"That was before you even knew me?"
"Yes. It was."
"So I'm not entirely responsible for your actions?"
"No. No, you're not. I was already feeling this strange sensation, a really powerful pull toward the Palestinians. It all reminded me of a story one of my troopers told me in Northern Ireland. He was a nice guy named Pat Byrne, and he had an uncle in Philadelphia who had left Ireland when he was eleven and lived for the next fifty-six years in Pennsylvania. And then one day the old uncle — he was a widower — decided to go for a ten-day holiday to Deny, where he still had relatives but had never once visited in all those years.
"Do you know he never went back to the United States? He settled into a typical Irish village near the sea with a couple of cousins. Then he called an estate agent back in Philadelphia and told him to sell his two cars, his house, and everything in it. He's still in Ireland, some little place in Donegal, happy as a lark.
"And whatever he felt in Ireland was what I feel here in the Middle East. I've hardly any memory of Kerman, but my heart tells me I'm home."
"But didn't you feel at home in London?"
"Yes, I did. My family was there. Everyone I knew. But I think I always felt I was different and that other people thought I was different. When you're a kid you push things like that to the back of your mind. But I knew when I got here that I wasn't different any more. And then I met you… "
"Does that mean we're not going to end up in Donegal? We're staying here?"
General Rashood laughed. "We have a lot of work to do, you and I… "
"Yes, but are we staying here?"
"In Iran?"
"Yes."
"I don't know. But we're going to be here for some time. And even if we leave, it will be to live in Syria, or Jordan, or even Egypt. It will be in an Islamic country, I know that. Anyway, I could never return to the West, not to live."
"They'll hang you, eh?"
"They might."
"Well, I won't let them. I'll blow up their silly courtroom, like that Israeli tank."
"Then they might hang us both."
"Not us. We're too smart."
Ravi put his arm around her. "Smart but careful, that's the trick," he told her. "Remember, our business is very dangerous. One serious mistake could end our lives."
Shakira looked thoughtful. "Do you sometimes think we have done enough? You know, we should just retire from the battle and go and live somewhere peaceful?"
"I do sometimes think that. But I would like to see a great Islamic State, free of the influences of the West and Israel. Certainly here in the Middle East. And I think I know how to achieve it. Which is why we are here. A lot of people are counting on me, and I'm not ready to let everyone down."
"I guess you shouldn't be so brilliant, my darling," she replied. "At the Nimrod Jail, you showed everyone a standard of professionalism they had never seen before. Now you are some kind of messiah to half the Arab nations."
"I can teach them," said Ravi, quietly. "But first I must show them."
They left the teahouse shortly afterward and took a taxi back to the Kerman Grand Inn, packed, and left for the airport for the once-a-week Iran Air flight down to Bandar Abbas, a distance of around 320 miles.
It left on time at six o'clock and arrived at the seaport forty-five minutes later. They checked into the now jaded but once renowned old Hotel Gamerun on the south side of Bolvar-e Pasdaran, overlooking the Gulf. Renamed the Homa Hotel, it still carried an air of opulence, and its restaurant, once famous, was now adequate. Just. But the chef knew how to make battered prawns with fresh steamed rice, the staple dish of Iran. They drank mango juice, and then tea, before taking a walk in the gardens overlooking the ocean.
The night was warm and the moon rose in the east, from out of the desert, casting a light on several strollers along the pathways. The hotel was full, mainly with tourists, as it often was at this time of year. Bookings were impossible, but the Iranian Navy had several permanent rooms under contract, which was how Ravi and Shakira had slipped so smoothly onto the guest list with three days' notice.
News of the Nimrod jailbreak had had a stunning effect on Arab morale. But it was the Ayatollahs who had insisted on Hamas revealing who, precisely, had been responsible. Hamas had been shy, guarding the identity of their military leader. But as the months went by, the Ayatollahs, who had done so much to finance operations in the Middle East, had their way. The name of General Rashood was given to them, along with the shining fact that he was an Iranian-born Muslim.
This quiet walk in the garden may have seemed like a carefree, romantic interlude for two people who had been devotedly in love for almost two years. But the atmosphere between them was fraught with tensions. First thing in the morning, General Rashood was to report to the Iranian Naval yard on the western side of the town, where he had been summoned to discuss the future with the top brass of Hezbollah, plus that organization's military sympathizers and two senior hard-line clerics from Tehran who had for many years provided funds for various acts of destruction against the West.
An Ayatollah paymaster of very senior government rank would chair the meeting, which would take place behind locked doors in the Ops Room Block. Four guards would patrol every entrance. All notes and notebooks would be surrendered for inspection at the conclusion of the discussions. For many months, no one would ever be informed of the decisions reached nor indeed what any single person had stated.
As classified military gatherings go, this one was secret. And it would decide the immediate future of General Ravi and his Palestinian bride-to-be. Neither of them knew what tomorrow might bring, even though the main purpose of the meeting in the dockyard was to hear the world view of the revered Hamas military Chief.
Ravi and Shakira slept restlessly, each in turn awakening and wondering where they would go and what tasks might be allotted them. Shakira would not be permitted to attend the meeting, but for the moment she was a guest of the Islamic State of Iran and would remain at the hotel until the General's business was concluded.
They went down the wide stairs for breakfast at eight o'clock, Shakira eating the traditional lavash bread with yogurt and honey, Ravi insisting on cornflakes and then a couple of fried eggs with toast despite, by Iranian standards, the monumental cost. The Homa Hotel's accounting department reasoned that anyone who wanted a thoroughly Western breakfast was a thoroughly Western tourist with thoroughly Western cash, which was, essentially, to be encouraged.
The Navy staff car arrived for the General at a quarter to nine. He wore Arab dress and spoke Arabic to the driver, who steered them westward through the seaport and out toward the Headquarters of the Iranian Navy.
Ravi noted the big sign to the left of the main entrance: headquarters first naval district. Below these large white letters was an uncompromising communication:
AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY
INTRUDERS WILL BE SHOT ON SIGHT
Their route to the Ops Center took them past the jetties. Ravi, like all SAS Commanders, was familiar with warships and he recognized a guided-missile frigate when he saw one. Right before his eyes was moored Iran's 1,300-ton Alvano Class Vosper MK5, Sabalan, which was built over thirty years ago in England and now carrying the very adequate Chinese cruise missile C-802.
Ravi could see the number 73 painted on her hull, and there were seamen boarding her and others leaving. He couldn't work out whether she was just departing or just arriving. Either way, she looked like a force to be considered in a Naval confrontation.
They arrived at the Ops Center a little after nine o'clock, and the General was ushered into a downstairs office where he was greeted by the burly, bespectacled figure of Vice Admiral Mohammed Badr, Head of Tactical Headquarters and Iran's most senior submarine expert.
"General Rashood!" he exclaimed with genuine warmth. "I am honored to meet you. We have all heard so much."
"Some of it good?" said Ravi, offering the Muslim greeting, arching his hand down from
his forehead.
"All of it superb, General," said the Admiral, bowing his head and giving deference to the rank of the officer before him. This, despite the fact that Ravi had been commissioned in a dirt cellar and had never led a force of more than fifty men, while he, Mohammed Badr, was the Head of a National Navy comprising 40,000 personnel and 180 ships, including three Russian-built Kilo Class submarines.
Admiral Badr, a native of the southern port of Bushehr, had been in command of the entire Kilo Class program of the Iranian Navy. Indeed he had been in command of the dockyard when an American hit squad had wrecked all three of the original deliveries four years previously. The three Kilos, now in his possession, were brand new, in pristine operational condition, and the Admiral intended they should stay that way.
He loathed America and everything the West stood for. He had actually been known to tremble with fury on the deck of an Iranian frigate when a line of giant U.S. tankers out of the Texan Gulf coast moved arrogantly through the Strait of Hormuz as if they owned it, to reload with crude oil, oil from the Persian Gulf, his country's sea, his people's oil. Not America's.
On the wall of his office was a photograph of a young Naval officer dressed in the dark blue dress uniform of a
Nakhoda Dovom (Commander), with four gold stripes on his sleeve, the uppermost one containing a gold circle.
"My son," said the Admiral, glancing across the room. "Ben Badr, Commanding Officer of the guided-missile frigate Sabalan. He's a good man, thirty-five years old now. He'll be here in a moment to meet you."
"I'll be honored," replied Ravi. "Did the Sabalan just arrive? It looked busy."
"She docked shortly after midnight," said the Admiral.
"Will Ben join us at the meeting?"
"Certainly. He is very highly regarded here. A lot of people say I'm just keeping this chair warm for him."
"Has he worked in submarines, like his father?" asked Ravi, slightly out of context.
But Admiral Badr did not regard it as such, and he replied steadily, "All of his career. This is his first surface command."
"Broadening his experience, eh?"
"Precisely so."
"Can't have a Navy Chief who's spent his entire life underwater, right?"
The Admiral chuckled. "Not these days. But Ben's a quick learner, and he's dedicated to our country and our cause. He'll be promoted to Captain this year, and resume command of one of the Kilos."
"That's the Russian diesel electric?"
"That's the one. We have three of them. Excellent ships… extremely quiet… "
"Until they rev up," said Ravi, smiling.
"Generally speaking," replied the Admiral. "We have learned when not to rev up! Ah, here's Ben now… "
Through the door came Commander Badr, a dark-skinned man with jet black, close-cut hair and the build of an athlete, broad in the shoulder but lean, with a light walk, just one step from a full canter, and an easy smile. He was not quite as tall as his father, who was only a fraction under six feet two. But Ben Badr was better-looking and classic Persian, with a slim, slightly curved nose and a high forehead. It was a face of high intelligence.
"Good morning, General," he said, without being introduced. "It's my privilege to meet you."
"Commander," replied Ravi, smiling and offering his hand in greeting. "You know little about me, so you should perhaps hold judgment on how big a privilege it is."
"You already hold a place in my heart," he replied gravely.
At which point Admiral Badr interrupted. "One of the martyrs released from Nimrod Jail was Ben's godfather. They were very close. And you have the gratitude of our entire family."
Ravi was somewhat startled that his exploits were general knowledge here in the headquarters of the Iranian Navy. And Admiral Badr, sensing a flicker of surprise on the ex-SAS man's face, said softly, "Do not be concerned. The elite high command of Hezbollah expects to know everything from our colleagues in Hamas. But the secrets of the Nimrod mission remain very secret in our country."
General Rashood nodded, unsmiling. And the Iranian Admiral continued, "One thing we do know, however, is that a very great welcome is in order. We understand this visit is a return to your homeland after more than thirty years in England."
"Yes. Yes, it is."
"I hope you and Miss Sabah are enjoying it. You are comfortable in the Homa Hotel?"
"Yes, sir. Very."
"And your visit to the old teahouse in the Kerman bazaar? Was that nostalgic?"
"It was, sir. Very. I remembered the room — and I really remembered the sweet pastries."
Mohammed Badr chuckled, observing that Ravi Rashood had not as much as flickered his annoyance at obviously having been followed. He explained, "General, you understand we all have enemies. We felt it prudent you should have protection during your visit here."
"I understand," said Ravi.
"Meanwhile, I think we should go upstairs and join the others. The mullahs were here early this morning immediately after prayers, and we should not keep them waiting."
They stepped out into the stone-floored lobby and made their way to the second floor. The wide wooden doors to the conference room were attended by four armed Navy guards. Admiral Badr wished them good morning and walked past, opening the door himself.
Inside, set upon a glorious Persian carpet, was a forty-foot-long table of polished walnut, around which sat seven men, four of them dressed in combat fatigues and Arab headdress in black-and-white patterns. Each of them was introduced to the General, but their names were not offered. It was clear that everyone else in the room knew each other, and Ravi surmised that the four were representatives of the arch-terrorist squadrons of Hezbollah.
At the head of the table was a black-robed Ayatollah, whose name Ravi could barely make out but sounded like Rafsanjani, and may have been a member of the former President's family. He was not referred to as "His Holiness Grand Ayatollah," but it was obvious he was a Shi'ite Muslim of the highest rank in the government of the Islamic State.
He rose when the General was introduced and offered both of his hands, saying quietly in Arabic, "Salam aleikom, my son. We are grateful to you for what you have done and for all that you are doing." Like the Admiral, the Ayatollah had had a close and trusted friend liberated from the Nimrod Jail.
Flanking the Great Man were two bearded, black-robed hojjat-el-Islam, the second-highest-ranking clerics, both wearing white turbans. One of them was from the ancient City of Isfahan, the other from Tehran. Each rose in greeting the visiting Hamas military Commander from Damascus, and each in turn thanked him for his achievements.
Ravi and the two Naval officers took their seats, and the Ayatollah began by saying, "I do not, I am sure, need to remind anyone in this room of the great secrecy we must observe. We are discussing matters of great moment, and our plans must not be communicated. The ten people here are representing some of the most important Councils in the Middle East. We are, I know, of one mind. We must also be of one voice. And, when we conclude our deliberations, that voice must be silent."
Each of them nodded, and the Ayatollah continued: "We have among us today a most distinguished and unusual colleague. General Ravi Rashood comes to us not because he has been recruited, but because he has followed his heart back to its beginnings. And while it is difficult for us to fathom the searching of his soul that led him to abandon family, home, country, and career, we are grateful for his decision, that Allah has led him from the Infidel into the embrace of Islam.
"General Rashood in his former life was one of the finest combat Commanders in the British Army. But I believe he knew what a cruel and misguided organization that has proved to be, fighting for government after government, against the righteous cause of Islam. Finally, asked to partake in the terrible savagery of the Israelis, backed as ever by the Americans, against the defenseless, peace-loving Palestinians, he turned his back on the conquerors. And he brought his mighty sword arm to the oppressed. Islamic folklore wi
ll celebrate his decision for many years to come."
The Ayatollah paused, and the men around him nodded their approval of his words. General Rashood stared ahead, betraying no emotion one way or the other.
The Ayatollah continued, "I have learned that in his moment of greatest danger, indeed, in his moment of decision, the General was blessed by Allah with a love that I hope may last them both for their lifetime and beyond. It is not necessary for us to recount his magnificent victories on behalf of Hamas, only for him to understand our admiration.
"But the time is now upon us, when we must discuss the bigger stage, and the tasks we must move toward. We have hesitated these past two years, because we have not produced the military leader to undertake our onerous requirements.
"I think we have one now, however, in General Rashood, who was, I believe, delivered here to us by the hand of Allah himself. And Allah is great, and he has surely sent to us the right Commander. And we are grateful to our brothers in Hamas for recognizing this and for sending the General forward to meet at this summit."
The Ayatollah nodded toward Admiral Badr, who rose to his feet. "Gentlemen," he said, "because of the time factor, I do not believe we should concern ourselves with specific objectives, but rather concentrate on a much broader strategy that would not necessarily involve the mass killing of civilians.
"Bin Laden tried that with catastrophic results for everyone. He killed innocent people on a scale that brought sorrow to the hearts of every true Muslim. It was not military. It was not justified. And it brought the massive wrath of the Great Satan down upon us. Indeed that heartless action against ordinary Americans came very close to fracturing the great brotherhood of Islam.
"I agree, it was unpredictable that the Great Satan would react as violently as it did. But America is powerful and greedy, and it is led by vicious vengeful men who now carry the will of the populace with them. I think everyone in this room understands that any future attack on the United States would result in another pulverizing act of revenge by the Americans, and we do not think we could withstand it.
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