Stephen Coonts - The Disciple

“All religions have problems,” Ghasem said thoughtfully. “At the core, each must be accepted by faith.”

“Yes. Faith.”

“One must surrender to God.”

“Yes.”

“Do you believe, Grandfather?”

“In what? In the Koran? In the Christian Bible? Judaism? Hinduism? Buddhism? What?”

“In God.”

The old man thought about that. After a lifetime of scholarship and contemplation, Ghasem thought, he has to think about the most basic question. With a jolt he recalled his grandfather once remarking that by trying to learn everything, a scholar risked knowing nothing at all.

“I don’t know,” the old man confessed, his voice barely audible. He thought about that for a moment more, then tried to straighten up in his chair. He couldn’t. Age had bent him like a twig. “All religions today share a common problem,” he whispered. The professor gestured toward the manuscript, which caused much fluttering among the birds near his feet. “Read,” he said. “It’s all in there. A lifetime of work and thought. I put it all down.”

Ghasem was young-he couldn’t help himself. “What is the common problem?”

“The god that they worship is too small.”

Hyman Fineberg met General Darma at a small estate well outside Jakarta. The general’s limo had picked him up in town, and the driver, the general’s son, let him off in front of the house. He wandered around back and found the general sitting alone by a swimming pool, in a swimming suit and short-sleeve shirt, drinking beer.

The general offered Fineberg one, and he accepted.

“I think your day is next Thursday,” Darma said. “He will arrive on Wednesday, meet with the president that afternoon and evening, then attend a state banquet. On Thursday morning at eleven he has a meeting scheduled with a group of religious leaders. It was scheduled then to give him a few hours to rest and recover from the banquet.”

“Thursday afternoon?”

“Another audience with the president, then a press conference.”

“But the morning?”

“The limo will be waiting in front of the hotel. I can pull the security people away, so when he and his bodyguards come down in the elevator, they will be alone.”

Hyman Fineberg took a sip of cold beer and considered. He had spent the last two weeks as a guest in that hotel and knew every inch of it. Darma knew that, of course. What Darma didn’t know, Fineberg hoped, was that two other Mossad agents had also been in the hotel, watching his back.

They drank beer and talked about how it would be. “You cannot use explosives,” Darma said. “Can’t blow up the hotel. Too many casualties. No poison gas, nothing exotic.”

“I understand.” Indeed Fineberg did. He had his instructions from Tel Aviv; they wanted Ahmadinejad dead, but no innocent people. On the other hand, he reflected, Tel Aviv was prepared to swallow a lot if in the end they could see Ahmadinejad’s head on a platter.

“This… incident… will not cause you too much grief, will it?” Fineberg asked.

General Syafi’i Darma considered his answer. When he spoke, Fineberg watched his eyes. “There will be questions-after all, I am the director of Indonesian security. I will be contrite. The Mossad’s reputation is well known. It is possible, however, that for political reasons the president may ask me for my resignation. If so, I will go quietly. I have had a long military career, and whatever happens, I will have a comfortable retirement. Due to your generosity, very comfortable.” Darma smiled.

Fineberg smiled back. Unfortunately only one side of his mouth worked as it should.

Yes indeed, the Israeli thought. The little fat bastard might be contemplating a double-cross.

“Please keep in mind,” Hyman Fineberg said pleasantly, “that if my government gets the slightest suspicion that you took our money and betrayed us, your future will become problematic.”

“Don’t threaten me,” Darma snapped.

“I beg your pardon, General. I do not mean to demean or insult you. I merely mentioned a fact of life, one of which I am sure you are well aware. A faux pas on my part, no doubt. Accept my apology, please.”

“I keep my promises.”

Fineberg smiled broadly, which made his face look even more lopsided. “And I keep mine.”

That evening Ghasem went to his uncle’s home to visit with his cousin Davar in her room in the attic. She spent her time here doing mathematics, playing with her computer, and calculating costs and materials for her father. Stacks of his blueprints and specifications were neatly arranged on a table in one corner.

“Why don’t you go out?” Ghasem asked her for the thousandth time. “Go to the university? Meet your old friends? Why don’t you get a life?”

She eyed him, then ignored his comments, also as usual. The truth was she did go out, and often, and talked to a wide variety of people. Some of them were giving her material to pass on to Azari in America, some were just people she liked being around, and some were people she thought had something important to say about where Iran was and where it should go in the future. These people were men and women. Ahmadinejad and the mullahs didn’t understand the power of women. They forced them back into chadors and manteaus, but the women were the impetus that was going to someday overthrow the mullahs, or so Davar hoped.

“Did you see Grandfather today?” she asked her cousin.

“Yes.” Ghasem threw himself into the only stuffed chair in the room. He stared at his toes. “His health is failing.”

“He will be free soon,” she remarked.

“Free?” Ghasem wasn’t sure what she meant.

“Death is the only way you can escape the clutches of the government,” she said.

Ghasem rolled his eyes and sagged back into the chair. Davar had spent three years at Oxford, and although she never said it, she had obviously loved England. She came home transformed, as British as Prince Charlie. She had arrived home three years ago this past July. Her father, who should have wanted more for her, thought her presence a godsend. At his request she did all the calculations necessary for his huge construction projects, which he got because he wholeheartedly supported the regime.

Ghasem straightened slightly and looked at his cousin. She wasn’t a pretty woman. Sort of plain, actually. Also brilliant, well educated, and widely read. Not many men would appreciate such a wife, but there were a few that might. There were even rare ones who would treasure her. She would never meet them, he thought, nor they her. If he or her father brought such a man to meet her, she would refuse to see him.

“Not the manteau thing again?” Ghasem said disgustedly. Manteaus, or ripoushes, were loose-fitting, full-length coats that covered the wearer from neck to ankles. Those worn in summer were made of light cloth; those for winter were much heavier. They were plain or discreetly patterned, usually muted pastel colors.

“I loathe the things,” she said. “They are a symbol of all that is wrong in Iran, all that is wrong with this religion. Allah wants me to wear a chador or manteau? I don’t think so.”

“You will become an old maid, never marry, be childless… Have you ever thought about the future, about what will happen when your father dies?”

“I’ll come live with you.”

“Better think of something else,” Ghasem shot back. “I do intend to marry, when I find the right woman, and my wife, whoever she turns out to be, might not appreciate having a maiden cousin as a permanent boarder.”

Davar said nothing. She became even more engrossed in a set of blueprints. Ghasem rose from his chair and looked over her shoulder. These were blueprints for a large underground city. The regime had worked diligently for years to get all nuclear weapons and missile fabrication activities completely underground.