“Yeah. Look, Fred. If you don’t hear from us in a couple days, we’ve had problems and you’re going to have to consider escalating this thing — sending a military force to create a perimeter and a fully equipped team to go into those caves.”
“I understand, Jon. But we’re in a delicate position — not only with the Iranians and Africans, but with Covert-One itself. It’s safe to say that the CIA suspects there’s a new player in town and we have to be very careful about tipping our hand.”
“If this thing gets out, Fred, that’s going to be the least of our problems.”
“I’m meeting with the president tomorrow. I’ll fill him in and give him your recommendation. But American credibility isn’t that great when it comes to Middle East intel right now — at home or abroad. If we want to come down on the Iranians or send a significant force into Africa, we need something concrete. And then there’s the time it’s going to take to ramp up that kind of operation…”
“I know, Fred. But I can’t stop thinking about that video and extrapolating it out to somewhere like New York or London.”
“Yeah,” he responded quietly. “Me too.”
42
Ayatollah Amjad Khamenei sat cross-legged on the cushion listening to a wiretap recording provided by the men hovering around him. He closed his eyes, trying to remain serene, trying to put his faith in God as the details of the plot against him unfolded. Rahim Nikahd’s daughter-in-law had died of the injuries she’d suffered at the hands of Omidi’s men and it was more than the politician could forgive.
No, that wasn’t true — as Mehrak would have undoubtedly pointed out if he weren’t so far away. The treasonous conversation between Nikahd and a number of his colleagues in parliament hadn’t sprung up due to just that mistake. It was too intricate, too elaborate. Much more likely they had been planning for months. Perhaps even years.
“Leave me,” he said, waving a hand.
The men in the room had been handpicked by him, but still he didn’t trust them. In these dangerous times, he was certain only of his immediate family and of Omidi, who was as much a son to him as the ones his wife had given birth to.
Khamenei listened to the details of the plan to assassinate him, of the transformation of Iran into a “modern” country, of the olive branch that would be offered to Farrokh.
When the recording ended, he took off the earphones and laid them on the floor. He had made so many errors during his long life. First and foremost, though, was underestimating the power of money. International sanctions had caused Iran’s economy to falter and prevented its citizens from getting the useless baubles they saw on the Internet and in Western advertisements. The things they now put above God.
He had also badly misjudged the reaction of the country’s youth to America’s occupation of Iraq and Afghanistan. He’d seen it as a harbinger of things to come — the rise of a new imperialism that would annihilate them if they didn’t have weapons to defend themselves. Now, years after the utter failure of the American military to control those countries and the uncertain financial future of the U.S. government, many Iranians naively believed that the chance of invasion was remote. Particularly if no concrete provocation was offered.
And so the Iran he had helped build was being rotted from the inside by people who cared only about feeding their own appetites. The dream of the Islamic Republic would be smothered in expensive cars, lurid clothing, and uncontrolled media.
He picked up a large manila envelope and pulled a photo from it, once again examining the faces of the people it depicted. Jon Smith was a microbiologist at the U.S. Army’s bioweapons center in Maryland. Sarie van Keuren was the world’s leading expert on parasites. And Peter Howell was former MI6 and SAS. The Americans knew something. And that meant time was short.
Omidi no longer had sufficient control of the Iranian security forces to fire into the protesters plaguing the country. Leaders in parliament were plotting his death. And there were whispers that Farrokh was seeking military capability.
Khamenei knew that he had already waited too long, allowing his power to erode to the point that he could no longer be certain of anything. The only answer was to gouge directly at the root of the evil casting its shadow over the republic.
He looked at the clock. Less than a minute.
When the phone finally rang, he immediately reached for it. “God be with you, Mehrak.”
“And with you, Excellency.”
“It is good to hear your voice. I have few friends here. Fewer, I think, than even you imagine.”
“I heard about the meeting between Nikahd and the others. We’ll deal with them when I return, but we have to move cautiously.”
“It’s too late for that, old friend. I should have listened to your warnings. Sometimes I think I am becoming old and foolish.”
“You see piety in men who have none, Excellency. That isn’t foolishness. It’s what it means to be a man of God.”
“You always know how to comfort me, Mehrak. And I thank you for it. Now tell me what you’ve learned.”
“Bahame’s weapon is nearly perfect. I saw it used and his descriptions were entirely accurate. It is truly the wrath of the Almighty.”
Khamenei closed his eyes again, picturing America collapsing into chaos, broken bodies littering the streets, survivors cowering and begging their false God for salvation that would never come.
“You said
“It’s impractical to wield and will have to be weaponized.”
“The anniversary of the victory of the revolution is in eleven weeks. We will release it in America then.”
“Excellency, that’s impossible. We don’t have people with the necessary expertise. It will—”
“Have faith, Omidi. God will provide.”
“Of course, Excellency. But we have to be realistic. The difficulties of—”
“What Bahame wants is waiting on the Sudanese border. I will authorize the transfer immediately.”
43
Jon Smith checked the hand-drawn map again as they crawled along a barely discernible jeep track cutting through the rolling terrain.
They’d left the farm after downing an elaborate breakfast Duernberg insisted on making, and now the sun was directly overhead. Temperatures had risen to a level that was taxing even the overbuilt cooling system of Janani’s truck, and the wind was churning up thick clouds of dust in the distance.
“Won’t work,” Sarie said from the backseat when Smith leaned out the window to dry his sweat-soaked face. She was right — the air felt like it was blowing out of a wet convection oven.
He pulled back again, adjusting the assault rifle sticking up between the front seats so he could lean forward and get his back off the leather. “The map shows an intersection with a better-defined road ahead. We turn left on it and then it’s not much more than a mile to the cave area.”
“If the intersection is still there,” Howell said. “That’s not exactly a new map.”
“All we’ve got. How are we looking behind, Sarie?”
