The Ares Decision

19

Mehrak Omidi sat silently in the back of the van, fixated on a small bank of monitors depicting the mob occupying Tehran’s heart.

The demonstration was much larger than their intelligence had predicted, and now it clogged not only Azadi Square but the surrounding streets, effectively shutting down travel through the city center. It was impossible to know if his people’s failure to foresee the scope of this treasonous action was a problem with their intelligence gathering or if the protest had been joined by passersby who had not originally planned on getting involved. The meticulous organization of it, unfortunately, suggested the former.

On the west side of the square, where security forces were weakest, the crowd grew progressively more bold. A rock sailed through the air and bounced off a Plexiglas shield. When there was no reaction, a bottle flew.

International press had been banned, but with cell phones and video, everyone was a reporter. As the director of the Ministry of Intelligence, Omidi had tried everything to create a national communications system that could be selectively shut down, but the technology was too complex and diffuse for any government to control anymore. And, in truth, it was a medium that his staff didn’t intuitively grasp like the resistance did. Iran’s youth — and youth everywhere — seemed to be able to fully exploit every new advance the moment it came online.

The mob lurched toward the police line, and he watched the silent contrails of tear gas arcing through the air. Impact points were quickly abandoned, but the demonstration didn’t dissolve into chaos, as it would have only a few months ago. A group of men carried an injured woman wearing a chador over their heads as their compatriots cleared a path. There was something different in these protests, something that had been building: a calm efficiency that suggested training.

It had been first noted a year ago when small groups within the crowds began holding fast, influencing the people around them, neutralizing the fear that the hopelessly outnumbered police counted on. Now those groups made up more than half the protesters, and with their increase in numbers came a command structure — an invisible hand that led these common criminals as though they were soldiers.

But now that hand was no longer invisible — it was the hand of Farrokh. And, with the help of almighty God, it was about to be severed.

The crowd surged again, directing itself with unlikely precision against the weakest part of the line. Omidi’s finger hovered over a button that would authorize the police to use deadly force as they dropped their batons and replaced them with submachine guns. The crowd closed in, chanting for freedom and democracy but being very careful not to offer any further physical provocation.

As expected, the phone in his breast pocket rang and he took a deep breath before picking up.

“Yes, Excellency?”

The voice of Iran’s supreme leader, Ayatollah Amjad Khamenei, contained a hint of panic that caused Omidi’s stomach to burn with anger. Khamenei was a great man, a man chosen by God to lead the Islamic Republic. And yet, these people — these children — spit on him.

“Why don’t you act, Mehrak? This mob has attacked our men; they’ve broken through our line. It is your responsibility to stop them.”

“Yes, Excellency. I understand. But our po—”

“They are trying to destroy us — to replace the republic with a government based on Western sin and corruption — and you just sit by. We have to show these people that the faithful will fight to the death to contain their blasphemy.”

Discontent had been growing since the last presidential reelection. He himself had strongly opposed the way the government handled the voting but had been overruled. In his mind, the results needed to be close enough to appear legitimate, but Khamenei disagreed. He was unwilling to allow any indication that there was anything but overwhelming support for his regime.

The entirely avoidable chaos that ensued had given birth to Farrokh — a young, technologically sophisticated devil with a gift for corrupting youth and spreading his subversive ideas.

To date, every attempt to find him had been thwarted. In fact, until recently, they hadn’t even been sure he existed. A month ago, though, their futile attempts to find Farrokh had been reborn. A chance interception of an unencrypted e-mail allowed them to capture a member of Farrokh’s inner circle — a woman who had actually been face-to-face with him and who had intimate knowledge of his network.

It had taken some persuading, during which a number of her family members had been put to death in front of her, but eventually she had told them everything.

“Give the order to fire on the crowd,” Khamenei insisted.

“Nothing would make me happier than to see these cowards die,” Omidi said honestly. “Their defiance is an affront to God. But an escalation at this point would be counterproductive.”

“Why? Are you going to tell me it’s because the world is watching? What world? America? The Jews? You’ll do as I say.”

Omidi sighed quietly. He had explained this over and over, but the aging holy man simply couldn’t understand that they were using this riot to trace Farrokh’s communications back to him. Disbursing the crowd would send the rat back into the foul hole he lived in.

“Excellency, please—”

The van’s rear doors were suddenly thrown open and his most trusted lieutenant stood backlit by the afternoon sun. Omidi smiled and said a silent prayer of thanks. “We have him, Excellency.”

Mehrak Omidi examined the massive house perched on the side of a forested hill, focusing his binoculars on a satellite dish growing from its roof and then dropping his gaze to the arches and pillars that so gracefully combined French architecture with Persian.

He was hidden in the trees a few feet from the edge of the road, listening through his earpiece to the chatter of the men taking positions around the building. He had hoped that Farrokh would be in the city center, making it easier to bring assault forces in unnoticed, but while this was a more complex operation to set up, it also offered their quarry fewer opportunities to escape. Every road was blocked, helicopters were in the air, and traffic was being diverted. In Tehran, Farrokh could potentially disappear into the constant bustle. Here he would be alone and exposed.

When all thirty men involved in the elaborate trap signaled their readiness, Omidi started up the hill, running hard and using branches to help propel himself forward. He could hear the much younger men behind him breathing heavily as they tried to keep up. At their age, he had been in an elite unit attached to the Revolutionary Guard and he lived his life as though he still were, meticulously maintaining his body and mind to serve God and his representative on earth, Ayatollah Amjad Khamenei.

When he arrived at the edge of the meticulously tended lawn surrounding the mansion, Omidi stopped and brought a radio to his mouth. “Now!”

The roar of a car engine became audible as it raced up the long driveway, and Omidi leapt out onto the lawn just as it skidded to a stop a few meters from the front entrance. He reached for his pistol and held it in both hands as he ran up behind the men pulling a battering ram from the vehicle.

The ornate double doors flew open with the first impact and Omidi followed his men inside.

Normally, he’d be directing the operation from his control van, making sure there were no gaps that could be exploited by the enemy and coordinating on-the-fly tactical changes. But not this time. This time he wanted to be part of it. He wanted to be there when Farrokh was finally brought to his knees.

A woman in immodest Western dress appeared at the end of the marble entry, letting out a startled scream and then demanding to know who they were. She was quickly silenced by a rifle butt, and Omidi stepped over her motionless body as he passed through the archway at the back. Two young children appeared ten meters down the hallway but then immediately darted through a doorway.

He went after them, abandoning caution as he sprinted down the ornate passageway. More than a year of his life spent trying to find a ghost was coming to an end. Farrokh was there. He could feel it.

Omidi came to the end of the hall and signaled the men behind to cover him as he leapt into the adjacent room, scanning it over the sights of his pistol.

“Who are you?” a young man demanded, trying to free himself from the children clutching at his legs. “What are you doing here?”

He was in his early thirties, plump and dressed in clothes calculated to project wealth more than fashion. His round face was unremarkable and the fear was visible there despite his attempt to hide it. The great Farrokh seemed almost impossibly small when stripped of the electronic illusions he liked so much to hide behind.

“Don’t move!” Omidi shouted.

“Who are you?” he demanded again. “Do you—”

“Silence!”

Omidi moved closer, reaching out for one of the bawling children while keeping his gun aimed at the man’s face.

“So when the great Farrokh can’t cower behind a computer screen, he hides behind children?” Omidi said as his men circled behind the godless terrorist.

“Farrokh? Are you crazy? I’m—”

The Taser hit him in the center of the back and he collapsed, convulsing satisfyingly on the floor.

Omidi shoved the pleading children away and knelt, grabbing the man by the hair and lifting his head. “I know exactly who you are. And so does God!”