Close Quarters

Hemmati heard the rasp of a match against a striker and then a flame flared to life. The flash looked like lightning against the worn, haggard features of his master, but a moment later the wick of the oil lantern the cleric lit cast a glow to his countenance.

Hemmati had no idea how old Hooshmand Shahbazi actually was, as it would’ve been disrespectful to ever inquire of such matters, but the man seemed ancient to his ward. Among Shahbazi’s other students the subject had never been broached, even in private; not that privacy was something they’d ever known. Hemmati and his adopted brothers had eaten together, slept together and defecated alongside each other without shame. They’d never gone anywhere in public, such ventures being rare occasions indeed, without being in the company of at least two others. Shahbazi had insisted on this so they would maintain their purity and not fall victim to the temptations offered by a city out of control.

When they were of age, Shahbazi had brought women into their midst and observed them as they practiced the arts of sexuality. Every part of their lives had been controlled but never by coercion or threat of violence. Hemmati had never seen his master, a man whom he really viewed as his true and only father, lose his temper or even raise his voice. Even his commands were in the softest manner but with an implied imperative that dare not speak of the consequences for disobedience. It just simply was what it was, it always had been, and Hemmati knew fealty and honor to this one man.

“Where are my brothers, Mullah?” Hemmati inquired.

“They are preparing, Farzad,” Shahbazi replied. “The time’s now at hand for us to enact our plans. You’re to lead the way.”

Hemmati’s heart beat a little faster. “Me? I don’t understand.”

“You do,” Shahbazi countered. “You’ve been trained all your life for this. Although I loved each of you in equal portions, it was in you I saw the most promise. You excelled among your brothers, never revealing your superior intellect and skill when you could have flaunted it. This is the mark of a humble man and it’s this humility that makes you the strongest. Do you understand?”

“I think so, Mullah.”

“Then it is well.” Shahbazi smiled, his face wrinkling more. “So now let us talk of what you must do. Are you still in contact with the CIA agents the Americans claim they don’t have operating in the city?”

“I am.”

“You can contact them?”

“I can.”

“You must go to them and tell them you have knowledge of what’s happening in South America.”

“You want me to tell them the truth?”

“It is imperative you do this,” Shahbazi said. “President Ahmadinejad has made a critical error, a misstep in judgment really. We can no longer afford to support him. I’ve spoken with my other brothers in the government, and they agree that the Pasdaran must take control of the city before the president undermines the efforts of our brother Khamenei.”

That didn’t sit well with Hemmati. He’d never trusted Seyyed Ali Khamenei—head of Ahmadinejad’s elite paramilitary forces—despite the fact Khamenei claimed roots as a Basij Islamist. Khamenei had never lifted a finger to help Shahbazi or any of his father’s brothers in government. When Ahmadinejad dismissed a number of high-ranking officials within the Revolutionary Guard for being too “extreme” in their religious views, Khamenei had remained silent, almost stoic, in fact. The thought still burned in Hemmati’s gut.

“Forgive me, Mullah, but I don’t see how revealing our operations in Paraguay will help our cause,” Hemmati said. “Aren’t they still many months from completing the training of the Hezbollah contingent?”

“I received a recent report from Jahanshah,” the cleric said. “If I understood him correctly, they’ve already been discovered. It’s only a matter of time before the Americans learn what’s happened. Jahanshah has bought us some time but it isn’t much. We must act quickly if our plans can succeed.”

“You are planning a diversion.”

Shahbazi emitted a titter of amusement, what passed as the closest thing Hemmati could judge a laugh. “That’s exactly what I’m planning. I’m hoping you can be convincing enough that the Americans will come running here. The local men with the CIA won’t make a move until they’ve consulted with their superiors. Given the unrest in this entire region, the uprisings by our brothers in Egypt and Libya, they’ll see capitulation as only in their best interests. Their leadership is weak and I plan to seize that advantage. I’m confident I can depend on you.”

Hemmati scratched his chin and considered the request, although he already knew he could refuse his mullah nothing. This was an opportunity he’d not considered before, and Hemmati realized that Shahbazi had a side to his personality that hadn’t surfaced until now. Hemmati could only call it as he saw it: his mullah was as devious a bastard as he was wise.

“You can depend on me, Mullah.”

“It’s settled, then. Now I need to discuss with you another matter. One of great importance.”

* * *

HIS PARENTS NAMED HIM Ronald but to his few friends in the Company he went by Jester.

It had little to do with Ron Abney’s sense of humor, as most might have thought; rather it was his way of behaving around others when he felt uncomfortable. As one of his companions at Langley attested, “You start pulling that court-jester routine.” So the name stuck and in some small way Abney didn’t really mind. He only afforded the moniker to others within the Company, however, and they never spoke it in the company of outsiders since it ended up being his code name among the CIA walls of power in Wonderland.

“Hey, Jester,” Stephen Poppas said as he walked through the door of their run-down apartment on Tehran’s west side.

The place didn’t really qualify for the name, being more of a shithole than much else, but it was what Abney and Poppas liked to call home. Both of them had arrived in Tehran about the same time and fast developed a friendship that could only evolve naturally being all but stranded together in a very inhospitable, if somewhat exotic, locale. Abney was new to fieldwork, having only spent about two years abroad, but Poppas—who had to be somewhere on the order of fifteen years Abney’s senior—had been country hopping for the Company since he was “out of diapers” was the expression Poppas favored.

“Yo, Pops,” Abney called back, using Poppas’s nickname, “find anything decent to eat?”

Poppas dropped a greasy paper bag on the small counter that adjoined the kitchenette and replied, “Look for yourself, bro. I ain’t your mother.”

Abney grunted and got up from his position in front of what appeared to be a shortwave radio. The antiquated box was actually a high-tech frequency receiver and transmitter capable of sending encoded voice and data messages to an orbiting Joint Intelligence Task Force satellite. It provided the sole means of communication between the men and their contact they referred to simply as Mother.

“You weren’t followed?” Abney asked as he peeked in the bag and withdrew two paper cartons filled with squared portions of fried dough ladled with a local concoction that was half sweet, half spicy. Really it amounted to little more than a box of greasy bread, but it was better than much of the food served by the vendors on this side of town and a damn sight tastier. It also didn’t have any of the more popular spices in much of the local cuisine.

“You ask me that every time, Jester, and every time I give you the same answer.”

“Okay, don’t be a grump-ass,” Abney said. “You know I have to ask. There’s a system of checks and balances in this business. You taught me that. Remember?”

“That’s only one-way, plebe,” Poppas said. While his expression soured, his tone implied he was doing nothing more than some good-natured ribbing. “We ain’t the frigging Congress here.”

The banter dispensed with, the pair sat at the small table near the silent radio and dug into the food. They ate silently, mechanically, only taking breaks between bites to wash down the Iranian dumplings with bottled water. Nothing but bottled water—that was the rule, and at least one bottle from every grouping had to be sampled for poisons. It was quite a life case officers had to live, particularly in Middle Eastern and African countries, where for the most part they were unwanted. Abney had once asked Poppas, a happily married man of twenty years, if he’d ever told his wife about his experiences, to which Poppas had replied, “Fuck no.”

That had put an end to the conversation and Abney never asked him another personal question.

“So what’s the plan for today, Jester?”

Around a cheek filled with chewy dough, Abney replied, “I haven’t actually checked the book yet but I think—”

A soft rap sounded at the door.

The two men looked at the door, each other and back again before they got to their feet simultaneously and withdrew their pistols. Neither of them said a word. They weren’t accustomed to talking loudly and Abney hoped whoever stood on the other side hadn’t heard them conversing. It wasn’t the landlord. The guy worked a day job and he tended to mind his own business, especially with two Americans who paid rent four times the rate. Frankly, the pair could have been making bombs and the landlord couldn’t have cared less.

Another rap came, this one a bit more insistent.

Poppas made a couple of standard gestures, held his pistol high and level, and then nodded for Abney to open the door. As soon as he did, Poppas reached out, hauled the dark-skinned man inside and tossed him practically the length of the room—not difficult given the size of the place. Before the visitor knew it, he had two pistols trained on him a few inches from his face. He looked frightened at first, holding his hands high, but eventually he smiled and produced a chuckle.

“Damn it, Farzad!” Poppas said. “How many times have I told you never to come here?”

“Sorry, sorry…but it was important.”

“Important enough to break protocol?” Abney said.

“Screw protocol,” Poppas interjected. He waved the muzzle of his pistol skyward and said to Hemmati, “Was it important enough for you to risk getting your head blown off?”

“It may very well be that important, yes.”

Poppas and Abney exchanged surprised glances for the second time that day, then helped Hemmati to his feet. They pushed him onto a dirty, disused couch. It wasn’t outside the rules of the playbook for the Company to recruit local informants if the need arose, and Hemmati had proved useful in the past. If he’d risk coming here, there had to be a pretty good reason for it.

“All right,” Poppas said, taking a chair and fishing a cigarette from his pocket. He offered Hemmati one, who declined. “Sorry. I forgot you’re one of the few Iranians I know who doesn’t smoke.”