Weapons of Mass Deception

CHAPTER 41

When they reached the tony suburbs of north Tehran, Reza leaned over from the passenger seat and flipped off the siren and lights. The traffic had thinned enough that it was no longer necessary. Besides, when Iranian drivers saw two black armored SUVs in their rearview mirrors, they usually got out of the way.

They made the final turn and Reza could hear the team leader telling the second car to cover the back and side entrances. He called over his shoulder, “Remind them again. I will deal with Rahmani, your men secure the building. I want him alive. Do you understand?”

The team leader’s black ball cap bobbed once, and the reminder went out over the secure channel.

“Boss,” the driver grunted. Reza turned his attention forward again. The gate protecting the entrance to Ayatollah Rahmani’s house was closed. “Shall I take it?”

Reza nodded.

The high gates slammed down on the hood of the car, but they proved to be more for decoration than security. With the elaborate ironwork partially blocking his view, the first car skidded to a halt before the front doors. The second vehicle raced past them, bound for the back entrances.

A short woman in a dark headdress stepped through the wide double doors of glass and wood. Her hands went to her hips, and her voice was fiery as she screamed at them, “What is the meaning of this? Do you know whose house this is?”

Reza had to push his door hard to get it past a piece of the gate blocking it. He stepped onto the crushed gravel of the drive and waved the other security men to enter the house. They rushed past her, leaving only the two of them on the wide flagstone landing.

“Where is he?” he asked, keeping his voice as even as possible. Inside, he was burning with rage that someone — a fellow Iranian, no less — would stoop to using a nuclear weapon against his own people. He wanted to reach out and throttle this woman, but he held his hands at his side and his voice calm.

Her gaze fell to the stone steps.

Reza grabbed her arm and shook her. She was no more than skin and bones, really, like a china doll. He pulled her toward him and used his free hand to grip her chin, forcing her to look up at him.

“Do you have any idea what he’s done? Where is he?”

Her dark eyes were black with fear, but she didn’t cry. “He’s in his study,” she said.

“Take me there.”

She led him swiftly through the wide hallways of the house, past sculptures that cost more than his apartment and paintings that could feed a south Tehran slum for weeks. The carpet under his feet was deep and soft, and the smell of the midday meal still hung in the air. He could faintly hear the calls of the security men as they cleared the house, but his radio was silent. No one on the security team had found the Ayatollah yet.

At the end of the hall, she paused next to a heavy door of carved wood. Reza turned the knob. Locked. The woman fished a key from her robe and pressed it into his hand.

“Go,” he whispered. Her feet made no sound on the thick carpet as she hurried away.

Reza slipped the key into the lock and swung the door open.

He might have walked into a television studio. Industrial lights on metal tripod stands lit a heavy wooden desk at the far end of the room, and two cameras on rolling platforms were aimed at the desk.

Two men were consulting a clipboard behind the cameras. They looked up sharply, their eyes cutting between Reza and the man seated behind the desk.

Ayatollah Rahmani looked the part of the holy man. With his stumpy legs and big belly hidden behind the desk, he was transformed into a bust of strength and vigor. The snow-white robe and turban glowed in the brightness, setting off the iron-gray beard framing his full face. He had discarded his glasses, but he still wore a paper collar to protect his robe from the heavy makeup on his face and neck. A third tech was balanced on a ladder in front of the camera, making last-minute adjustments to the lighting.

Reza’s entrance halted the buzz of activity. He snapped his fingers at the three technicians. “Out,” he said. “Close the door behind you.” They ran from the room. The security team would take care of them.

Aban’s bulk shifted behind the desk. “Don’t get up,” Reza took his time moving the ladder aside and drawing a chair up so that he could sit across from the holy man.

“What is the meaning of this intrusion?” Aban said, his gaze shifting to the muted television in the corner. Reza followed his eyes to Al Jazeera. The commentators were chattering about the nuclear talks in Tel Aviv, rerunning the footage of Rouhani descending from the plane and shaking Netanyahu’s outstretched hand. Reza felt the rage quiver in his belly, and he pushed it down. He needed information now; retribution would come later.

“Your missile failed to launch.”

Aban went pale under the heavy makeup, but he kept his confident smile in place. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“Your brother attempted to launch a nuclear missile at Tel Aviv earlier today. The missile failed on takeoff. The Americans detected it.”

The ayatollah’s eyes cut to the silent television. The commentator’s lips moved happily.

“There won’t be any announcement of the launch. The Americans contacted President Rouhani. We are cooperating with them.”

The composed face beneath the snow-white turban twisted in rage. “He is cooperating with the Americans? Traitor! I knew it! This just goes to show—”

“We know your brother has more weapons, and we intend to take them from him.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about.”

Reza stood. “I thought so. In that case, you are of no use to me. Aban Rahmani, you are under arrest for treason against the Islamic Republic of Iran—”

“Let’s not be hasty, sir.” Aban interrupted him. “Arrest?”

“Do you know what they do to holy men in prison, Aban?”

“How dare you address me like that. I am Ayatollah—”

Reza leaned across the desk and lowered his voice. “You are seconds away from being stripped and thrown into jail. A nice fat boy like you, a fallen holy man…” Reza kissed his fingertips. “They will love you.”

The fat man began to sweat, his makeup streaking down his cheeks. “Perhaps we can make a deal? Maybe I have some… small bits of information I can offer. I don’t generally associate with my brother — half brother, actually, he’s only a half brother. But perhaps I can think of some information that may be useful to you in recovering the other weapons.”

“How many are there?”

Aban’s mask slipped for a second. “Two — I mean, I think there are two more.”

Reza looked over his shoulder at the camera. “I have an idea, holy man. Let’s make a movie.” He unclipped the radio from his belt. “Send the cameraman in here.”

Within a few minutes, Reza had the camera set up to make a single digital copy of his session with the ayatollah, then he dismissed the cameraman and locked the door behind him.

He stood before the desk. “Take off your robe,” Reza said.

The ayatollah started to make a fuss, then stood and slipped the robe off his shoulders. The white T-shirt underneath showed his saggy breasts and stretched tight against the bulge of his belly.

“Turban off, too.”

When Aban removed the covering from his head, long gray wisps of frizzy hair leaped off his scalp. Reza nodded. “Perfect.” He swept everything off the desk into a jumbled heap on the floor and indicated that Aban should take his seat again. In the camera monitor, he looked like a homeless man. Reza fingered the record button.

“This is our deal, holy man. If you tell me the truth, you get to keep this wonderful house and all your servants. If you fail, you go to jail and eventually, after I ensure you’ve been raped enough, you get hanged. Understand?”

Reza hit the record button.

The interview lasted thirty minutes. Reza asked him questions about the nuclear weapons in his brother’s possession, and how they were being kept. He hid his surprise when he heard they had originated in Iraq. The ayatollah went on at length about the size of the facility housing the weapons and how it was guarded, but Reza detected another note of slight hesitation when he was asked about the number of weapons.

Reza stopped the recording and withdrew the thumb drive from the camera. He would call Rouhani and upload the file to the Americans for their raid. Let them clean up this mess.

He resumed his seat across from the ayatollah. “Well done, holy man, except for one thing. You lied to me.”

The ayatollah started to protest, but Reza held up his hand.

“This is your last chance: how many nuclear weapons are there?”