At about 1:00 a.m. local time, in Baghdad, Iraq, on January 3, 2020, a convoy slowly rolled to a stop as it approached the airport. In the back seat of one of the black SUVs, Major General Qassem Soleimani, commander of the Quds Force, the most prestigious arm of the Islamic Revolutionary Guards Corps, and the “right hand” of Iran’s Supreme Leader, Ayatollah Ali Khamenei, leaned forward to speak to his driver.
“Why are we stopping here?” the general asked. He looked forward through the windshield toward the SUV in front of him in the convoy, the one occupied by Abu Mahdi al-Muhandis, commander of Iraq’s Popular Mobilization Forces or the PMF, an Iran-backed offshoot of the Hezbollah terrorist organization.
Soleimani’s driver shrugged and turned toward the rear of the vehicle to answer his commander. At that instant, an MQ9 Reaper drone, circling silently in the air above, sent four Hellfire missiles streaking toward the convoy. Soleimani never heard the words that his driver never got to speak. The bodies of Soleimani and al-Muhandis were subsequently identified from severed limbs found in the rubble.
Iran’s defense minister vowed “crushing revenge” on the United States, and Tehran retaliated by firing several ballistic missiles at a base in western Iraq where they claimed the drone had been launched. Many American servicemen suffered concussions, but none were killed.
The following July, the Iranians executed Mahmoud Mousavi Majd for allegedly spying on Soleimani and providing intelligence about him to the American CIA and the Israeli Mossad. While initial reports from Tehran attempted to tie Majd to the assassination of Soleimani, the Iranian judiciary later admitted that Majd had been in custody since October of 2018, more than a year before Soleimani’s death.
On September 12, 2020, the Iranians executed a star member of their national wrestling team. Navid Afkari, ranked highly in Iran in Greco-Roman wrestling in his weight division, had been troubled by his government’s rampant discrimination against women and the poor, so he participated in demonstrations against the government. These demonstrations posed the most serious internal challenge to the Khamenei government in a decade.
Afkari was arrested after the demonstrations and was charged with the murder of a security guard during the protests. He was tortured into confessing, and subsequently received a death sentence. Although he retracted the forced confession in court, the death sentence remained in place. While the Iranian government claimed that Afkari was hanged, there were no witnesses to verify the execution, and family members who received his body—delivered in the middle of the night—said that he appeared to have been tortured and beaten to death.
On September 15, 2020, at the White House, in Washington, D.C., United States President Donald Trump welcomed Israeli Prime Minister Netanyahu and the foreign ministers of the United Arab Emirates and Bahrain prior to the signing of the Abraham Accords, in which the two Arabic nations recognized the State of Israel and agreed to full normalization of relations. The Sudan agreed to similar terms on October 23, and Morocco joined the Accords on December 10.
Ayatollah Khamanei reacted to the Abraham Accords by saying that the UAE had betrayed Islam and the Arab world as well as the Palestinian cause, calling the UAE’s action a “stain of dishonor” which “will be forever marked on the foreheads of those who carried it out.” He later tweeted, “The status of any regime that negotiates with the usurping Zionist regime [Israel] will be shaken before its nation.”
On May 23, 2021, days after Israel’s defense forces had shot down an Iranian drone armed with explosives, a series of explosions rocked a factory in Iran’s central province of Isfahan. The factory, operated by Sepahan Nargostar Chemical Industries, reportedly manufactured military drones.
Chapter One
Athens, Greece
The black Peugeot was not there when he looked in the rearview mirror.
You really didn’t expect to see him, did you? Buck asked himself. You’re going TO the office, dummy. He knows where you work. He wouldn’t be following you THERE. He wants to know where you live.
Buck gathered his thoughts. The guy—whoever he was—was damned good, well-trained, a pro. It was only because Buck was well-trained and a pro himself that he’d seen the tail. The Peugeot was never closer than five cars behind, never doing what Buck’s instructors at Langley had called “TV surveillance,” where the tail would pull out immediately after the target and follow less than twenty yards back, as if the trailing car was equipped with some Star Trek cloaking device that made it invisible.
TV bad guys are really stupid. Stupid or blind.
The tail had not been there every day, either.
Just often enough to try and see if I had a pattern to identify, Buck thought. Patterns are problems, for both of us. He’s there just every third or fourth day, trying to follow me home, trying to see where I go when I leave the office.
He had taken the usual steps to shake the tail. He’d varied his routes, even taken his scooter to the office on some days instead of his Audi. He actually preferred the smaller vehicle on the commutes through the narrow streets of Athens. He could go around most traffic snags, and if there was a real threat, evasion was much simpler on the bike, weaving through the cars on the roads or turning into a narrow alley. He also didn’t have to worry about leaving one of the Audi’s side mirrors hanging on an overhanging tree branch or on some delivery van’s own mirror. The narrow streets of the ancient city were third on his list of the three things Buck hated the most about Athens.
He hadn’t been in country for long—just a couple of months—and Buck was still trying to get a feel for the other agents and employees in his office. He had yet to compile his “trust list,” a roster of those he could be sure would have his back when it mattered. He had asked a few co-workers if they’d noticed any tails recently. None had. Buck wasn’t sure if that was because there hadn’t been any tails, or because his fellow targets—many of the agents in the station were relative newbies—just hadn’t noticed them.
He stopped the Audi behind a Citroën at a traffic light, making sure that he was far enough back to see the Citroën’s rear tires.
More Langley training. Leave yourself enough room to turn off the road or out of line in case of a threat. Maintain your situational awareness.
He’d taken the car that morning because of the forecast, which had called for a steady rain in the afternoon. It was the Audi’s spot in the rotation, anyway.
Not that it’s made much difference. He’s been on me whether I’m in the car or on the bike. He’ll probably be there again today. He’s a day overdue, by my calculations. Maybe I’ll have one of the other guys in the office follow me out today, see if they can get behind the Peugeot, get a plate or some pics. Nah. Don’t know who I can trust yet, and I don’t want to seem paranoid.
He turned onto a wide, multi-lane street, and then turned off into the guarded lot entrance at 91 Vasilisis Sofias Avenue, otherwise known as the Embassy of the United States of America. The marine guard at the entrance recognized him and waved him through into the parking lot. He grabbed his bag and headed inside.
A voice from the station chief’s office interrupted his thoughts.
“Remember your mask, Mr. Buckley.”
Buck forced a smile as he passed by the open door to Vernon Curry’s office. He gave a thumbs-up sign with his right hand while pulling a blue paper mask from his trousers with his left.
You didn’t get the memo, boss. COVID’s over, the country’s opening up again, and these face diapers never worked anyway. He didn’t know which he resented more: the mother-ish instruction from the station chief or the fact that Curry still called him “Mr. Buckley.”
He must have watched too much television while he was stateside, Buck said to himself. Every stupid episode of some series where every FBI or CIA agent called every other agent “agent,” followed by a last name. Nobody ever had a first name in those shows unless they were sleeping with each other. I guess I prefer Curry calling me “Mr. Buckley” if that’s the only other option. At least he lets us turn the lights on. Hollywood thinks every agent in every division prefers to work in a dimly lit dungeon. After switching on his desktop computer and checking his messages, Buck walked back down the hallway and stepped out into the compound for some air. He nodded to one of the marine guards. “Buck,” the corporal said, nodding back. There was respect in the marine’s voice, a tone giving due deference to Buck’s past life in The Corps and in Force Recon.
Buck took in a deep breath, only to wrinkle his nose up at the odor. A northerly breeze had carried in the heavy scent from the foliage at the top of the compound.
Oleander. The second thing I hate most about Athens. The stuff grows wild everywhere around here, and—on top of that—they plant it next to every sidewalk in the city. You can’t escape that smell.
He started to walk back inside but paused instead at the bronze plaque mounted on the wall of the marine guards’ quarters. The plaque commemorated the life and death of Richard Welch, the CIA’s Chief of Station in Athens before his assassination on December 23, 1975. Buck stared at the plaque.
You let your guard down, didn’t you, Dick? You relaxed one time too many. Some anti-government nuts in the states published your home address. The nuts over here took that address and gunned you down coming home from a Christmas party.
“Did you know him, Buck?” the corporal asked.
Buckley snorted and smiled. “A little bit before my time. I’m not that ancient yet.” He headed back inside.
He sat at his desk and stared into space for a moment, mentally going over the recent history of the American Embassy and mission in Greece.
- We backed a military coup by some of the Greek colonels. Washington was convinced the country was turning into a Communist satellite. The colonels deposed the leftist government, and the military junta stayed in power for about seven years.
On the seventeenth of November of 1973, the junta sent tanks into the Athens Polytechnic School to put down an uprising by the students. Dozens of students died. A leftist guerrilla group calling itself 17 November then started plotting to kill American and Greek officials. They got Welch in ’75, a former senior Greek police officer in ’79, the Deputy Chief of the Greek anti-riot police in early ’80, a U.S. Navy captain in ’83, and a conservative Greek newspaper editor in ’85. Several more attacks followed, the last confirmed one being on a British military attaché in 2000. The Greek authorities tried several 17 November terrorists in 2003. That seemed to calm things down. I wonder if any have served their time and been released? Maybe they drive Peugeots.
Buck spent the rest of the day reading intel reports and Greek police reports—translated into English by staff linguists—before attending Curry’s stupid daily staff meeting at 4:00 p.m.
Vernon Curry, the current chief-of-station for the CIA, was everything Buck resented about the job he otherwise loved. There were those in the Agency who were there to serve and protect the nation. Buck counted himself among them. Then there were those who seemed to be frustrated State Department diplomats. They did minimal field work and chose desk and supervisory careers with two apparent goals: first to advance themselves, and second, to frustrate and limit the effectiveness of the real field agents who worked under them.
As Curry droned on about some new priority bulletin of the day, Buckley daydreamed as he remembered the station chief’s file.
Big dude. The only guy in the embassy who’s taller than I am. He’s got to be carrying 300 plus on that frame now, and not much of it is still muscle. Big man on campus in high school, full ride to Penn State as an offensive tackle, but the competition at that level involved more than shoving smaller high-school kids around. It was too much work for him, so he quit the team, and became a poli-sci major. What a farce. There’s nothing scientific about politics. The locals here had it pegged 3,000 years ago. Plato and Aristotle saw politics up close. Human nature never changed simply because the voter rolls got bigger. Old Ari would have pegged Vernon Curry as a leech in a New York minute.
“Anything from our Special Activities Division representative?” Buck heard Curry ask. There was more than a hint of sarcasm in the chief’s voice.
Oh, he means me. He just resents that he has an action officer on his staff.
“Nothing pressing,” Buck replied, smiling at the ten others sitting around Curry’s office. “Just this: if anyone gets any intel on a possible resurgence of the 17 November crew, please let me know asap.”
Curry almost laughed. “I thought all of those folks were pretty much salted away, since—oh, I don’t remember exactly—the turn of the millennium?”
Buck noticed that two or three of the drones in the room chuckled along with the boss. He mentally crossed them off his trust list.
Buck smiled back at his chief. “My reading of the station history files included a rocket-propelled grenade attack on the front of the embassy in 2007. It’s history, but it’s recent history, and some of the 17 November types sentenced twenty years ago are starting to be released from prison. Just wanted to remind everyone to watch their sixes.”
“I seem to recall that credit for the 2007 attack was claimed by a group calling themselves the ‘Revolutionary Struggle,’” Curry replied. He wasn’t smiling.
“My mistake then,” Buck said. “But just in case the bad guys might try to deceive someone through a really complicated device like a name change—"
“We’ll all be situationally aware, Mr. Buckley,” Curry cut him off.
Buck nodded and smiled.
Curry adjourned the meeting, and Buck headed for the men’s room down the hall. He closed the stall and sat down, thinking that Vernon Curry seemed to have an adverse effect on his digestive tract.
He always gives me gas.
He looked down to the right of the toilet, noticing the stainless-steel, pop-top container. There were similar bins next to every toilet in Athens.
The third thing, and the one I hate most about Athens. The ancient sewers in this ancient town can’t handle toilet paper.
He finished his business, flushed the toilet, and left the toilet paper in the stainless-steel container.
I’d hate to be a janitor around here.
He checked his watch as he left the men’s room.
Another day in the books.
Buckley pulled the mask over his face as he walked past Curry’s office. He left it on until he reached the door to the outside of the building, where he pulled it off and returned it to his pocket. He passed his Audi, and instead headed for the slot where he had parked his bike the day before.
A small curve ball, but let’s see if Mr. Peugeot can hit it.
A moment later he was out the gate and heading home.
He weaved the bike through the narrow streets of Athens, dodging cars and pedestrians as he took the seventh different route to his apartment in as many days.
Patterns cause problems.
He watched his mirrors as much as he did the road in front of him, looking for the black Peugeot. He didn’t see it.
He had found an apartment on the second floor of a complex near Ermou Street, the main shopping thoroughfare in the Athens City Center. At 1,100 Euros a month, it was a little pricey, but not outrageous, and it was one of the few buildings that offered covered parking. He had been allotted one parking space, so he always kept one vehicle at the office, one at home. He locked the bike and took the elevator from the parking garage to the second floor.
Before putting the key in the lock to open his door, Buck inspected the seam where the hinged side of the door met the frame. He had learned to position a thin slice of a business card there when he left the apartment. Only the slightest edge of the card was visible against the white wall of the door frame, and anyone wanting to enter the apartment would normally be looking at—and messing with—the knob and the lock on the other side of the door. If the card had been disturbed, he would notice.
The card was in place, and Buck collected it as he unlocked the door and went inside. He switched on the light, then froze. An envelope had been slipped under the front door and was lying on the floor a few feet inside of the apartment.
Most would have gone straight to the envelope to open it, but Buck was not most people. Realizing that the paper might be designed as a diversion, he pulled the 9mm pistol from the rear of his waistband and swept the apartment for intruders. He cleared the living room first, then worked his way to the right, through the kitchen, his bedroom, the walk-in closet, the laundry area, and finally the bath. He checked in each closet, under the bed, behind each set of curtains, and then opened the door to the balcony. Finally satisfied that he was alone, he retrieved a pair of plastic gloves from a kitchen drawer, and—only after putting them on—reached for the envelope on the floor.
Don’t want to absorb any nasty stuff through the skin pores. Fentanyl, anthrax…
He opened the envelope and pulled out the folded paper inside. The tension of the last month suddenly disappeared in a flash, and he collapsed onto his sofa, laughing out loud. The front of the folded note bore a sketch of a dark Peugeot SUV, with a Star of David drawn on the driver’s door and a figure peering over the top of the vehicle. The man’s nose in the drawing was oversized, was hanging over the roof of the Peugeot, and looked as if it had been drawn during the Second World War. The rear of the note said, “Acropolis, tomorrow, noon.”
Buck laughed again. He shook his head as he spoke the name: “Yuri.”
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