The SUV sped up the long, sloping driveway in front of the beautiful Queen Anne–style mansion that served as the official residence of the vice president of the United States. The vehicle passed more than a dozen police cars, Secret Service sedans, and assorted SUVs already parked along the driveway. The lights of the beautiful home cast a golden hue across the grounds. The driver stopped in front, Jessica and Calibrisi climbed out.
It was the first time Jessica had been to the vice president’s residence. Indeed, as she stepped toward the front door, she considered that it was a stark sign of how much President Allaire had kept J. P. Dellenbaugh out of state affairs that this would be only the third meeting she had ever had with the former vice president.
Two more soldiers stood at the front door to the house.
Inside the brightly lit entrance foyer, Jessica glanced around. It was homey, pretty, a little preppy, with Farrow & Ball wallpaper and chintz-upholstered furniture. On the ground, in the corner, she noticed a baby jogger and a soccer ball.
“Hi, Hector, Jess,” said Mike Ober, Dellenbaugh’s chief of staff. They shook hands with Ober. He was short, slightly obese, and young, with a mop of unruly, curly hair.
“Hi, Mike,” said Jessica. “How are things going?”
“Good, I think. He’s putting his daughter to bed. He’ll be down in a few minutes. You want something to drink? Coffee, tea, something stronger?”
“Coffee,” said Calibrisi.
“Two. Thanks.”
They followed Ober into the dining room, a large room with a long table in the middle, which was covered in phones and laptops.
“Have a seat. I’ll get those coffees. How do you like it? Cream and sugar?”
“Black,” said Jessica. Calibrisi nodded, indicating he would take the same.
A few minutes later, Ober returned, followed by J. P. Dellenbaugh, who shut the door behind him.
“Thanks for coming, guys,” said Dellenbaugh.
“How have the calls gone?” asked Jessica.
“Everyone is shell-shocked,” said Dellenbaugh. “I’ve spoken to the Chinese premier, the Russian president, almost every European leader. Everyone is just shocked. Obviously, we’ll bury President Allaire at Arlington. I want to be actively involved in the planning of that. I think we need to decide whether or not to have a parade. But we don’t need to discuss that right now.”
Jessica sipped her coffee as Dellenbaugh took a seat at the dining-room table.
“Before we discuss the transition, Mr. President, I’m afraid there’s a situation,” said Calibrisi.
“Go on.”
He glanced at Ober.
“I have clearance,” said Ober.
“No, in fact, you don’t,” said Calibrisi. “You have top secret clearance. There’s a level above that.”
“I wasn’t aware of that. What’s the process for getting that clearance?”
“It involves a comprehensive interview and reinvestigation by Langley. We can probably have you in front of the group, depending on the quality of your background materials, by midweek next week. I’ll push it.”
“Okay,” said Ober. “I completely understand.”
“Until then, I must insist that any discussion of CIA activities or written materials be restricted to your eyes only, Mr. President.”
“Of course,” said Dellenbaugh.
“Do you want me to leave while you guys talk?” asked Ober.
“That might be best,” said Calibrisi.
As Ober closed the door, Calibrisi turned to the president.
“It concerns Iran,” said the CIA director.
“What about it?” asked Dellenbaugh.
Calibrisi glanced at Jessica.
“As you know, two months ago, the United States engineered the removal of Omar El-Khayab from the Pakistani presidency,” said Calibrisi.
“I read the debrief,” said Dellenbaugh.
“The American who led the coup, Dewey Andreas, was abducted in the hours after the operation was over. The military commander we initially installed as president of Pakistan, Xavier Bolin, took him and sold him to terrorists. Bolin killed Andreas’s two American teammates, both soldiers, and flew Andreas to Beirut where he was to be tortured, then executed.”
Dellenbaugh’s eyes were wide in disbelief.
“My God…”
“By the time we found out, we had only a few hours to put a rescue operation together,” said Calibrisi. “We had one option.”
“Israel?” asked Dellenbaugh.
“Yes,” said Calibrisi. “General Dayan dispatched a team of commandos to save Andreas. Israel lost six men that night saving him. One of the survivors, the man who led the Israeli special forces team, was named Kohl Meir.”
Dellenbaugh nodded, sipping from his cup, rapt by Calibrisi’s story.
“So how does Iran come in?”
“Iran kidnapped Meir yesterday in New York City,” said Calibrisi. “He was there visiting the parents of one of his fallen teammates. Agents from their intelligence service, VEVAK, abducted him. We believe they took him back to Iran.”
“The Iranians also killed two American citizens,” added Jessica.
“Who?”
“The parents of that dead Israeli.”
“This might sound like a stupid question, but why would Iran want Meir?”
“It’s not a stupid question, Mr. President,” said Calibrisi. “Meir is on an Iranian capture-or-kill list. He’s a high-priority target for Tehran. In addition to being one of Israel’s most highly decorated soldiers, he’s the great-grandson of Golda Meir.”
Dellenbaugh was silent for several moments, then glanced at Jessica.
“How does this concern us?’ he asked.
“Israel has asked for our help,” said Calibrisi.
“Help?”
“Finding him. Rescuing him.”
“Obviously, this is complicated by what’s going on in Geneva,” said Dellenbaugh.
“Yes, sir,” said Calibrisi.
“Can you update me on the status of those negotiations?” Dellenbaugh asked, looking at Jessica.
“The negotiations are at a delicate stage,” said Jessica. “The Swiss are close to finally getting Iran to agree to cease the development of their nuclear weapons program and allow inspectors inside the country.”
“Close?”
“The deal is done,” said Jessica. “Iran will receive $150 billion in IMF loan guarantees. But they’ve made another demand, one that President Allaire turned down. We’re at a stalemate.”
“What was the demand?” asked Dellenbaugh.
“President Nava wants to sign the agreement on the same stage as the American president,” said Jessica. “President Allaire wasn’t willing to do it.”
“Why not?” asked Dellenbaugh.
“He felt it would tarnish the reputation of the United States,” said Jessica. “He also believed the Iranians were lying.”
“I can certainly understand where President Allaire was coming from,” said Dellenbaugh, pausing. He looked at Calibrisi, then at Jessica. “Still, do you two realize how historic this could be?”
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” said Jessica.
“So you don’t think Iran will go through with it?” asked Dellenbaugh.
“They might sign it, but I’d be lying if I told you I trust Mahmoud Nava.”
“People are capable of change,” said Dellenbaugh. “This would be a major historic achievement.”
“‘Change,’ Mr. President?” asked Calibrisi. “This is the regime that just killed two American citizens on U.S. soil.”
“And whose magnetic bomb killed the scientist in Tehran last January?” asked Dellenbaugh.
“Your point, sir?” asked Calibrisi.
“My point is, they kill some of our citizens and we kill some of theirs. It’s the way it works.”
“Mostafa Roshan was one of their top nuclear scientists,” said Calibrisi. “That’s quite a bit different from killing two innocent bystanders.”
“All I’m saying is, trust is not the issue,” said Dellenbaugh. “It seems to me that any agreement that provides the international community with increased inspection powers inside Iran is worth the risk.”
“Iran pledging to stop building nuclear weapons is just the tip of the iceberg,” said Jessica. “Until we actually start to do on-demand inspections, we won’t know if the agreement is being adhered to. That’s at least a year from now, maybe two.”
“Look, I’m as skeptical as you two,” said Dellenbaugh. “But imagine if we did the signing in Tehran. At the embassy where Americans were taken hostage. It would be like Nixon going to China.”
Jessica and Calibrisi were silent.
“Well, I don’t expect you to jump all over it,” he said. “I know it’s out there.”
“Iran has been trying to build a nuclear device for more than a decade,” said Calibrisi.
“Well, that’s up for debate, is it not?” asked Dellenbaugh. “I mean, they want nuclear power. Is that really so wrong? Who are we to dictate where they get their power from? If we go to Tehran, it might embolden the good side of Iran, the good side even of Nava, to follow through on their promises, to become part of the civilized world.”
“Mr. President,” said Calibrisi, “the decision as to whether or not to hold a summit with President Nava doesn’t need to be made tonight. You bring up some good points. But we need to make a decision as it relates to Kohl Meir.”
“I understand,” Dellenbaugh said. “I apologize for changing subjects, Hector. What assets do we have inside Iran?”
“The CIA has at least a dozen operatives in or around Tehran; mostly Kurds we recruited out of northern Iraq and trained over here. In terms of informants, we have a broader set of Iranian citizens, perhaps two dozen, who provide us information on a regular basis.”
“Do we know where they took Meir?”
“We believe he’s in a prison on the outskirts of Tehran. Evin Prison.”
“And is Evin the sort of place we could somehow penetrate? Do we have any agents or informants inside the prison capable of rescuing him?”
Calibrisi nodded, understanding the drift of Dellenbaugh’s comments.
“No, sir. Evin is virtually impenetrable.”
“Then what would you have the United States do, Hector?” asked Dellenbaugh. “Invade Iran? Storm a prison that you yourself just said is impenetrable? This is Israel’s problem. It’s not our problem. I understand American citizens were killed, and it pisses me off. And if it makes you feel better, find out who did it and have them killed. Frankly, I don’t care. But unless you can explain to me how we get Meir out, I don’t see how we have a role here.”
“Iran has at least fifty spies inside U.S. borders, Mr. President,” said Calibrisi sharply.
“What does that have to do with anything?” retorted Dellenbaugh. “Kick ’em out. But I am not going to send in SEAL Team Six or anyone else for that matter to a situation that sounds, frankly, like a suicide mission. In addition, I disagree with Rob Allaire on this agreement signing. I want Iran to sign it. Even if you’re right, that they’re just deceiving us, it’s worth the risk. It’s a little bit of money for a lot of increased manpower on the ground over there.”
“To be clear, we’ll be saying no to helping rescue the man who saved Dewey Andreas’s life,” said Jessica.
Dellenbaugh nodded.
“What would you have us do?” asked Dellenbaugh.
“Condition our signing the agreement on Tehran releasing Meir,” said Jessica.
“No,” said Dellenbaugh calmly. “I’m not happy about what happened, but I am not going to risk the opportunity, the history-making opportunity, to finally get Iran to stop their nuclear weapons program. The opportunity that lies in front of America, and in front of Israel, is bigger than one man. If Iran can be brought back into the community of civilized nations, imagine the number of Israelis whose lives will be saved.”
9
THE BRONKELMAN FUND
JOHN HANCOCK TOWER
BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS
Dewey wore a navy blue suit, a white button-down shirt, and a green tie. His entire outfit had been purchased at Brooks Brothers the day before, as had a pair of cordovan wing tips, which were on his feet. Dewey’s hair was short, and he was clean-shaven. He handed his license to the security guard, walked through a metal detector, then headed for the elevators. On the forty-eighth floor, he stepped off the elevator.
The floor was empty. He walked to a set of glass doors, the letters
TBF
etched in elegant cursive across the glass. Behind the doors, twenty feet away, sat an attractive brunette behind a large desk. He heard the faint click of a lock unbolting. He reached for the door and stepped inside.
“Mr. Andreas?” the woman asked. She stood up, her hand extended.
“Yes,” said Dewey.
“Welcome to Bronkelman,” she said. “I’m Monica George. Chip is expecting you. Please follow me.”
Dewey followed her down the hall. In the distance, at the corner, a set of double doors was open. Past the doors, Dewey could see into a large office, then the windowed walls and behind them, the Boston skyline and the blue waters of Boston Harbor.
As he walked along the muted, lush brown carpet, Dewey glanced at the large paintings on the walls, an Edward Hopper oil of a diner at night, several Andrew Wyeth paintings, including one of a field running toward the distant ocean shore, which looked like a field he knew in Blue Hill, near Castine. Then a line of Picassos. The offices were quiet, nearly soundproof. He passed a line of young analysts seated in front of flat-screens, two per desk, each clotted with red and green numbers and graphs that undulated with activity.
“May I get you something?” asked Monica. “Water? Coffee? Tea?”
“No thanks.”
She showed him into the corner office. The office was huge, two of its walls completely glass. An enormously large wood desk was arrayed with computer monitors, perhaps a dozen of them, and several phones. The chair behind the desk was empty, but in a seating area near the corner of the room, a large, overweight man in jeans and an untucked red button-down shirt stood up. He had a cell phone clutched to his ear, and he smiled and waved at Dewey to come to the seating area.
“Call you back,” he said into the phone, then tossed it onto the glass table and stepped toward Dewey. “Dewey Andreas, how are you? Nice to meet you. I’m Chip Bronkelman. Come in, sit down, make yourself at home.”
Dewey shook Bronkelman’s hand.
“Nice to meet you,” he said.
“Shut the door, will you, Monica?”