“You give yourself very little credit, General—or perhaps you are even more stupid than even I gave you credit for,” Nateq-Nouri said with a wry smile. “The Americans assisted the Gulf Cooperative Council in that raid against Abu Musa Island. You countered by launching that infernal carrier. The Americans respond by flying their little stealth contraption from the spy ship to spy on us—silly, really, because it would have been far simpler to go out into the Gulf of Oman with a rowboat and a radio and report on what we were doing!—and you sink their ship and capture all the spies. Sinking their ship was a colossal mistake, but the Americans would have forgotten about it if only you hadn’t captured those men. After all, it was a spy ship masquerading as a civilian vessel—if America’s allies in the Gulf knew that a civilian rescue vessel in their waters was really a spy ship, they would have been very upset. The United States would have gladly forfeited that ship in the hope that no one would find out it really was a spy ship.
“If you had released those men immediately, we would not be in this mess,” the President went on. “We would have had an agreement in place that would have removed the threat of an American carrier invasion force sitting off our shores forever.
We would have had increased foreign investment, because the military pressure would have been relieved. Instead, you started a shooting war with the Americans. You are angry about Beghin Airport and a couple of useless Backfire bombers? Wait until the cruise missiles and laser-guided bombs start falling on Tehran.”
“The only way to stop that from happening, Mr. President, is force against force,” Buzhazi said angrily. “Sink one of their carriers, and the American people will not allow Martindale to continue this secret bombing campaign against us.”
“You are so naive, General,” Nateq-Nouri said sadly, shaking his head. “All that might have been true thirty years ago, when Americans were fighting and dying in the jungles of Vietnam and the people wanted peace at any price. No longer—not with this American President. He will choose to fight. He will call for jihad against Iran, and he will rally the people and the military behind him.”
“And what about your own people, Mr. President?” Buzhazi asked.
“if we allow the Americans to roam our skies, kill our soldiers, and destroy our bases at will, what will your people think?”
“Unlike you and the religious leaders of our country, Buzhazi, the Iranian people want peace, not war,” Nateq-Nouri said. “I know our people, General, you and the mullahs do not. The treaty with America and the GCC to prohibit land-attack warships and aircraft carriers from the Gulf was our best hope for peace. The American stealth bombers never would have crossed into our airspace unless that was the only hope to destroy our forces.”
“Now who is the naive one, Mr. President?” Buzhazi interjected.
“Who is to say this is the first time the stealth bombers have been flying over Iran? Perhaps they are assisting the Kurdish rebels hiding in Iraq, or assisting the Armenians in disrupting our northern borders.”
“You may create any fantasy that your paranoid mind wishes, General, but the truth is, our government has influenced events around our borders and in other countries all around the world far more than the United States. Yes, we have had to deal with the American CIA in our midst for years, supporting various anti-government factions, and they have been just as disruptive as the Shah’s terror squads ever were. But since the revolution, our history has been decided mostly by our own efforts, not by the United States or the Shah.
“Peace could have been ours, General. Abu Musa could have been ours to share with the United Arab Emirates with our oil technology and their funding, we both could have been rich. The money we have spent on that monstrosity you dared name after the Imam Khomeini and on all these Russian fighters and bombers and cruise missiles could have been used to complete the oil terminal at Chah Bahar, and we would not be at the mercy of Iraq, the GCC, or the West when we ship oil through the Shatt all Arab Waterway or the Persian Gulf. Instead, you chose war, a war we cannot win except by sacrificing ourselves. I will not assist you in following this course, General. Fight and die on your own terms.”
In response, General Buzhazi pulled out an automatic pistol, cocked it, stepped around to President Nateq- Nouri’s right side, and aimed it at his temple. The President of Iran closed his eyes and waited for the bullet to enter his brain.
“It would be so easy, Mr. President.”
“Then do it, General,” Nateq-Nouri said. “If you have the courage to face the wrath of the Ayatollah Khamenei and the Leadership Council, who commanded that I be protected, do it. I am prepared to die. Are you prepared to live?”
“Prepared or not, you will be dead, and I will be alive,” Buzhazi said. “You know I will get the codes to the nuclear and chemical arsenals eventually—you cannot Stop it.”
“It seems as if you have everything well in order,” Nateq-Nouri said, with mock approval. “Carry out your plan, then. Kill me.
Then explain to the Imam how all this was a suicide, or an accident. See how long you will be commanding your troops then.”
Buzhazi took a deep, angry breath, leveled the pistol again …
but did not pull the trigger. Instead, he holstered it, swore under his breath, and left the President’s residence. Nateq-Nouri caught a glimpse of two Pasdaran troopers guarding the door outside as Buzhazi departed.
After what seemed like an eternity, Nateq-Nouri took a deep breath, then returned to his desk and plunked down into the chair on wobbly legs. All that bravado was a charade, he knew—he was very afraid of dying, and terrified of dying at the hands of Hesarak all-Kan Buzhazi, lying at his feet in a pool of red blood and gray brain matter. He had worked too hard to leave this life that way. He …
“Trouble with the staff tonight, Mr. President?” a woman’s voice asked in Farsi. Nateq-Nouri turned, his heart skipping a few beats in shock. There, emerging from the curtains surrounding the bedchamber, were a man and a woman, both dressed like commandos in black skintight body suits, gloves, and boots. They were armed, but their weapons were at their sides, ready but not threatening.
When he regained his composure, the President of Iran gaily, casually waved at the strangers. “Please, come in, come in,” he said effusively in Farsi. “Everyone else seems to be making themselves welcome in my residence, so why not you two? You are Arab, I am sure.” Nateq-Nouri switched to almost accent-free Arabic. “Your African friend, a Libyan perhaps? Sudanese?”
“At least he’s bein’ sociable about this,” the man said in English.
“Ah! An American!” Nateq-Nouri said, his eyes dancing. In equally good English, he said, “Welcome to my home, young man.
Yes, the only luxury I have right now is to be sociable. Now, do you mind telling me why you are here? Are you here to assassinate me?”
“I should blow you away, motherfucker, for what you done to my homeboys!”
“Your American ghetto dialect is very difficult for me to understand, young man, but I assume you are associates of Colonel Paul White, and you are angry at me for the circumstances surrounding his capture and internment,” the President of Iran said. “I have been expecting you, although I expected to see a brilliant high-tech assault on the headquarters building, beginning with some of your wonderful cruise missiles dropped by your stealth bomber, followed by your, how do you call them, your ‘tilt-rotor’ aircraft, with lots of well-trained, steely-eyed, square-jawed, whisky-drinking commandos jumping and sliding down ropes with guns blazing to make the heroic rescue … or will I not be disappointed? Is that what is happening now?”
“Tell us where Colonel White is, Mr. President, and you won’t get hurt.”
“Hurt? My dear young man, I am as good as dead already,” Nateq-Nouri said with a lighthearted laugh. “I assume you heard General Buzhazi. As soon as he gets the codes for the nuclear weapons aboard the carrier Khomeini, I will be disposed of In his humbling sort of way, he will try to make it look like an accident, but everyone will know, of course.”
“Just tell us where Colonel White is, Mr. President.”
“Your Colonel Paul White is being held in an interrogation center at Pasdaran headquarters,” Nateq-Nouri replied, “but to tell you the truth, sir, I do not know if he is still alive.”
“We’ll find out ourselves—and if he’s not, we’ll take the news very poorly,” Briggs said coldly. “Can you be a little more specific about his location, Mr. President?”
“No, unfortunately not,” Nateq-Nouri admitted. “I understand the Pasdaran interrogates its prisoners by administering drugs at what they call a ‘medical care facility’ in the basement of their headquarters—awful, brutal
