The Disciple

CHAPTER FOUR

The evening after he returned from Israel, Jake and Callie Grafton entertained one of Callie’s faculty colleagues from Georgetown University, where she taught in the language department. Professor Aurang Azari and his wife were Iranians. A year or so after the fall of the shah, he and his wife had left Iran to study in England. They had met and married at Oxford, and upon graduation, he scored a teaching position there. Four years ago he secured a position in the mathematics department at Georgetown.

Azari was of medium size, in his early fifties, Jake knew, and was not a man who would stand out in a crowd. His wife was much like him in size and demeanor, almost a female twin.

In the last few years, Professor Azari had become an authority on Iran’s nuclear program. Regularly quoted in the press, he also did op-ed pieces for the big newspapers and had even written a book about Iran’s nuclear program. None of this would be possible, of course, without a private intelligence network inside Iran, a network made up of enemies of the regime.

The CIA had attempted to recruit the professor several times and had been rebuffed each time. Grafton thought that Azari and his friends had probably belonged to the Mojahedin-e Khalq, the People’s Holy Warriors, who first supported Khomeini and the mullahs, then became their enemies. The MEK attracted Marxists, intellectuals and the educated, all of whom the fundamentalists feared. Stealing a page from Lenin, after the Islamic Revolution Khomeini and his disciples arrested, tortured, interrogated and executed many of their political enemies. Some of the survivors, who were scientists and technicians, were recruited into Iran’s nuclear program. They-Grafton thought-were probably Azari’s sources, his spies.

Foreign intelligence services, including the CIA, are usually bottom feeders, vacuuming up the gossip of laborers and low-level functionaries. Azari’s sources delivered gold. That their reports got from Iran to Azari said a lot about the inefficiency of the Islamic Revolutionary Guard security service. Any large classified program had leaks, but Iran’s was a sieve. Still, the CIA had had no success generating the kind of intelligence that Azari obviously had access to.

Naturally, Azari knew about the Israeli attack on the Syrian reactor, even though not a word about it had appeared in the Washington or New York newspapers.

“What do they think about that in Iran?” Jake asked innocently at the dinner table.

“They’re worried men,” Azari said. “They might be next, and they know it.”

“One would suspect so,” Grafton replied thoughtfully.

When it became obvious that was Azari’s only comment, Callie asked her guests what they thought of fundamental Islam. “I know you are both Muslims,” she said, “but I am curious, as I know most Americans are. Are the fundamentalists representative of the Islamic mainstream? What do you think?”

Mrs. Azari deferred to her husband, as apparently she always did. He said, “Fundamentalist Islam is the last gasp of a traditional way of life that is rapidly dying. One writer, Edward Shirley, called the Islamic Revolution in Iran ‘a male scream against the gradual, irreversible liberation of women and the Westernization of the Muslim home.’ He was right.”

Later, after dinner, Jake asked the professor to come to his study. He shut the door behind them and said, “I don’t want to insult you, but would you like a drink?”

A guilty look flitted across the professor’s face. “A little wine would be welcome,” he admitted. “I developed a taste for it in England.”

Jake removed a bottle of French wine from a cabinet and handed it to Azari, who inspected the bottle and approved. When both men were seated and sipping on a glass of wine, Grafton said, “I work for the American government, Professor, and I want to take this opportunity to ask you for your help.”

The professor was taken aback. “What branch?” he asked abruptly.

“Intelligence,” Grafton said. “CIA.”

“Your agency has approached me before. I told your Mr. Spadafore-”

“I’m aware of that,” Grafton said. He removed a sheet of paper from a desk drawer and passed it to the professor, who put on his glasses and scrutinized it.

“You recognize those numbers, of course,” Jake said.

Azari said nothing, merely sat holding the paper in his hands.

“Those are the prime numbers that you and your Iranian contact use for your encryption code,” Jake said. “We have been reading every message your contact sends you about the Iranian nuclear program for years. All of them. As you know, they are encrypted and buried in large photo files.”

“We?”

“The National Security Agency. NSA.” Jake took a sip of wine. “If we can read them, one wonders if the Iranians can.”

“They can’t,” Azari said and placed the paper on Jake’s desk. Grafton reached for it, put it back in the drawer and closed the drawer.

“They don’t have the sophisticated computer programs that your NSA apparently has,” Azari added.

“One hopes,” said the admiral.

“One does,” Azari admitted.

“We are running out of time,” Grafton said. “Your articles on Iran’s nuclear program have stirred up the people who run the U.S. government. Indeed, I hear tomorrow the Post is running another of your op-ed pieces.”

Azari acknowledged that was the case. “Obviously you have friends in the newspaper business.”

“My friend tells me the article claims that Iran will have three operational nuclear warheads within a year.”

The professor nodded.

“Is that true?” Grafton asked.

“My contact has been truthful,” Azari said stoutly. “I took raw facts and made a prediction, and I stand behind it. Ahmadinejad is enriching uranium to make nuclear weapons. That is the bald truth.”

“When Ahmadinejad has the weapons, what is he going to do with them?”

Azari scrutinized Grafton’s face.

He was still framing his answer when Grafton said, “The American government is requesting your help, and the help of your friends, in answering that question. We will need concrete assistance in Iran, and your friends are in a position to give it.”

“They do not want to help the CIA. I have told your agency that before. Your Mr. Spadafore-”

Jake silenced him with a gesture. “We have reached a crossroads. You and your friends have successfully convinced the decision-makers in the United States government that the Iranian government is up to something. Now you must take the next step. You must help us prove that the Ahmadinejad administration is indeed manufacturing weapons, and if it is, what it intends to do with them.”

Azari was in no hurry to answer. Apparently Grafton had not impressed him. Writing op-ed pieces that ratted on the Iranian government was one thing, but helping the Great Satan screw Ahmadinejad and the jihadists was something else.

Finally he said, “Do you know what they would do to me if they thought I was actively helping their enemies?”

“Aren’t you doing that now?” Grafton shot back. “Revealing state secrets is not exactly a misdemeanor.”

Azari took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. He was perspiring slightly despite the cool temperature of the room. He looked around. “Is it safe to talk here?”

Grafton smiled wryly. He thought it a tad late for that question, but he said, “I swept the place for bugs when I came home from work this afternoon. We will need the names and addresses of your agents so that we can contact them directly.”

“I-I must think about this,” Azari said. He placed the half-full wineglass on the desk.

Jake Grafton eyed the professor without warmth. “You have risked a great deal to alert the West to the danger of the Islamic government of Iran arming itself with nuclear weapons. If your friends have been telling you the truth, the danger grows with each passing day. The time has come to cross the river and help those most threatened by the mullahs’ ambitions.”

“Your logic is impeccable,” the professor acknowledged, “but still… I have made promises to my friends in Iran, and I must weigh those promises against the danger.”

“One suspects there is insufficient time to consult with them,” Jake said.

“I don’t see how I could.”

“We will talk again tomorrow,” Jake Grafton said and rose from his chair.

“Tomorrow I have a morning television talk show, two radio interviews and an interview with a newsmagazine reporter.”

“Then the day after,” Grafton said, leaving no room for argument. “Time is slipping through our fingers, Professor. The truth is, we are flat running out of it.”

The next morning Sal Molina found Jake Grafton in his office at Langley reading a newspaper. Grafton’s assistant, Robin, admitted the president’s aide and closed the door behind him. The admiral had a television in his office, and it was tuned to a network morning show.

“Read Azari’s article yet?” Molina asked as he dropped into a chair.

“Several times,” Jake Grafton said and nodded at the coffeepot in the corner. Molina shook his head.

Just then Professor Azari appeared on the television screen with the male and female hosts of the show. They gave him puff questions, and he repeated the gist of his article that had appeared in the morning Post. The interview lasted about seven minutes.

When it was over, Grafton turned off the television.

“So how was the Middle East?” Molina asked.

“Warming up.”

“So’s Washington. Professor Azari’s certainly doing all he can to help raise the temperature.” Molina waved his own copy of the Post. “Where is he getting all this information?”

“Professor Azari’s Iranian contact sends him encrypted e-mail.”

“We read his mail?”

“Of course. The NSA looks at everything he sends and receives. He and his correspondents use a fairly sophisticated encryption system that apparently they designed themselves. The messages are buried in the pixels of a photograph or work of art that they e-mail each other. We can crack it, but it’s doubtful if the Iranian security people can. I suspect they haven’t even tried.”

Molina was intrigued. “How long has the NSA been reading his stuff?”

“For years. We have everything his Iranian network has sent him.”

“Then you know all about Iran’s nuclear program,” Molina said, slightly stunned.

“No. The agency knows what Azari’s contact has been sending him. Where all this stuff that the contact sends comes from, whether it’s truth or fiction, we don’t know. We have a staff comparing Azari’s facility info with satellite photography. Some of it matches up perfectly, some of it roughly matches, and some of it doesn’t match at all.”

“So he has another source. Or sources.”

“Apparently.”

“But-”

“Sal, Azari has been writing articles and op-ed pieces for years. He’s even written a book. He writes about tunnels in mountains, technical data, the location of missile factories, the names of the men in charge, the quantities and storage locations of low-enriched uranium and highly enriched uranium… We can verify some of it. The rest of it-we don’t know if it’s truth or lies. Today he made a prediction, three warheads within twelve months. How he arrived at those numbers I have no idea.”

“I’m in over my head,” Sal Molina said. “Gimme some light.”

Jake Grafton shifted his weight in his chair while he arranged his thoughts.

“As I said, he’s been revealing Iranian state secrets for years.” Jake picked up a copy of Azari’s book from his credenza and tossed it on the edge of the desk within reach of Molina. “Doesn’t it strike you as strange that he’s still alive? Ahmadinejad used to help track down and assassinate enemies of the regime. The people in Tehran haven’t forgotten how to do it.”

Molina blinked three or four times. “I never looked at it that way,” he admitted.

“Azari is working for the mullahs, whether he knows it or not. He’s still alive because the rulers of Iran think he’s an asset.”

Molina picked up the newspaper and opened it to Azari’s article. “You are saying the Iranians wanted us to read this?”

“Probably.”

“Why?”

“There are several possible reasons. The one I like the best is this one: Ahmadinejad realized that keeping the Iranian weapons program a secret was impossible. Inevitably, there were going to be leaks. So he used Azari to put bad information out there with the good in the hope that his enemies would be unable to separate the wheat from the chaff.”

“Can we?”

“Not yet.”

“So how close is Iran to the bomb?”

“The only thing we know for sure is that we don’t know.”

Molina threw up his hands. He picked up a pencil from Grafton’s desk, twirled it for a moment, scratched his head with the eraser, then threw it at the wall. It fell behind a bookcase. “So what are you going to do about the good professor?”

“I’m going to sign him up to work for me, so we can get access to his Irani an network. And I’m going to have a man in Iran check on some of this information to see what is true and what isn’t.”

“You’re going to make Azari a double agent?”

“Going to give it a try,” Grafton said and sighed. “Of course, the shit could pretend to do as we say but warn the Iranians. If that happens, I’ll kill him.”

Molina’s jaw dropped. “You wouldn’t do that,” he said.

Grafton didn’t say a word.

“You wouldn’t do that,” Molina repeated.

“Oh, of course not,” Grafton replied.

Sal Molina took a deep breath, then let it all out slowly. “The Israelis are running out of patience. Their ambassador told the president that the government of Israel is under extreme pressure to act now, before Iran can put warheads on missiles.”

Grafton scratched his head.

“What kind of a network do the Israelis have in Iran?” Molina asked.

“They have a few agents there. Every now and then they tell us something we didn’t know, but I wouldn’t bet real money that they’re showing us all their cards.”

“Do we show them all of ours?”

“Most of them, anyway.”

“What do they think of Azari’s information?”

“I haven’t asked them.”

Molina seemed content to move on. “If those nuclear facilities are bombed, a lot of radiation is going into the atmosphere. It’ll fall out all over the place. A lot of people are going to be poisoned.” He thought about that, then added, “If there is any uranium there.”

“The mullahs put a lot of their facilities around Tehran for just that reason,” Grafton remarked.

“It didn’t work,” Molina shot back. “I don’t think the Israelis give a damn about radiation contamination in Iran. Staying alive is the Israeli problem, not saving Iranians.” He tapped on the desk with a finger, then traced a small circle with a fingertip while staring at the wall with unseeing eyes.

“The longer we wait to attack,” Grafton said, breaking the silence, “the more enriched uranium the Iranians will have. They continue to harden their facilities. In other words, the longer we wait, the worse the contamination will be and the less likely it is that a conventional attack will do enough damage to halt their weapons program. The window for military action is sliding closed. The Iranians know that, and have dragged out the diplomatic process for precisely that reason.”

Molina’s eyes snapped into focus on Grafton’s face. “The president doesn’t have a political consensus. Until he gets one, the United States is not taking military action against Iran. Nor will we help Israel do it. And the president isn’t going to get a consensus until you prove beyond a reasonable doubt what Ahmadinejad plans to do with his missiles and warheads.”

When I finished my workday at the embassy annex, I walked out onto the bustling streets of Tehran and drew in a refreshing lungful of heavily polluted air. Ah, yes, the great outdoors for me!

Taking in the sights and sounds and listening to the roar of endless traffic, I strolled the three blocks to my hotel-actually a nice hotel designed, built and run by a European chain-and walked through the lobby. Yep, the secret police guy was sitting in his usual chair, in his usual rumpled trousers, dirty shirt and worn jacket. I didn’t know if he was an employee of the MOIS-Ministry of Intelligence and Security-or the intelligence arm of the Revolutionary Guard, the mullahs’ Gestapo, nor did I care. His job was keeping tabs on us diplomats. Since I had been in Iran, I had made him and his pals work at keeping track of me.

Housekeeping had tidied up my small room, which was bugged. I had amused myself one evening a couple of weeks ago by searching the place. I found three bugs that were hardwired in place. Yesterday I put switches on all three of the wires, so I could turn the bugs on and off whenever I chose. But I left them on, at least for now. If the Iranians wanted to listen to me snore, fart and take a whiz, so be it.

As I mentioned, I only sweated for Uncle Sam four hours a day at the annex, leaving the rest of the day open for clandestine activities. Unfortunately, up to now there hadn’t been any of those. In case there ever were, I kept myself busy learning the town. I had strolled through and perused the collections in almost every museum in Tehran, seen all the religious sites that were open to non-Muslims and looked at all the big public stuff, like railroad stations, bus stations, luxurty hotels and the like. No doubt these expeditions were enlightening for my MOIS tails, on those occasions when they bothered to follow. Sometimes they did, sometimes they didn’t.

This afternoon I changed into my running gear, paused at the door to breathe deeply of filtered, conditioned air, then took the elevator down.

I walked through the lobby without glancing at the watcher and went out the wide double doors onto the street. Left today, I decided, just for variety; I made the turn and started jogging. After a mile I picked up the pace. When I crossed at street corners I usually glanced around for traffic… and to see if anyone was jogging along behind me. Tonight no one was. The first week I had about given heart attacks to two guys in street clothes who tried to match my pace. They had used cars the second week, but with Tehran traffic being what it is, I generally made better time than the automobiles could, and soon they lost sight of me. These days they usually didn’t bother trying to follow.

As I ran, I thought back to my last interview with Jake Grafton. We were sitting in his office at Langley, just the two of us, and little shafts of spring sunshine streamed through the double-paned security windows and played on the floor and furniture. Outside, the leaves on the trees danced in the breeze, so the sun’s rays came and went, almost as if they were alive.

“Azari has been publishing the information collected by his network for several years now, airing Iran’s deepest secrets in America for anyone with a dollar and a half to buy a Sunday newspaper,” Grafton said. “His activities could not have escaped the attention of Iranian security.”

I sat there thinking about that. After several deep breaths, I said, “Why don’t you tell me all of it?”

He looked me over one more time, then rose out of his chair. “Come on,” he said. We went all the way down to the basement of the building, Grafton leading the way, until we entered a large room with four big tables, the kind they hold church dinners on. They were covered with paper.

Grafton started at the table nearest the door. “Here is a copy of Azari’s book, published last year”-he held it up-“and here are his three op-ed pieces for the Sunday papers.” He displayed them. “About three years ago we cracked the crypto code he and his agent in Tehran use to communicate. Here are their messages.” He let me examine them. They were lying on the table, arranged in chronological order. “Twenty-seven of them, so far,” Grafton murmured.

“Finally, here are the facts as the book sets them forth. Factories, locations, missile sites, names of officials, all of it.” All this was arranged on a large chart, with every entry numbered, so it could be cross-referenced. The references were piles of paper that covered the surface of the other tables, each pile numbered. Someone had spent a lot of time constructing the chart and checking every reference.

I began examining the chart, looking for the source of various information. Before long, I began to realize that a lot of the facts Grafton had on the chart had never been mentioned by Azari’s Tehran agent.

“How much of his tale is true?” I asked.

Grafton parked his heinie on the edge of one table. “Ahmadinejad and the boys may be pulling a Saddam Hussein, trying to make us think they are a more formidable threat than they are. The benefits to that approach are the same for them as they were for Saddam. Israel and the West must treat them gingerly, with respect.”

I knew he was speaking the truth. When a security service learns that there is a spy network at work in their territory, they have two choices: roll up the network by arresting everyone, or use it to feed lies to their enemies.

“Or,” he said, watching the expression on my face, “the reverse might be true. They could be a lot farther along the road to the bomb than Azari’s network says they are. The advantage to this ploy is that Iran’s enemies continue to dither, thinking they have time to work the problem, when in truth time is running out. Your job is to find out which is the case. Is Iran all bluster, or are they a Trojan horse?”

The people who were going to help me do all this heavy spying, Grafton told me, were the survivors of an organization that had been decimated by Revolutionary Guard security. The members had been imprisoned, interrogated, tortured and executed by the dozens. The survivors, this little cabal of traitors, were the ears of Azari’s network.

I swallowed hard and said, “If the network is in the government’s pocket, after I make contact with Azari’s agent, Iranian security will know about me.”

“Yes,” he said, staring at me.

I stood like a statue marshaling my thoughts.

Grafton lifted his butt off the edge of the table and moved to his chart, which he examined with one hand in his pocket and the other on his chin.

“You know,” I said conversationally, “that a few years ago I was blackmailed into joining the Company. The guy who helped me steal the Peabody diamond spilled his guts. It was the CIA or prison. Right now I wish to hell I had given the government the finger and done my time in the joint.”

A shadow of a grin played across the admiral’s features. “The road not taken… Right this very minute you might have been picking up loose diamonds on the French Riviera.”

“Something like that,” I admitted.

“Azari’s network has been penetrated, Tommy. You can bet your life on it.”

“Sounds to me as if Azari is Ahmadinejad’s man in Washington.”

Grafton nodded.

“You want me to go to Iran anyway.”

“We have to know the truth about those weapons. And if they are making bombs, what are they going to do with them?”

There are moments when I would like to strangle him… slowly… and that was one of them. I flexed my fingers.

“To beat hell out of the obvious, if this goes bad I’m going to be in a real tight crack. Want me to just swim home, or am I supposed to chew a suicide pill?”

He examined my face carefully, then said, “Somebody has to do this, Tommy, and you’re the best I’ve got.”

I threw up my hands in frustration.

The admiral smiled, which irritated me more than a little.

I thought about things for a while. About religious fanatics who tortured and murdered their enemies. Some people think that death is the worst thing that can happen to them, but they are fools. There are many things worse. Much worse.

“If they catch me and toss me in some dungeon for Ahmadinejad or his disciples to carve on when they have a little time, I want you to get me out or kill me.”

“Tommy, I-”

I cut him off and steamrolled on. “I’m not talking to Jake Grafton, CIA spook dude. I don’t give a shit about the statutes or the rules and regulations of the fucking CIA. I’m talking to Jake Grafton, human being. I want your word on it. If you can’t get me out, kill me.”

Those gray eyes of his were locked onto mine. He nodded. “Okay,” he said softly. “You have my word.”

As I ran through Tehran this evening, I thought about all this-lies and bombs and life and death.

Professor Aurang Azari dropped by the Grafton condo in Rosslyn, across the Potomac from the university, around seven in the evening. Jake took him into the den and closed the door.

He poured each of them a glass of white French wine; then they sat on the couch.

“I haven’t had a chance to run your proposal by my network,” the professor said. “However, after serious reflection, I believe they will approve us cooperating with your government for the greater good of everyone.”

Jake Grafton nodded and tried the wine, which was delicious.

“We agreed, some years ago, that we would not assist any intelligence agency,” Azari continued, “but obviously, things have changed since then.”

Jake let him talk. Azari went through the members of his network one by one, naming them and the position each held in the Iranian government or with a contractor or subcontractor that was working on a nuclear project. Grafton made a few cryptic notes, but mainly he listened.

When Azari finally ran down, Grafton asked, “Do you trust these people?”

“Oh, yes. They do not believe in the regime or its goals. Of that I am absolutely certain.”

Grafton reached for the wine bottle and refilled Azari’s glass. “Tell me how your network works,” he said.

“None of them know the others are supplying information. They each send or deliver their information to Rostram, who sends it to me.”

“Rostram?”

“A code name. He is the only person in Iran who knows all the members of the net.”

“He sends you information via the encoded pictures?”

“Yes.”

“I have a man in Iran that I want you to put in contact with Rostram. Once he and Rostram are holding hands, we’ll go from there.”

They discussed the mechanics of setting up the meet. Once that was done, Azari had more questions. “Is the United States going to invade Iran?”

“Really, Professor!” Jake let his surprise show. “I am just an officer in a small government agency. Those decisions don’t get made in my office, nor are we informed ahead of time. We read the newspapers with everyone else.”

Azari studied his shoes. “I guess I really want to know if the United States is going to do anything at all to solve the problem of nuclear weapons in the hands of these madmen, or if you are just going to click your tongues softly and shake your heads sadly.”

“As I said-” Grafton began, stopping when Azari raised his hand. “I don’t want the members of my network to suffer for your foolishness,” Azari said. “They have suffered enough. More than enough. We have avoided giving direct aid to foreign intelligence services because most of them are incompetent. The CIA also has that reputation in Iran.”

Grafton scratched his forehead and didn’t reply.

“I tell you now, Admiral Grafton, if your man betrays Rostram, through incompetence or stupidity or for any other reason, he won’t be coming home again.”

“I’ll pass that happy thought on to him.”

“Inspire him,” Azari said.

“Yes,” said Jake Grafton thoughtfully. He emptied the rest of the wine into Azari’s glass.