, said, “Yes. This part filled me with sorrow, but clearly the director thought it necessary. I tried to consider things from his point of view. A military attack on Iran’s nuclear facilities would put at risk hundreds, even thousands of Israeli soldiers. Would that not be worse? Israel is desperate to stop Iran, and my importance to the program has been widely accepted. Clearly Nurin felt that if he did not make attempts against me it would only fuel Behrouz’s suspicions. He had to make it look as if Israel was trying to eliminate me.”

Fifty yards away Slaton saw two policemen scouring the base of the jetty, their flashlight beams scanning the water for survivors. In a matter of minutes they would reach the breakwater.

“But now,” said Sanderson, “Behrouz is gone?”

“Yes,” Hamedi confirmed. “Our friend here was quite innovative, but there is no doubt — he is dead.”

“And no one else in Iran shares his suspicions about your background?”

“I don’t think so,” Hamedi said. “Behrouz always retained a card-player’s mentality — something like this he would have kept to himself until he was certain. Others helped in his search, of course, but they were only low-level people with no understanding of his larger suspicions.”

“So,” Slaton reasoned, “if you were to turn up as a survivor tonight — you could still go back to Iran and carry through your plan?”

Hamedi thought about it. “Yes. With Behrouz eliminated, I’m sure there will be a fight for his position — one that will last weeks, if not months. For the time being all security will be focused on one thing — the imminent test. I am more secure now than I was an hour ago, and all I require is four more days. Allow me that, and I can give Israel her greatest victory since the Six-Day War.”

Sanderson drew a heavy sigh. “I’m not a political man by nature, but clearly the world could use a little more time with Iran. I could turn Dr. Hamedi in, say that I found him in the water. He’d be back in Iran tomorrow. And I have to confess this would also get me out of a rather deep professional hole I’ve dug for myself.”

The policeman and the scientist looked at the assassin.

With the gun still in his hand, Sanderson spoke for them both. “That leaves you, sir. Now that we all know the truth of what’s going on … is there any way this can end well for you?”

Slaton pulled the diving hood back off his head, and the cool night air washed over him. It didn’t help — he was drowning under too many variables and intricate angles. He was a Jew as well, and could not deny a desire to help the homeland — in spite of what Israel’s guardians had done to him. But more important was Christine and their child. In a crushing moment, Slaton felt his life in Virginia slipping away. Perhaps he’d been a fool to even imagine a normal existence, but if he let go now he was sure it would be lost forever.

Looking grimly at his odd bedfellows, a Persian-Jew scientist and a Swedish policeman, he said, “All right, gentlemen. Here is how we will do it…”