Stephen Coonts - The Disciple

“ You will be ruined,” she shot back. “They will execute you. Or beat you to death, as they did Grandfather.”

He had no reply.

After a moment she asked, “Why do you help Uncle? Why do you help them make nuclear weapons to murder their enemies, as they did Grandfather?”

“I don’t know,” he said softly. “Uncle says the weapons will cause the world to respect us, will prevent the Americans from invading or bombing us.”

“Do you believe that?”

“I don’t know what to believe.” Unable to sit for another second, he sprang from his chair. “Never, ever, did I think they would murder an old man, a scholar who was no threat to any living soul. Never!”

“I know a man,” she said. “He is an American diplomat. He could take the book to the Swiss embassy and send it to America. Perhaps someone there will publish it.”

“A diplomat?” Ghasem was flabbergasted. His cousin? “How do you know a diplomat?”

“He is a spy. He came to me. I have been sending information to Azari in America.”

“Azari? The MEK Azari? What-”

“I met him at Oxford. He asked for my help when I got back to Iran, and I said yes.”

“Azari? Wasn’t he one of the men the MOIS released, banished into exile?”

“Yes. They tortured him. He hates them.”

Ghasem wouldn’t let it rest. “Or he agreed to help them if they spared his life.”

“Don’t be such a cynic! We must trust someone ! Do you want the book removed from the country, or don’t you?”

His cousin ! A spy ! Her brother had betrayed Grandfather, and he and Uncle Habib were building nuclear weapons for Ahmadinejad and the mullahs.

They were all doomed.

“I must think on it,” he whispered, and left her there in the darkness of her prison.

He didn’t mention that Davar was a spy when he talked to Habib Sultani later that morning in Sultani’s office. The sun was up and shining in the window. The book was safely in his coat, the pages divided into packets and tucked into slits, which was the way he had brought it into the building last week.

The news of the old man’s death at the hands of the MOIS shook Sultani badly. He slumped in his seat and closed his eyes. Finally he opened his eyes and focused again on Ghasem. “Why?”

“Khurram told them that Grandfather wrote a book, a blasphemous book. He told them he had read some pages of it at some time or other. They arrested Grandfather and took him to headquarters. I sat there last night waiting until one of them came to me and said he was dead.”

“A book?”

“A book.”

“Khurram.”

“Yes.”

“They didn’t call me. Didn’t consult me. Just dragged him away and interrogated him until he died.”

“Yes.”

“What do you know of this book?”

“Nothing.” The lie was right there, ready for Ghasem to spit out, and he did so without hesitation. He respected his uncle, and yet…

Habib Sultani sat silently for a long time. Ghasem found he could sit no longer and walked slowly around the room, looking at this and that. The death to america sign on the wall captured his attention. He was still staring at it when he heard Sultani say, “Come. We will get his body and see to funeral arrangements.”

Habib Sultani didn’t talk to his nephew Khurram at the mosque. He tried to ignore him. What could he say? If Khurram was a spy for the MOIS, what might he be whispering about his uncle the defense minister?

The family had not discussed the reasons why the old man had died. Fortunately, Sultani reflected, there was not a mark on the body. If he had been beaten, the damage had been internal. More than likely, Murad’s heart had simply given out.

His daughters knew that his health had been deteriorating, so they accepted his death as a natural occurrence. If they had any doubts, they did not voice them. He had died talking to the police. They left it there.

Yas Ghobadi seemed preoccupied with his construction projects. He had little to say, seemed to be merely going through the motions.

Being human, Sultani reviewed his official and private conduct over the last few months, trying to decide if there was anything he had done or said-or failed to do or say-that might be misinterpreted by the secret police. Or twisted to use against him.

The Supreme Leader controlled the MOIS. Obviously there were political tensions swirling through the upper echelons of the government-people are pretty much the same everywhere. Ahmadinejad was on a tightrope, steering the nation along a perilous course. Any miscalculation by the government could cause a major political backlash that might endanger the mullahs’ grip on power. So they were worried, trying to discredit the political opposition, arresting domestic enemies, breaking up demonstrations, looking for any hints or signs of disloyalty. They were keeping the Basij busy.

One of the inherent problems with any secret police force, Sultani reflected, was that they had to find traitors and domestic enemies to justify their existence.

Whispers circulating in the government said that Ahmadinejad had been badly shaken by the Mossad’s attempt on his life. Well, the Israelis wanted him dead, to be sure-but Ahmadinejad must be wondering about his domestic enemies, too. After the last election, his claim to popular support had evaporated. Perhaps, Sultani mused, the president was the driving force behind the investigation of Murad. If the mullahs ever doubted his zeal for defending the faith, Ahmadinejad was through. The MOIS report on the interrogation and death of Israr Murad would also be routed to Ahmadinejad. Would the president mention it to Sultani?

Davar held her emotions under tight control. She, too, avoided speaking to Khurram, who was busy pretending he knew nothing of the events that led to Murad’s arrest and interrogation. She watched him when he wasn’t looking at her… and saw nothing. Khurram was in his early twenties, a disappointment to his family. He preferred Basij activities to working, in his father’s business or anywhere else, which was just as well, since he had few if any skills. He was, she thought, a classic sociopath, interested only in himself, whose antisocial urges were legitimatized by the religious Nazis.

Had he really betrayed his grandfather, though? Why had the MOIS officer given Ghasem his name? One possibility, she realized, was to protect the real informant, who could be anybody. Any student at the university who took an unauthorized peek at some manuscript pages… or Murad’s housekeeper. Secrets are difficult to keep from a nosy housekeeper, Davar thought.

The more she thought about it, the more certain she became. She made inquiries. The housekeeper had stopped going to Grandfather’s house immediately after his arrest. She hadn’t been back.

Ghasem found that his emotions were not under his control. His grandfather had been a true holy man, willing to forgive anyone anything. That was clear from his writing. No doubt he would have forgiven Khurram-if he had been told that it was Khurram who had betrayed him. One suspected he was not given that information.

It was curious, Ghasem reflected, that the secret police had dropped that tidbit on him. Like his cousin Davar, he realized that the MOIS could have given him Khurram’s name to protect the real traitor. Did the police hope he would attempt to take revenge?

He was tempted. Thought about killing Khurram, because in his heart of hearts he hated the lazy, sanctimonious, bullying bastard. Thought about how gratifying it would be to slowly strangle Khurram with his own two hands, crush his windpipe, watch his face turn blue, then purple, watch his eyes glaze over in death.

Yet when he tried to reconcile his rage with his grandfather’s life and teachings, he couldn’t.