Authors: Daniel Syverson
All was in place. The attendees were all seated.
Not happily, to be sure, but with all the cameras on, and visibly filming,
everyone was putting on their best game face. No one wanted to look bad. Everyone
was cooperating, or at least trying to appear that way.
The Prime Minister was in a soundproofed, secure
room off to the side of the stage with two of his security men. Two others
waited outside the door, and a dozen or more were spread through the immediate area.
Gifts, letters, and cultural icons had been laid
out. The note sent with the chest had apparently been received by Zarin's
people. Although both Richter and Zarin would have given anything to examine it
ahead of time, it was too late. It would have to wait. The stage was set. What
they could do, and did, was send a staffer down to arrange the gifts, and
insure that the chest was in the center. How exactly the additional material
would manifest itself was unknown, but would undoubtedly be a final touch. The
rising tables were perfect - as he finalized his announcements, the fragments in
the lockbox would be brought to him, hopefully adding even more to his powers,
perhaps adding a dramatic finale. At worst case, if nothing happened, he was
free to ignore the chest. He had nothing to lose.
It would be close. Timing would be crucial. If
there had been any leaks, any defections, they were done. The Prime Minister
would have them dead to rights on international television. They'd be arrested,
gathered up, and, most likely, summarily shot. He wouldn't be playing around
with something of this level. On the other hand, this was their destiny. Already
foretold. It
had
to be right.
The people were here to hear the Prime Minister
offer to provide open inspections of their non-existent nuclear program. This
would put the West at ease. The real interest, though, the real curiosity, was
why the Miracle Man, Jesus 2.0, or any of the dozens of names being generated,
was on stage. This was why the world was tuned in. Not to see another
politician.
It had been so easy to set up.
The idea had been presented to the Prime
Minister that this man would be a huge draw for the world, a world that would
take his presence as a sign that, in some indirect way, God himself was
supporting the Prime Minister. A great publicity stunt. Of course, they told
him, the boy would serve no more purpose than as another prop, part of the
stage setting. Window dressing for the world. Flashy dressing to draw the world's
fickle press corps to Tehran.
Politicians were the same the world over.
Gerhard glanced down at his watch. It was time.
In the secure room, the two security guards
prepared to bring the Prime Minister out. The Prime Minister looked at himself
in the mirror one more time. The second guard, Hafez, looked at the first and
rolled his eyes. The Prime Minister spent considerable time in front of the
mirror.
"So, how do I look? Sufficient to be
presented to the world?"
The first guard, Farid, gave Hafez a quick look
to keep quiet. He worried that Hafez too often pushed the boundaries. One day,
he would be seen rolling his eyes and his sister's marriage to the Prime
Minister's son would mean nothing. Family or not, it would mean a shallow,
unmarked grave far into the desert.
Farid responded, "Of course, sir, as
always. No one could represent the people of Iran in a more dignified manner. The
people are proud to have you speak for us to the world."
"Farid, I can always count on you. Clearly
I have chosen well. Your father named you well. Your name defines you well. 'Unique',
I believe, and certainly I have no others like you."
Farid bowed deeply at the waist. "It is my
honor."
Turning to Hafez, "and Hafez, 'Protector'. Was
it not destiny for you as well? Was your position here not destiny? Truly, my
destiny and yours, my family and yours, all of ours, written in the stars."
"As you said, sir," responded Hafez. "I
tell you surely, it was written in the stars."
Both men checked their weapons. Lining up as
rehearsed, Farid, the senior, prepared to open the door and lead the way. The
Prime Minister was a step behind. One more step behind was Hafez. Farid reached
for the door.
Raising his weapon, Hafez quickly slipped a
silencer from his pocket onto the front of his weapon. In one, quick, fluid
motion, he put two silenced rounds into the center of the Prime Minister's
back, propelling him forward into the Farid, shoving him up against the door,
throwing him off balance. Stepping forward one more step, the still-smoking
Tokarev pistol was brought up once again, and two shots entered the back of
Farid's head before he even had a chance to turn it. Both men slumped to the
floor. Hafez quickly dragged both to the side, behind the door. He pulled the
blood soaked rug with them.
Hafez looked down at the Prime Minister, whose
now sightless eyes still gazed upon him. "Yes, as you said, it was written
in the stars. This
was
your destiny."
Hearing the thump against the door, the guards
outside opened the door to let the Prime Minister pass. As the two stood in the
open doorway, Zarin's man in the hall shoved both into the room, where Hafez
quickly dispatched both, emptying his pistol. His accomplice closed the door
behind them, shoving one of the guards unceremoniously with his foot to clear
the door. No one in the hall had seen anything. The rumbling in the main room
had covered the two quick pops that had leaked out of through the open door.
The second assassin opened a satchel and quickly
donned a jacket and cap identical to the ones worn by the guards outside, while
Hafez reloaded his weapon. Opening the door slowly and seeing nothing amiss in
the hall, both men took up positions outside, as if continuing to guard the
Prime Minister. Looking over toward Zarin, Hafez nodded.
It was time. Zarin raised his hand slightly,
signaling the program director to proceed. The lights began to dim. The deputy
Prime Minister was prepared to walk onto the stage to welcome the world and
introduce the Prime Minister.
Where was he? The lights are already down
.
He headed across the side of the stage to the secure room.
"Is the Prime Minister ready? What's the
delay? We are waiting on him."
"Yes sir, the Prime Minister said he'd be
ready in a moment, and wanted a word with you." The guard opened the door,
letting him walk in, following closely behind.
The deputy Prime Minister stepped through the
doorway, glanced left, and saw the bodies of the Prime Minister and his
bodyguards. Realization hit immediately, but it was too late. It was hard to
tell if his eyes had widened from the shock of seeing the dead men, or from the
shock of two more silenced rounds entering his lower back, just below the
bulletproof vest he was wearing. Knowing that he was already dead, he almost
had time to close his eyes when the final bullet entered the back of his head,
shredding his brain.
From the shadows in the hall, Zarin's
communications officer walked out onto the stage. Puzzled looks were exchanged
among those who knew the staff. Where was the Deputy Prime Minister? What was
Zarin's man doing on stage?
A few people, very few at first, were getting
their first inkling of a problem. More would soon follow.
"Good Morning to each of you. Many, yes,
most of you have traveled a long ways on extremely short notice, and on behalf
of Assad Zarin and the Iranian people, we wish to welcome you."
Initial applause was polite, but weak, and
quickly disappeared as the significance of his greeting began to register. Viewers
around the world were clueless, as were most news anchors sitting to the side
of their blue screens. For those who knew, though, those in government, those
that were from the area, for most, if not all of those present, the simple
announcement held much more.
The world had just witnessed a coup. No visible
blood, no visible violence, no rioting in the streets, no armed troops at the
gate, but a coup none the less.
Assad Zarin had just seized power.
The speaker continued. "These are perilous
times. It is important that in these times that there are leaders in place who
understand the need to be firm when there is chaos around them. A leader that,
while striving for peace, understands that force may be needed in dealing with
rogue organizations, even rogue countries. We have seen the need for that in
our own Middle East. We must band together to stop the terrorist elements that
threaten not only the West, but indirectly, our own welfare."
He was beginning to pique the interest of his
listeners. This wasn't what they were expecting. Throwing bones to the West? Attacking
radicals?
"A leader,
the
leader, must be a man
who has the vision to see the world as one world, one world with many colors,
many flavors, and much variety. A world where local extremists, radical groups,
and intolerant religious groups cannot be allowed to stifle the desires of the
individual."
Applause began, spontaneously. Tolerance? From
Religious extremism? Perhaps this really was a new day in Iran. Who would have
expected it?
"World leaders, and world citizens, it
gives me great pleasure to be the first to introduce your,
our
new
leader, Assad Zarin."
The speaker turned with a grand wave of his
hand, directing everyone's attention to Zarin, who, rising to his feet raised
both hands. Planted members in the audience all rose and began clapping loudly.
Others, not wanting to appear at odds with the positive tone, rose as well,
though only politely clapping. The world, whose view was on a carefully
scripted television, saw the new leader being wildly applauded. Finally, he sat
down. The applause continued, then slowed, and finally stopped, allowing the
speaker to continue.
Though only a few had immediately caught the
drift, more were now able to tell what was happening, and these began looking
around the room for others of the same mind set. Members of the U.S.
delegation caught each other's eyes, then those of both the Canadian and the
British contingent. Each returned a puzzled look, some with an almost
imperceptible shrug the shoulders. Something was going on.
At this point, introductions were made of key
personnel. Some were recognized, most not. The introductions continued, and
each of the key personnel took a seat in the curved line of chairs behind the
podium. Giant screens, turned vertically, were aligned above each chair. One
camera was on each named person, and the huge screens created, in effect, an
arc of giants curved around the speaker's dais. The center screen, larger
still, was, of course, reserved for Zarin.
There was an undercurrent of murmuring through
the audience as the names continued being announced. This was a complete break
with the past, an entirely new government being put in place. This was an
activity that normally took weeks at best behind closed doors, with
negotiations being performed both behind and in front of the proverbial closed
doors. No, either this was a leader that had just named who he wanted, or this
was a government that had been secretly established for a very long time
stepping in.
The names continued, ending with Gerhard
Richter, and his son, Hans. It was at their introduction that the murmuring
became noticeably louder. The introduction of Gerhard Richter was significant
enough, though understandable. As the head of a huge communications
conglomerate, the advantages to the new regime were obvious, but his son was
another matter.
How was this 'miracle man' tied in? That this
man, just a college kid after all, was being selected to serve on the inner
council of this new regime after having been found dead a few days ago - was it
all publicity? Or was there more?
Finally, each was seated, Hans Richter last,
seating himself after a long ovation. Everyone could see the twelve chosen ones
on the huge screens above their chairs, the cameras zoomed into huge faces. For
some reason, there was some kind of technical glitch with the camera on Hans. The
picture kept breaking up, clearing for a moment, then being filled with static.
The crew had tried two other cameras, and were still desperately trying to
clear it up, but it seemed to no avail. The picture was there, and usable, but
it would be clear one moment, breaking up the next. Embarrassing to Zarin's
staff.
The meeting was about to begin.
The lights in the room dimmed further, the backlighting
on the red velvet curtains turned up slightly for a more dramatic look, as two
men walked on stage, highlighted by separate spotlights, one from each side,
meeting in the middle, and shaking hands. As they both turned to the crowd and
waved, a standing ovation spontaneously erupted. Around the world, viewers were
treated to representatives of every nation giving praise to these men, still
unknown.
The applause continued, with the assistance of
key plants. Eventually, it slowed, and people began to return to their seats. It
was interesting to note those that sat quickly, and those that waited,
continuing their applause, obviously waiting for the cameras to turn and catch
them. Finally, all was quiet. The lights dimmed yet further, and a spotlight
began to slowly intensify on two men. The more the lights dimmed, the brighter
the spotlights were. Planted staffers began applauding, and the sound began to
rise, slowly building with the lights. It was a well-orchestrated show.
The brightness of the spotlights became
blinding, with only two faces still appearing on the large screens above. The
two men rose, and walked to the stage, to the shock of all present. The two men
who stood side by side at the front of the stage were Assad Zarin, and-
-Hans Richter, the Miracle Man.
The audience stretched far and wide in front of
the stage. There were, of course, the rows and rows of chairs, hundreds of
them, for the attendees. The point had been made with those who would control
the seating that it would strictly be first come, first serve. No effort to
meet diplomatic rules. In fact, it was meant to break all diplomatic rules.
Again, the effect would be to create a room full
of equals, all facing the podium, the one leader. There would certainly be some
ruffled feathers. These procedures were not announced in advance- people were
unexpectedly seated as they arrived, much to the chagrin and embarrassment of
many.
Of course, they were always free to leave.
A long table for gifts had been set along the
front, at the level of the chairs. Although customary for diplomats to exchange
gifts, this would be a one-way exchange. In effect, paying homage. As the
announcement took place, the tables would rise above the floor level to the
level of the stage, surrounding Zarin and Richter with the gifts. Very
dramatic. All intended for their psychological effect, not just on the
attendees, but more importantly, of viewers. There would be some very, very
unhappy diplomats.
It would be a show seen around the world. And the
entire world would be watching.