Stephen Coonts - The Disciple

Jake put his shoes on, then his sports coat, turned off the television and picked up the satellite phone and his cell. He walked out the front entrance of the hotel and looked around.

A gas company van was parked across the street, which glistened in the lights. Everything was wet from the rain. Grafton walked to the van and tapped on the rear door.

Emerick opened it. He and two other men, technicians, were packed between two banks of equipment. There was almost no free space left, but Grafton squeezed himself in and pulled the door shut behind him. He got a cardboard box to sit on. Emerick handed him a set of headphones.

The admiral found himself listening to two men relaxing over drinks, one the voice Jake knew, the other one he didn’t. Obviously these two knew each other well. They talked like old friends, sure of how their comments would be received, sure of the values and experiences they shared-and they talked in Farsi. As Jake listened to the raw audio in his left ear, an off-site translator was giving him the English translation in his right.

“Who is this guy?” Jake murmured.

Someone had already managed to photograph the two men with a small digital camera. That photo was on the computer monitor behind Jake’s right shoulder. Emerick nodded toward it. “We’re trying to find out,” he said. One of the two techs in the truck was working the keyboard, accessing various databases.

Soon the two in the restaurant were discussing the Iranian political situation, inflation, unemployment, and the scandal du jour, the removal from office of one of Ahmadinejad’s lieutenants by Parliament, which was getting restless. Then they moved on to the political situation in the entire Middle East.

They had finished with the main course and were noodling about dessert when the strange man said, “What have you heard about this Carmellini?”

“He wants Rostram’s help.”

Emerick caught Jake’s eye. Jake nodded, and Emerick got out of the van.

The conversation continued, and after some thought, the stranger said, “Tell her no to both requests.”

“I have already instructed her not to help him into any forbidden place. She will obey.”

“What is it precisely that this Carmellini wants?”

“Proof that we are making nuclear weapons, and our plan for using them when they are operational.”

The man snorted, then said, “There is no plan. He is looking for something that doesn’t exist.”

Jake took off the headset and handed it to the technician who was recording all this. The man running the other computer handed him a written note. On it was an Iranian name, and the notation trade secretary at the UN mission . This was the identity of the stranger.

Jake was sitting in an office in the Washington FBI complex when two agents brought in a man in handcuffs. He looked tired, depressed-and scared. His belt, tie and jacket had been taken from him, and the pockets of his trousers were pulled inside out.

“Well, well, well, Professor Azari,” Grafton said acidly. “We meet again. A little espionage over dinner, eh?”

“I want a lawyer.”

“So they told me. Be seated.” When Azari sat, Jake nodded at the two agents, who departed.

“You think maybe you can beat this charge? Is that it?”

Avari said nothing.

“You think, These infidel fools, they were too stupid to make a recording of our conversation. ”

Azari bit his lip.

“Once you go into the holding cells and we call a lawyer, you will be flat out of options. We will charge you with espionage and try you and probably get a conviction. You’ll live out the rest of your life in a cell in a federal prison and, considering your age, probably die there. Is that what you want?”

Silence.

“Answer me,” Grafton roared. He had a good roar, and it stunned Azari.

“No.”

“The alternative to that is that we wait on calling the lawyer and you tell me everything. Everything! If I think you have been truthful and cooperative, and you continue to cooperate, you won’t need that lawyer. Life will flow on for you just as it has been. You will go home to your wife, continue to teach mathematics, be a respected member of the academic community and live a long and happy life. But you will be working for me, and only me. Do you understand?”

Azari was perspiring freely. He tried to wipe his forehead with a shirt sleeve and succeeded only in soaking the fabric.

“Am I being clear enough?” Grafton asked.

“You want me to betray them,” Azari said bitterly.

“You have been pretending to betray the Islamic Republic for years, professor. Think of the lies you told, thousands of lies, millions, tons of them, and the articles, the book. When I read your scribblings, I wondered why you were still alive. A man like you who frequents public places-you would be easy to kill, and yet they let you live. I asked myself, Why is that?”

Azari simply stared at Grafton, who got out of his chair and seated himself on the edge of the desk. Azari had to look up to see his face, so he didn’t. He looked at the wall.

“So easy to kill,” Jake mused. “If someone shot you dead at the university one of these days, everyone would be sure the IRGC had ordered the hit, wouldn’t they? Ahmadinejad or Khamenei gave the order in Iran, and you died here.” He snapped his fingers, and Azari looked at him. Those gray eyes were as cold as ice in winter.

“You could try to rabbit back to Iran, of course,” Grafton continued, “but your IRGC superiors would be less than pleased. Your mission here would have failed. Then they would know that we know. Because we would tell the newspapers that you talked. That you told us everything, even if you didn’t. Would they reward you handsomely for your failure, Azari? Tell me that. Would they?”

Azari couldn’t help himself. “No,” he whispered.

“So you see, you really have only two options. You can go to the cells, get the best lawyer money can buy to hold your hand and go to prison for the rest of your life. Or you can cooperate with me, do as I say, and life will continue as it is. There is no third option.”

He reached back, picked up the phone and pushed a button. After a few seconds he said, “You got it ready? Bring it in.”

Fifteen seconds later an agent brought in a laptop. He set it on the desk. Then he pushed a key.

A voice could be heard speaking in Farsi, and the translation overlay. “What is it precisely that this Carmellini wants?”

Then Azari’s answer. “Proof that we are making nuclear weapons, and our plan for using them when they become operational.”

The agent stopped the replay. “You could have only gotten that information from Rostram, your agent in Iran,” Grafton said softly. “I never said those words to you.” Grafton leaned toward the Iranian. “Remember that prison in Tehran? The rats? The screams at night…”

The afternoon before I was to meet Davar, Herman and Suzanne Strader and Mustafa Abtahi came down the stairs to my monk’s cell. Mr. Strader shoved Abtahi’s tourist visa app through the hole. He introduced me to his wife, said, “We’re leaving for home this afternoon,” then got down to it.

“We came to ask you to process this application for Mr. Abtahi as a personal favor to two American taxpayers,” Herman said.

“I’ll send it along,” I said, glancing at Mrs. Strader, who started to speak.

I held up my hand, stopping her. “Don’t tell me anything you don’t want repeated to my superiors or any other federal agency.”

Mrs. Strader was in her fifties, I would say, but she could easily pass for ten years younger. She eyed me carefully, then said, “Thank you, young man, for that warning, but I have something to say to the United States government, and you might as well be the one to hear it.”