by Vince Flynn
The bickering had gone on for the better part of the morning. For Ashani it was like being on a long car trip with his teenage daughters. Most men were easily intimidated by Imad Mukhtar. With his close ties to the hard-line zealots and his propensity for violence, it was wise to steer well clear of him. Farahani, due to either stupidity or conviction, had decided to concede nothing. While Mukhtar pointed out the facility’s shortcomings with the tact of a drill instructor, Farahani defended himself like an insulted artist. The two fed off each other, the rhetoric escalated, and Ashani found himself wishing desperately that his office would call with an emergency that needed his immediate attention.
Ashani leaned against the wall of Farahani’s office watching Mukhtar tick off a list of files he wanted to review.
Farahani, in the midst of lighting a cigarette, exhaled a cloud of smoke and shook his head. “I know that man very well. He would never betray the revolution.”
Ashani had never seen Farahani so stubborn. Maybe after all these months he was finally sick of people making the trip from Tehran to second-guess his every move. Even so, Mukhtar was not some mindless bureaucrat trying to cover his backside. At the young age of fourteen the man had joined the Palestinian terrorist group Force 17. By the time he was twenty, he recognized Yasser Arafat for the corrupt megalomaniac that he was and broke from the PLO. He formed a little-known group called Islamic Jihad that eventually spun off another organization called Hezbollah. That next year he changed the landscape of the Middle East by successfully using car and truck bombs to level the U.S. Embassy, the marine barracks, and the French barracks in Beirut. After those three gruesome attacks, Mukhtar and his men went on a kidnapping spree that turned the international political landscape on its ear for the rest of the decade. Mukhtar was a man of action who did not shrink from violence. He did not hesitate to kill those who did not share his all-or-nothing vision of jihad. Even if they were fellow Muslims.
“Three of your top scientists have been poisoned,” Mukhtar accused.
“No traces of the poison were found anywhere in this facility,” Farahani shot back.
“Who do you think poisoned them?”
“I’m sure the Jewish pigs had something to do with it, but since it did not happen in this facility, the investigation is out of my hands.” Farahani turned to look at Ashani. “If you want to know who killed them, you should ask Azad.”
“I know who killed them,” Mukhtar half shouted. “The point I am trying to get through your thick skull is that the Jews have spies in your country. They have been sniffing around for some time. They specifically targeted those three scientists because they were the backbone of your uranium enrichment program.”
“Anyone can make that assumption. I am not arguing with you. Those men were poisoned at the university. Not here in this facility. There are no Jewish spies here. It is impossible.”
“I want to talk to this man.” Mukhtar held up a personnel file.
Farahani straightened his posture and said, “That man comes from a family whose reputation is beyond reproach.”
Ashani watched as Mukhtar’s fists clenched and his nostrils flared. It now all fell into place for the man who ran the Ministry of Intelligence. He could not believe he had not seen it earlier. Farahani came from a very proud Persian family. A family who could trace their genealogy back to Persia’s dynastic roots. A very pious family who could see the shah was about to lose his throne, and who in a move of self-preservation threw their support behind Ayatollah Khomeini and his revolutionaries. Farahani was very proud of his Persian lineage, and he was not about to take orders from some Palestinian mutt like Mukhtar.
In the blink of an eye Ashani saw how this could turn out. If Mukhtar got a whiff that Farahani was looking down his prominent Persian beak at him, there would be violence, and there would be a better-than-even chance that Farahani would end up dead or permanently injured. Farahani’s brother, who sat on the Supreme Council, would be extremely upset. Mukhtar was too valuable to punish, so he would be sent back to the front lines in Lebanon. Powerful people would want to know why Ashani did not step in and stop things before they got out of hand. As tempted as he was to let it play out, Ashani decided that in the long run it would only make his life more difficult.
Ashani pushed himself off the wall. “I know the man you are asking about. He is indeed from a good family, which is exactly why we should talk to him.”
Farahani looked at Ashani with a confused, almost hurt expression.
“He will speak honestly,” Ashani said. “If there is anything he has seen, or anyone he is suspicious of, he will tell us.”
Farahani paused and then gave his consent.
“Good,” Mukhtar announced. “Where is he?”
Ashani checked his watch. It was almost noon. “Why don’t you send your people to collect him and have them escort him to the café?” Ashani did not give Farahani a chance to argue. He opened the office door. “I will wait for you by the elevator.”
Mukhtar joined him in the hall a few seconds later. He pulled up alongside the Intel Minister and said, “This man is an idiot.”
Ashani shrugged. “He is a very hard worker.”
“If that is all you want then you should hire an ox.”
Ashani sighed. “Imad, I do not make personnel decisions outside my ministry.”
“Well, you should.”
“There are other things at play, and although he is not the shrewdest man in the government, he is incorruptible.”
“He likes these people too much. He is too easily fooled.”
“I am not sure any of it will matter.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“We have been too open about this program. The Americans have learned the Natanz facility is a sham. We pumped millions of dollars into a fake facility, so if they ever did attack they would pick the remote location where the reactor was supposedly located. It was a good plan. There is no population in the immediate area. The Americans would have taken the bait and left this facility alone.”
“They know Natanz is fake?” It was obvious by Mukhtar’s tone that this was news to him.
“Yes, and now they and the Israelis know we have placed all of our eggs in one basket.”
“I do not think they will attack. At least not by air. They are already on shaky ground with the international community.”
Ashani hesitated to say what was on his mind, but a part of him wanted to take a stand. “A year ago I would have agreed with you.”
“What has changed?”
They reached the elevator and faced each other. They were the same height. Ashani was slender where Mukhtar was boxy. In a conspiratorial whisper Ashani said, “Our good friend has been a bit too verbose about his desire to see Israel wiped off the face of the map.”
“You don’t share his views?” Mukhtar asked with suspicion.
“I said no such thing. I am simply questioning the wisdom of making the threat before you can back it up.”
Mukhtar nodded ever so subtly. “There is no undoing the past. The important thing now is to make sure this facility is secure, and I do not think this halfwit is up to the task.”
Ashani did not want to be pulled any further into this mess. “I am not as convinced as you that they will not attack by air. A single B-2 bomber could enter our airspace and we would never see it. They fly at fifty thousand feet and can carry a payload in excess of forty thousand pounds. I have no doubt that the Americans have designed a new weapon that is capable of penetrating each and every floor of this facility.”
“They would need a nuke.” Mukhtar shook his head. “And they would never do that. Besides, the Americans aren’t my concern. Their hands are tied with the mess they’ve created in Iraq. Their European allies would have no patience for such an attack. It is the Jews that worry me, and the Americans aren’t about to give them one of their B-2s.”
“Then how will the Jews stop us?”
“The obvious a
nswer is that they will continue to harass. They will kill more scientists if they have to, but that will only slow us down. Eventually, they will try to destroy this place. The only question is how.”
Ashani did not particularly care for Mukhtar. The man had a violent streak that made him hard to like in a civilized environment, but he was not someone to be dismissed lightly. He had succeeded where nations had failed. The suicide and rocket attacks that he launched at Israel year after year were the reason behind the Jews’ decision to finally give up some land. It was not the United Nations and their threats of sanctions. It was not Egypt, Syria, Jordan, and the other Arab neighbors threatening war. That had been tried one too many times, and the Jews had proven themselves extremely difficult to evict from the tiny scab of land. He was a fighter who had the uncanny ability to predict the actions of his adversaries.
Ashani was about to speak when Farahani interrupted them with the news that the scientist in question was already having lunch in the café. The doors opened to the large elevator and Ashani gestured for Mukhtar to enter first. The head of Hezbollah hesitated, made an unconscious grimace, and then stepped into the steel box. Ashani observed the man’s behavior with a new interest. He followed him into the elevator and walked to the far wall where Mukhtar had positioned himself like a cornered animal. It occurred to Ashani that the head of Hezbollah did not like confined spaces. As the door shut, he watched Mukhtar close his eyes and mumble something to himself. Ashani filed the information away.
The elevator lurched and began moving very slowly. Ashani looked at the numbers above the door and in a faraway voice said, “Damien Chaussepied.”
“Who?” Mukhtar asked in a terse tone.
“Damien Chaussepied. Have you ever heard of him?”
“No.”
“He was a French contractor working at the Osirak reactor in Iraq back in nineteen eighty-one.”
“And why are you bringing him up?”
“He turned out to be an Israeli spy. He placed homing beacons throughout the facility, so the Israeli pilots knew exactly where to drop their bombs.”
“And the Israelis killed him,” Farahani scoffed. “That his how they treat the people they recruit.”
Ashani ignored the head of security and focused on Mukhtar. “He was supposedly killed in the air strike.”
“Supposedly?”
“That is what the Iraqis and the French claim. I have never believed it.”
“Why?”
“Over the years there has been certain information that points to the French DGSE working with Mossad on this operation.”
Farahani scoffed. “That sounds like typical Zionist propaganda.”
Mukhtar ignored the head of security and asked, “You said he died in the raid.”
“That is what they claim.”
“Did they find his body?”
“They found parts of a body. There was a lot of damage done to the facility.”
“So you think the French worked both sides of the deal.”
Ashani nodded. “They were paid millions to help build it, and then they helped the Israelis destroy it.”
“That is pure speculation,” Farahani responded.
“Conjecture,” Ashani stressed, “based on certain information that you are not privy to.”
Farahani’s face formed a disagreeing frown.
“I see you are skeptical, so let me ask you a simple question. Do you trust our Russian friends who are helping us build our nuclear program?”
“Yes.”
Mukhtar laughed out loud. “Then you are a fool. The Russians are worse than the Saudis. They would sell their own children if they were offered enough money.”
Ashani had just begun to open his mouth. He was going to add his own anecdotal information about the Russians, but the words never got past his lips. Something very wrong happened at that exact moment, and even though Ashani did not yet know what it was, he knew it was not good.
It began as a rumble that appeared to come from beneath them. At first Ashani thought it was remote and somewhat muffled, but any such hope was quickly extinguished by a much louder explosion that grew with intensity. The elevator shook, the lights flickered, and then to Ashani’s horror he felt himself being pulled toward the door as the air was sucked from within the elevator compartment. Time froze for the briefest moment as all three men stared at each other in shock and then one by one they began gasping for air. In the midst of dealing with their most immediate need, which was to fill their lungs with oxygen, their relatively tiny space was hit by a much larger secondary explosion. All at once the elevator shot upwards, hung in the air for a second, and then came crashing back down. The safety cable snapped tight and the box lurched to a violent stop, knocking all three men to the floor. The lights again flickered but managed to stay on.
Ashani rolled onto his side and ended up face-to-face with Mukhtar. The terrorist’s eyes were wide with fear. Ashani continued holding his breath and looked toward the door. There was a hissing noise as air rushed back into the space. It had a burnt smell to it, but was breathable. Farahani got to his knees and reached for the control buttons.
“We need to get out of here. They target the elevator shafts.”
Mukhtar gasped for air and asked, “What?”
“The Americans target the ventilation ducts and elevator shafts.”
Ashani rose to one knee. He could feel the elevator moving again. He was well aware of the American bombing strategy of trying to drop their laser guided bunker-buster bombs through air shafts. Knowing this, they had taken special precautions to foil such an attack. Not a single duct or shaft went directly from the surface to the last subfloor where the reactor was located. Additionally, every elevator shaft had extra shielding on the surface.
Farahani was attempting to pry open the door with his fingers while Mukhtar banged his fist against the door-open button.
Ashani stayed on one knee. He was not convinced that leaving the relative security of the elevator was such a good idea. What they had just experienced was undoubtedly the first wave of bombs. There would surely be more. Suddenly, there was a noise that was so ominous it caused Ashani to reflexively cringe. It started as a groan, steadily growing in both volume and pitch. Almost something you would expect from some large mammal about to expire. The groaning was joined by loud popping noises. The elevator shook once again, knocking Farahani off balance and into Mukhtar, pinning him in the corner.
For Ashani, there was something strangely familiar about the noise he had just heard, but he couldn’t place it. All of a sudden, the doors began to slide open, and from his position on one knee Ashani was greeted with a sight that made absolutely no sense. Having been underground for the entire morning the last thing he thought he would see was blue sky. They had always assumed the Americans or the Jews would attack at night. In the midst of the explosions he had lost track of time. Almost as an afterthought it occurred to him that something else was wrong. Day or night, he shouldn’t have been able to look at the sky. He should have been looking at the ground floor ceiling.
Mukhtar pushed Farahani off him toward the now fully opened doors. Ashani stood and took a tentative step forward. His brain was still telling him that something was wrong. He kept going back to that horrible screeching noise. Like a fog rolling in off the ocean, a cloud of dust floated up from below obscuring everything beyond the door. Alarm bells began sounding in Ashani’s brain as he realized what was going on. He had heard that screeching noise once many years before, when he’d participated in a clandestine raid against an Iraqi oil platform. It was the sound of steel twisting and snapping.
Farahani ran out of the elevator and dropped like a rock. His scream floated up from below. Mukhtar was right on his heels. For Ashani what happened next was more a reaction than a decision. His arm shot out and grabbed Mukhtar by the back of his shirt. The master terrorist hung on the edge for a second, one foot safely in the elevator, the other floating above what could have be
en certain death. Slowly, Ashani pulled Mukhtar back into the elevator. Almost immediately, he knew he had missed a great opportunity. And if Ashani had even a glimpse of the problems that Mukhtar would create for him in the ensuing weeks, he would have shoved him to his death right then and there.
9
ATLANTA, GEORGIA
Rapp stared out the window of the Gulfstream 5 as the landing gear thudded into the locked position. Rivera reached out and grabbed his hand, which he took as a good sign, considering the fact that she had been mute for most of the morning. Rapp had never excelled in the relationship department. He was sure if he sat down with a shrink he or she would be able to surmise his problems in a few minutes. Maybe less. His father had died of a heart attack when he was young, his high school sweetheart had perished in the Pan Am Lockerbie tragedy, and his wife had been murdered just two short years ago. Add to that his inherent lack of trust in people, and you were left with a person who was better suited for bachelorhood. Being the realist that he was, Rapp should have found solace in the knowledge that he was better off alone. He didn’t, though. There was a gaping hole where he expected his life to be at this point. He was growing tired of the solitude. Not the job so much. He was still extremely passionate about that. It was more what it did to his personal life.
Rivera offered hope, though. Yes, her Latina temper could bare its fangs over the most inconsequential things, but the woman had a sense of proportion when it mattered and even more importantly a sense of duty and sacrifice. That was something Anna had never understood. His wife claimed to know why he did what he did, but she was never entirely on board. How could she have been? She was a reporter, and he was a clandestine operative for the CIA. She fundamentally believed that media had a right to know everything the government was doing. He fundamentally believed there were certain things a civilized society was better off not knowing. If they had taken one of those premarriage tests they would have failed miserably. Even so it wouldn’t have deterred them. They were madly in love, and not a day passed where he didn’t long to hold her in his arms once more.
