The Disciple

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Georgetown had several dozen funky restaurants, and Professor Azari liked most of them. Small and intimate, they had an ambience he found pleasant; the staff always had a smile and kind word, and if he ordered carefully, the food was usually excellent. A man could ask for no more.

Today he sat outdoors in a small courtyard at a table in the shade of a tree. This was, he supposed, one of his favorite restaurants, and he amused himself by tabulating the ones he liked the best. He ordered a salad with a flavor he thought would be unique. The waitress, who had served him for years, had prevailed upon him to try it, so he had thrown caution to the winds and said yes.

With the salad he ordered a dry white wine. He marveled at the exquisite taste of it and took the tiniest sips he could, to make it last.

When a man he knew came in and sat across the room, Azari ignored him. He finished the wine before the salad and gave in to temptation-he ordered another glass. The salad, when it came, was indeed superb.

He had finished his meal and paid the bill and was sipping a cup of coffee when the man he knew rose from the table where he had lunched and departed. Azari rose, too, smiled at the waitress and made his way out.

The man was walking up the street. Azari followed him, half a block behind. After two blocks, the man paused to read a historical sign on a building-one of many such signs in Georgetown-and Azari caught up with him. He, too, paused in front of the sign.

“The CIA has bought it. Iran is at least a year away from operational nuclear weapons,” Azari said. “The man who talks to me is named Grafton. He says various people high in the government still refuse to believe there is a weapons program. However, the government is trying to formulate a policy, in the event the CIA is right.”

“Who in the government?”

“He did not say. ‘Highly placed people’ was the phrase he used.”

“Very well,” the man said. He turned and walked away.

Azari turned toward the university, which was five blocks away in another direction. A block from the university a man sitting in a car rolled down the window and motioned to him. He got into the passenger seat.

“You did well,” Jake Grafton told him.

“You got it, then?”

Grafton nodded.

“How did you know he would want to talk to me?”

“Just a hunch.”

“How do you know he didn’t follow me toward the university, to see if I talked to anyone?”

Grafton picked up a walkie-talkie from the seat beside him. “We’re keeping an eye on him. You’re clean.”

“You people are watching me day and night,” Azari said accusingly.

Jake Grafton’s voice hardened. “This isn’t a gentleman’s game we’re playing, Professor. Lives are on the line, including yours. Keep that fact firmly in mind.”

Grafton eyed Azari, then continued. “Better be on your way. Wouldn’t want you late for class.”

The professor got out of the vehicle, closed the door firmly to ensure it latched, then walked on toward the main entrance of the university. He didn’t look behind him.

I was unlocking the bike in front of the party house when Davar’s cell phone rang. She listened a moment, glanced at me and muttered something into the instrument that I didn’t catch.

She turned off the phone and said, “Ghasem wants to talk to you. I suggested that we meet him at the metro station at Azadi Square.”

“Okay.”

Was the MOIS listening to these cell conversations? Were they watching any of us? Were they incompetent, or were they giving us enough rope to hang ourselves? I wondered how much more time we had.

I rode along thinking about a wall and a blindfold and a firing squad. Of course, this far east of Europe firing squads were probably obsolete; in these climes some holy warrior would merely put a pistol against your skull and pull the trigger.

Perhaps I should cut and run right now.

I was mulling the possibilities when I realized Davar was talking about the people at the party as she rode along behind me. She was speaking loudly, so I would hear. One of the lawyers, a woman, was a women’s rights activist and a political force to be reckoned with. She had been arrested several times for political reasons and had led a campaign to prevent the legislature from passing a proposal that would have allowed a husband to take a second wife without the permission of the first wife.

On she chattered, detailing the careers, prospects and political aspirations of many of the prominent young people of Tehran, most of whom she knew, and all of whom she admired.

“Iran is not a nation of religious fanatics out to murder anyone who doesn’t believe as they do. Iran is a nation of young people, seventy percent of whom are under thirty-five years of age, trying to find their place in the world and make a contribution. Someday we will defeat the fundamentalists. Then this nation will bloom and take its rightful place in the world.”

I had no answer to that. It looked to me as if the God Squad had a pretty firm grip on things around here. They were arresting people for political protests and convicting them of treason, executing women by hanging and stoning… All in all, the place looked like I imagined Nazi Germany looked in the 1930s, complete with goon squads and Gestapo. They even had a dictator with a direct telephone line to God. All they needed to do to make Iran perfect was to declare war on the rest of the human race, and it looked to me as if Ahmadinejad just might do it.

I didn’t say any of this to Davar, of course. I didn’t have the heart.

In the Pentagon the plans for conventional strikes on Iran’s nuclear facilities were coming together slowly. There were a lot of problems, as Jake Grafton expected. The reactors were easy to hit, but the uranium processing facilities, the bomb factory and the missile factories were all underground. Many of the key facilities were under Tehran. The distances involved meant that all the strike planes, including navy planes launched from aircraft carriers, would have to be refueled, some of them twice, a few three times. Tanker assets would have to come from all over the world.

And since it was assumed that Iran would be launching cruise missiles, some of them armed with nuclear warheads, a lot of fighters would need to be in the air to shoot them down and protect the strike birds from Iranian fighters.

Ballistic missiles that flew up and out of the atmosphere, then reentered on a steep dive to their targets, were an entirely different problem. Fighter aircraft lacked the weapons to knock them down.

The officer in charge of the planning was an air force major general, Stewart Heth, and he had officers from all the American armed forces to help him. He had the targets laid out on one wall chart, aircraft required on another and weapons on a third chart. A fourth chart showed assets, where they were located and the missions they would be assigned to. Staff officers were busy measuring distances and calculating times. Others were examining satellite reconnaissance photos and computing GPS coordinates.

Today Jake Grafton found General Heth huddled with two army Special Forces officers, one a general and the other a colonel. Heth looked up at Jake when he saw him and motioned him to join them.

“We have problems,” Heth said after he had introduced Jake to the army officers. “There is no way we can crack some of these bunkers. We’re going to have to put boots on the ground and blow the bunkers from the inside. All the centrifuges, the laser separation facility, the heavy water plant, all of that stuff is at least a hundred and sixty-five feet under bedrock.”

“Opposition?” Jake murmured as he looked at the chart on the table in front of them, a chart with the locations annotated.

“Lots of it, and if they are going to launch nukes, the guard troops will be on full alert. The only way we have a chance is to target the troops on guard, blow them to holy hell and put the Spec Forces guys right into the smoking craters before they have time to regroup. And they will regroup. Here around Tehran are several armored divisions and a couple of infantry divisions. These guys aren’t the Wermacht, but there are so many they’ll be tough to handle.”

“If their leadership is even halfway competent,” the Special Forces general agreed. “To be brutally honest, I don’t know if we can do it with paratroops or Special Forces. We may need armored columns punching in from Iraq. Battles are won with firepower.”

“Casualties?”

“I would expect to lose at least half my troops,” said the Spec Forces general. “Maybe more. The real problem is that our guys will have limited firepower, and once they go through what they have, it’s going to get really exciting. Air support will have to come from a thousand miles away, and I don’t care what anybody says, that’s too far.”

“Extraction?”

“We were discussing that. After the teams do their mission, they would have to egress to an airport where we can actually pick them up. And flying transports in will be a whole other problem.”

Jake spent a few more minutes with them, then left to go look at the large map of Iran posted on the wall. Iran was a damn big place, about three times the size of France. Over a hundred million people lived there. A lot of it was inhospitable deserts and mountains, much like Arizona, so most of the people were crammed into urban centers where they tried to earn a living.

In 1980 the military had tried to rescue American hostages held in the U.S. embassy in Tehran. They had flown helicopters north through the desert; the mission failed when one of the helos crashed trying to land in a cloud of dust and dirt. Iran was huge and inhospitable, yet the American military had learned a lot about desert operations since 1980.

Jake was standing there scrutinizing the map when he felt someone at his elbow. He turned. Sal Molina.

“I saw that list you sent over this morning. ‘Jihad missiles,’ no less. You didn’t make that crap up, did you?”

“Food for thought, eh?”

“Come clean. Where’d you get that list?”

“It happened just as I set it out in the cover memo.”

Molina stood looking around at the charts and maps. “Israel,” he murmured, “Baghdad, Doha, Kuwait, and-this is the part that I find unbelievable-Tehran.” He was silent for a moment. “So what do you think?” he asked finally.

Grafton took a deep breath. “We really have two problems here. One is the ballistic and cruise missiles that get launched. The other is the people who ordered them launched.”

Sal thought a little bit about that. “Okay,” he finally said.

“Some of the missiles are going to get into the air unless we do a first strike, which your boss ruled out. We need a layered defense, a defense in depth, to try to knock down as many of those missiles as possible before they reach their targets.”

“I’m with you.”

“We won’t get them all.”

Sal Molina didn’t respond.

Grafton continued. “Uranium enrichment, bomb and missile factories aren’t a threat in and of themselves. It’s the people who build bombs that are the problem. Taking out those facilities will require an invasion of Iran. I doubt that the president will approve it, even if the Iranians wipe Israel off the face of the earth.”

“Go on.”

“What we need to do,” the admiral said, “is cut off the head of the dragon.”

“A coup d’état?”

“Something like that, yes.”

“America has tried those before, once in Iran, I believe. They don’t work very well.”

“You’ll like the idea a lot better after you talk to General Heth.”

“Can it be done?”

“I think so,” Jake Grafton said and tapped his finger on the map, way up near the top, on Tehran. “Iran has a vibrant young population and a political opposition that the regime has tried to sit on. All they need is a chance.”

I spotted Ghasem in front of the metro station. He seemed to be alone, a twenty-something guy, obviously middle class, with a short beard and trimmed hair.

We rode past him once, looking for the tails. There were plenty of people around at that time of night, yet all seemed to be going somewhere. No one was standing around, watching other people or pretending to read a newspaper or book.

I assumed that if Ghasem thought he was being watched, he wouldn’t stand there like a store dummy waiting for us.

I stopped in front of him on our next circuit of the block, and Davar got off the back of the bike. “I can get home from here,” she said as she pulled off her helmet. Ghasem stared at his cousin; apparently he had never seen her on a motorcycle or wearing a helmet. Davar helped Ghasem don the helmet and fasten the strap under his chin. As he climbed on the bike, she smiled at me.

I winked at her, then eased the clutch out. I figured the park was as good a place as any, so I rode in that direction.

There weren’t many people there, which was fine with me. I parked the bike and killed the engine. We both dismounted and took off the helmets.

Ghasem looked tired and under a lot of stress. Well, hell, welcome to the wonderful world of treason.

“What is this all about?” I asked.

His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down several times before he spoke. “Today,” he said, “Ahmadinejad told the top ministers that when the warheads are installed, he wants to launch the missiles at his enemies. Iran will become a martyr nation.”

He didn’t look like he was pulling my leg, but still, what if this was just a ploy to goad America and its friends into attacking Iran?

“A martyr nation,” I said slowly. “What does that mean to you?”

“That the Supreme Leader and the mullahs will launch a nuclear strike, and Iran will die under massive retaliation. What else could it mean?”

I told him I didn’t know.

After a moment he continued, a man talking aloud to himself. “The other possibility is that they will use the twelve warheads on us, the Iranians, detonate them over Tehran, Shiraz, Isfahan… all the cities-then blame the Americans or Jews.” He took a deep breath, then exhaled explosively. “They are capable of that, I think. As long as they thought the will of Allah was being done…”

I didn’t try to figure it out. What I needed to do was get this information to Jake Grafton. I fingered the cell phone in my pocket. Unencrypted, but it was doubtful if the Iranians were listening. They might be, but I didn’t think so.

Then there was the encrypted satellite phone at the embassy. All we had to do was get there and sneak Ghasem in without the usual government watchers getting a gander at his face. Of course, I could go alone, but that meant leaving Ghasem somewhere, and no doubt there were a million questions I should ask. I just hadn’t thought of them yet.

Eenie meenie minie moe… I pulled the cell phone from my pocket and dialed the number for Jake Grafton.

He answered on the fourth ring. “Yes, Tommy.”

After I repeated what Ghasem had said, I handed the telephone to him. The Iranian went through it in greater detail, then listened a while to Grafton.

Finally he handed the telephone back to me. “They will undoubtedly install the warheads on missiles spread around the country,” Grafton said. “We need the location of those missiles, Tommy. That’s your job.”

I muttered a good-bye, snapped the phone shut and smiled at Ghasem. He was my ticket.

When Jake Grafton came home from work, he handed a bundle to Callie.

“What is this?” she asked, weighing it in her hands.

“A manuscript. A man in Tehran gave it to Tommy Carmellini, who sent it to me via the diplomatic mail.”

She carefully unwrapped the manuscript and stared at Israr Murad’s handwriting on the first page. “I can’t read this,” she said.

“I was hoping you might take it to the university’s language department, see if anyone there can read it. Have them translate a few pages, give me some idea of what’s in it.”

Callie nodded. “I can do that.” She loosened the string holding the manuscript together and reverentially turned the loose pages. The fine, cramped script ran on and on. The miracle of the human mind, she thought, for she had always been in love with words and language and books. It wasn’t really the words she loved, she thought now, but the ideas that they captured and held tightly, until another human found and read them. This passing of ideas across the abysses of time and distance was the miracle, she knew, the greatest triumph of the mind of man in the history of the earth.

His triumph or his curse.

What, she wondered, could be in this manuscript? Love, hate, or dry, unemotional facts?

“Tommy thought this book important?” she said now, absently, as she rubbed her fingertips across the page, caressing it.

“Yes,” her husband murmured, unwilling to say more.

Habib Sultani was torn between two loyalties. He was an Iranian through and through, a patriot who loved his country and its people, and he was a Muslim who believed in Allah and Paradise and obeying the teachings of the Prophet, may he rest in peace. Still, he knew the power of the infidels. Israel, America and Great Britain were nuclear powers and perfectly capable of meeting fire with fire. Then there was Russia, the wolf to the north, which professed friendship, yet would swallow Iran whole if Putin thought he saw an opportunity.

Sultani thought Ahmadinejad was on a course that would destroy the nation, sacrifice it on the altar of jihad. He spent a long twenty-four hours meditating upon it and gave voice to his fears the following day when he saw Ahmadinejad. It was before a large meeting was to begin. The Supreme Leader, Ayatollah Ali Khamenei, was also there. By reputation, Khamenei was a shallow lightweight who represented the clergy, the mullahs, and fiercely defended their privileges.

“The decision has been made by the Supreme Leader,” Ahmadinejad said to Sultani, frowning as he did so, “and there is nothing we can do about it. Our legal duty and religious duty are clear. We must all obey.” Then he brushed on by Sultani.

The minister of defense looked around the room, which contained the senior military commanders and the heads of the MOIS, the Islamic Republican Guard, and the Qods Force. He also saw Hazra al-Rashid in the back of the room, wearing her black chador, the uniform of female government employees.

The people Sultani didn’t see were civilian politicians, senior members of Parliament or the civilian ministers of the government.

Ahmadinejad got the meeting under way. It quickly became clear that President Ahmadinejad and Ayatollah Khamenei were taking the nation in the direction they wanted it to go, and there were to be no arguments or foot-dragging.

General Hosseini-Tash was the man of the hour. He reported how the nuclear warheads were even now being transported to selected missile sites for installation, which would be completed in twelve days, by the end of the month. The technicians were on site, and they had the tools they needed; Hosseini-Tash swore that the job would be done and the nuclear missiles ready to launch at the designated hour.

All the missiles would be ready, the general in charge of the missile force reported. A massive effort had been made. All the transporters and missiles had been checked once again. Approximately 90 percent were operational, which the general thought quite good, and trained crews manned every one. He glared at his audience, inviting someone to make a disparaging comment, but no one did. After all, the nation had over a thousand missiles. Nine hundred operational missiles should be enough to accomplish any military mission.

When Sultani nodded at them, the heads of the army and the Islamic Revolutionary Guards stood and reported that they were ready to do battle with any foreign invaders. The general in charge of the air force announced he was ready to launch his fighters to intercept and shoot down any intruders.

What no one discussed, Sultani thought wryly, was the chances of all these troops and Revolutionary Guards and air force ground crews surviving if America or Israel retaliated with nuclear weapons. He courageously decided to make that point, and stood.

Ahmadinejad recognized him. “Supreme Leader, Mr. President,” Habib Sultani began. “Our soldiers and airmen and revolutionary guards have no shelters or protective clothing in the event our enemies launch nuclear missiles at us in a counterstrike. Our civilian population will also be defenseless. It is quite conceivable that within twenty-four hours of launching our missiles, ninety percent of our population will be dead. That is over ninety million people, men, women, the elderly, children-all dead of the initial blasts or massive doses of radioactivity. We do not even have public showers so that survivors can wash the radioactive dust and dirt from their clothes. We don’t have masks to distribute so that people will not breathe lethal dust into their lungs. We do not have-”

“Enough!” Ahmadinejad roared. “If the infidels murder innocent people Allah will take them to Paradise. All of them, each and every one. The blood of martyrs is holy, glorious beyond description, and will unite believers worldwide in a jihad that will wipe the nonbelievers and their filth from the face of the earth. The final triumph of the Prophet is at hand, if only we have the courage to seize the moment.”

Ahmadinejad went on, shouting and gesturing and demanding that everyone do his duty and stand upright before Allah.

Habib Sultani sank into his seat.

Hazra al-Rashid met him at the door when the meeting broke up. She escorted him to a small room off the conference room and was sitting there with him, silently, when Ahmadinejad came in.

“General Sultani,” the president began, his tone much different than it had been when Sultani had spoken at the meeting. “I understand your concerns. Yet the decision to proceed had been made at the very highest level, by the Supreme Leader. Each of us must do our duty. I come to you, a loyal Irani an, and ask you to put aside any private reservations and do your duty with all your heart and soul.”

So I am not to be immediately shot, Sultani thought. I have earned a reprieve. No doubt a brief one.

“I am a loyal Iranian soldier,” he said.

“Which is precisely why I am speaking to you,” Ahmadinejad said, using all his charisma and charm. “In a war there are always casualties. Those we must accept as we do our best to prevail upon Iran’s-and God’s-enemies. With nuclear weapons we can and must strike them a blow from which the Zionists and the Great Satan will never recover. We must light the fire of holy war in the heart of every believer. If we can achieve that-and the Supreme Leader and I believe it is within our grasp-we will set the people of the world on the path that leads to Allah’s kingdom on earth. That was the task the Prophet set before us. That is the highest and best use of our lives.”

“I understand,” Sultani said.

“Good. We need your help. The forces of Satan are well armed and aggressive. They will do their best to serve the Devil by defeating us.” He paused, then placed his face inches from Sultani, uncomfortably close. “We have successfully fooled them so far. It has been a great deception, and our triumph will soon be plain. But that was merely one battle. Allah requires us to try to win the war for the souls of all mankind. That is our duty. And Allah will reward each and every one of us who does his duty.”

Ahmadinejad drew back, scrutinized Sultani’s face. Seemingly satisfied, he turned and left the room. Hazra al-Rashid followed him, leaving Sultani alone with his thoughts and his conscience.