Stephen Coonts - The Disciple

With a sigh, she led off. We had a limo waiting, and I got to ride facing forward and listen to Ortiz tell Schulz about Ahmadinejad. She actually thought there was a serious underground opposition to the mullahs, who had picked Ahmadinejad and rigged two elections to get him in.

“But does he need the mullahs now?” Schulz asked.

“More than ever,” she said. “Political opposition to the regime is crystallizing. The main opponents call themselves the National Council of Resistance. They have organized open demonstrations here in the capital. A thousand women marched some months ago and were attacked by MOIS agents. Still, a thousand women, parading for equal rights, in Iran… And this ferment is not just in the capital-it’s in the provinces, too. Perhaps more so there than here.”

The ministry was a huge, colorless mausoleum obviously copied from some Moscow masterpiece. Officials met us at the front door and escorted us inside. The chargé was recognized, and the three of us were led through long hallways and rode upstairs in an elevator made in France. Uniformed armed guards, IRGC, were stationed all over, standing in front of doorways and at intersections of hallways. I didn’t see any security cameras or IR sensors, no laser alarms, none of that.

There was a little crowd waiting in Ahmadinejad’s office. Schulz and I were the only two clean-shaven men there. Ahmadinejad was wearing a sports coat without a tie. Iranians, I knew, didn’t do ties these days. Too Western.

He was a little shorter than I thought he would be, but full of machismo and obviously the leader of the pack. Some of the mullahs had turbans wrapped around their heads, but several didn’t. Universally, they ignored our chargé, since there was a man present who outranked her in the enemy government. I wondered how she got anyone in this town to pay any attention to her. To put up with this bullshit on a regular basis-well, I thought she was a tough, classy lady.

As Schulz talked, through an interpreter, I surveyed the mullahs, putting faces to names. Then I saw three guys standing in the back that I recognized from their photographs. They were certainly not mullahs. One was Brigadier General Dr. Seyyed Ali Hosseini-Tash, the head of the weapons of mass destruction program. Another was Major Larijani, chief enforcer for the Ministry of Intelligence and Security. Beside him was his boss.

In the back of the room was a woman in a chador, with a black headscarf. I glanced at her several times to make sure. Yep, it was Hazra al-Rashid, the spymaster. I had never seen her in the flesh, but I had seen a couple of poor photos. She always wore a chador. All the mullahs and generals seemed to be ignoring her. It was as if she weren’t even there.

As the introductions ended, I whipped out a pad and pencil and began making notes in my bastard, law-student shorthand, notes that only I could read.

Schulz started with a little speech about the United States’ concern that Iran was manufacturing nuclear warheads. He paused every few sentences for the translator to convert his English into Farsi, which allowed me to stay with him. I glanced at Ahmadinejad a time or two, just to see how he was taking all this.

His face was impassive. I couldn’t read it.

Ahmadinejad didn’t bother repeating his government’s public assertion that they weren’t making weapons, merely developing nuclear power.

When Schulz had said everything he wanted to say, he removed an envelope from a breast pocket. “The president of the United States sent me here to personally deliver this letter to you, President Ahmadinejad,” he said and handed it to the man.

Ahmadinejad took the envelope and tapped it several times on one hand as he thought. “I will read it, and my government will consider the contents,” he said, glancing at the mullahs and generals.

That was pretty much it. After a little milling around, we left, with Schulz following Ortiz.

As we rode away in the limo, I took a last good look at the ministry. Yep, it could be done. If necessary, I could get in there and root through the safe behind Ahmadinejad’s desk-and, if I had enough time, the locked cabinets in the outer offices.

I would need a diversion to occupy the guards, who I knew would be there twenty-four hours a day. As we rode through the streets in the back of the limo and Schulz and Ortiz chattered, I began thinking about what kind of diversion was possible, and about the equipment I would need.

The next day the Iranians invited us back to the president’s office. Thanks to Jake Grafton, I got to go along. I was still noodling about how to create a diversion if I needed one.

Of course I was preoccupied as Jurgen Schulz, Eliza Ortiz and I rode through the streets to the ministry. Schulz and Ortiz conferred in low tones; I paid no attention. I was looking at the streets, the power poles, the wires, a helicopter motoring across the city, thinking about how a clandestine entry could be physically accomplished, how I could stay in there for four or five hours and escape afterward with my hide intact.

The hallways were literally full of soldiers, all armed, who stood shoulder to shoulder along each side of the passageway. Each and every one of them looked us over as we went by. Most of their attention was devoted to Ms. Ortiz, who walked with her head erect and pretended not to notice them. The whole experience was something akin to visual rape.

The president’s office was packed with men. The only woman was Hazra al-Rashid, a black ghost tucked into a corner. She reminded me of the Wicked Witch of the West, but as I recall, the witch was better dressed. There were a lot of beards and fashionably grizzled faces; it looked like an actors’ tryout for the part of Rutherford B. Hayes in an upcoming movie. Lots of turbans, too.

Mahmoud Ahmadinejad was standing in front of his desk, and he wasn’t standing still. He moved nervously from foot to foot; his face was sweaty, his movements jerky. Even his hands were in constant motion as we filed in. The guy looked like he’d had a handful of uppers for breakfast.

Ol’ Mahmoud skipped the social pleasantries and got right down to it. He waved the letter and said loudly, “This is an ultimatum, a threat. If I had known that the Great Satan-the embodiment of evil and cruelty against mankind-was going to threaten me in my own office, I would have refused to see you.”

The translator did this in English for us as Ahmadinejad wiped a hand across his face and shifted his weight from foot to foot.

“Our nuclear program is designed for peaceful purposes, yet the Islamic Republic of Iran is surrounded by enemies. Never in history has a nation had a more righteous reason to gird itself for an onslaught by the forces of Satan.”

He was spouting Farsi, and I was getting most of this, and the translator rendered a faithful translation in English, which allowed me to get the gist in shorthand. Sometimes translators try to tone down more strident politicians. This one knew better. We were going to have to take it neat.

Ahmadinejad took off next on the Jews, on Zionism, on the malignancy of Israel and its supporters around the globe. The stuff was downright vituperative, and he ended with this: “The Zionists control the banks in Europe, the parliaments, the allocation of capital-and they control the American government, which treats us with contempt.” He waved the letter at his audience and at Schulz. So far he had ignored Ortiz, but that changed almost immediately.

“Your president treats us with contempt, as if we were foolish children. We are not children. We know an insult when it is thrown in our faces. You insult us when you send a woman as your representative, a woman who refuses to wear a chador, a woman who parades in Western dress that is an insult to every Muslim.”