Operation devils vengean.., p.21
Operation Devil's Vengeance, page 21
part #2 of Janusz Soltani Series
45. La Femme Exotique Gentlemen’s Club, Monaco
October 27
One by one the girls sashayed across the room and came to a halt in front of his velvet couch. They were like the colors of the rainbow. The white ones came out first. They were all East Europeans, a blonde, two brunettes, and a redhead. Then came an Asian, either Chinese or Japanese, he could not be sure which. After that came a brown-skinned beauty, most likely an Indian. Finally, an African woman whose ebony skin and round bottom sent shivers from his head straight down to his scrotum. He was in the mood to be experimental. Why shouldn’t he? He deserved this treat. After helping his country to trap the American, Dr. Ahvazi expected a substantial increase in pay. It was time to celebrate.
“I want one from both ends,” Dr. Ahvazi said in English.
“Oh my, two for the gentleman?” the madame of the brothel exclaimed in a French accent.
“Yes, one vanilla and one chocolate, khhhh,” the Iranian said as drool trickled down the sides of his mouth. “Send some champagne to our room as well.”
“Would the gentleman like some food for himself and the ladies? We have a ham and cheese plate. I can ask them to hold the ham, if that is a problem,” the madame said.
“No, no. Please send everything, the girls, the champagne, and the ham,” Dr. Ahvazi said as he pinched the white girl with his right hand. A Russian, she introduced herself as Tatyana, playfully slapping his hand away. Within seconds, Tatyana and her Nigerian playmate, Adunni, were each holding one of Dr. Ahvazi’s hands. They coquettishly walked him to a bedroom reserved for clients. As he entered through the door, Dr. Ahvazi stared while the girls slowly undressed him. Off went his shirt, belt, and pants. He was then pushed onto the bed while his two companions fondled each other. Tatyana and Adunni finally undressed, sending the Iranian into a frenzy. He was inspired to leave the bed for his pant pocket. The girls strenuously objected to his next move.
“Oh no, no, no. You cannot take a photo,” Adunni said.
“This is for me, ghoolp, you are so beautiful,” Dr. Ahvazi said.
“No, I have a family,” Adunni said.
“Put the camera away, or we will leave,” Tatyana said.
Disappointed, Dr. Ahvazi was about to drop his phone when it rang. Recognizing the caller, he had no choice but to answer. He chose to stay in the room, hoping neither of the girls would understand what he said.
“Hello?”
“Are you alone?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Where are you?”
“Where am I?” Dr. Ahvazi repeated nervously.
“Yes, you imbecile, that’s what I just asked you.”
“I’m … I’m getting ready to leave on the afternoon train to Milan. I must get to Syria to check on the progress of my men in Idlib.”
“Get ready to change your plans.”
“Why?”
“You have to travel to Moscow at once.”
“Moscow?”
“What’s the matter? Did you develop a hearing problem at the casino? Yes, Moscow. The Devil’s Vengeance program chief is in Moscow to discuss mutual collaboration with the Russians.”
“Collaboration on what?” Dr. Ahvazi asked.
“Have you lost your mind, you moron? That’s not something we discuss over the phone. All you need to know is that he’s trying to solve the issue with the treatment.”
“I thought the Russians refused to help us on that.”
“I guess they changed their minds. You’re to rent a hotel room and await instructions for a meeting with a man named Sergei Petrov.”
“Petrov? He’s their top microbiologist. He wants to meet me?”
“Hey, I’m just the messenger.”
“Fine, what else?”
“You’re to take two million dollars with you, in cash.”
“What! Are you serious?”
“Don’t argue with me.”
“Where am I supposed to get that kind of money?”
“Your organization has a bank account in Zurich for emergency procurements. Have them wire the money to a bank in Monaco before you leave. Place the cash in two duffel bags. The Russians won’t check your bags with your diplomatic passport.”
“But—”
“Don’t interrupt me.”
“Sorry.”
“You’re to place the bags in an automated luggage locker at the Kievsky Railway Station on your way to the hotel. Bring the key and your passport to the meeting with Petrov.”
“That money was supposed to pay for the salaries of my employees.”
“Don’t worry, you’ll be reimbursed.”
“Fine.”
“Stop wasting time talking to me,” Morteza said, and hung up. Dr. Ahvazi stood there naked, scratching his ass, hungry for the women on the bed. He did not want to leave.
“What’s the matter?” Tatyana asked.
“I must go, khhhh.”
“Oh, that’s too bad. You still owe each of us a thousand dollars for the session,” Tatyana said calmly.
Dr. Ahvazi clenched his jaw as his blood boiled. He was losing more money than he cared to calculate. There was no way he would leave Moscow without getting Petrov’s help for his project.
46. Behesht-e Zahra Cemetery, Tehran, Iran
October 29
The raindrops fell on her face, slowly merging with the tears on her cheeks. Before long, the clouds turned into a gray cluster that mirrored her heart. It was impossible to tell if the distant cries of crows were a figment of her imagination or a warning of more terrible news to come. Her reflection stared back somberly as she gazed at the granite footstone covering her husband. It was all a sham and she knew it. This fake grave site was the only thing the government had agreed to pay for. If only Mohsen had run away with Roozbeh Navabi, he would still be alive. Her children stood beside her in silent deference to a father they would never know again. God only knew what for. That was the hard part as she was never told the name of the virus that killed Mohsen. Mrs. Salehi bent over to gather several white flowers from her bouquet. One by one she laid them against the blackness of the granite.
Where would she go now? Who would help raise these children? Who would help put food on their table? Who would pay for their education? Those were the questions racing through her mind this dreadful morning. The entire period since Mohsen’s infection had been a blur. It was a nightmare from which she could not wake up. She had lost the most important person in her life. Only God could help her now.
She opened the bottle of rosewater before sniffing it to wake her senses. There was no use in waiting any longer. They weren’t coming. Despite promises to the contrary, not a single person from the Ministry of Health, the Pasteur Institute, or the RCERID showed up. And why should they? Like her, they all knew his body was not buried here. They also probably knew that Mohsen’s mangled corpse was so contagious it had to be cremated at the hospital. Despite years of faithful service to his country, her husband had been flushed down the toilet like an unwanted turd.
Mrs. Salehi knelt to get closer. From there she slowly poured the rosewater with her left hand as she “cleansed” the granite stone with the fragrant liquid.
The precipitation grew heavier, forcing her to perform this ritual over an empty grave in a hurry. She could take no more. As the bottle of rosewater lay empty next to the granite, she fell sobbing on his grave while her children watched. A moment later, the eldest began tugging on her shirt.
“Mommy, mommy?”
“What is it, dear?”
“You can’t cry now.”
“Why not?”
“Because the rain is picking up and we’re going to get wet. Daddy wouldn’t want us to get sick.”
“I suppose you’re right, baby. I suppose you’re right,” she whispered, blowing her nose into a handkerchief.
“Will Dad’s friends be upset not to see us here when they visit him?”
“I don’t think anyone is coming to visit him, dear.”
“Why not?”
“Well, Papa is not really here.”
“Where is he, then?”
How could she explain the cremation?
“He is in a better place. A much better place.” Mrs. Salehi hoped that was true, but she knew better. Mohsen had been taken by the devil. Now she could think of nothing but the letter handed to her at the hospital. It was a slap in the face, one more instance of rubbing salt into her crushed soul. Her family had been sacrificed to keep a secret. The one-paragraph letter embossed with the emblem of the Iranian government was curiously unsigned. The only thing on the bottom was the seal of the Ministry of Health.
Dear Mrs. Zohreh Salehi,
It is with the utmost regret that we inform you of your husband’s death. Mohsen Salehi has passed away from an unknown complication. Since Mohsen had not followed the proper safety procedures at the lab, the Pasteur Institute is in no way liable for this tragedy. Therefore, no benefits will be paid out for this incident. Furthermore, since Mohsen had not accumulated enough time, or reached retirement age, the government cannot provide his retirement benefits to you now or at any time in the future. Peace be upon you.
The Ministry of Health
Mrs. Salehi stared one last time at the black granite before walking off. She had no choice but to survive, if not for herself, then for the children. She knew exactly who would help make things right.
47. Bosco Café, Kremlin, Moscow
October 29
Dr. Ahvazi placed the empty coffee cup on the table, his third in the last half hour. He was not a coffee drinker by nature, but cigarette smoking was banned in this cafe. He studied the sludgy grinds that stuck to the white interior of his cup. He was hoping to predict his future by reading the shapes left behind like his mother used to do. He cursed himself for not picking up that skill. He was in desperate need to predict the upcoming meeting with Sergei Petrov, the legendary Russian military virus expert. The rumor was that Petrov had found a cure for Ebola, possibly Marburg too. Thus far, the Russians had rebuffed repeated requests for collaboration. The news of their willingness to share their secrets for two million dollars was too good to be true. Only a fortune-teller would know for sure, and there were none around when you needed one.
When the waiter approached, Dr. Ahvazi ordered another coffee. His hands were shaking, but he didn’t care. Bosco Café had the best coffee in Moscow, or so he was told. It was now 1:35 p.m. and still no sign of Petrov. Perhaps he was making a mistake. Perhaps he should not have come at all. What choice did he have? The MOIS had ordered him here. He took the metallic lighter out of his pant pocket, the one with the QF insignia, opening and then closing the lid in rapid succession. It was interesting, the more he did it, the faster he got. Ticktock, ticktock, ticktock. His thumb moved so quickly he was barely conscious of what he was doing. A thick-necked man in a leather coat stared coldly from the next table. Dr. Ahvazi quickly turned to place the lighter in his coat pocket, hanging behind his chair. When he turned back a man was sitting at his table. Dr. Ahvazi jumped up.
“There you are. You’re late,” Dr. Ahvazi said in Russian. He had learned the language while conducting viral research in Moscow years ago. The man stared without responding.
“Are you Petrov?” Dr. Ahvazi asked.
“No.”
“Who are you, then?”
“My name is Aslan. I’ll take you to him. You ready?”
I was ready half an hour ago, Dr. Ahvazi thought as he studied the man carefully. He was too dark to be Russian. His nose was quite prominent. He was clean-shaven with an athletic build.
“Ehhem, where are we going?”
“Zaryad’ye Park, down the street.”
Dr. Ahvazi studied Aslan’s eyes intently. His face gave nothing away. The Iranian scientist gathered his windbreaker before following Aslan out the door. From the café, they stepped directly onto Red Square, across from Lenin’s Tomb. There were tourists walking out and about but not that many. It was, after all, the middle of a workday. The gargantuan square was remarkable in its grandeur, the backdrop of countless Soviet military parades he had watched as a child on the television. Back then, these Russians competed with America for global supremacy. Now they were a Mafia state, dependent on the export of oil and gas for survival just like his own country.
They passed another landmark, Saint Basil’s Cathedral. His thoughts drifted to the impending attack on the Americans. This gambit with Petrov had to work. What if the whole thing is a ruse? The Russians were always strapped for money. They were also expert manipulators. If the Americans could not contain Marburg, humanity would pay the price. It would only take one tainted visitor to infect the entire population of his own country. He had to convince Petrov. They turned past Saint Basil’s to enter Zaryad’ye Park.
“Quite scenic here, but why couldn’t we meet in an office? It’s much more private,” Dr. Ahvazi said.
“The office meeting will come tomorrow. Right now Petrov just wants to see you.”
“How much longer?”
Aslan raised a pointed finger. “Just a little farther.” They finally arrived in a wooded area where the leaves had turned yellow. A pebbled trail led into the woods.
Dr. Ahvazi stopped dead in his tracks. “He is in there?” There were people around, but this part of the park was more secluded. He was ready to leave. “There is no one here.”
“You don’t expect him to talk in front of the whole world, do you? He doesn’t want anyone to take pictures of the meeting. Please go,” Aslan said, shoving the Iranian to move ahead of him. The sound of their footsteps on the pebbles was distinct. They walked past a wooden bench as the signs of civilization quickly disappeared. Dr. Ahvazi turned his head once more.
“Keep going, just a bit farther,” Aslan said reassuringly.
“Where? I don’t see him.”
“Keep going.” Several more steps and the sound of his own feet was the only noise that remained.
“Aslan, where are you, ghoolp?” Dr. Ahvazi wanted to know as he turned in every direction. He was definitely alone now. He walked farther ahead in search of Petrov. Out of nowhere came a cry he had heard countless times back home.
“Allahu Akbar.”
“Aslan?” Dr. Ahvazi cried before a sharp pain pierced his stomach. His windbreaker was immediately drenched in blood. The strikes came out of nowhere as if his assailant was invisible. Suddenly, someone grabbed his forehead from behind and raised it toward the sky. The cold steel of the blade cut through his neck as he gasped for air. “Kkhhhh.”
Aslan took his locker key and passport before he passed out.
48. Tijuana, Mexico
October 29
They turned onto a dirt road with run-down houses and graffiti. From Durango Street, they entered 7MA Road and drove up a hill. They were on the eastern edge of Tijuana, a decrepit neighborhood thousands of kilometers from home. More importantly, they were one kilometer away from the Great Satan, their mortal enemy. The assault team commander was too excited to be tired. Years ago, when he’d volunteered for the QF, it had only been a dream to defeat the evil Americans. Here he was now, a lethal warrior of Islam about to take the fight to the enemy for the second time. Near the top of the hill stood the safe house. The embassy in Mexico City had rented this location. Its owners received a handsome sum to stay away for a week.
They parked the SUV in the driveway, and all five men disembarked to stretch. After the forty-hour drive from Mexico City, the opportunity to stand was appreciated. The next twenty four hours were reserved for rest before the arduous trek into the heart of the enemy.
“Can someone open the trunk? I need to get our bags,” one of the men yelled in his native language.
“Shhh, keep your voice down, idiot. No vun here has heard Farsi before. Ve vill speak English vhen ve’re outside,” his commander admonished. They gathered their bags before entering the house. Everyone took turns in the shower. The commander cooked a dinner of eggs and toast, which they ate heartily. After a restful sleep, they spent the next day mostly exercising their muscles. They avoided walking the streets for fear of being spotted as foreigners. Inside the house, the men prayed, read passages from the Quran, and watched movies on their mini tablets. At sunset, they sat around the living room table for a final briefing on the upcoming mission.
“Okay, listen up. You’ve been handpicked for Operation Devil’s Vengeance because you’re the best of the best. But don’t let that fact go to your head. This’ll be our most difficult mission to date.”
“Piece of cake! We lived in America for four months before we killed Simmons and his wife. With Allah’s blessing, we’ll be back here in two days.”
“Did I give you permission to speak?” the commander shouted. “You’re the same idiot who couldn’t wait a day for his tea. Because of you, we had to drink that Lipton shit at Simmons’s house.”
They sat quietly as the commander spoke again.
“We have a two-kilometer hike in front of us, all of it uphill. The terrain is extremely rocky, and we’ll be carrying heavy packs. We’ll be completely dependent on our goggles for vision. There are snakes and other creatures all around,” he said as the men stared. “Here’s the kicker. You can’t use your firearms for any reason. Anything you kill you must do so with a knife. American border patrol agents may be sitting in their cars on top of those hills. This won’t be easy.”
“Where are we meeting our contacts?” one of the men asked.
