The Disciple

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The news that Iran was a mere two weeks away from atomic weapons struck those movers and shakers inside the Beltway who were cleared to hear it with the impact of a bunker-buster.

“Prove it to me,” National Security Adviser Jurgen Schulz roared at Jake Grafton in the Cabinet Room of the White House. Also gathered around the table were the president, Sal Molina, the secretary of state, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs, the secretary of defense, and William Wilkins, the director of the CIA. Behind them a collection of high-ranking aides stood with notebooks and pens, ready to turn decisions into action.

Jake had already given a DVD to the multimedia person, and now he glanced at the appropriate wall and twirled his fingers. In less than a minute a screen dropped down from the overhead and the people in attendance were looking at the photos from Tommy Carmellini’s watch camera.

“There are eight nuclear warheads in this photo, sir,” Jake Grafton said, “hot off the assembly line and ready to be installed in missiles. Our man in Tehran believes they will have four more within a day or two, and all twelve will be installed in operational missiles within two weeks from yesterday.”

“Where was this photo taken?” the SecDef wanted to know.

“In the factory where the warheads are assembled, a tunnel under the Hormuz Mountains near Tehran.”

“The photo is genuine,” Wilkins said heavily. He was in no mood to put up with people who wanted to split hairs and quibble, rather than face facts.

The president cut to the chase. “When the missiles are armed with these warheads, what are the Iranians going to do with them?”

No one had an answer to that question.

“It sounds as if the consequences of our sins are arriving all at once,” the president said lightly. No one in the room cracked a smile.

“Obviously,” he continued, “the Iranians’ options range from doing nothing-highly unlikely-to threatening their neighbors-more likely-to immediately launching some of those missiles at the people they like the least, which would be us and the Israelis. The last option seems insane, improbable and highly unlikely, and yet one suspects Ahmadinejad and the holy warriors are capable of it.”

“If they do-” the secretary of defense began.

The president cut him off. “I have made an executive decision, for better or for worse, and this is the time to tell you of it. I am not going to order the use of nuclear weapons against Iran, regardless of whom they shoot missiles at or whom they kill. We will respond with conventional weapons only. And we will not attack first; the Iranians get the first shot.”

Dead silence followed that remark, broken only when Jake Grafton asked the president directly, “Have you shared that tidbit with our troops in Iraq and Arabia, or with the Israelis?”

The president stared at Grafton, then looked around the room at the faces looking back at him. “If we attack first, the political damage will lead to a century of warfare in the Middle East, which has something like fifty percent of the world’s oil. The economies of the United States, Europe and Japan will be severely impaired. Quite simply, a first strike on Iran will inaugurate a war between Islam and the West that will not end until every last Muslim is dead. Gentlemen, I am not going to go there.”

“If American soldiers are killed with nuclear weapons and you fail to retaliate, the American people will eat you alive,” Grafton said softly. “You’ll be impeached.”

“I am aware of that,” the president shot back. He was obviously irritated that Jake Grafton was talking when he should be listening, yet he had to respond.

With Grafton silent, the president paused, collected himself, then continued. “I have thought long and hard about nuclear retaliation. Iran is not the Soviet Union, nor is it modern Russia. Iran is controlled by a collection of religious fanatics who want to be somebody. They rant, bluster and threaten, and the world ignores them. We will elevate them to the status of a worthy enemy if we overreact. Overreaction and underreaction would both be grave mistakes, ones we will not make.”

When he paused, no one in the room had a word to say.

The president again surveyed the faces, then went on. “It is my hope and prayer that the Iranian government will not attempt to use nuclear weapons on anyone. However, in the event that they do, we must be ready to do whatever is required to shoot down the missiles and prevent them from employing nuclear weapons in the future.”

The president looked at his watch, then rose from his chair. “Sal,” he said, “keep me advised.” Then he walked out of the room.

Shortly after that, the meeting broke up. The chairman of the Joint Chiefs waggled his finger at Grafton. “You come over to the Pentagon as soon as you can. We’re going to need your help.”

“Yes, sir.”

Sal Molina buttonholed Grafton and his boss, William Wilkins, before they could get out of the room. “You didn’t need to make that crack, Jake.”

Wilkins wasn’t in the mood. “Someone around here needs to remind everyone, and I mean everyone, that the Iranians are playing for keeps. The survival of Israel is at stake. Millions of lives are on the block. Millions! And some thousands of those people are American servicemen.”

“The president is aware of the risks,” Molina shot back.

“He’d damn well better be,” Wilkins retorted grimly, “because however the worm turns, he’s going to have to live with it.”

“We all are,” Grafton muttered. He stepped around Molina and headed for the door.

Fifteen minutes later, when the president and Sal Molina were alone in the Oval Office, Molina wanted to apologize for Jake Grafton’s comments. The president waved him off. “Oh, I don’t mind Grafton. He’s our mine canary. He doesn’t give a damn if we fire him this afternoon, so he calls it the way he sees it.”

“He’s not a team player,” Sal said.

“We’ve got enough team players,” the president said sourly, fingering some of the mementos on his desk. “What we need are some original thinkers.” He eyed Molina. “We can’t keep doing business as usual in the twenty-first century. You see that, don’t you? We spend billions on ships and planes and tanks that are essentially useless against stateless guerrillas and terrorists, who are the people we will be in conflict with for generations.”

The president abandoned the toys and dropped into his chair. “Jake Grafton is a damn smart warrior who swings a very sharp sword. I want him on my side.”

After I sent off the photos from the weapons factory and called in my report, my life became more focused. Grafton wanted to chat every few hours. Zipped into that portable security telephone booth, I felt like the interior of a frankfurter.

“Tommy,” he said, “I hate to have to ask you to do this, but I must. I want the target list of those dozen nuke missiles.”

“Why don’t you Google it?” I shot back.

“Also, if possible, I want to know the types of missile they are putting the nukes on and their launch locations.”

“All I can do is try, boss. But how do we know Ahmadinejad and the mullahs are going to do anything?”

“We don’t know.”

“Ahmadinejad may simply call a press conference, strut and rant for a while and dare anyone to knock the chip off his shoulder.”

“He might,” Grafton acknowledged.

“And he might have bigger ideas,” I admitted.

“If he is going to pull the trigger,” Jake Grafton said, “I suspect he will complicate our problem by launching everything they have that will fly. Anything you can tell us that will help us identify the hot birds will help.”

“I couldn’t get that information even if I could charm Ahmadinejad into marrying me.”

“Talk to Rostram’s cousin. See if he has any more rabbits in his hat.”

“Yo. Rabbits.”

“And the sooner the better.”

I tried to salute, but there wasn’t room in that damn zip-up plastic bag.

I got out of the bag, put the satellite phone away and went in search of Frank Caldwell.

“Hey, Frank, do you still have that motorcycle?”

“Yep,” he said smugly. “It’s perfect for riding around town. I get over fifty miles to the gallon.”

“I need to borrow it.”

“Say what?”

“I need a bike that the MOIS hasn’t seen before. If anything happens to it, the Company will buy it from you and you can get another.”

He eyed me without enthusiasm. Although Frank was a case officer, he rarely if ever got his hands dirty. He still hadn’t forgiven me for recommending two tourist visas to the States, either. It was as if he’d caught me cheating at cards. He agreed with ill grace.

“Terrific,” I said with comradely warmth. “Let’s go take a look at it.”

He had it parked behind the annex and locked with a chain through the wheels. The thing was made in Japan and had a 500 cc motor. New five to ten years ago, it was still in reasonable shape. Tires had been replaced recently. Two helmets were locked onto the back of it.

“Great,” I said as I looked it over. “Now how about riding it down to the central train station, park it and lock it up, then take a taxi back here and give me the keys?”

He tried to wheedle some information out of me about how I intended to use his ride, but I just shrugged it off. Caldwell didn’t need to know.

After he left, I got my spy cell phone from my trouser pocket. I kept it set on vibrate so I would get a cheap thrill when and if Rostram/Davar called. Hoping the Iranian Gestapo hadn’t yet glommed onto our numbers, I gave her a ring.

When she answered, I said, “Hey, Hot Lips, I need to see you,” then instantly regretted my flippant choice of words. This wasn’t a woman you could flirt with. Hell, this wasn’t a country you could flirt in.

“Tonight, if possible,” I added.

“Yes,” she said.

“Be in front of the Armenian Church of St. Thaddeus at seven. Do you know it?”

“Near the main bazaar?”

“That’s it.”

“See you then, lover,” she said and hung up.

I have known a few women in my time, and even fallen pretty hard for a couple of them, but this one had me flummoxed. Davar seemed to be ready, willing and able, but that sort of killed the fun, somehow. Then there was the fact that this whole country was going to go straight to hell in about thirteen days, more or less. Bedding my Iranian contact didn’t seem smart. Or ethical. Or…

Maybe I was overthinking this. “Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we shall die.” Who said that? Lions or Christians?

When Frank returned he gave me the keys and told me precisely where he had parked his ride.

“Anyone follow you?” I asked.

A startled look crossed Frank’s face. He hadn’t thought to check for tails. “No one ever follows me,” he said lamely.

“Must be all that clean living,” I remarked as I pocketed his keys.

After work, I set off to shake any and all tails. I headed for my hotel, just to see who might be following.

I was getting really antsy. All the political posturing, ranting, slogans and billions of dollars spent on bombs had led to this moment. Expectations had been created and promises made. I felt as if we were all passengers on a runaway train with the Devil in the cab. When the crash came, it was going to be bad. Really bad.

I knew the nukes were going on the missiles and Iran was going to be a nuclear power in two weeks, and if I knew it, the security forces knew it, and would become more and more paranoid, which meant they would be watching us foreign spies with commendable zeal.

Sure enough, I picked up a couple of tails soon after I left the embassy annex. One was walking behind me, and the other was on the other side of the street. A block from the hotel, I unexpectedly threaded my way through traffic to cross the street and go along a sidestreet. This maneuver almost got the man behind me run over; the other guy was on his cell phone, no doubt summoning help. Which meant, to me, that these guys were serious this afternoon. Someone had lit a fire under these people.

I ignored my tails and headed for the central train station, walking briskly.

The day was hot, so I took off my sports coat and carried it over my shoulder. Somehow the women in chadors and manteaus managed to keep from passing out from heatstroke, which amazed me.

The neighborhood around the train station was not the best. A lot of homeless people lived here on the streets, some straight from the village. They came to the capital to find a better job and a better life and lived catch as catch can. I could only hope Frank’s motorcycle was where he left it.

I went into the station and found it packed with humanity, as usual. I circled the room once, then ducked out a side door. Sure enough, Frank’s bike was chained to a rack with a couple dozen other motorcycles.

Working as quickly as I could, I unlocked it, wrapped the chain around my waist, put on a helmet and my coat, climbed aboard and fired it up. Went zipping off into traffic.

In the mirror I saw one of my tails run up to the rack where the bike had been. He was on his cell phone.

I threaded my way through traffic, detoured to the sidewalk twice and let that bike roll. Unless they were on motorcycles or in a helicopter, no one was going to follow me. Of course, they could alert every cop and paramilitary gun toter in town to look for me, so I needed to stage a disappearance. This proved relatively easy. I rode to a park I knew, kept going right into the place and parked the bike in the shade under a tree, where it couldn’t be easily seen from the boulevard. Then I checked the bike for a beacon-there wasn’t one-and sat down to wait.

At the appointed time I rode up to the Armenian Church near the main bazaar. Traffic was nearly bumper to bumper, but I made good time weaving through the mess. Davar was standing near the fence, waiting. She was dressed as a woman tonight, wearing a powder-blue ankle-length manteau and a darker blue scarf.

Stopped by the curb, I waved to her. She walked hesitantly over to the bike, looking it over. I handed her a helmet. “C’mon,” I urged.

She didn’t say a word, just clamped the lid on and seated herself sidesaddle, with both legs on the left side. Her right hand went around my waist.

Satisfied, I popped the clutch and let the bike roll.

When we had cleared the bazaar traffic and were actually riding normally, off the main boulevards, I took her back to my park.

There, with her standing beside the tree I had spent part of the afternoon under, I told her what I wanted.

My assertion that the regime was installing a dozen warheads on missiles stunned her. “My information is that the regime was at least a year, perhaps two, from having operational weapons. That is what I told Azari.”

“You were lied to.”

“Where did you learn about these warheads?”

“Your cousin Ghasem. Didn’t he tell you?”

“No.” After a bit, she asked, “So how are you going to get the information you want?”

“I don’t know. I need to talk to Ghasem. Perhaps he can help me. Will you set up a meet?”

She nodded, then looked around the park as if seeing it for the first time. “So, they were using me. I passed lies to Azari, and he publicized them in America.”

“That’s the way it looks,” I admitted.

“Does Azari know they were lies?”

“Yes.”

She stood there silently watching the dusk creep over us and the lights of the city come on. Finally she said, “Let’s go. We’ve been here long enough.”

“Where are we going?” I asked as I climbed on the bike.

“To a party.”

“You do parties in Iran?”

“Of course,” Davar said and gave a little giggle. I figured she had picked up her giggle in England, but maybe women everywhere did them. I couldn’t have been more than four or five years older than she was, yet it felt like a generation.

With her behind me sitting sidesaddle, I piloted us through traffic, which wasn’t bad that time of night, following her directions.

I confess, I was curious about her. She was smart, competent and very much a woman.

We wound up in North Tehran in a neighborhood similar to Davar’s, definitely upper middle class. She knocked on the door, and a young man opened it. The hallway behind him was dark. Davar murmured to him, then seized my hand and led me along the hallway to a door. When she opened it, I heard music and laughter and saw subdued lights below, in the basement. It was American music, a pop singer wailing in English, although I didn’t recognize the tune. Too out of date, I guess. Down the stairs we went, two pilgrims looking to escape the grimness of revolutionary Iran.

We had plenty of company. The basement was packed with young people, all talking at once, loudly, or dancing to the music or smoking foul dark cigarillos. Little red lights made the tobacco haze glow and illuminated the dancers. I stood there in amazement, looking at the women, who were wearing miniskirts, net stockings and high heels. Breasts thrust against tight blouses… hair swaying with the music… American music, most of it. Pop tunes.

I felt as if I had gone through a portal into the twilight zone. This is Iran? Beam me up, Scotty.

Davar appeared at my elbow. The manteau and scarf were gone, her skirt ended a couple of inches above her knees, and she had put on a pair of high heels, which lifted her eyes closer to mine and did something subtly wonderful to her figure. Seeing the look on my face, she laughed.

She led me around and introduced me to some of the attendees. She whispered what they did. Several were university professors, one was a lawyer, one of the women was a doctor, several people were engineers, and three or four were employed by the government doing this and that.

One couple was smoking hash in a corner-I could smell it, and I’m sure Davar could. She pretended she didn’t. “Who are they?” I asked.

“The man is a judge,” she said and pressed herself against me. “Let’s dance.”

We did, for almost an hour. Fast, slow, whatever, we gyrated, swayed and tangoed. As I said, the majority of the tunes were American, with a smattering of English and French and a few singers that Davar whispered were Iranian. I wondered if Ahmadinejad had ever heard one of those Iranian chanteuses; maybe he listened every night. When someone put on a hip-hop tune, I led Davar off the floor.

She made a tiny motion with her head, so I followed her up the stairs. The same guy was still in the hallway. The whole scene reminded me of a Prohibition speakeasy. What the party-hearty crowd downstairs was going to do if the Islamic Gestapo arrived with sirens blaring and guns out, if they ever did, was a bit beyond my powers of prediction.

We took another set of stairs upward. She opened a door, inspected a room, then pulled me in. She closed the door, then wrapped her arms around my neck, glued her body to mine and planted her lips on my mouth.

“Whoa,” I managed when she came up for air. “Just whoa.”

“Come on, big guy,” she whispered. “Give me what I want.”

“And what is that?”

“Guess.”

“Affection, sex, love, respect? This ain’t the way to any of those things.”

She pulled back far enough to look into my eyes. “How much time do you think we have, Tommy? How much time do you think I have?”

Well, she had me there.

I was still supporting her weight, so I carried her over to the bed and deposited her gently. Then I kissed her the way I thought she should be kissed.

When the technicians got the first warhead installed in a missile, a Ghadar-110 ballistic missile with an 1,850-mile range, Habib Sultani informed the president, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, who of course wanted to go look. The official party went that evening in four vehicles. They were accompanied by armed troops in four more vehicles, just in case. Ghasem rode with his uncle Habib Sultani in the third vehicle. The general in charge of the weapons of mass destruction program, Brigadier General Dr. Seyyed Ali Hosseini-Tash, and his senior aide rode with them.

Hosseini-Tash was feeling mighty good. He had accomplished his goal; under his direction thousands of technicians and scientists had designed and built a facility to enrich uranium to weapons grade, designed and constructed a trigger and designed and constructed a warhead. It was, he told Sultani and Ghasem, the biggest engineering project in the history of Iran, and he had pulled it off.

Sultani asked about testing a weapon underground, and that sobered Hosseini-Tash. Having the damned things go bang with the oomph they were supposed to have was, after all, the real final hurdle. Until the weapons passed the test, Hosseini-Tash’s head was still on the block.

Hosseini-Tash’s aide, a bearded, turbaned math freak, began a long, technical explanation about why a test wasn’t necessary. He even discussed some of the key calculations as they rode through the darkness of the evening to the missile factory in the Parchin complex under the mountains east of Tehran.

After the troops in the lead vehicle had paused for a brief discussion with the guard officer on duty, all the vehicles were waved on through.

Ghasem watched Ahmadinejad stride away, accompanied by the officer in charge of the missile plant, who had been waiting. Soon they were in the tunnel, which drifted straight back into the mountain. The bombproof doors were closed, and access was by a smaller door, which stood open, in one corner of the larger one. Ghasem knew that the larger door was only opened when large objects needed to be moved into or out of the tunnel, such as a missile on its transporter.

Indeed, there they were, ballistic missiles riding transporters, dozens of them. They were arranged two abreast in the large tunnel, and others were parked in galleries that ran off at right angles. Seeing them here under the lights, within the security of the tunnel, painted and polished and gleaming, with the national flag on their tails, was heady stuff.

The sight seemed to straighten Habib Sultani, Ghasem noticed, and added an inch or two to Ahmadinejad’s erect stance. All these advanced weapons, waiting, ready…

The second gallery on the left was the one the officer led the party to. Soon they were standing in front of a Ghadar-110 missile with the panels that normally covered the warhead removed, exposing it. With the missile on the transporter, the warhead area was at least twelve feet off the ground, so the official party clambered up on a scaffold. There wasn’t room for Ghasem, who stayed on the ground. Consequently he didn’t hear much of what was said by the missile expert to Ahmadinejad and Sultani and Hosseini-Tash and the other officials, who had packed the scaffold platform.

Troops were arranged along the walls of the gallery, and they stood loosely with their AK-47s across their chests, watching the official party and looking bored. No doubt they had been trotted into position to impress Ahmadinejad, if he noticed.

Ghasem wondered what Tommy Carmellini would say if he were here, looking at the military might of Iran.

Of course, Ghasem wondered what Ahmadinejad and the other officials of the government intended to do with these nuclear weapons. He had assumed that film crews would be here, filming Ahmadinejad’s inspection, but there were none. If Ahmadinejad was going to make a major announcement to the press, there should be film crews, Ghasem thought.

Why have the weapons if the leaders weren’t going to announce the reality and demand the respect of the nation’s enemies?

Nuclear weapons were worthless unless your enemies knew you had them. Even Israel, which pretended it lacked such weapons, made sure the Arab states were well aware that they lived in a nuclear shadow.

Now Israel lived there, too, as did the American armed forces scattered around the Persian Gulf. And at sea.

The officials on the platform were huddled around Ahmadinejad, who was telling them something. He spoke so low that Ghasem could not hear his words, nor any of the other observers and soldiers near him.

“This afternoon before we began this inspection trip, I spoke to the Supreme Leader,” Mahmoud Ahmadinejad said. “The decision has been made. Iran will become a martyr nation. We will strike a blow for Allah that will resound throughout the world, a blow that will win glory for the Iranian nation and a place in Paradise for every Iranian.

“We have it in our power! Here are the missiles that we will use to destroy Israel and the concentrations of American forces that surround us. When the believers see our power, they will rally around us, unite and destroy the infidel dogs wherever they can be found.”

His listeners stood with mouths agape. They had been expecting some serious saber rattling, but not this! Not a nuclear strike against the Great Satan or its ally, Israel. To shake one’s fist at a lion is a political statement, but to stick one’s head in its mouth goes beyond politics.

In the silence that followed Ahmadinejad’s statement, a lone voice said, “If we initiate a nuclear war, the Americans and Israelis will kill us all. They will launch a hundred missiles at us for every one we shoot. Iran will cease to exist. The Islamic Republic will have committed suicide.”

Habib Sultani looked to see who had spoken. It was one of the two missile technicians, one wearing a white coat.

He looked Ahmadinejad right in the face and continued, “Jihad is for those who wish to be martyrs. Most Iranians have no wish to die like that. I-”

He got no further. Ahmadinejad cut him off with a roar. “No more! The decision has been made. You will serve your nation and Allah or we will execute you as a traitor! Do you hear me? You and your family will be shot. Which will it be? A traitor’s hell or a martyr’s Paradise?”

General Hosseini-Tash said nothing on the trip back to Tehran, nor did Habib Sultani. The strained silence was almost more than Ghasem could bear, but he kept his mouth shut, as did the math nerd. Ghasem figured he would hear whatever it was that his uncle thought when his uncle felt the time was right.

General Hosseini-Tash and his aide got out of the car at the WMD ministry, and the driver took Sultani to his. The driver stopped in the underground parking area that was used by the most senior officials. Sultani got out, followed by Ghasem. As the car pulled away, Ghasem spoke, only to be motioned into silence by his uncle.

“Later,” he said. He went to his car and motioned for Ghasem to climb in, and together they rode up the ramp and out into the streets of Tehran, now emptying for the night.

Sultani drove to a park, locked the car and walked away across the grass with Ghasem following.

“They listen to everything,” Sultani explained. “The office, the car, the house-there is almost no place that witch Hazra al-Rashid isn’t listening. No place.” Then he told Ghasem of Ahmadinejad’s statement.

Ghasem stood transfixed, unable to speak as the horror washed over him. Israel and America would transform Iran into a radioactive wasteland. This city, this nation, these people-all would cease to exist. Everyone not killed by the initial blasts, or the fires, would succumb to radiation poisoning. Everyone would die. Everyone. So the Supreme Leader and Mahmoud Ahmadinejad and a few chosen mullahs could earn a gold-plated ticket to Paradise.

When he again became aware of his surroundings, Ghasem saw that his uncle Habib was sitting in the dirt with his head in his hands.

Once a year the university faculty got together at a formal dinner. Callie Grafton always went, and since he was in town just now, Jake went with her. He dutifully shook hands and tried to remember names and listened politely to whatever anyone had to say. Since he was getting a little deaf, he missed some of it, but he tried to smile at the right times and laugh when everyone else did.

“You could get a hearing aid,” Callie whispered, eyeing him askance.

“I can hear you just fine.”

“You can not. You are merely getting better at reading lips.”

Before Jake could reply to that, Callie spotted her department head and led him in that direction.

After the cocktail hour, everyone went into the dining room-this affair was being held at a hotel-and looked for their names on the round tables, each of which seated ten people.

After the greetings by the president of the university and the dean of the faculty, waiters brought around salads. The waiter who placed a salad in front of Jake muttered, “Admiral Grafton?”

“Yes.” Jake glanced up. A young man in his twenties, clean-shaven and trim.

“This is for you,” the waiter said and passed him a letter-sized envelope. “I’m to tell you that it’s from a Mr. Ilin.”

Jake reached for the waiter’s arm, detaining him. “Who gave you this?”

“A man this afternoon. I didn’t know him. He paid me twenty bucks to deliver this envelope to you. I didn’t think you’d mind.”

Jake nodded and let the waiter go. He looked at both sides of the envelope: His name was typed on one side; the other side was blank. Made of cheap paper, the envelope was thin, containing no more than one or two sheets of paper, and sealed. He examined the seal. Apparently intact.

Jake stuck the envelope in an inside coat pocket and took a long hard look at the people around his table. All were colleagues of Callie in the language department, or their spouses. No one seemed very interested in him.

When he could stand it no longer, Jake excused himself and went to the men’s room. In a stall he opened the envelope. It contained one sheet of paper, which seemed to be a copy of an original. On the top was something in Arabic script. Then twelve pairs of numbers. Obviously latitude and longitude coordinates.

He recognized none of the positions. He put the sheet of paper back in the envelope and replaced the envelope in his coat.

Jake and Callie got home to their flat in Rosslyn about ten thirty. He went straight to the office and pulled out an atlas. He was plotting coordinates when Callie came in.

She watched him for a moment and said, “Was that what was in the envelope?”

“Yes. The waiter said a Mr. Ilin wanted me to have it.”

Callie had met Janos Ilin, a Russian high in the SVR, holding a rank equivalent to lieutenant general. He wasn’t the type of man one forgets. “Surely he didn’t give it to the waiter?” she said distractedly.

“Oh, no. Someone who works for him delivered it and used his name.”

“What is it?”

He handed it to her. Although she was a linguist, she couldn’t read the script at the top.

“At first glance,” he said, “I thought it might be the locations of Iran’s nuclear-armed missiles, but it couldn’t be. Two of the locations are Tel Aviv; the others are locations of American military bases in Iraq, Qatar and Kuwait. One of the locations is Baghdad International. Then there is this one.”

He pointed at the map.

She compared the location of his finger with the numbers on the sheet. “There’s some kind of mistake,” she said finally. “This couldn’t be a target list. That location is right in the heart of Tehran.”

“There’s no mistake,” Jake Grafton muttered.

“The government of Iran is going to launch a missile to wipe out their own capital?” Callie asked skeptically.

“Looks like it,” her husband said.

“Oh, that list is something else. It isn’t what you think.”

Jake Grafton didn’t reply.

The room was quiet, and I could hear Davar’s heart beating. She had a strong, lazy heart.

“I hate the fundamentalists,” she whispered, apropos of nothing.

“When this is over, you gotta get the hell out of this country,” I told her. “One way or another.”

“There is no way out.”

“Remember that guy from Oklahoma.” I got out of bed and began dressing. “He’s out there somewhere, and he’s got a life to offer you. A life.”

“What about you?”

“I don’t have a life for myself, much less a woman. The kid from Oklahoma. He’s the one.”

“Have you ever been to Oklahoma?”

“Yeah.”

“So what’s it like?”

“It’s flat. Rolls a little here and there, but mainly it’s flat. Despite the flatness, good people live there. A person can live any way he or she wishes in Oklahoma, and the law leaves you alone. They’ve made the leap to toilet paper-you’ll like it.”

I sat down on the bed. She was lying atop the sheets, her head on the pillow. In the light that came through the window I could just make out her features.

She sat up, reached into her tiny purse for her cigarettes and matches and lit one. After she blew out a cloud of smoke, she said, “After the MOIS beat Grandfather to death, Ghasem became a different person. I always knew they were capable of any crime, but perhaps he didn’t. Or if he did, he refused to think about it.”

She made a gesture of irritation, got out of bed and began dressing. The cigarette dangled from her lips, and smoke curled up around her head.

“The Supreme Leader says the MOIS and the Qods Force work for him,” she said, “and he will ensure they obey God’s laws. So they beat an old man to death, a scholar and philosopher who did no one any harm.”

She pulled on her skirt, worked it around her hips into position and fumbled with the top button. Ash from her cigarette fell to the carpet, and she ignored it. I couldn’t help noticing that she had a really nice set of legs. Actually, everything was very nice. Trim, taut, athletic… perfect.

“There is a serious problem with people who think they are doing God’s work,” she said bitterly. “Once moral ambiguity is eliminated, every human equation evaluates to infinity. Without moral ambiguity, people become capable of anything-any arrogance, any conceit, any gross stupidity.”

Still naked from the waist up, she took a drag on the cigarette and blew smoke around while she eyed me. “Any crime, any atrocity. Mass murder? Nuclear war? Believe me, our holy men are perfectly capable of pulling the trigger.”