Stephen Coonts - The Disciple

“Azari has been getting info from a private spy network in Iran. Some of his information is verifiable, some of it isn’t. I suspect some of his people are government double agents.”

“Does Azari realize that’s a possibility?”

“He suspects it, I imagine. Hell, he may be on Ahmadinejad’s payroll.”

“Is Iranian security reading these messages, too?”

Jake Grafton considered his answer carefully. “I doubt if they have cryptographers sophisticated enough and computer programs powerful enough to break the code. They might have the contact in their pocket, of course, and have gotten the key from her. Or from Azari.”

“Her?”

“ Her . The Iranians read the American press, so they must know about Azari and his articles, and they must have penetrated his network.”

“You have a man in Iran, don’t you?”

“Yes. Tommy Carmellini.”

“What’s he doing?”

“Trying to find out the truth about their nuke program.”

Sal Molina took a healthy swig of his drink, then sat processing Grafton’s remarks. He changed the subject. “The generals think they have the factory pinpointed that is making the EDs that Iran is sending to Iraq.” EDs were explosive devices-bombs. “They want to launch a commando raid against the factory. What’s your assessment?”

“Now isn’t the time to stir up the Iranians,” the admiral said. “Not with Tommy trying to gain access to government buildings. Can we wait a while?”

“Wait, wait, wait. That’s hard for generals and politicians to do. Everyone is getting damn tired of waiting. Our kids are getting killed and maimed in Iraq and the press is full of stories about Iranian nukes.”

“Waiting is difficult for Americans,” Jake Grafton agreed, “but timing is everything in life.”

“The waiting for this is over.” Sal Molina attacked his drink again. After a bit he said, “Does Carmellini have a chance?”

“If I didn’t think so I wouldn’t have sent him over there,” Jake replied.

Ten minutes later, when Jake escorted Molina to the door, he asked, “Did you get anything to make you sleep better?”

“Hell, no. I never do when I talk to you.”

“I’ll send you some intelligence assessments in the morning. They’re good bedtime reading.”

“Send me something on the Russians. Those bastards are good copy.”

Grafton pursed his lips in thought, then said softly, “The Russians will be in the catbird seat if the Middle East explodes, won’t they?”

“With all their oil and gas, Russia will become the new Saudi Arabia,” Sal Molina said sourly. “Russia will quickly become the richest nation on the planet, and Vladimir Putin will be the most powerful man on earth.”

Molina walked out Grafton’s door and headed for the elevator.

The Mossad’s Joe Mottaki was full of information when he and I finally got into the little soundproof security booth I had built in the basement of the embassy annex. It was about the size of a telephone booth, so we were cramped.

Mottaki had a job with the firm that cleaned the embassy, and he came around every other day or so. He was a little guy, looked every inch a Persian, spoke Farsi like a native and fairly decent Arabic. The first time I met him he told me he had been born in Egypt. He refused to tell me any more about himself.

“Davar Ghobadi is single,” he told me today. “No lovers or suitors that we know about. She has spent the last two days talking to a variety of people all over Tehran, all apparently friends of hers. Don’t know the subjects, but the conversations were serious and long.”

“Um.” I wondered if she had told everyone in town that she was talking to an American spy, but even if she had, what could I do about it? “What about Ahmadinejad’s political opposition?”

“They are unhappy. Most of the people in this country are poor as dirt, yet Ahmadinejad and the mullahs are squandering tens of billions of petrodollars on the nuclear program. Even if the program was for peaceful purposes and they gave electricity away to everyone in the country who wanted it, that wouldn’t justify the expenditures. People also need clean water, roads, hospitals, sewers, schools-in short, everything.”

“Is Ahmadinejad in danger of a political revolt?”

Mottaki shrugged. “Who can say? The opposition does what it can under the gaze of the mullahs. Believe me, all is not well at the Parliament building.”

We talked for an hour about names and personalities. I was learning a lot, but I wondered if any of it meant anything.

When we had beat the hell out of that topic, I told Joe that Davar had told me she used dead drops. “It would be nice to find one and aim a camera at it. See who services it.”

“I have exactly three people,” Joe said, “counting me. Your two chaps make five. Still, only five men…”

“Do the best you can.”

“What if she lied to you?”

“Well…”

“We can’t prove a negative.”

“Watch her carefully for a couple more days. See if you can catch her at a drop.”

“We’ll have to really stick to her.”

I’m such a hard-ass. I didn’t say anything.

“Okay,” he said forlornly.

“Someone needs to write a new Koran.”

Ghasem stared at his grandfather with his jaw agape. One didn’t hear blasphemy very often in Iran these days.

“Of course,” Dr. Murad continued, “hardly anyone ever reads the old one. If they did, they’d discover how little theology is really in it.”

They were sitting in the garden outside his grandfather’s house, where the old man was feeding the birds, a pastime that consisted of tossing birdseed on the ground and seeing how close the birds would come to his feet to get it. Since the professor had been doing this for years, the answer was, very close.

“God spoke to Muhammad, may he rest in peace, and he gave us the Koran,” Ghasem said. “He was the last prophet.”

“God could speak to someone else. You or me, for instance. Anyone.”

“Why did He choose Muhammad?”

“Aah, a very good question. My students are afraid to ask questions, afraid of being accused of blaspheming. The fear of being unorthodox is one of the major problems facing Muslims.”

“All religions control their adherents, to a greater or lesser degree,” Ghasem retorted.

“Indeed. Social and political control is one of religion’s major functions. Without control, religions would not have proven so popular through the ages.” The old man dropped more seed just beyond his shoes. The birds went for it fearlessly.

“Why Muhammad?” Ghasem repeated.

“He had the standing in society, the charisma, the ego, to found an empire, to make people follow him, to lead them to military victory. Yet no one would have followed him unless he claimed he had a mandate from God.”

“God spoke to him,” the young man replied, “and he obeyed.”

“Megalomaniacs and the mentally ill often tell us they hear God’s voice,” the professor shot back. “Muhammad could have been either.” He shrugged. “Or both.”

Ghasem waited for lightning to strike the old man dead. When he realized it wasn’t going to happen right there and then, he exhaled.

The manuscript was heavy in his hands. It was wrapped in paper, tied with a string, and was several inches thick.

“Islam is a fundamental religion,” Israr Murad mused as he watched the bravest bird peck tiny seeds near his right shoe. “It was a tool to create a nation. All who didn’t follow Muhammad were the enemy. For many Muslims, that distinction is quite real even today. They see the world as us versus them. Nor can they imagine a legitimate secular government to which they owe obedience. Muhammad ruled by divine right; he was God’s anointed. Baldly, the Muslims are stuck in the seventh century while the rest of the world has evolved, has grown tolerant of different people, different religions and different ways of life. Only through tolerance can different people live under a secular government that rises and falls based on political issues that have nothing to do with religion. Islam is the most intolerant major religion on the planet.”