Grafton unlocked the door, held it open and said, “Come in, come in.”
“Can a man get a drink around here?” Molina asked.
“If he has plain tastes and isn’t a connoisseur of the finer things in life.”
“I’ve been accused of a lot of things,” Molina said with a sigh, “but no one ever called me a connoisseur.”
As they walked toward the kitchen, Molina muttered, “You alone?”
“Callie is in bed. Name your poison.”
“Bourbon. It’s not just for breakfast anymore.”
Callie came out in a robe and said hello, then made her excuses and went back to bed. Settled in Grafton’s den with the door closed, Molina said, “I was on my way home and thought maybe you could tell me something that would make me sleep better.”
“I doubt it, but ask away.”
“You’ve been at the CIA… what? Three years?”
“About.”
“What’s your assessment of the agency?”
“I’m not going to trash my boss.”
“This is off the record. I want an honest opinion, if there is such a thing inside the Beltway.”
Jake Grafton took his time answering. He sipped his drink-he was having bourbon, too-then said, “The Company is a large, fossilized bureaucracy. Most of the people there are mediocre, at best. A serious number are incompetent. Most case officers don’t speak the language of their subject countries. No one reads the area newspapers. The analysts’ reports are often treacle-all they do is look at satellite photography and radio intercepts. Human intelligence is not high on the priority list and hasn’t been for a generation. A lot of the agency’s people are working their way to retirement by doing nothing that makes waves-most bureaucracies are like that. This one is no different.” He turned over a hand. “How much more do you want?”
Molina made a face. “That’s enough, I guess.” He worked on his drink. “How likely are we to find out what Iran is going to do with its nuke warheads, which the agency says it isn’t building?”
“The agency said it has no hard evidence Iran is building nuclear warheads,” Grafton said, correcting Molina. “The turtle has pulled its head into its shell.”
“What about these op-ed pieces Professor Azari has been writing? They’re full of facts and figures. He’s making us look like total idiots.”
“Azari has been getting info from a private spy network in Iran. Some of his information is verifiable, some of it isn’t. I suspect some of his people are government double agents.”
“Does Azari realize that’s a possibility?”
“He suspects it, I imagine. Hell, he may be on Ahmadinejad’s payroll.”
“Is Iranian security reading these messages, too?”
Jake Grafton considered his answer carefully. “I doubt if they have cryptographers sophisticated enough and computer programs powerful enough to break the code. They might have the contact in their pocket, of course, and have gotten the key from her. Or from Azari.”
“Her?”
“Her. The Iranians read the American press, so they must know about Azari and his articles, and they must have penetrated his network.”
“You have a man in Iran, don’t you?”
“Yes. Tommy Carmellini.”
“What’s he doing?”
“Trying to find out the truth about their nuke program.”
Sal Molina took a healthy swig of his drink, then sat processing Grafton’s remarks. He changed the subject. “The generals think they have the factory pinpointed that is making the EDs that Iran is sending to Iraq.” EDs were explosive devices-bombs. “They want to launch a commando raid against the factory. What’s your assessment?”
“Now isn’t the time to stir up the Iranians,” the admiral said. “Not with Tommy trying to gain access to government buildings. Can we wait a while?”
“Wait, wait, wait. That’s hard for generals and politicians to do. Everyone is getting damn tired of waiting. Our kids are getting killed and maimed in Iraq and the press is full of stories about Iranian nukes.”
“Waiting is difficult for Americans,” Jake Grafton agreed, “but timing is everything in life.”
“The waiting for this is over.” Sal Molina attacked his drink again. After a bit he said, “Does Carmellini have a chance?”
“If I didn’t think so I wouldn’t have sent him over there,” Jake replied.
Ten minutes later, when Jake escorted Molina to the door, he asked, “Did you get anything to make you sleep better?”
“Hell, no. I never do when I talk to you.”
“I’ll send you some intelligence assessments in the morning. They’re good bedtime reading.”
“Send me something on the Russians. Those bastards are good copy.”
Grafton pursed his lips in thought, then said softly, “The Russians will be in the catbird seat if the Middle East explodes, won’t they?”
“With all their oil and gas, Russia will become the new Saudi Arabia,” Sal Molina said sourly. “Russia will quickly become the richest nation on the planet, and Vladimir Putin will be the most powerful man on earth.”
Molina walked out Grafton’s door and headed for the elevator.
The Mossad’s Joe Mottaki was full of information when he and I finally got into the little soundproof security booth I had built in the basement of the embassy annex. It was about the size of a telephone booth, so we were cramped.
Mottaki had a job with the firm that cleaned the embassy, and he came around every other day or so. He was a little guy, looked every inch a Persian, spoke Farsi like a native and fairly decent Arabic. The first time I met him he told me he had been born in Egypt. He refused to tell me any more about himself.
“Davar Ghobadi is single,” he told me today. “No lovers or suitors that we know about. She has spent the last two days talking to a variety of people all over Tehran, all apparently friends of hers. Don’t know the subjects, but the conversations were serious and long.”
“Um.” I wondered if she had told everyone in town that she was talking to an American spy, but even if she had, what could I do about it? “What about Ahmadinejad’s political opposition?”
“They are unhappy. Most of the people in this country are poor as dirt, yet Ahmadinejad and the mullahs are squandering tens of billions of petrodollars on the nuclear program. Even if the program was for peaceful purposes and they gave electricity away to everyone in the country who wanted it, that wouldn’t justify the expenditures. People also need clean water, roads, hospitals, sewers, schools-in short, everything.”
“Is Ahmadinejad in danger of a political revolt?”
Mottaki shrugged. “Who can say? The opposition does what it can under the gaze of the mullahs. Believe me, all is not well at the Parliament building.”
We talked for an hour about names and personalities. I was learning a lot, but I wondered if any of it meant anything.
When we had beat the hell out of that topic, I told Joe that Davar had told me she used dead drops. “It would be nice to find one and aim a camera at it. See who services it.”
“I have exactly three people,” Joe said, “counting me. Your two chaps make five. Still, only five men…”
“Do the best you can.”
“What if she lied to you?”
“Well…”
“We can’t prove a negative.”
“Watch her carefully for a couple more days. See if you can catch her at a drop.”
“We’ll have to really stick to her.”
I’m such a hard-ass. I didn’t say anything.
“Okay,” he said forlornly.
“Someone needs to write a new Koran.”
Ghasem stared at his grandfather with his jaw agape. One didn’t hear blasphemy very often in Iran these days.
“Of course,” Dr. Murad continued, “hardly anyone ever reads the old one. If they did, they’d discover how little theology is really in it.”
They were sitting in the
garden outside his grandfather’s house, where the old man was feeding the birds, a pastime that consisted of tossing birdseed on the ground and seeing how close the birds would come to his feet to get it. Since the professor had been doing this for years, the answer was, very close.
“God spoke to Muhammad, may he rest in peace, and he gave us the Koran,” Ghasem said. “He was the last prophet.”
“God could speak to someone else. You or me, for instance. Anyone.”
“Why did He choose Muhammad?”
“Aah, a very good question. My students are afraid to ask questions, afraid of being accused of blaspheming. The fear of being unorthodox is one of the major problems facing Muslims.”
“All religions control their adherents, to a greater or lesser degree,” Ghasem retorted.
“Indeed. Social and political control is one of religion’s major functions. Without control, religions would not have proven so popular through the ages.” The old man dropped more seed just beyond his shoes. The birds went for it fearlessly.
“Why Muhammad?” Ghasem repeated.
“He had the standing in society, the charisma, the ego, to found an empire, to make people follow him, to lead them to military victory. Yet no one would have followed him unless he claimed he had a mandate from God.”
“God spoke to him,” the young man replied, “and he obeyed.”
“Megalomaniacs and the mentally ill often tell us they hear God’s voice,” the professor shot back. “Muhammad could have been either.” He shrugged. “Or both.”
Ghasem waited for lightning to strike the old man dead. When he realized it wasn’t going to happen right there and then, he exhaled.
The manuscript was heavy in his hands. It was wrapped in paper, tied with a string, and was several inches thick.
“Islam is a fundamental religion,” Israr Murad mused as he watched the bravest bird peck tiny seeds near his right shoe. “It was a tool to create a nation. All who didn’t follow Muhammad were the enemy. For many Muslims, that distinction is quite real even today. They see the world as us versus them. Nor can they imagine a legitimate secular government to which they owe obedience. Muhammad ruled by divine right; he was God’s anointed. Baldly, the Muslims are stuck in the seventh century while the rest of the world has evolved, has grown tolerant of different people, different religions and different ways of life. Only through tolerance can different people live under a secular government that rises and falls based on political issues that have nothing to do with religion. Islam is the most intolerant major religion on the planet.”
“All religions have problems,” Ghasem said thoughtfully. “At the core, each must be accepted by faith.”
“Yes. Faith.”
“One must surrender to God.”
“Yes.”
“Do you believe, Grandfather?”
“In what? In the Koran? In the Christian Bible? Judaism? Hinduism? Buddhism? What?”
“In God.”
The old man thought about that. After a lifetime of scholarship and contemplation, Ghasem thought, he has to think about the most basic question. With a jolt he recalled his grandfather once remarking that by trying to learn everything, a scholar risked knowing nothing at all.
“I don’t know,” the old man confessed, his voice barely audible. He thought about that for a moment more, then tried to straighten up in his chair. He couldn’t. Age had bent him like a twig. “All religions today share a common problem,” he whispered. The professor gestured toward the manuscript, which caused much fluttering among the birds near his feet. “Read,” he said. “It’s all in there. A lifetime of work and thought. I put it all down.”
Ghasem was young-he couldn’t help himself. “What is the common problem?”
“The god that they worship is too small.”
Hyman Fineberg met General Darma at a small estate well outside Jakarta. The general’s limo had picked him up in town, and the driver, the general’s son, let him off in front of the house. He wandered around back and found the general sitting alone by a swimming pool, in a swimming suit and short-sleeve shirt, drinking beer.
The general offered Fineberg one, and he accepted.
“I think your day is next Thursday,” Darma said. “He will arrive on Wednesday, meet with the president that afternoon and evening, then attend a state banquet. On Thursday morning at eleven he has a meeting scheduled with a group of religious leaders. It was scheduled then to give him a few hours to rest and recover from the banquet.”
“Thursday afternoon?”
“Another audience with the president, then a press conference.”
“But the morning?”
“The limo will be waiting in front of the hotel. I can pull the security people away, so when he and his bodyguards come down in the elevator, they will be alone.”
Hyman Fineberg took a sip of cold beer and considered. He had spent the last two weeks as a guest in that hotel and knew every inch of it. Darma knew that, of course. What Darma didn’t know, Fineberg hoped, was that two other Mossad agents had also been in the hotel, watching his back.
They drank beer and talked about how it would be. “You cannot use explosives,” Darma said. “Can’t blow up the hotel. Too many casualties. No poison gas, nothing exotic.”
“I understand.” Indeed Fineberg did. He had his instructions from Tel Aviv; they wanted Ahmadinejad dead, but no innocent people. On the other hand, he reflected, Tel Aviv was prepared to swallow a lot if in the end they could see Ahmadinejad’s head on a platter.
“This… incident… will not cause you too much grief, will it?” Fineberg asked.
General Syafi’i Darma considered his answer. When he spoke, Fineberg watched his eyes. “There will be questions-after all, I am the director of Indonesian security. I will be contrite. The Mossad’s reputation is well known. It is possible, however, that for political reasons the president may ask me for my resignation. If so, I will go quietly. I have had a long military career, and whatever happens, I will have a comfortable retirement. Due to your generosity, very comfortable.” Darma smiled.
Fineberg smiled back. Unfortunately only one side of his mouth worked as it should.
Yes indeed, the Israeli thought. The little fat bastard might be contemplating a double-cross.
“Please keep in mind,” Hyman Fineberg said pleasantly, “that if my government gets the slightest suspicion that you took our money and betrayed us, your future will become problematic.”
“Don’t threaten me,” Darma snapped.
“I beg your pardon, General. I do not mean to demean or insult you. I merely mentioned a fact of life, one of which I am sure you are well aware. A faux pas on my part, no doubt. Accept my apology, please.”
“I keep my promises.”
Fineberg smiled broadly, which made his face look even more lopsided. “And I keep mine.”
***
That evening Ghasem went to his uncle’s home to visit with his cousin Davar in her room in the attic. She spent her time here doing mathematics, playing with her computer, and calculating costs and materials for her father. Stacks of his blueprints and specifications were neatly arranged on a table in one corner.
“Why don’t you go out?” Ghasem asked her for the thousandth time. “Go to the university? Meet your old friends? Why don’t you get a life?”
She eyed him, then ignored his comments, also as usual. The truth was she did go out, and often, and talked to a wide variety of people. Some of them were giving her material to pass on to Azari in America, some were just people she liked being around, and some were people she thought had something important to say about where Iran was and where it should go in the future. These people were men and women. Ahmadinejad and the mullahs didn’t understand the power of women. They forced them back into chadors and manteaus, but the women were the impetus that was going to someday overthrow the mullahs, or so Davar hoped.
“Did you see Grandfather today?” she asked her cousin.
&nbs
p; “Yes.” Ghasem threw himself into the only stuffed chair in the room. He stared at his toes. “His health is failing.”
“He will be free soon,” she remarked.
“Free?” Ghasem wasn’t sure what she meant.
“Death is the only way you can escape the clutches of the government,” she said.
Ghasem rolled his eyes and sagged back into the chair. Davar had spent three years at Oxford, and although she never said it, she had obviously loved England. She came home transformed, as British as Prince Charlie. She had arrived home three years ago this past July. Her father, who should have wanted more for her, thought her presence a godsend. At his request she did all the calculations necessary for his huge construction projects, which he got because he wholeheartedly supported the regime.
Ghasem straightened slightly and looked at his cousin. She wasn’t a pretty woman. Sort of plain, actually. Also brilliant, well educated, and widely read. Not many men would appreciate such a wife, but there were a few that might. There were even rare ones who would treasure her. She would never meet them, he thought, nor they her. If he or her father brought such a man to meet her, she would refuse to see him.
“Not the manteau thing again?” Ghasem said disgustedly. Manteaus, or ripoushes, were loose-fitting, full-length coats that covered the wearer from neck to ankles. Those worn in summer were made of light cloth; those for winter were much heavier. They were plain or discreetly patterned, usually muted pastel colors.
“I loathe the things,” she said. “They are a symbol of all that is wrong in Iran, all that is wrong with this religion. Allah wants me to wear a chador or manteau? I don’t think so.”
“You will become an old maid, never marry, be childless… Have you ever thought about the future, about what will happen when your father dies?”
“I’ll come live with you.”
“Better think of something else,” Ghasem shot back. “I do intend to marry, when I find the right woman, and my wife, whoever she turns out to be, might not appreciate having a maiden cousin as a permanent boarder.”
The Disciple Page 10
