The Disciple

CHAPTER TWELVE

Ghasem checked his cell phone when he returned home from the desert. Davar had called and left a message.

He listened to it. “Grandfather has been arrested and taken to the headquarters of the MOIS for questioning.”

Ghasem’s hands trembled as he called his cousin. “It’s me,” he said.

“They arrested Grandfather yesterday evening. They’ve been watching his house for days-but you knew that.” Dr. Murad’s house was next to the Ghobadi residence. “It’s something about a book.”

“What book?” Ghasem asked. After all, the MOIS might be listening to this conversation.

“Some book they think he wrote. About religion. One of them let slip that Khurram has been talking to them. Khurram thinks there is a book somewhere. After they took him away, they searched Grandfather’s house.”

“Did they find this book?”

“I don’t know.”

“Have you heard anything from him?”

“No.”

“I’ll go to headquarters,” Ghasem said and broke the connection. It would be useless for Davar to go, or their unmarried aunt who took care of Grandfather; the secret police would ignore them. No, only a man could inquire. Sultani, Murad’s son-in-law, was still down in the desert. Khurram had betrayed his grandfather. Yas Ghobadi was somewhere in a bomb factory trying to get it finished or make the systems work. Ghasem’s father, Murad’s son, was dead.

So Ghasem Murad went alone to the headquarters of the Ministry of Intelligence and Security, the largest, most secretive instrument of political repression remaining on the planet. Here the enemies of the regime were interrogated, imprisoned or executed. It was a fairly new building, another architectural monstrosity, with much concrete, few windows and no humanity.

His name got him past the sergeant on the desk to see someone in an office. This man had a desk and one chair, which he sat in. He was only about forty, overweight, with an unkempt short beard and protruding eyes.

“Dr. Israr Murad, the religious scholar,” Ghasem said. “I understand MOIS agents arrested him yesterday and brought him here for questioning. I am his grandson. I am here to take him home.”

The man picked up a telephone and called for a file. He wrote in another file while waiting. Ghasem stood impassively in front of the desk and looked over the man’s head through the little, dirty window. Outside the breeze was making a tree shake. A bird sat on a limb, ignoring the wind. Ghasem tried to think of nothing but birds and trees and wind-instead of his grandfather, whose fate was in the hands of these grim, merciless men.

Eventually someone opened the door behind Ghasem and put a file on the desk of the man with protruding eyes.

“He wrote a book,” the man said after a bit, glancing at Ghasem. “A book profaning the Prophet and Islam.”

“Who told you this lie?” Ghassem asked, careful to keep his voice under control.

“Your cousin Khurram Ghobadi. He said he once read parts of it.”

“Ah, then he knows all about it, if he is telling the truth. Why are you questioning Dr. Murad, who is an old man?”

“Dr. Murad denies the book’s existence; Khurram Ghobadi swears that it exists and is blasphemy. We want this book. If indeed it does contain blasphemy, if it mocks the Prophet or Islam or the Islamic Republic, then the man who wrote it will receive the proper punishment.”

Ghasem was unimpressed. “Until you find it, if it exists, it seems to me that you might as well release Dr. Murad. He is an old man in poor health and isn’t going anywhere. If you do find a blasphemous book and can prove Dr. Murad wrote it, you will know precisely where to find him, eh?”

“I know where to find him now.”

“Perhaps you are unaware that Dr. Murad’s son-in-law, and Khurram’s uncle, is General Habib Sultani. He should be back in Tehran tomorrow. No doubt he will come to see you, demanding Murad’s release.”

“What do you know of this book?”

“Absolutely nothing. I do not believe there is a book. I suspect Khurram is lying to you for reasons of his own. If you have met him, you are well aware that he is stupid, vindictive and venal. Since he was very small he has been a paranoid cretin who likes to invent lies and tell them on others. Allah knows that he has told his share about me.”

“Wait in the hall. When I have something to tell you about Murad, I will know where to find you.”

So Ghasem found a place on a bench in the hallway with nine other people who were also waiting.

His grandfather was in the bowels of this building-somewhere in here-being interrogated. Ghasem harbored no illusions. Since the dawn of the human experience, interrogation in Iran had meant physical abuse and torture. Iran had had one tyrant after another since the first farmer planted a seed; the tyrants’ men pursued their enemies in the dark, foul places that never saw the light of day.

Israr Murad would not tell them about his book-of that Ghasem was certain, because Ghasem had read the book. It was Murad’s life’s work, a vision of man and his relationship to God that made the religious writings of the last three millennia seem small and dated. Murad’s vision took Ghasem’s breath away, filled him with awe. Perhaps the first people who heard Moses and Jesus and Muhammad had felt that way, overpowered by the vision and eloquence of the prophets. Murad’s vision shattered myths and embraced life, all of life, from the simplest organisms to the most complex.

The religious fanatics who ran Iran, with their tiny, closed minds, would think the work blasphemous. Ghasem knew that as well as he knew his own name. Of course, so would Davar’s brother, Khurram, who was a member of the Basij, the volunteer, plainclothes paramilitary task force that operated under the wing of the Revolutionary Guard. In addition to indoctrination camps touting the glories of Islam and visits to martyrs’ cemeteries and religious shrines, the Basij volunteers rode buses to prodemocracy or antiregime demonstrations and attacked the demonstrators with bicycle chains, truncheons and knives. In short, they were facist thugs. Khurram fit them like a hand fits a glove.

Ghasem wondered if even now, as he sat in this corridor while the night crept on, the MOIS or Basij thugs were searching his apartment. If so, they would not find the book. It was hidden in his uncle Habib Sultani’s office. He had secreted it on his last visit, just in case.

He figured that anyone rooting out blasphemy would think twice before tackling the office of the minister of defense.

Khurram-that stupid, evil man. Selling his own grandfather to the MOIS…

Footsteps echoed in the hallway, the naked lightbulb overhead stayed on, and the hands of his watch marched slowly and relentless on into the night.

“The Mossad’s assassination attempt failed,” William S. Wilkins told the president. “Our contact in Tel Aviv reports that the Indonesian general they bribed betrayed them.”

The president’s face was a mask. The Israelis hadn’t told the Americans about the attempt until it had failed, so what was there to say?

CIA Director Wilkins, National Security Adviser Schulz, Sal Molina and Jake Grafton were sitting in the Oval Office in front of the president’s desk.

“So where do we go from here?” the president said.

Wilkins spoke up. “Admiral Grafton has a plan.”

Jake removed a small metal box from his briefcase and placed it on the edge of the president’s desk. “This is an ALQ-198, the first generation of the new active stealth technology. To the best of our knowledge, the Iranians don’t know that the planes in service now have the ALQ-199 installed, which uses completely different protocols and algorithms. I propose to give this box to the Iranians.”

The president rubbed his chin as he eyed the box, then Jake Grafton. “Why?”

“If and when they get nuclear weapons, we’re going to have to go after them. If they think they have an edge, and don’t, we’ll have an advantage. They’ll rely heavily on their air defense system, and we can defeat it.”

Schulz took a deep breath, let it out slowly.

“Dr. Schulz,” the president prompted.

“If they think they can shoot down any American or Israeli airplanes that cross into Iran, they may be emboldened to try something they wouldn’t have.”

“Such as…”

“Shoot missiles at Israel and the U.S. task forces in the area. Maybe lob one or two at our bases in Arabia and Iraq.”

The president reached for the box and examined it. Finally he set it on the desk in front of him. “Admiral?”

“The Iranians know we have stealth technology that protects conventional planes. They saw it in action when the Israelis bombed the Syrian reactor. They continue to manufacture enriched uranium and test missiles. Obviously they believe a conventional attack by us will not hinder their quest for nuclear weapons. It is in our best interests for them to believe that they have the antidote to a conventional attack by us and our allies. If they believe they have the problem solved, they will stop looking for other solutions.”

“Mr. Wilkins. Your thoughts.”

“I believe Jake is right,” the CIA director said. “If we have to attack, we need every advantage we can get.”

“Sal.”

Molina looked at his hands, hunched his shoulders forward, then looked the president squarely in the eye. “Ahmadinejad told you how it is. Sooner or later, we are going to have to attack and destroy those missiles and enrichment facilities.”

“I don’t want to do that,” the president shot back. “There is a large block in Congress, not to mention the think tanks and pundits, who are convinced we are just going to have to learn to live with a nuclear Iran.” He rubbed his forehead, then muttered, “Maybe they’re right.”

Sal Molina didn’t hesitate. “If they shoot missiles at Israel and our armed forces, what then?”

“That’s a different problem,” the president admitted. “I just told that son of a bitch what will happen if he does that.”

“And you have his answer on your desk.”

“The question in my mind,” Schulz said slowly, “is this: Does giving the Iranians this box make it more likely that Ahmadinejad will pull the trigger?”

“Wrong question,” Jake Grafton said in the silence that followed. “We should ask ourselves this: If Ahmadinejad pulls the trigger, will the presence of this box in Iran make it more likely that our armed forces can successfully destroy their nuclear capability? My answer to that is yes.”

No one had anything else to say.

The president rose from his chair and went to the window. He stood looking out for a moment, then turned to face them. “A nuclear attack on an American ally or U.S. forces will require a military response. We will have no other political options. Literally, we will have no choice, none at all.” He paused and took a deep breath, then exhaled.

“I feel like a condemned man walking a plank at the point of a pirate’s sword while sharks circle in the water below. The Iranians have lied and prevaricated and stonewalled and threatened, and continued to enrich uranium to weapons grade. They have flaunted their missiles in the world’s face. All of our diplomatic efforts have been futile. I think that son of a bitch Ahmadinejad has already made up his mind, and nothing we can do or say will change it. Give him the box.”

“Israr Murad is dead.”

The man with the protruding eyes was standing in front of Ghasem, who was still seated in a crude wooden chair in the hallway of MOIS headquarters. Only two other chairs were still occupied. Ghasem stared up at him, unwilling to believe the words.

“He’s dead,” the man said. “Come back in the morning and we will give you his body for burial.” The man turned away and disappeared along the hallway.

Ghasem forced himself to his feet. He looked at his watch. Ten minutes after 3:00 A.M.

He walked slowly out of the building, trying to get his emotions in check. He didn’t go to his apartment but to his uncle Yas’s home. He parked and used his key, went up the narrow staircase to the top, not bothering to turn on lights, then on up, all the way to the attic, where he knocked on Davar’s door.

After a minute, she opened it.

“He’s dead,” Ghasem said and went inside. His cousin closed the door. The room was dark, with no lights. “The MOIS beat or tortured him until he died. I can pick up his body in the morning, they said.”

“Why?” she asked.

“A book. He wrote a book. Khurram must have read some of it and reported him to the MOIS. Said it was blasphemous.”

They sat in the darkness, silent, with their thoughts.

“Do they have the book?” she said.

“No. I have it. He would have denied writing it. If they could get their hands on it, they would destroy it. It was his life’s work.”

“What do you want to do?”

“It must be published in the West,” he replied, his voice cracking. “He would have wanted that. Future generations will read it.” Tears were leaking down his cheeks. He wiped them away angrily. “Murder. Stupidity. Religious fanaticism. What kind of people are we?”

“How will you get it out of Iran?”

“I don’t know.”

Davar sat silently, weighing the next step. Her cousin knew nothing of her espionage. Nor of the American agent who had photographed her father’s construction plans, the plans for the hardened weapons sites and executive bunker.

“My scanner is too small,” she said. “A whole book…”

“It is a handwritten manuscript. I will scan it at the ministry,” Ghasem said. “Use the computers there to put it on a DVD.”

“They will catch you,” she said scornfully. “The computer will remember everything. The hard drive will retain it even if you try to erase it.”

“I have the manuscript hidden in Uncle Habib’s office. I cannot leave it there. If it is found there, Habib Sultani will be ruined.”

“You will be ruined,” she shot back. “They will execute you. Or beat you to death, as they did Grandfather.”

He had no reply.

After a moment she asked, “Why do you help Uncle? Why do you help them make nuclear weapons to murder their enemies, as they did Grandfather?”

“I don’t know,” he said softly. “Uncle says the weapons will cause the world to respect us, will prevent the Americans from invading or bombing us.”

“Do you believe that?”

“I don’t know what to believe.” Unable to sit for another second, he sprang from his chair. “Never, ever, did I think they would murder an old man, a scholar who was no threat to any living soul. Never!”

“I know a man,” she said. “He is an American diplomat. He could take the book to the Swiss embassy and send it to America. Perhaps someone there will publish it.”

“A diplomat?” Ghasem was flabbergasted. His cousin? “How do you know a diplomat?”

“He is a spy. He came to me. I have been sending information to Azari in America.”

“Azari? The MEK Azari? What-”

“I met him at Oxford. He asked for my help when I got back to Iran, and I said yes.”

“Azari? Wasn’t he one of the men the MOIS released, banished into exile?”

“Yes. They tortured him. He hates them.”

Ghasem wouldn’t let it rest. “Or he agreed to help them if they spared his life.”

“Don’t be such a cynic! We must trust someone! Do you want the book removed from the country, or don’t you?”

His cousin! A spy! Her brother had betrayed Grandfather, and he and Uncle Habib were building nuclear weapons for Ahmadinejad and the mullahs.

They were all doomed.

“I must think on it,” he whispered, and left her there in the darkness of her prison.

He didn’t mention that Davar was a spy when he talked to Habib Sultani later that morning in Sultani’s office. The sun was up and shining in the window. The book was safely in his coat, the pages divided into packets and tucked into slits, which was the way he had brought it into the building last week.

The news of the old man’s death at the hands of the MOIS shook Sultani badly. He slumped in his seat and closed his eyes. Finally he opened his eyes and focused again on Ghasem. “Why?”

“Khurram told them that Grandfather wrote a book, a blasphemous book. He told them he had read some pages of it at some time or other. They arrested Grandfather and took him to headquarters. I sat there last night waiting until one of them came to me and said he was dead.”

“A book?”

“A book.”

“Khurram.”

“Yes.”

“They didn’t call me. Didn’t consult me. Just dragged him away and interrogated him until he died.”

“Yes.”

“What do you know of this book?”

“Nothing.” The lie was right there, ready for Ghasem to spit out, and he did so without hesitation. He respected his uncle, and yet…

Habib Sultani sat silently for a long time. Ghasem found he could sit no longer and walked slowly around the room, looking at this and that. The death to america sign on the wall captured his attention. He was still staring at it when he heard Sultani say, “Come. We will get his body and see to funeral arrangements.”

Habib Sultani didn’t talk to his nephew Khurram at the mosque. He tried to ignore him. What could he say? If Khurram was a spy for the MOIS, what might he be whispering about his uncle the defense minister?

The family had not discussed the reasons why the old man had died. Fortunately, Sultani reflected, there was not a mark on the body. If he had been beaten, the damage had been internal. More than likely, Murad’s heart had simply given out.

His daughters knew that his health had been deteriorating, so they accepted his death as a natural occurrence. If they had any doubts, they did not voice them. He had died talking to the police. They left it there.

Yas Ghobadi seemed preoccupied with his construction projects. He had little to say, seemed to be merely going through the motions.

Being human, Sultani reviewed his official and private conduct over the last few months, trying to decide if there was anything he had done or said-or failed to do or say-that might be misinterpreted by the secret police. Or twisted to use against him.

The Supreme Leader controlled the MOIS. Obviously there were political tensions swirling through the upper echelons of the government-people are pretty much the same everywhere. Ahmadinejad was on a tightrope, steering the nation along a perilous course. Any miscalculation by the government could cause a major political backlash that might endanger the mullahs’ grip on power. So they were worried, trying to discredit the political opposition, arresting domestic enemies, breaking up demonstrations, looking for any hints or signs of disloyalty. They were keeping the Basij busy.

One of the inherent problems with any secret police force, Sultani reflected, was that they had to find traitors and domestic enemies to justify their existence.

Whispers circulating in the government said that Ahmadinejad had been badly shaken by the Mossad’s attempt on his life. Well, the Israelis wanted him dead, to be sure-but Ahmadinejad must be wondering about his domestic enemies, too. After the last election, his claim to popular support had evaporated. Perhaps, Sultani mused, the president was the driving force behind the investigation of Murad. If the mullahs ever doubted his zeal for defending the faith, Ahmadinejad was through. The MOIS report on the interrogation and death of Israr Murad would also be routed to Ahmadinejad. Would the president mention it to Sultani?

Davar held her emotions under tight control. She, too, avoided speaking to Khurram, who was busy pretending he knew nothing of the events that led to Murad’s arrest and interrogation. She watched him when he wasn’t looking at her… and saw nothing. Khurram was in his early twenties, a disappointment to his family. He preferred Basij activities to working, in his father’s business or anywhere else, which was just as well, since he had few if any skills. He was, she thought, a classic sociopath, interested only in himself, whose antisocial urges were legitimatized by the religious Nazis.

Had he really betrayed his grandfather, though? Why had the MOIS officer given Ghasem his name? One possibility, she realized, was to protect the real informant, who could be anybody. Any student at the university who took an unauthorized peek at some manuscript pages… or Murad’s housekeeper. Secrets are difficult to keep from a nosy housekeeper, Davar thought.

The more she thought about it, the more certain she became. She made inquiries. The housekeeper had stopped going to Grandfather’s house immediately after his arrest. She hadn’t been back.

Ghasem found that his emotions were not under his control. His grandfather had been a true holy man, willing to forgive anyone anything. That was clear from his writing. No doubt he would have forgiven Khurram-if he had been told that it was Khurram who had betrayed him. One suspected he was not given that information.

It was curious, Ghasem reflected, that the secret police had dropped that tidbit on him. Like his cousin Davar, he realized that the MOIS could have given him Khurram’s name to protect the real traitor. Did the police hope he would attempt to take revenge?

He was tempted. Thought about killing Khurram, because in his heart of hearts he hated the lazy, sanctimonious, bullying bastard. Thought about how gratifying it would be to slowly strangle Khurram with his own two hands, crush his windpipe, watch his face turn blue, then purple, watch his eyes glaze over in death.

Yet when he tried to reconcile his rage with his grandfather’s life and teachings, he couldn’t.

Out of this swirling cauldron of emotions came one concrete thought. He decided to meet with Davar’s spy, give him Grandfather’s manuscript-and he was going to do it sooner rather than later.

When I got the call on my cell phone from Davar, I was amazed. She wanted to meet at a mountain pass north of Tehran, she told me in English. She gave me the time, 2:00 A.M., and left it at that. We had previously agreed that any meet would occur three nights after I received the call.

I got out a map and looked for this pass. Found it, and got really antsy. The road led up a canyon, through the pass and down the other side. If Davar was followed, our only options were to drive on over the mountain, so we would be on the side away from Tehran, or to hike along the ridge in one direction or the other.

The place had no easy exits, which was very bad. Did she just not realize how wrong the place was, or was I being set up? Did someone tell her to lure me out there?

I buttonholed Joe Mottaki, Israel’s man in Tehran.

“I need a weapon,” I said.

“I have a pistol. Nine millimeter. I can let you borrow it.”

“A rifle, too, if you have one.”

“The pistol holds thirteen cartridges. If you need more than that, you’ll be in a war and had better shoot yourself.”

The guy was a real ray of sunshine. “A rifle,” I said.

So he came up with one. An old AK-47 with two magazines. I was less than thrilled. AKs are not known for their accuracy. The warriors in these parts like to shoot them from the hip, empty a whole magazine in the general direction of their enemy, spray and slay. Sometimes they get lucky-usually they don’t.

I spent the afternoon contemplating my luck and listening to tourist visa pleas. Just before quitting time, Abdullaziz Nasr Qomi came carefully down the stairs, leaning on his crutch. He saw me and his face lit up. “It’s been two weeks,” he said. “Has my visa come?”

“Sit right there and let me check.” He made himself comfortable in the visitor chair on the other side of the room divider. Fortunately my colleague Frank Caldwell was out for the day, so he didn’t have to witness my treason.

I trotted upstairs and checked with the clerk. Nothing from the State Department today, and I hadn’t seen anything this week.

I went downstairs to tell Qomi the bad news. “Not yet,” I said. “Maybe you had better check back in two more weeks. I can’t imagine it would take more than a month to get a yes or no.”

He took a deep breath and glanced around the room. Then his eyes found me again. “Why would they say yes?” he asked.

I smiled. “Why would they say no?”

He had no answer to that so levered himself up and went up the stairs. I sat there alone contemplating my navel. I had disobeyed the rules when I marked the yes box on the visa app form, and in doing so had gotten Qomi’s hopes up. If he was turned down-and I suspected that he would be-what was I going to tell him?

You didn’t get approved for a tourist visa because you are an uneducated Islamic peasant from a third-world shithole, and we have found folks like you never, ever leave the U.S. of A. if they can get there.

While I was sitting there, someone came trooping down the stairs. I knew he was an American when I saw his shoes. Now the trousers, the shirt and jacket, and the clean-shaven white face. Behind him was an Iranian male.

“Hey,” he said. “My name is Herman Strader.” He shoved his passport through the window at me. “This guy is Mustafa Abtahi. He’s been writing letters to the State Department in Washington asking for a visa and hasn’t gotten any answers. The people upstairs said to talk to you.”

I pretended to scrutinize Strader’s passport. Meanwhile Herman and Mustafa arranged themselves in the only two chairs on their side of the divider. “What kind of visa?” I asked.

“Hell, I dunno. Guy wants to go to America. He’s an engineer. Works for a mapmaker here in Iran. If you can get him to the States, I got a job for him in my construction company.”

Three minutes later I had it all. Strader’s wife, Suzanne, thought Mustafa Abtahi should get a chance at America. While Strader was talking, I looked Abtahi over. He seemed okay, no obvious deformities or diseases, so when Strader ran down, I asked him in Farsi who he knew in America. A brother in Hoboken, he said, and launched into a five-minute exposition of his brother’s life and car repair business. He was voluble, well spoken and engaging. I liked him, too. Actually, I liked most of the Iranians I had met during my stay. Maybe I’d been here too long already.

Finally I stopped Abtahi’s speech with an upraised palm and spoke to Strader in English. “Mr. Strader, we are not accepting immigration visa requests these days from Iranians. They have Khomeini and the mullahs to thank for that. Nor are we supposed to recommend anyone for a tourist visa unless we are absolutely certain that they will not overstay their visa.”

Strader looked at me as if I had lost my mind. “Half the taxi drivers in New York are from Iran. Where in hell have you people been?”

“I don’t run the government, sir; I merely work for it. Greater fools than I make all the big decisions. As I was saying, we are not supposed to recommend anyone for a tourist visa. However, if I do and Mr. Abtahi gets one, goes to America and overstays his visa, he will become an illegal alien. If the INS snags him, out he goes.”

Strader made a noise with his lips and tongue.

“If you are employing him, you might get in trouble. It’s a federal crime to knowingly employ an illegal alien or help him obtain false documents, such as a Social Security card or driver’s license. In fact, it’s a felony.”

That shut him up.

I took a tourist visa app from my desk drawer. “You and your wife need to do some thinking. Here is a tourist visa application.” I passed it through the hole.

He took it, nodded and stood. Abtahi had obviously been trying to follow the conversation and had gotten lost. His face mirrored his confusion.

After they left, I went down the hall to my soundproof phone booth and placed a call to Jake Grafton on the satellite telephone.

“Hey, Tommy,” he said.

“Hey, boss. Got a favor to ask. I approved a tourist visa application for a guy named Abdullaziz Nasr Qomi and haven’t heard back from the State Department. I doubt they’re going to approve it. Could you check on that?”

“Tommy-” he began.

“This is a personal favor I’m asking, Admiral. This guy has only one leg, and he needs a chance. I want the app approved.”

He hesitated for about three seconds, then said, “Spell the name.”

After I did, he said, “Anything else?”

“Yeah. Guy named Mustafa Abtahi is maybe going to submit a tourist visa application.” I spelled that name, too. “If he does, I’d like it approved as well.”

Grafton chuckled, then the chuckle became a belly laugh. “Tommy,” he said finally, “you are supposed to be a rough, tough spy guy.”

“Yeah.”

“Anyone else you want smuggled in? A widow, orphan, child prodigy or somebody with a weird disease?”

“Not right now.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” he said.