As al-Zanjani stepped over the threshold into what could be better described as a small prayer room than an office, he found the hastily called meeting already under way. Sitting to his left against the wall on a pile of large cushions was Grand Ayatollah Hossein Ansari, Iran’s eighty-four-year-old Supreme Leader. He was dressed in a thick, flowing brown robe and black turban. He sported wire-rimmed glasses whose lenses seemed smudged with fingerprints and needed a good cleaning, and he stroked his neatly trimmed gray beard as he listened intently to the briefing. He was covered with a blanket and had a sizable stack of ancient religious texts beside him.
To the Supreme Leader’s left, directly in front of al-Zanjani, was Yadollah Afshar. The sixty-one-year-old president of the Islamic Republic of Iran was also sitting on a pile of cushions, though he was not covered with a blanket. He wore a modest three-piece gray suit, more likely purchased in Moscow or one of the former Soviet republics than anywhere in Iran, and was taking frequent sips from a large water bottle due to the chronic problems he had with his one functional kidney.
To the Supreme Leader’s right was one of his young personal aides. Al-Zanjani could not immediately remember his name. Ansari’s aides were all typically recent graduates of the Shia seminary in Qom, and none of them seemed to last more than a few months. This was a tall and rather gangly fellow with a mop of thick black hair offset by small, round wire-rimmed glasses, sitting cross-legged on a cushion on the floor and taking notes on everything that was being said.
Directly across from the Supreme Leader, to al-Zanjani’s right, was Mahmoud Entezam, the commander of the Iranian Revolutionary Guard Corps. Only fifty-three, Entezam was al-Zanjani’s immediate boss. He was the youngest of the generals ever to rise through the ranks to lead the IRGC, in part because of his cunning and peerless leadership in helping Tehran effectively seize control of four Arab capitals—Baghdad, Beirut, Damascus, and Yemen’s Sana’a—over the past decade, and in part because he had married a favored and quite lovely young niece of the ayatollah.
At present, Entezam was wrapping up his explanation of what was known so far about the triple assassinations in Moscow, drawing on firsthand reporting from Iran’s ambassador to Russia and their many sources in Russia’s security establishment. Al-Zanjani bowed to the Supreme Leader, ignored the leader’s aide, and nodded to the other principals in the room. Then he took his seat on a cushion next to his boss. He wondered why neither the defense nor foreign minister was present until he remembered both were traveling abroad.
“So what you’re saying, General, is that our three closest allies in Moscow are dead, and Petrovsky is now running the country,” President Afshar said. Al-Zanjani was not surprised that it was the president, rather than the Supreme Leader, who spoke. Ansari rarely uttered a word in such meetings unless it was to pray or discuss a theological or spiritual matter.
“I’m afraid that is correct,” the general replied.
“Was this a coup?”
“No, the evidence does not support such a conclusion,” Entezam replied. “By all indications, it was the work of a tiny group led by the president’s son-in-law.”
“Tell me about this Petrovsky,” President Afshar said.
“Until today, he was Russia’s defense minister,” the general said. “I’ve met with him a number of times. He has sold us a great deal of advanced weaponry and certainly sees us as an important ally of Moscow. But I must emphasize that we have not developed nearly as close a working relationship with Petrovsky—and certainly not the warm personal chemistry—as we had with His Excellency President Luganov.”
“Is it true that Petrovsky has already blinked in the face of NATO and American threats?”
“He is withdrawing Russian forces from close proximity to NATO borders, if that is what you mean, Mr. President. But I wouldn’t characterize him as a moderate by any means. Indeed, I believe he could not only be useful to us, but . . .”
“But what?”
“He might be easier for us to work with than Luganov.”
“How so?”
“President Luganov rarely countenanced discussions over strategy, particularly in the Middle East,” Entezam said. “He told us what he wanted, and given our unique relationship, we did our best to accommodate him.”
“And with Petrovsky?”
“We might find we have a freer hand.”
37
The president turned to al-Zanjani.
“Commander, I understand you have news from Pyongyang.”
“Yes, Your Excellency. I just got off the phone with my counterpart there,” al-Zanjani answered. “He informs me that after several days of consideration, the Dear Leader is prepared to sell us five of the newest Russian nuclear warheads in their arsenal.”
“Only five? You were supposed to request fifteen.”
“And I did, Your Excellency.”
“I was under the impression that President Luganov had personally intervened with the Dear Leader on our behalf and specifically for fifteen warheads.”
“That was my understanding, as well, sir.”
“Then what went wrong?”
Al-Zanjani paused for a moment.
“Permission to speak freely, Your Excellency?”
“Of course.”
“President Luganov is gone. My assessment is that the Dear Leader has concluded he is free from any specific obligation he may have made to the late president. Still, he is ready to sell us five Russian nuclear warheads. And I would remind this august body that these are far more powerful than the weapons we were previously negotiating for with Pakistan—each has a yield of 750 kilotons.”
There were nods around the room, except for the Supreme Leader, who kept his counsel to himself.
“And have our friends agreed to the price we discussed?” President Afshar asked.
“Not exactly,” al-Zanjani said, glancing at the cleric for whom he held such reverence and then back to President Afshar. “I assure you that I did everything I could to get the North Koreans to agree to our price, but I’m afraid the final deal took more.”
“How much more?” the president finally asked.
Al-Zanjani reached into his briefing book. He pulled out copies of the deal for everyone present. It took several minutes for each man to read and internalize both the price and the terms, but one by one they looked back to the IRGC’s deputy commander.
No one looked happy. It wasn’t that they didn’t have the money. They did. The Americans and Europeans had given it to them on a silver platter. But even $150 billion only went so far. They couldn’t spend it all on buying operational nuclear warheads, even ones as large and powerful as these. They needed to reserve part of the JCPOA funds to improve and finalize their long-range missile program. They had to be able to use North Korea’s test data to significantly improve their range and accuracy. The Supreme Leader’s mandate had been clear. Their missiles had to be able to reach far beyond Tel Aviv, Paris, and London. They had to reach Washington and New York.
What’s more, they had to have ICBMs fully online and ready to launch in less than a year. This was imperative. And it was possible, al-Zanjani believed. All of Tehran’s top scientists assured him of this. But it wasn’t going to be easy, and it wasn’t going to be cheap. At the same time, the regime was rapidly burning through their cash reserves running proxy wars in Syria and Yemen, financing their operations to consolidate Shia control in Iraq, and rearming Hezbollah in southern Lebanon and Hamas in Gaza for the coming war with the Zionists.
Al-Zanjani had been certain he could drive the price down, especially with Moscow’s full support for the deal. Indeed, he had assured this group not a week earlier that this would, in fact, be the case. Now, in a matter of hours, the dynamics of the deal had changed entirely.
For the moment, President Afshar chose to sidestep the issue of cost. “Assuming the Supreme Leader agrees to this deal you have negotiated, Commander, how soon can Pyongyang be ready to transfer the warheads?”
“Ten days to two weeks, Your Excellency,” al-Zanjani replied. “I’m still working with them on some of the technical details as well as how best to conceal the transfer from the Americans and of course the Zionists. But in the absence of any unexpected complications, I would say we could have the warheads here by the middle of October, at the latest.”
For the first time since the briefing had commenced, the Supreme Leader appeared to relax. A slight smile even emerged at the corners of his mouth. He finally looked pleased. They all did, and al-Zanjani was grateful to Allah that he could bring his leaders some positive news on an otherwise painful and traumatic day. No one had been a closer friend or more faithful ally to the Islamic Republic of Iran than Aleksandr Luganov. His death was a terrible blow to them, though al-Zanjani believed it also opened up new opportunities.
“Why the change of heart?” the Grand Ayatollah asked unexpectedly.
Al-Zanjani, who had just begun to close his briefing book, looked up, as surprised as the others to hear the cleric speak.
“Pardon, Your Holiness?” he asked, unsure he’d understood what his leader was really asking.
“For many days, I was under the impression that our friend in Pyongyang was resisting this sale,” the ayatollah said in a voice so frail and soft that al-Zanjani had to lean forward to hear him. “Now, suddenly, he says yes. My question is why?”
38
All eyes turned back to al-Zanjani.
The deputy commander swallowed hard and gathered his thoughts. “It is a shrewd question, Your Holiness,” he began, flattering the man but also buying precious time. “I’ve considered this for the past several hours.”
Al-Zanjani shifted himself on the cushion.
“There is no question the money was a critical factor,” he continued. “If you choose to approve and authenticate my offer, then we will have given the Dear Leader his asking price. But the timing of the flurry of communications I’ve had with my counterpart in Pyongyang today—”
“The estimable General Yoon?” the Supreme Leader asked.
“Yes, General Yoon,” al-Zanjani confirmed, a bit surprised but still pleased that the old man was conversant in such minor details. “I have known him for many years. As you all know, we have worked closely on many sensitive projects. But in all honesty, I must say I was caught off guard by his messages today, agreeing to our terms and pressing me to conclude the deal by the end of the day.”
“So in your opinion, why did he agree today?”
Al-Zanjani paused. He had only been to such a high-level meeting a handful of times in his life. If he thought carefully, he could probably list them all, and the number could be counted on two hands. But never once had he been asked his opinion. He had only ever been asked for hard, verifiable facts. Analysis was the province of his boss and the others in the room, not him. And yet the Supreme Leader was asking. What choice did he have but to answer?
“If . . . well, sir . . . if you are asking me to guess . . . ,” he stammered.
The Supreme Leader raised his hand to stop him in midsentence. “It is not a guess, my child,” he said in a tone al-Zanjani assumed he typically reserved for his nineteen grandchildren, not junior subordinates. “Commander al-Zanjani, you are an experienced, thrice-decorated military leader and intelligence officer, one of the Islamic Republic’s finest. You have earned the trust and the appreciation of everyone in this room. If your exploits could be known to the nation, you would be regarded as one of the heroes of the revolution. Hence, I am not asking for conjecture. I am asking for your professional assessment. Why today?”
Al-Zanjani was touched by the incomprehensible, rare vote of confidence. “Well, Your Excellency, I think it has entirely to do with the death of President Luganov,” he said, his voice quiet but more confident now. “As I said, I believe the Dear Leader suddenly feels liberated to make the deal he wants to make, at the price he wants to charge, without oversight—much less interference—from Moscow.
“Furthermore, it could not have been lost on the Dear Leader that the Russian president never brought his defense minister into the loop on the transfer of the twenty powerful warheads to the Korean Peninsula. So far as I know, Mikhail Petrovsky has absolutely no idea Pyongyang has such warheads.
“Moreover, my sources inform me that Luganov was preparing to sack Petrovsky and replace him with FSB chief Dmitri Nimkov. Nimkov, of course, not only knew about the transfer, but it was he whom Luganov had put in charge of coordinating both the transfer and the joint Russian–North Korean preparations to launch a preemptive strike against the United States sometime next year, once our missiles have been adapted and are fully operational.
“In sum, Your Excellency, it is possible that the Dear Leader believes Petrovsky may in some way be behind the murders of Luganov, Nimkov, and Prime Minister Grigarin. Certainly Petrovsky has benefited from the deaths of these three men. As president, he will likely soon become aware of the transfer of the warheads to Pyongyang. He may then try to rescind the deal and get the warheads back onto Russian soil.”
Al-Zanjani stopped to take a breath and let his words have their intended effect.
“You believe the Dear Leader is seizing a window of opportunity, then?” the ayatollah asked. “You think he is moving with all haste to sell these five warheads to us and get our cash—for which he is so desperate to keep his regime afloat—before Mikhail Petrovsky figures out what is going on and walks the deal back?”
“Yes, sir,” al-Zanjani said. “That is what I believe.”
The Supreme Leader looked around the room. “Does anyone have a different assessment?” he asked.
No one did.
“Do we all agree that we must move quickly to secure these five warheads—more powerful than anything we’ve been able to develop thus far—even at this price?”
It took several moments in which each man looked to every other. But in the end, they all nodded. A tremendous amount of precious time had already been squandered in trying to make a deal with the Pakistanis. Al-Zanjani had tried to warn the group at the time that they were walking into a trap, most likely of the Mossad’s or the CIA’s making. He hadn’t had proof, and so he had not convinced his superiors not to pursue the deal. But he’d been right. It had been the Israelis. He’d cleaned up the situation by ambushing the Mossad operatives in Athens, catching them completely off guard and killing every last one of them. In so doing, he had finally beaten the Zionists at their own game. He had also bought himself a seat in this room. His stock was soaring. These men were listening to him. They trusted him. And they were rewarding him and his family in ways beyond anything he could have imagined.
Al-Zanjani knew he’d have to be extra careful from this point forward. Managing the country’s nuclear portfolio put a target on his back. Both the Americans and the Israelis would be gunning for him now. But he wasn’t worried. To the contrary, he was ecstatic. For the first time since the Islamic Revolution had been set into motion in 1979, the Persian Bomb was within their reach. Total regional domination was within their grasp. Best of all, every step they took now was bringing them closer to the actual, literal, physical return of the Mahdi and the establishment of the Caliphate, not just in the Middle East, but around the entire globe.
“Very well,” said the Supreme Leader, looking back at the deputy commander with a renewed fire in his dimming eyes. “We must not waste another minute. Make the deal.”
39
OZERKI, RUSSIA—30 SEPTEMBER
“Hey, you’re awake,” Marcus said. “How’re you feeling?”
He entered Jenny’s room and set a tray on the nightstand next to the bed. On it was a pot of tea and a bowl of broth.
“Never mind me,” Jenny said, her voice a bit scratchy. “How are you?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Are you kidding? Have you looked in the mirror lately?”
“Oh yeah, well, I guess I broke my nose.”
“I guess so.
”
“It’s nothing. I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine. What happened?”
Marcus brought her up to speed on all that had happened since they’d jumped out of the G4 up to and including the brawl with Zakharov’s brother. As he did, he helped her sit up, and she began sipping the broth while the tea steeped. Feeling her forehead, Marcus was encouraged that her fever was subsiding. He gave her a cool washcloth for her face, then set in her hand a decorative brass bell he’d found on a shelf downstairs.
“Now, get some rest and ring if you need something,” he said, getting up to leave.
“Oh no, you don’t,” Jenny said with an icy tone that caught Marcus off guard. “You’re not going anywhere.”
“What do you mean?”
“We need to talk.”
“About what? I just told you everything.”
“Since we jumped,” she snapped. “What about before?”
Marcus said nothing.
“You got Oleg to assassinate Luganov, after I told you not to.”
“That’s not how it happened.”
“But Luganov is dead, right?”
“He is.”
“And Oleg killed him?”
“Yeah.”
“So tell me.”
“I didn’t get him to do it,” Marcus protested, lowering his voice to a whisper so Oleg wouldn’t overhear. “He asked me for help.”
“And you helped him.”
“I did, and I’d do it again.”
The look on Jenny’s face was one of disgust. She folded her arms, wincing in pain, then whispered back, “I thought you were a Christian.”
The Persian Gamble Page 14
