The Zarrabian Incident Read online

  “Not good enough,” said Platte.

  “Sir?”

  “Your story sounds good, but we’ve got these rumors that Zarrabian stole that helicopter and escaped. This guy you say stole it, what was his name?”

  “Jenkins, sir.”

  “The chopper’s pilot says Jenkins doesn’t match the description of the guy who stole his helicopter. And that agent guy, what’s his name?”

  “McCaig, sir.”

  “McCaig, he called in on the firemen’s radio for God and anyone with a police scanner to hear and said Zarrabian had escaped,” said Platte.

  “But we’ve got a body, sir. And we caught Jenkins red-handed! He was just a nutcase Vietnam veteran who thought the feds were raiding his pot farm up in the woods. He flew the chopper over to Jenner and did some wild, crazy acrobatics that scared the residents half to death. He even bumped the top of a Highway Patrol car, put a big dent in it. There were hundreds of witnesses, sir. He finally crashed it into the surf and tried to swim ashore. He might have gotten away with it except that a rip current carried him out. The Coast Guard picked him up, and he had hypothermia so bad they almost lost him. He’s in custody now.”

  “So why are there still rumors that it was Zarrabian that stole the chopper?” said Platte.

  “Sir, we’re pretty sure—”

  Platte cut him off. “You don’t go to war on ‘pretty sure.’”

  “Senator, we’ve got the burned body. We caught a completely different guy, red-handed, flying the helicopter. Agent McCaig was just wrong.”

  “You’re talking about lives and nations here, Jack. Billions of dollars. We needed proof he’s Iranian, and proof he’d dead. Give me a simple act of terror against the United States of America and tie it straight to Iran, and I’ll give you voters out for blood. With what you’ve got, every left-wing liberal news commentator, maybe even some in the middle, will be calling foul. And the nut cases will be yelling conspiracy.”

  “Yes, sir, but we can take this to the United Nations—.”

  Platte scoffed. “If Whitman takes this to the UN, they’ll rip him a new one. Fuck the UN. It doesn’t matter. It’s the voters who need a solid story. They want a bad guy, one they can hate. They want vengeance. They don’t want maybes, and that’s all you’ve got.”

  “Understood, Senator. We’ll put the rumors to bed. I’ll get you what you need.”

  Platte leaned back in his chair. “Thank you. The people I represent will be pleased to hear it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Christine stood at the back of the studio in the shadows and studied the figure of White House Chief of Staff, Major General (retired) John Patterson. He was sitting across the table from Dana Poindexter. A makeup artist was applying a few final touches to Poindexter’s face.

  Patterson spotted Christine’s gaze and smiled disarmingly. Christine smiled back, but wasn’t fooled. She’d pegged Patterson for a shark long before he was in the national spotlight. Christine’s opinion had only gone downhill since Whitman’s election.

  Patterson had a veneer of charm and civility, but his backroom political arm-twisting skills were legendary. The Fourth Estate had an understanding, spoken in low voices when the cameras were off and the keyboards silent, that Patterson had enough dirt on congressmen and senators to fill their graves—with a couple shovels full left over when he was done. He brought the same attitude to politics that he’d honed on the battlefield.

  The director’s voice rose above the hubbub, “Thirty seconds!” There was an immediate hush. Poindexter waved her assistant away and said a couple words to Patterson, who nodded.

  “Ten seconds . . . Five, four, three . . .”

  Poindexter looked into the camera. “Good morning. I’m Dana Poindexter. Welcome to America Morning Edition. Our guest this morning is White House Chief of Staff John Patterson.

  “Retired Major General John Patterson is a graduate of Texas A&M University, where he earned a degree in Political Science with a minor in History. His thirty-year career in the army spanned the Vietnam War, Kuwait, and Afghanistan. After leaving the army, Mr. Patterson returned to his family business, where he stepped in as CEO of the Patterson-Smith Energy Group.

  “Mr. Patterson was tapped by President Oliver Whitman after the president’s victory six years ago and now serves as the White House chief of staff.

  “Welcome to the show, Mr. Patterson.”

  “Thank you, Dana. It’s good to be here.”

  “Let’s get right to topic ‘Z.’ Zarrabian. Can you bring us up to date?”

  “Yes, we’ve confirmed that the body found in the burned cabin near Guerneville was the Iranian terrorist known as Zarrabian. All of the terrorists involved in the attack on the Golden Gate Bridge are now accounted for and dead.”

  “There were initial reports that Zarrabian had overpowered the medical examiner’s pilot and stolen his helicopter. What can you tell us about that?”

  Patterson gave a short chuckle. “That’s a pretty funny story, and I’m glad to report it has nothing to do with terrorism. The details are still sketchy, but the FBI have arrested a local man for the theft, a guy named Dale Jenkins. He’s a Gulf War veteran with PTSD—that’s post-traumatic stress disorder—and a history of mental illness. The early reports, and this is not confirmed, Dana, but the early reports indicate that Jenkins was cultivating marijuana in the woods nearby, quite a lot of it. He thought the helicopter was full of DEA agents coming to destroy his crop and sort of flipped out. After the Coast Guard rescued him, he was ranting about how he’d evened the score.”

  “That’s quite a story. I suspect Mr. Jenkins is not as amused as you are.”

  “No doubt.”

  “FBI Agent TJ McCaig initially reported that it was Zarrabian who stole the helicopter. And when they untied the pilot, his description of the man who hijacked his helicopter matched Zarrabian better than Jenkins. How do you explain McCaig’s and the pilot’s stories?”

  “Well, Dana, I’m sure you know that eyewitness accounts are often the least reliable evidence. Agent McCaig never saw Zarrabian steal the helicopter; he just made an unwarranted assumption. Fairly unprofessional, I might add. And the pilot suffered a nasty blow to the head, and admitted he didn’t get a good look at his assailant. Dark hair, medium height, it could have been anyone.”

  “How can we be sure the body was Zarrabian’s?”

  “Well, as the president said in his speech, the Iranian government condemned this act of terrorism in the strongest terms and promised their full support. They came through on that promise. We have Zarrabian’s army medical records, which confirm his identity beyond a shadow of doubt.”

  “So you are certain the burned body is that of the terrorist known as Zarrabian?”

  “One hundred percent.”

  “What about the Iranian claim that these terrorists were operating independently, that the Iranian government had nothing to do with this act of terrorism?”

  “We appreciate the cooperation of the Iranian government and their strong condemnation of this act of terror. This is an ongoing investigation, and it wouldn’t be appropriate to interfere with our investigators’ work by ruling out anything at this point. It will take months, maybe years, to track down all parties involved in this act of terror. The president assured me that we will not rest until every single person, organization, or nation behind this cowardly act has been identified and neutralized.”

  “Those are pretty strong words. Does the administration believe there is Iranian involvement?”

  “As I said, Dana, we are not ruling out any possibilities at this point, nor are we pointing fingers at anyone. It is important to let our intelligence and law-enforcement communities do their jobs without political interference.”

  “So you’re not ruling out Iran in your investigation?”

  “I think I’ve answered that question.”

  “Let’s get back to Zarrabian. He was a high-ranking military officer, obviously inte
lligent and well trained. He was able to organize a group of terrorists, sneak undetected across our borders, and carry out one of the biggest bombings in United States history. Our military advisors tell me he had at least a million dollars in funding. What does that say about our border security and our law-enforcement and intelligence agencies?”

  “I’m sure every American is wondering the same thing, Dana. And I can assure you that we are looking into those questions right now. We need to ensure that our borders are secure and that every loophole and weakness that allowed his team to infiltrate our country is closed. The president will be asking Congress for a comprehensive overhaul of homeland security, as well as increased funding for all security and anti-terror activities.”

  “So that still leaves us with a puzzle: How did this man, obviously a cunning, disciplined, highly trained soldier, let himself get killed in a cabin fire? His death raises more questions than it answers.”

  “Well, Dana, I think you’re blowing it out of proportion. Our investigation is ongoing. We’re not sure how the fire started, but it was probably just bad luck. The cabin he selected had no power or running water. The investigators found several old-fashioned kerosene lanterns. We can worry about conspiracies all we like, but sometimes the simple answers are best. He probably lit an old kerosene lamp, or maybe built a fire in the fireplace, then was exhausted and fell asleep and the flames escaped and set the cabin on fire. The Marin Fire Chief told me it happens all the time. Those old wood cabins are fire traps. I prefer to let the investigators do their work. All we know for certain is that Zarrabian is dead.”

  “Is it possible he was killed by his own accomplices?”

  “No, Dana, that’s very unlikely. All of the terrorists involved in this operation are dead. ”

  “Thank you for being with us today.”

  “It was my pleasure.”

  “That was John Patterson, White House Chief of Staff.”

  Zarrabian lowered the dusty old book and rubbed his eyes. The book was a masterpiece: The Grapes of Wrath, by American author John Steinbeck. He would have preferred something in Persian or Arabic, but what were the chances of finding either in an old, abandoned ranch house in the middle of California’s Great Central Valley? He was happy that he’d found anything at all.

  The book was even autographed: To Lillian – John Steinbeck, June 1, 1958. It was probably worth thousands of dollars, yet had been abandoned along with everything else in this old house.

  How did an autographed copy of a Steinbeck book find its way to this house, and why was it left behind? He could only guess. According to the book’s cover, the town of Monterey, where Steinbeck had lived and worked, was not so far away. Zarrabian imagined the woman traveling there to meet the author at a book signing event. Maybe the old woman’s husband had died and she’d grown feeble, no longer able to care for the huge old house, and had been moved to a “rest home,” something that was unknown in the village of Zarrabian’s youth. And as she faded away, perhaps her children had thrown all of her old books into boxes and stored them in the cellar where Zarrabian had found them, not realizing that among the outdated, dusty books was a special one their mother had once treasured.

  His arrival at the abandoned ranch house had been the end of a day-long race against time and capture. Once he was airborne in the helicopter, the low fog had forced him to fly just over the treetops, but had also hidden him from view. And the treetop flight had probably meant he was invisible to radar.

  He’d found a small clearing, just big enough to land, then hiked several miles to retrieve his motorcycle, cached for this very situation. The machine was uncomfortable on the long ride; it was designed for agility and dirt roads, not highways. But it was reliable, and the helmet and leather jacket made him completely anonymous. Most importantly, the little motorcycle had let him use logging roads and a hiking trail to bypass a police roadblock and make his way east.

  His next challenge had been the librarian in the little town of Rio Vista. He’d walked through the door and straight to their public computers. But it seemed the library had few patrons.

  The librarian, a very tall, young, athletic woman with short, spiky, blue-tinted hair and penetrating eyes, had been quite eager to assist him in any way possible.

  He’d left his Mexican sombrero in the RV, along with most of his stolen guns and ammunition, when he fled Guerneville in the helicopter. The best disguise he could muster was a San Francisco Giants baseball cap and a pair of off-the-shelf reading glasses with thick black frames, both acquired at a convenience store while wearing his motorcycle helmet.

  Disguising his Persian accent was difficult. It wouldn’t do to pretend to be Mexican; there was a good chance that the well-educated librarian would be fluent in Spanish. He hoped that the utter absurdity of a terrorist showing up at the public library in Rio Vista would be his best disguise. He had let the librarian help him get started, then politely hinted that he wanted to do his Googling privately.

  Once he was alone at the computer, it hadn’t taken long to find an abandoned farmhouse. Words like “auction,” “antique,” “farm,” and “ranch” revealed the melancholy history of America’s family farms. Zarrabian read one announcement after another, each telling a tale of lost hopes and dreams—of another family farm or ranch that couldn’t compete with huge corporate agribusiness, of children moved off to the cities, and of a graying and dying generation of farmers and ranchers.

  This particular ranch house had once been the heart of a 120-acre dairy ranch. The auction announcement, dated two years earlier, boasted of five bedrooms, maid’s quarters, a kitchen that could feed a dozen farm hands, a formal dining room that seated twenty, paneling and wainscoting made of virgin thousand-year-old California Redwood trees, genuine Tiffany chandeliers, hand-woven antique Oriental rugs, and beautiful oak-and-leather hand-made Mission-style furniture.

  At some point the dairy ranch had been converted to walnut orchards. Judging by the age of the oldest walnut trees and the dilapidated state of the dairy barn, Zarrabian guessed the dairy business must have collapsed a long time ago, forcing the dairyman to become a farmer. And then, perhaps, the agribusiness had driven the farmer out of business. Or maybe he just grew old and sold out. Whatever had happened, the farm had been acquired by the same corporation that already owned thousands of surrounding acres.

  And the old house was in their way. They’d auctioned off the Tiffany chandeliers and lamps, the Persian rugs and oak furniture, and had sold the house itself to a dismantler who would take it apart board by board and sell the pieces to rich Silicon Valley executives who would could then brag about their polished virgin-redwood fireplace mantle or hand-waxed redwood wainscoting.

  And finally, the foundation would be bulldozed, the cellar filled in, and more walnut trees planted. In ten years, there would be no signs remaining that a magnificent Victorian-style house had once housed a wealthy rancher’s family and fed a dozen ranch hands.

  In the mean time, it was Zarrabian’s safe house. The other farm houses in the area had suffered a similar fate, so there were no nosy neighbors to come knocking. The occasional farm workers who came by to tend the trees had no interest in the old house.

  Most of the furniture was gone, but he’d found a bed frame and mattress in the maid’s quarters, a couple old steel-and-vinyl chairs in the basement, and the kitchen yielded a chipped formica table. One bedroom provided an old lamp with a torn lampshade, which he added even though he had no electricity at first. The final touch was a wooden stool, which Zarrabian had repurposed as a bedside table for the lamp. He’d carried them all to one of the bedrooms upstairs and arranged things into a cozy one-room domicile.

  His domestic enterprise had taken several hours, and then he’d rested. But the quiet stillness of the old house was too much, so he’d explored further. That’s when he discovered the treasure trove of books.

  This was an impossible situation. He was safe, but what was the point? Was he to sit he
re forever? What was going on?

  The world seemed upside down. His mission had succeeded, but his superiors wanted him dead. His attempt to make contact had resulted in an assassin stalking him; he’d had to turn the tables on the man. He’d been shocked when he searched the assassin’s body to discover that he was a fellow Iranian.

  And something else: while at the little library in Rio Vista, he had taken a few minutes to read the news, to see how his successful mission was being reported by American and Iranian news outlets. The American news was as expected: outrage, calls for war, and the president calling for calm. But the Iranian news was unexpected—complete denial of responsibility, no mention of America’s aggression, and condemnation of the terrorists who were responsible. It was very odd . . . and very disappointing.

  Was he supposed to carry on here in America? If so, how could he contact the other teams? Were the other teams still here? Should he try to get back to Iran? Would he be welcomed home as a hero, or shot as an inconvenience?

  He lifted the window shade a crack and looked out. Walnut trees. Shimmering summer heat. Two crows. An old pomegranate tree, heavy with fruit. An empty, cracked fish pond. A lawn, brown with neglect and full of weeds.

  He sat down heavily on the bed. The Grapes of Wrath was lying facedown on the armrest where he’d set it. He picked it up.

  Senator Dean Platte leaned back in his huge chair, shook his head slowly, and blew out a stream of blue cigar smoke. “I don’t like it. Not one bit.”

  Erica Blackwell jerked her head toward Platte. “What he said. You took a big chance.”

  Patterson’s eyes narrowed. He looked back and forth between the two of them and wished he was in his own office behind his desk, confronting them on his own turf. Except that there was no way a senator and two White House staffers could meet in secret at the White House. Even meeting here in the Senate office building was tricky—Patterson could pretend to be negotiating with the senator about the defense budget, and Blackwell was nominally here as an advisor. But it was highly unusual for the White House chief of staff to call on a senator like this, and Patterson didn’t like it. They’d have to find another place to meet in the future—a private location where loyalty and sealed lips could be bought.