The Natanz Directive Read Online Free PDF Page A

meeting.
    He said, “I wouldn’t presume to tell my friend how to express his indignation.”
    â€œThen tell Mr. Aziz he has two choices. He can sit, or I can help him sit. Please tell him that my definition of help and his definition may not be the same.”
    Karimi twisted his head in Aziz’s direction. He gave a classic Gallic shrug and opened his palms to his friend as if to say, You decide.
    Aziz stood his ground for three face-saving seconds, then trudged back to his chair and sat.
    â€œThank you.” I was still looking at Karimi. “I need contacts. I need cover. I need transportation.”
    â€œWhy come to me? If my sources are correct about you, you’re a phone call away from our leadership. Why come to me?” he asked again.
    â€œBecause I respect the chain of command,” I said. I was lying, of course. I couldn’t have cared less about the MEK’s chain of command. What I respected was the fact that the guys on the ground—guys like these two sewer rats—were the ones in the know about every other sewer rat in Paris, and that’s what I needed.
    â€œListen, Karimi, you want your country back, then we can’t play games. You have to trust me, and I have to trust you.” Total bullshit. I trusted this guy about as far as I could throw him. “Make a call to Amsterdam. Set up a meeting for me tomorrow. Noon. Tell them Mr. Green respects the MEK hierarchy.” I was making myself ill. “Tell them these are the most important times in the MEK’s history.”
    I paused and let the words linger. Karimi wasn’t stupid. He negotiated for a living, and he knew the negotiations weren’t complete. “And?” he said.
    â€œAnd I need the immediate whereabouts of one of your esteemed colleagues, Mr. Karimi. A complete and total waste of humanity named Reza Mahvi.”
    â€œReza.” He couldn’t hold my eye. His gaze shifted to Aziz, who used the moment to inch to the very edge of his seat. Karimi drew a noisy breath, glanced back, and said, “Why?”
    â€œBecause he’s peeing in my government’s cornflakes, that’s why,” I said. “And because he’s selling the information to your sworn enemy. Any other questions?”

 
    CHAPTER 4
    PARIS—DAY THREE
    It was a black night. Moonless. Ideal.
    Not that I had planned it that way.
    I’d been given the word. Mr. Elliot said the Iranian had to disappear. My mission depended on it. He didn’t say to wait for the perfect night.
    Disappear was one of the many euphemisms guys like Mr. Elliot used. You know, one of those words that’s maybe just a little less offensive or distasteful than coming right out and saying, Kill the bastard.
    Politicians love euphemisms. I guess we like them all right in our business, too. We used the term special ops when what we were really talking about was burning down unsavory governments, sabotaging narco-terrorist operations, torturing people who may or may not know things we needed to know, assassinating the rottenest apples in the barrel. Controlling a little war in Africa or a well-meaning skirmish in the Middle East. You get the picture.
    But this kind of thing was done neither haphazardly nor irreverently. Every operation, every assignment, every action was plotted with purpose and clarity. Some people might look upon sabotage or assassination or insurrection as indefensible, but nothing could be further from the truth. They were acts with a singular purpose, acts bent on defending the American way of life.
    I had no problem putting a gun in the face of a drug dealer suspected of blackmailing a member of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence, and I had no problem pulling the trigger. You play with fire you pay the price. But I did have a problem with a U.S. senator who lacked the pluck and the self-control to keep his cocaine problem behind closed doors. Now he was jeopardizing my