Rapp would find out soon enough. Kennedy had called ahead and made arrangements. One of the Agency’s G-5s was waiting for him at Andrews Air Force Base to take him to Tel Aviv as soon as they landed. She had also left word with her Israeli counterpart that Rapp was on the way and that until he got there it would be prudent to stay mute on the current crisis in Iran.
To put his plan into motion Rapp needed the help of someone back at Langley. He could make the call on his own satellite phone, but there was a good chance the Air Force crew on board would detect the call and go apeshit. His second option was to elicit their help and ask for the most secure line they had to Langley. More than likely this would work, but it would also alert the Russians and the Chinese that it was an important call. In the end he decided to make the call on an unsecured line. It would be flagged as routine traffic and if he stayed vague enough no one listening in would have any idea what they were talking about. Past the president’s office and conference room were a section of seats for his advisors. Similar to first class on international travel, the seats were big with plenty of room. Rapp spotted an open one and grabbed it.
Some junior staffer in his mid-twenties was in the next seat. The guy tore his eyes away from his laptop and looked at Rapp with an expression that said, Who in the hell are you? Instead he said, “I’m sorry, but that seat is taken.”
Rapp remembered his appearance was far from White House standards. He smiled and said, “That’s all right. I just need to make a quick call.” Rapp grabbed the phone from its cradle and started punching the number for an office in Langley, Virginia. He could tell that the guy was still looking at him.
“Are you with the press?”
Rapp glanced over. “That’s a good one, junior.”
“I don’t see your badge,” the guy said more firmly, “and the press is not allowed up here.”
“Badges,” Rapp said with a Mexican accent, “we don’t need no stinking badges.”
The staffer looked back at him with a blank expression.
“Blazing Saddles. You’ve never seen it?” Rapp could hear the phone starting to ring on the other end.
“No.” The guy was not amused. “Why aren’t you wearing your credentials?”
A woman’s voice answered on the other end of the phone. “Rob Ridley’s office. Penny speaking.”
“Penny, Mitch here. Is Rob around?”
“Where are your credentials?” The staffer persisted.
“Hold on a second, Penny.” Rapp covered the phone and looked the man in the eye for the first time. “Let me guess…law school? Ivy League, University of Michigan something like that…someplace that taught you to be assertive and persistent.”
“Dartmouth.”
“Good for you. Great school. Now get lost.” Rapp stuck his thumb out and pointed toward the aisle. “I have an important call. Now would be a good time for you to hit the head.”
“I do not appreciate…”
Rapp cut him off. “Go find Ted Byrne, and ask him who I am.”
The young man reluctantly closed his laptop and left.
Rapp put the phone back to his ear and said, “Rob.”
“Well, if it isn’t, Mr. Big Shot. I hear POTUS asked you to catch a ride with him.”
“I would think that today of all days, you would have more to do than gossip.”
POTUS was the acronym for president of the United States. Ridley was Deputy Director Operations, Near East Division. His division was at the center of the brewing storm. He was a former marine, a major league smartass, and one of the most capable people Rapp had ever worked with.
“You never call anymore. It’s the only way I can keep tabs on you.”
“What are you hearing?”
“Well…practically every politician in town is demanding a briefing so that they can go on TV and claim they know what they are talking about, my counterpart in Israel won’t return my calls, and the phone lines between Tehran and Beirut are so hot they’re melting.”
“Have you been able to get a hold of a single person at Mossad?”
“Nope, and I’ve tried a couple end-arounds. Some old buddies I used to tip a few with. No one is answering their phone over there.”
“So you’ve got nothing.”
“From them, but I wouldn’t say nothing in general. Just nothing concrete. There are a lot of rumors flying around out there.”
“How do you feel about starting another one?”
There was a pause and then, “I’m listening.”
“Remember that character we met with in the Sand Box last year?” Rapp was referring to Iraq.
“I meet a lot of characters over there. You’ll have to be more specific.”
“The guy from PMOI.”
“PMOI?”
Rapp was talking about the People’s Mujahedin of Iran, but he didn’t want to say it out loud. “Remember, we were at the palace and we stayed up until four in the morning drinking brandy and smoking cigars. He told us how a certain leader over there is referred to as the peacock president.”
“Oh, yeah,” Ridley replied. “I’m with you.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“Last time I checked, he moves back forth between Mosul and Baghdad. He’s got a car parts business, if you can believe it. I hear it’s booming.”
“Track him down and set up a meeting.”
“For when?”
“First thing tomorrow,” Rapp said. “And find someone else to brief the president. You’re coming with me.”
“Are you going to fill me in?”
“I’ll explain it all on the plane. Meet me at Andrews in two hours.”
“You got it.”
16
TEHRAN, IRAN
Ashani found if he took controlled, shallow, breaths it helped minimize the coughing attacks. He sat hugging the arm of the couch, with the Chief of the Armed Forces to his right and the Foreign Minister next to him. The Supreme Leader sat alone in a simple chair almost directly across from Ashani. His meeting chamber was void of all technological advances. There were no computers or plasma TVs. No projectors or drop-down screens. There wasn’t even a conference table for them to sit around. It was the century-old setting of kings and religious leaders. Supplicants and advisors came to plead their cases, and the monarch would lay down his edict. He was not to be bothered with details or execution. The advisors would sort things out later. The system also conveniently gave the Supreme Leader the ability to take credit for what worked and distance himself from what didn’t.
The walls were bare, with one exception. A framed photograph of the Supreme Leader hung on the wall above his right shoulder. Between the Supreme Leader’s chair and the love seat where Najar and Amatullah were seated the Iranian flag stood upright in an effort to give the dull room an air of official state business. The president and head of the Guardian Council had dropped any pretense of liking each other. They were adversaries, and everyone in the room knew it. Both men sat stiffly and leaned away from one other, Najar toward the Supreme Leader and Amatullah toward Ashani.
Ashani had hesitated for only a second when his doctor told him he would like him to come straight to the hospital so he could check him out. Ashani knew it was essential that he be at this meeting, if for no other reason than to make sure Amatullah did not try to blame him for what had gone wrong, or somehow convince the Supreme Leader to rush into some foolish act of reprisal. There was one other reason, though, that continued to nag him. He was deeply worried by what he had seen when he looked down into the pit of what was not so long ago his country’s epicenter of scientific advancement and national pride. More to the point, he was worried about what he didn’t see.
Persian pride would demand that they hit back. Ashani and his ministry would play a crucial roll in whatever they decided to do. A straight-out military counterstrike was foolish, but that wouldn’t stop several key members of the council from advocating all-out war with Israel. There would be a lot of saber
rattling in the coming weeks, but in the end they would find surrogates to do their dirty work. That part would not be difficult. There were plenty of impoverished Palestinians who would jump at the chance to martyr themselves.
Ashani’s more immediate concern was in protecting himself and his people. Someone was going to be blamed for what had happened. One would think that the Ministry of Intelligence would be safe, but with Amatullah one never knew. The man never let the facts get in the way of his version of events. Things were going to get ugly. Alliances on the council were sure to shift as the inevitable blame game ensued. Who would try to rewrite history? Who would try to deflect? Who would stab whom in the back? Anything was possible and Ashani could not afford to be laid up in a hospital with doctors poking and prodding him.
The Supreme Leader finished leading the group in prayer and then gave his friend Najar the signal to begin.
Najar looked at Major General Dadress and said, “General, your report.”
Like every man in the room Dadress had a full beard. His was thicker than the others and dyed an oily black. He had a broad forehead and a receding hairline. He was in his olive green army uniform, and he looked decidedly uncomfortable. Leaning forward, he said, “By our best estimates the attack took place shortly after noon. We had no radar contact with the bombers, so we are assuming they used the B-2 stealth bomber. We estimate that they flew near the operational ceiling of the B-2, which is fifty thousand feet.”
“I seem to remember the Russians telling us their new missile system would be able to detect the Americans’ stealth aircraft,” Najar said in an unhappy tone.
“They claimed that the bombers would be vulnerable when they opened their bomb doors.”
“And our air force detected nothing.”
“Correct.”
“Wonderful,” Najar said in a sour tone. “Twenty-seven million dollars for a missile system that doesn’t work.”
Ashani’s doubts were beginning to grow. He knew the science behind the stealth bombers, and they should have in fact left themselves open to detection for five to ten seconds while they dropped their payload. More worrisome, though, was the time of the bombing. Ashani had no knowledge of the Americans ever using one of the valuable stealth bombers in a daylight operation. Why would the Americans expose their billion-dollar planes during a daylight bombing run? The answer for Ashani was that they wouldn’t.
“There is a pilot,” Amatullah announced, “who made a positive identification of an Israeli plane in the area. My people are debriefing him at this very moment.”
Najar slowly turned his head and looked at the president. “I heard your comments on TV earlier this evening, and I saw your pilot interviewed. I am not sure I believe him.”
“You are a born skeptic,” Amatullah countered.
“Have you not listened to anything General Dadress has told us? The Air Force detected nothing. They think the stealth bombers flew at their operational ceiling of fifty thousand feet. Commercial air traffic flies at thirty to thirty-five thousand feet. Your pilot must have very good eyes to see a plane from such a distance.”
“Fifty thousand feet is an estimate by radar operators who failed to do their jobs. At this point I am more than happy to take the eyewitness account of a veteran pilot.”
“Really.” Najar turned to Dadress. “General, how many stealth bombers do the Israelis have?”
“None that we know of.”
“And if the Americans had given them some, do you think they would paint big white and blue Stars of David on the wings?”
“No.”
Najar nodded and waited to see if Amatullah had anything further to add.
“You may quibble over the specifics of how it happened, but it is obvious to everyone that it was the Jews and the Americans who were behind this.”
“Even so, this council would appreciate it if during a national crisis you would consult us before you rushed to get in front of the cameras.”
Amatullah looked past Najar to the Supreme Leader. “My apologies.”
Ayatollah Nassiri acknowledged the apology with the faintest of nods. In a soft voice he asked Najar, “How many perished?”
Najar turned to Golam Mosheni, the man in charge of the country’s nuclear program and in a much louder voice asked, “How many?”
Mosheni was a large man, probably only a few pounds shy of 300. His forehead was glistening with sweat. “Sixty-seven scientists and technicians. We were fortunate that they struck during lunch. Twenty-three scientists and technicians were on their break when the bombs fell.”
“Fortunate.” Amatullah repeated in a whimsical tone. “I’m not sure I would use that word to describe anything that you are associated with.”
There it was, Ashani thought. Amatullah had chosen his scapegoat. He had been a champion of Mosheni for years, touting him as the man who held the hopes of the future of Iran. In addition to running the nuclear program, it appeared that the diminutive president expected him to stop foreign incursions into their airspace.
“It could have been worse,” Mosheni replied in a weak effort to defend himself.
Amatullah clasped his hands in his lap. His short legs barely touched the floor. “Our nuclear program has been destroyed, we have a toxic hole in the middle of our second largest city, and the West is laughing at us. Please tell us how it could have been worse?” He unclasped his hands and threw them up in the air. “I would love for you to explain to us how it could have been worse.”
Mosheni’s face grew flushed. He kept his mouth closed and refused to speak. His discomfort and embarrassment was obvious.
“Has the radioactive fallout been contained?” Najar asked.
“Yes.”
“The rest of the facility?”
“The equipment can be salvaged, but it will have to be moved to a different location.”
“Natanz?” Najar asked.
“That would be my recommendation.”
Najar swiveled his head to look at Amatullah. “I seem to remember you advocating Isfahan to be the main nuclear site over Natanz. Something do to with the fact that the Americans would never attack a site in the middle of a city. “
The head of the Guardian Council was referring to the country’s two main nuclear sites. Natanz was buried in a mountain hundreds of miles away from Isfahan in a remote location. There had been a heated debate years earlier over where to put the most crucial parts of the program. Isfahan was pushed by Amatullah for the reason already stated and because the country’s scientists lobbied hard for the site. They did not want to have to relocate their families to the remote region of Natanz.
Amatullah bought time with one of his sly grins. “I did no such thing. I merely passed along the recommendations of others.” The president glanced at the vice president for atomic energy.
“I seem to remember you guaranteeing this council that Isfahan could survive anything the Americans could throw at it?”
“If I made such a guarantee it was based on the advice of those who know about such things.”
“You made the guarantee. I remember it very well.”
Amatullah exhaled in frustration. “Experts who do not work for me stated that the facility could withstand anything short of a nuclear strike. Obviously, the Americans have come up with a new weapon. I am a politician, not a scientist, my friend. I am not a military expert nor am I an oracle who can see the future.”
“Maybe we will have to be less trusting of your word from now on.”
Amatullah looked deeply offended. “If you want to blame me for what happened today, I am truly insulted. I did not come here to discuss the past. I am here because I want to know how we are going to make the Jews and Americans pay for this.” The president took a moment to glance around the room and make eye contact with each man. “It is understandable that some of us are upset, but we must put that anger aside and focus on striking back at our enemies. Who in this room was not behind our nuclear program?”
; “We will strike back at our enemies,” Najar said in a measured tone, “but there must be accountability. Not everyone on this council was as behind this program as you were. Several of us feared this was exactly where we would end up. Pouring countless treasure into a program that would one day be destroyed by our enemies. If I had known that you were going to speak so freely to the press about our right to develop nuclear weapons and your desire to see Israel wiped off the face of the map, I would have never supported this.”
“I…” Amatullah started to speak.
“Do not interrupt me,” Najar said sharply. “I think you should be removed from office.” The cleric paused to let Amatullah know just how serious he was. “But unfortunately, we can’t do that right now. Do you know why?”
Amatullah shook his head.
“We can’t do it because the Jews would be dancing in the street. It would be a dual victory for them. Whether I like it or not, you are exactly who we need to galvanize our people and get them focused on the retribution that must be meted out.”
Amatullah’s face transformed from worry to pride and then elation. “The people will be behind us, I can promise you that. We will strike back at the Jews and the Americans like never before, and I know exactly where to hit them. We will make them pay for their arrogance. We will destroy them.”
17
AIR FORCE ONE
Rapp approached the president’s office door and knocked. He waited a second and then entered. Alexander was behind his desk, and Kennedy was sitting across from him in a chair. Rapp closed the door and sat on the arm of the couch immediately to his right.
Kennedy looked at him and said, “We’re discussing what I should say to Azad.”
Rapp thought of the Iranian intelligence minister and shrugged his shoulders. “I heard about your little accident. I’d like to say sorry, but the truth is we’ve been quietly hoping the Israelis would take care of this for some time.”
“I don’t think that will work.”
“It’s the truth.”