Stephen Coonts - The Disciple

Ghasem wondered if even now, as he sat in this corridor while the night crept on, the MOIS or Basij thugs were searching his apartment. If so, they would not find the book. It was hidden in his uncle Habib Sultani’s office. He had secreted it on his last visit, just in case.

He figured that anyone rooting out blasphemy would think twice before tackling the office of the minister of defense.

Khurram-that stupid, evil man. Selling his own grandfather to the MOIS…

Footsteps echoed in the hallway, the naked lightbulb overhead stayed on, and the hands of his watch marched slowly and relentless on into the night.

“The Mossad’s assassination attempt failed,” William S. Wilkins told the president. “Our contact in Tel Aviv reports that the Indonesian general they bribed betrayed them.”

The president’s face was a mask. The Israelis hadn’t told the Americans about the attempt until it had failed, so what was there to say?

CIA Director Wilkins, National Security Adviser Schulz, Sal Molina and Jake Grafton were sitting in the Oval Office in front of the president’s desk.

“So where do we go from here?” the president said.

Wilkins spoke up. “Admiral Grafton has a plan.”

Jake removed a small metal box from his briefcase and placed it on the edge of the president’s desk. “This is an ALQ-198, the first generation of the new active stealth technology. To the best of our knowledge, the Iranians don’t know that the planes in service now have the ALQ-199 installed, which uses completely different protocols and algorithms. I propose to give this box to the Iranians.”

The president rubbed his chin as he eyed the box, then Jake Grafton. “Why?”

“If and when they get nuclear weapons, we’re going to have to go after them. If they think they have an edge, and don’t, we’ll have an advantage. They’ll rely heavily on their air defense system, and we can defeat it.”

Schulz took a deep breath, let it out slowly.

“Dr. Schulz,” the president prompted.

“If they think they can shoot down any American or Israeli airplanes that cross into Iran, they may be emboldened to try something they wouldn’t have.”

“Such as…”

“Shoot missiles at Israel and the U.S. task forces in the area. Maybe lob one or two at our bases in Arabia and Iraq.”

The president reached for the box and examined it. Finally he set it on the desk in front of him. “Admiral?”

“The Iranians know we have stealth technology that protects conventional planes. They saw it in action when the Israelis bombed the Syrian reactor. They continue to manufacture enriched uranium and test missiles. Obviously they believe a conventional attack by us will not hinder their quest for nuclear weapons. It is in our best interests for them to believe that they have the antidote to a conventional attack by us and our allies. If they believe they have the problem solved, they will stop looking for other solutions.”

“Mr. Wilkins. Your thoughts.”

“I believe Jake is right,” the CIA director said. “If we have to attack, we need every advantage we can get.”

“Sal.”

Molina looked at his hands, hunched his shoulders forward, then looked the president squarely in the eye. “Ahmadinejad told you how it is. Sooner or later, we are going to have to attack and destroy those missiles and enrichment facilities.”

“I don’t want to do that,” the president shot back. “There is a large block in Congress, not to mention the think tanks and pundits, who are convinced we are just going to have to learn to live with a nuclear Iran.” He rubbed his forehead, then muttered, “Maybe they’re right.”

Sal Molina didn’t hesitate. “If they shoot missiles at Israel and our armed forces, what then?”

“That’s a different problem,” the president admitted. “I just told that son of a bitch what will happen if he does that.”

“And you have his answer on your desk.”

“The question in my mind,” Schulz said slowly, “is this: Does giving the Iranians this box make it more likely that Ahmadinejad will pull the trigger?”

“Wrong question,” Jake Grafton said in the silence that followed. “We should ask ourselves this: If Ahmadinejad pulls the trigger, will the presence of this box in Iran make it more likely that our armed forces can successfully destroy their nuclear capability? My answer to that is yes.”

No one had anything else to say.

The president rose from his chair and went to the window. He stood looking out for a moment, then turned to face them. “A nuclear attack on an American ally or U.S. forces will require a military response. We will have no other political options. Literally, we will have no choice, none at all.” He paused and took a deep breath, then exhaled.

“I feel like a condemned man walking a plank at the point of a pirate’s sword while sharks circle in the water below. The Iranians have lied and prevaricated and stonewalled and threatened, and continued to enrich uranium to weapons grade. They have flaunted their missiles in the world’s face. All of our diplomatic efforts have been futile. I think that son of a bitch Ahmadinejad has already made up his mind, and nothing we can do or say will change it. Give him the box.”

“Israr Murad is dead.”

The man with the protruding eyes was standing in front of Ghasem, who was still seated in a crude wooden chair in the hallway of MOIS headquarters. Only two other chairs were still occupied. Ghasem stared up at him, unwilling to believe the words.

“He’s dead,” the man said. “Come back in the morning and we will give you his body for burial.” The man turned away and disappeared along the hallway.

Ghasem forced himself to his feet. He looked at his watch. Ten minutes after 3:00 A.M.

He walked slowly out of the building, trying to get his emotions in check. He didn’t go to his apartment but to his uncle Yas’s home. He parked and used his key, went up the narrow staircase to the top, not bothering to turn on lights, then on up, all the way to the attic, where he knocked on Davar’s door.

After a minute, she opened it.

“He’s dead,” Ghasem said and went inside. His cousin closed the door. The room was dark, with no lights. “The MOIS beat or tortured him until he died. I can pick up his body in the morning, they said.”

“Why?” she asked.

“A book. He wrote a book. Khurram must have read some of it and reported him to the MOIS. Said it was blasphemous.”

They sat in the darkness, silent, with their thoughts.

“Do they have the book?” she said.

“No. I have it. He would have denied writing it. If they could get their hands on it, they would destroy it. It was his life’s work.”

“What do you want to do?”

“It must be published in the West,” he replied, his voice cracking. “He would have wanted that. Future generations will read it.” Tears were leaking down his cheeks. He wiped them away angrily. “Murder. Stupidity. Religious fanaticism. What kind of people are we?”

“How will you get it out of Iran?”

“I don’t know.”

Davar sat silently, weighing the next step. Her cousin knew nothing of her espionage. Nor of the American agent who had photographed her father’s construction plans, the plans for the hardened weapons sites and executive bunker.

“My scanner is too small,” she said. “A whole book…”

“It is a handwritten manuscript. I will scan it at the ministry,” Ghasem said. “Use the computers there to put it on a DVD.”

“They will catch you,” she said scornfully. “The computer will remember everything. The hard drive will retain it even if you try to erase it.”

“I have the manuscript hidden in Uncle Habib’s office. I cannot leave it there. If it is found there, Habib Sultani will be ruined.”