Protect and defend (11 page)

“And we have a duty to the Iranian people to do so wisely!” Najar countered forcefully.

“You are both right,” a calm voice announced from the doorway.

Ashani turned to see the Supreme Leader standing tall in his finest robes. The look on his face was one of intense interest. He was a thoughtful man, not known to be ruled by his emotions, and Ashani couldn’t help getting the impression that Ayatollah Ali Nassiri often viewed his president and closest advisor as two bickering children.

Rapp’s preference would have been to have this conversation in person, but there was only a brief window of opportunity. He figured at a bare minimum China and Russia were tracking Air Force One with a spy satellites, looking to pluck any signals that were beamed to and from the plane. The techies at the Pentagon and the National Security Agency swore that the communication links with Washington were secure, but Rapp had his doubts. Having read enough history to understand that previous scientists had given those same assurances only to be proven drastically wrong, Rapp operated under the premise that there was no such thing as a totally secure line. Even so, his business was often time sensitive, and one could not always wait to speak in person.

The president had got him thinking. Rapp had always begrudgingly admired the Iranians and the way they churned out propaganda. Their leaders understood the key to survival was to get the people to blame America and the West for all of the ills in their lives. It didn’t matter if there was no substance to their accusations, it only mattered that they enflamed their people’s national pride. There would be a lot of that going on in the coming weeks. America would be blamed, evidence or not. All they had to do was make the accusation and it would stick. It wouldn’t matter a bit to the Iranian people that America had no hand in the destruction of their facility. So ingrained was their hatred for America that they would believe without asking their leaders for proof.

It was this realization, and the president’s gloves-off attitude, that steered Rapp’s thinking toward a classic clandestine operation. If Iran wanted to play fast and loose with the facts, they were automatically opening themselves up to a counterattack. One that could prove very embarrassing for their loud-mouthed president. The absence of any plane, American, Israeli, or other, over the facility at the time of its destruction left only two options. The first Rapp dismissed because he knew his Israeli counterparts all too well and because he believed the odds of an accident destroying the facility so completely were simply too large. The second option was that the Israelis did it. Again, knowing them as well as he did, he had no doubt that they had somehow managed to destroy the place.

Rapp would find out soon enough. Kennedy had called ahead and made arrangements. One of the Agency’s G-5s was waiting for him at Andrews Air Force Base to take him to Tel Aviv as soon as they landed. She had also left word with her Israeli counterpart that Rapp was on the way and that until he got there it would be prudent to stay mute on the current crisis in Iran.

To put his plan into motion Rapp needed the help of someone back at Langley. He could make the call on his own satellite phone, but there was a good chance the Air Force crew on board would detect the call and go apeshit. His second option was to elicit their help and ask for the most secure line they had to Langley. More than likely this would work, but it would also alert the Russians and the Chinese that it was an important call. In the end he decided to make the call on an unsecured line. It would be flagged as routine traffic and if he stayed vague enough no one listening in would have any idea what they were talking about. Past the president’s office and conference room were a section of seats for his advisors. Similar to first class on international travel, the seats were big with plenty of room. Rapp spotted an open one and grabbed it.

Some junior staffer in his mid-twenties was in the next seat. The guy tore his eyes away from his laptop and looked at Rapp with an expression that said,
Who in the hell are you?
Instead he said, “I’m sorry, but that seat is taken.”

Rapp remembered his appearance was far from White House standards. He smiled and said, “That’s all right. I just need to make a quick call.” Rapp grabbed the phone from its cradle and started punching the number for an office in Langley, Virginia. He could tell that the guy was still looking at him.

“Are you with the press?”

Rapp glanced over. “That’s a good one, junior.”

“I don’t see your badge,” the guy said more firmly, “and the press is not allowed up here.”

“Badges,” Rapp said with a Mexican accent, “we don’t need no stinking badges.”

The staffer looked back at him with a blank expression.

“
Blazing Saddles.
You’ve never seen it?” Rapp could hear the phone starting to ring on the other end.

“No.” The guy was not amused. “Why aren’t you wearing your credentials?”

A woman’s voice answered on the other end of the phone. “Rob Ridley’s office. Penny speaking.”

“Penny, Mitch here. Is Rob around?”

“Where are your credentials?” The staffer persisted.

“Hold on a second, Penny.” Rapp covered the phone and looked the man in the eye for the first time. “Let me guess…law school? Ivy League, University of Michigan something like that…someplace that taught you to be assertive and persistent.”

“Dartmouth.”

“Good for you. Great school. Now get lost.” Rapp stuck his thumb out and pointed toward the aisle. “I have an important call. Now would be a good time for you to hit the head.”

“I do not appreciate…”

Rapp cut him off. “Go find Ted Byrne, and ask him who I am.”

The young man reluctantly closed his laptop and left.

Rapp put the phone back to his ear and said, “Rob.”

“Well, if it isn’t, Mr. Big Shot. I hear POTUS asked you to catch a ride with him.”

“I would think that today of all days, you would have more to do than gossip.”

POTUS was the acronym for president of the United States. Ridley was Deputy Director Operations, Near East Division. His division was at the center of the brewing storm. He was a former marine, a major league smartass, and one of the most capable people Rapp had ever worked with.

“You never call anymore. It’s the only way I can keep tabs on you.”

“What are you hearing?”

“Well…practically every politician in town is demanding a briefing so that they can go on TV and claim they know what they are talking about, my counterpart in Israel won’t return my calls, and the phone lines between Tehran and Beirut are so hot they’re melting.”

“Have you been able to get a hold of a single person at Mossad?”

“Nope, and I’ve tried a couple end-arounds. Some old buddies I used to tip a few with. No one is answering their phone over there.”

“So you’ve got nothing.”

“From them, but I wouldn’t say nothing in general. Just nothing concrete. There are a lot of rumors flying around out there.”

“How do you feel about starting another one?”

There was a pause and then, “I’m listening.”

“Remember that character we met with in the Sand Box last year?” Rapp was referring to Iraq.

“I meet a lot of characters over there. You’ll have to be more specific.”

“The guy from PMOI.”

“PMOI?”

Rapp was talking about the People’s Mujahedin of Iran, but he didn’t want to say it out loud. “Remember, we were at the palace and we stayed up until four in the morning drinking brandy and smoking cigars. He told us how a certain leader over there is referred to as the peacock president.”

“Oh, yeah,” Ridley replied. “I’m with you.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“Last time I checked, he moves back forth between Mosul and Baghdad. He’s got a car parts business, if you can believe it. I hear it’s booming.”

“Track him down and set up a meeting.”

“For when?”

“First thing tomorrow,” Rapp said. “And find someone else to brief the president. You’re coming with me.”

“Are you going to fill me in?”

“I’ll explain it all on the plane. Meet me at Andrews in two hours.”

“You got it.”

Ashani found if he took controlled, shallow, breaths it helped minimize the coughing attacks. He sat hugging the arm of the couch, with the Chief of the Armed Forces to his right and the Foreign Minister next to him. The Supreme Leader sat alone in a simple chair almost directly across from Ashani. His meeting chamber was void of all technological advances. There were no computers or plasma TVs. No projectors or drop-down screens. There wasn’t even a conference table for them to sit around. It was the century-old setting of kings and religious leaders. Supplicants and advisors came to plead their cases, and the monarch would lay down his edict. He was not to be bothered with details or execution. The advisors would sort things out later. The system also conveniently gave the Supreme Leader the ability to take credit for what worked and distance himself from what didn’t.

The walls were bare, with one exception. A framed photograph of the Supreme Leader hung on the wall above his right shoulder. Between the Supreme Leader’s chair and the love seat where Najar and Amatullah were seated the Iranian flag stood upright in an effort to give the dull room an air of official state business. The president and head of the Guardian Council had dropped any pretense of liking each other. They were adversaries, and everyone in the room knew it. Both men sat stiffly and leaned away from one other, Najar toward the Supreme Leader and Amatullah toward Ashani.

Ashani had hesitated for only a second when his doctor told him he would like him to come straight to the hospital so he could check him out. Ashani knew it was essential that he be at this meeting, if for no other reason than to make sure Amatullah did not try to blame him for what had gone wrong, or somehow convince the Supreme Leader to rush into some foolish act of reprisal. There was one other reason, though, that continued to nag him. He was deeply worried by what he had seen when he looked down into the pit of what was not so long ago his country’s epicenter of scientific advancement and national pride. More to the point, he was worried about what he didn’t see.

Persian pride would demand that they hit back. Ashani and his ministry would play a crucial roll in whatever they decided to do. A straight-out military counterstrike was foolish, but that wouldn’t stop several key members of the council from advocating all-out war with Israel. There would be a lot of saber rattling in the coming weeks, but in the end they would find surrogates to do their dirty work. That part would not be difficult. There were plenty of impoverished Palestinians who would jump at the chance to martyr themselves.

Ashani’s more immediate concern was in protecting himself and his people. Someone was going to be blamed for what had happened. One would think that the Ministry of Intelligence would be safe, but with Amatullah one never knew. The man never let the facts get in the way of his version of events. Things were going to get ugly. Alliances on the council were sure to shift as the inevitable blame game ensued. Who would try to rewrite history? Who would try to deflect? Who would stab whom in the back? Anything was possible and Ashani could not afford to be laid up in a hospital with doctors poking and prodding him.

The Supreme Leader finished leading the group in prayer and then gave his friend Najar the signal to begin.

Najar looked at Major General Dadress and said, “General, your report.”

Like every man in the room Dadress had a full beard. His was thicker than the others and dyed an oily black. He had a broad forehead and a receding hairline. He was in his olive green army uniform, and he looked decidedly uncomfortable. Leaning forward, he said, “By our best estimates the attack took place shortly after noon. We had no radar contact with the bombers, so we are assuming they used the B-2 stealth bomber. We estimate that they flew near the operational ceiling of the B-2, which is fifty thousand feet.”

“I seem to remember the Russians telling us their new missile system would be able to detect the Americans’ stealth aircraft,” Najar said in an unhappy tone.

“They claimed that the bombers would be vulnerable when they opened their bomb doors.”

“And our air force detected nothing.”

“Correct.”

“Wonderful,” Najar said in a sour tone. “Twenty-seven million dollars for a missile system that doesn’t work.”

Ashani’s doubts were beginning to grow. He knew the science behind the stealth bombers, and they should have in fact left themselves open to detection for five to ten seconds while they dropped their payload. More worrisome, though, was the time of the bombing. Ashani had no knowledge of the Americans ever using one of the valuable stealth bombers in a daylight operation. Why would the Americans expose their billion-dollar planes during a daylight bombing run? The answer for Ashani was that they wouldn’t.

“There is a pilot,” Amatullah announced, “who made a positive identification of an Israeli plane in the area. My people are debriefing him at this very moment.”

Najar slowly turned his head and looked at the president. “I heard your comments on TV earlier this evening, and I saw your pilot interviewed. I am not sure I believe him.”

“You are a born skeptic,” Amatullah countered.

“Have you not listened to anything General Dadress has told us? The Air Force detected nothing. They think the stealth bombers flew at their operational ceiling of fifty thousand feet. Commercial air traffic flies at thirty to thirty-five thousand feet. Your pilot must have very good eyes to see a plane from such a distance.”

“Fifty thousand feet is an estimate by radar operators who failed to do their jobs. At this point I am more than happy to take the eyewitness account of a veteran pilot.”

“Really.” Najar turned to Dadress. “General, how many stealth bombers do the Israelis have?”

“None that we know of.”

“And if the Americans had given them some, do you think they would paint big white and blue Stars of David on the wings?”