Whiplash

36

Bani Aberhadji couldn’t believe what he was hearing. The president of Iran, Darab Kasra, was traveling to America—the Satan Incarnate—in a few days’ time.

Treason.

Blasphemy.

“We can’t allow this,” Aberhadji said. “We cannot.”

General Taher Banhnnjunni stared at him. He, too, had only just heard.

“How could he make such a decision without consulting the Revolutionary Guard?” continued Aberhadji. “Did this come from the ayatollahs?”

“He must have spoken to them,” said Banhnnjunni. He was stunned. The decision to destroy Iran’s nuclear capability, though a terrible one, at least had some logic to it when balanced against the West’s concessions. But this — this could not be explained at all.

“You are the head of the Guard, and the council,” said Aberhadji. “You weren’t consulted?”

“No.”

“That is an insult. An insult to all of us. They feel — they think we are worms to be disregarded.”

Aberhadji’s anger consumed him. He stalked back and forth across the general’s office, as if some of it might dissipate.

But it didn’t.

“We can shoot him this morning, this afternoon. Blow up his house. Blow up his car, his plane,” said Aberhadji.

Banhnnjunni took hold of himself. “You’re raving,” he told Aberhadji. “Calm down.”

“Calm down? Our country is being led by a traitor and blasphemer. We are being led back to the days of the Shah!”

“The black robes are still in charge.”

“Do you think they authorized this? This?”

Aberhadji could not fathom that it was possible. Banhnnjunni, on the other hand, was not so sure. He had seen the Guard decline greatly in position over the past year. His own status was also in doubt.

He struggled to think logically.

“The president will have no support when he comes back,” said the general. “This will end him with the people.”

Aberhadji felt as if his brain was unraveling. He had never been guided by emotion — and yet his feelings now were overwhelming. There was no way to be calm before such a gross provocation.

“He’ll remain in office. And he has the army,” said Aberhadji. “Better to strike then, kill him there.”

“Make him a martyr?”

“It would be ironic. His death would surely serve a purpose. We could use it to rally the country. To return to purity, as we have always proposed.”

Banhnnjunni hated the president as much as Aberhadji did. But murdering him was a complicated undertaking.

“The plane would be the best place to strike,” said Aberhadji. “It would be easy, and it would be a symbol. Or we could arrange it so it appeared that the Americans did it. Perhaps that would be better.”

“What if they retaliate?”

“They wouldn’t dare. How? What would they do? Invade? Then we use the warhead.”

Banhnnjunni felt a second blow, this one even harder.

“You told me the project was several months to completion, if not a year,” said the general.

“It is very close. It can be pushed closer,” said Aberhadji. “And — I will make contingencies.”

Aberhadji had, in fact, already prepared a contingency, and had a full warhead, though as Banhnnjunni said, he had told the small group on the council who knew of the project that they were still a distance away from completing it. This was not technically a lie — they could not yet strike the massive blow they intended. But they could do great damage. And would, if necessary.

“You lied to me?” said Banhnnjunni.

“Of course not. We can strike if necessary. Just not in the exact way, in the best way, we planned. I will rush everything — we will be ready for the Americans, once we kill their bastard.”

“We will not kill our president,” said the general.

“We must.”

“I have to think about this,” said General Banhnnjunni. “I have to talk to others. To the black robes. In the meantime, you will do nothing.”

“We can’t let this sin stain our nation.”

“Take the long view, Bani,” said the general. “Compromise at the moment may be the right way.”

“My long view ends in Paradise,” countered Aberhadji. “Where does yours end?”