THE HAMPTON INN, SOMEWHERE NEAR FAIRTON, NEW JERSEY
Zack was eager to get back online and check his Twitter account. Lo and behold, his new Persian pal had left a mountain of messages. His new pal, simply known as Hamid, had even visited his manufactured Facebook page for his cover persona, Doug Schmidt.
After reading some Facebook messages in which Hamid praised the Nazi skinhead rhetoric that populated Zack’s Facebook page, Doug responded in kind with some lavish praise of Hamid for his devotion to the Aryan cause. The two of them finally decided to engage in a private instant message chat in which they arranged to share a common email account. To avoid being tracked or detected, they agreed to leave messages in draft folders for each other to read, but to never actually transmit any emails to each other through the account. The last thing Hamid wanted was his messages being intercepted by the infidel’s digital spying tools.
As much as Zack was on board with wanting to ensnare this guy and utilize his information and contacts to try to weave some disruptive inroads into Bushehr, he really resented the fact that he had to pose as a Nazi skinhead to get the job done. He had spent a good portion of his life trying to foster an anti-racist image of skinheads, and his current cover just reinforced the false view that skinheads were largely white supremacists. That said, who was he really interacting with? Just some nutjob extremists in Iran. No worries. He thought to himself. I’ll use any cover to try to stop those psychotic theocratic freaks.
Within a few hours, the conversation that had developed in the draft email folders was beginning to get somewhere. Doug had asked Hamid if he was planning on attending the upcoming World Without Zionism Conference in Tehran. This annual event of absurd anti-American and anti-Israeli rhetoric and hate had become a growing focal point for bigots and anti-Semites the world over. If David Duke was welcomed there while waving his KKK flag, then why not a little known Nazi skinhead named Doug Schmidt? Secret agent skinhead in effect, baby, here we go! The chorus to the song “Secret Agent S.K.I.N.” by the punk band Murphy’s Law was now churning in Zack’s head.
It didn’t take long for Zack to hear back from Hamid. He was indeed planning to attend the conference. Doug expressed how he had always wanted to go to the conference. As hoped for, Hamid said he would help get him access and assist in planning his itinerary. Bingo.
The email draft folders filled up with enthusiasm over the now planned meeting between the two new digital friends. Brazen anti-Semitic rhetoric and chest-thumping Aryan pride rants permeated all of their exchanges. Zack deliberately probed Hamid about the progress and status of Iran’s nuclear program. Doug voiced his opinion that Iran had every right to have the bomb, particularly since the “dirty Jews” had one.
Once again, Hamid took the bait. Hamid explained that he wasn’t sure exactly how far away they were from the bomb, but that they were close. He confessed that the Stuxnet worm and assassination of their scientists was setting them back, but not catastrophically. Of course, he had no idea that as he typed, the new and improved Stuxnet 2.0 had already been deployed at Natanz.
Hamid revealed that he had a cousin who worked at Bushehr and a brother-in-law who worked at Natanz. Doug inquired more about these relatives to get a good sense of Hamid’s inadvertent reach into the nuclear development world of the Iranians. Gallagher gave him the intel on Hamid’s cousin Azad at Bushehr, but he had no idea about the brother-in-law at Natanz. The useful info kept flowing and Zack was rapidly putting the pieces together in an attempt to flesh out a strategic plan of infiltration.
The exchanges began to taper off for the day, and Zack decided to shut down the nerd for a bit to assess all he had learned and analyze the situation and how to proceed. He had made tremendous progress in an amazingly short period of time. Just as he began expanding upon his notes and getting a mental grip on the trajectory of his cyber recon, his sat phone rang. It was Gallagher.
“So whaddya got so far you hooligan bastard? Don’t tell me you ain’t got nuthin’ or I’ll have you locked back up again in a heartbeat.” Ever the pleasant conversationalist, Chuck Gallagher laid on his usual charm from the conversational get-go.
“Nice to hear your voice, Chuck. I really missed your bulldog approach to human relationships in the short day or so since last we spoke.” Zack chuckled a bit.
“Yeah, I’ll bet you did. This doesn’t mean we’re gonna be touchin’ tongues in the shower any time soon, hot shot. I don’t roll that way.”
“I don’t care who you swap spit with pal, as long as it ain’t me. Keep your tongue to yourself. Anyhow, yeah, some strong progress here. Real strong. Got Hamid on the hook via Twitter and we’ve now taken our chats to a whole new level with some email folder draft drops. Keepin’ it on the down low so he feels warm and fuzzy.”
“So what’s the logical next step?” To the point as usual, Gallagher wanted results.
“The World Without Zionism conference, that’s what. Get my credentials prepped asap boss, cuz I’m going to Tehren. Hate-a-plenty! Maybe I’ll get a chance to get my photo taken with David Duke. Who knows, maybe I can get an autographed Member’s Only jacket from A-jad to keep me warm too!”
“The World Without Zionism conference eh? Perfect excuse to get your ass over there to snoop around. I like it. Keep me posted as you draft the particulars. Good work, you no good criminal.” No compliment could ever go forth from Gallagher, unless paired with an effectively negating insult.
“That was my thinking. I was just reviewing my notes and trying to hone in my plans as you called. I’ll have more for you in the coming days.” Zack had been accustomed to ignoring Gallagher’s insults as they were flung. However, he often reflected upon them later and laughed out loud as he recalled each one.
“Good, while you’re working on that, you need to noodle the rest of the operation as well. Lot’s of shit going down. We got some trouble with Arash Jafari. The poor bastard went postal the other day when the mutawwa confronted him for having a copy of the good book in his home—and not Mohammed’s good book. His own wife, a devoted Twelver, turned him in for having a Bible. The mutawwa stormed into his office at Natanz and arrested him. He freaked out and shot a guard right in the stones. A new form of birth control I suppose. Anyhow, we’re very vulnerable right now with him in custody. He’s no doubt being tortured and interrogated Iranian style as we speak. A hot extraction is urgent. And you and your old pal Blaze are just the dynamic duo to pull it off.”
“Damn, Jafari is new at this too. It probably won’t take much for him to cave, right? And what the hell is the mutawwa?”
“Mutawwa is the Iranian religious police. And yes, Jafari is new, and him caving would be the prevailing opinion, except that his dossier makes it very clear how much he now despises the regime and sees their theology-driven apocalyptic agenda as utterly demonic. Being a converted Christian, his faith may actually be the mechanism to help him keep the secrets inside. We’ll see. Torture has its way of breaking down even the strongest of faith. Especially Iranian torture. We need to get him out before he cracks.”
“Okay, well, get me to Iran as soon as possible so Blaze and I can bust out Arash before I hob nob with A-Jad and David Duke at the conference.”
“I got everything set to go.” Gallagher assured.
“Anything else? Shall I single-handedly fight the North Koreans and conquer China before lunch as well?”
“Quit crying cream puff. You can handle it. If you couldn’t, you’d still be rotting in jail.”
“Your candidness never ceases to amaze me, Gallagher. You old, crumpled up artifact of a man. I love you too.”
Zack chuckled and Gallagher grumbled and the two men hung up and got back to work for the good of the country.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
DR. GABRIELLA MANCINI’S OFFICE, WASHINGTON, DC
“Hi Gabriella.”
The President showcased a countenance that
hinted towards a sense of subtle deflation in his spirit. It was evident in the tone of his greeting.
“Hello Mr. President. What do we have to look forward to today?”
Gabriella was chipper and ready to dig in as usual. She was an extremely smart and energetic therapist and her inherent personality strengths often served to help her clients more than her actual words.
“Oh hell, I don’t know Gabriella, my world is full of all kinds of snares and pickles.”
Jack Fitzsimmons wasted no time in revealing his true state of mind. Jack often played the flustered, disgruntled world leader.
“You signed on for it Jack, hell, you campaigned for it,” reminded Dr. Mancini.
“That I did…that I did”, pondered the President.
“Where do you want to start? What is weighing the heaviest on your mind?”
Jack thought for a moment. He decided to initially stray away from the personal stuff—his struggles with his wife, his attraction to internet porn, and his larger spiritual battles. He thought it proper to start with work, specifically, his recent reflections on the Iranian nuclear program.
“Besides all the personal stuff, I’d have to say the entire labyrinth that is the issue of Iran is in the forefront of my daily thoughts and concerns.”
Gabriella didn’t expect the discussion to start there, but why not? It was, in fact, probably one of the most important challenges facing the globe at the moment.
“Tell me more.”
“Well, a very heated discussion occurred this week between myself, Mahoney, and Sapp. For the record, it all ended up well and good, and I’m thoroughly satisfied with the unique dynamic and healthy tug and pull interplay that exists between the three of us, but it was quite a discussion. Sapp was unbelievably hawkish on the issue, so much so, that I began to seriously wonder if he was a neo-con mole. He insisted that we needed to pursue aggressive measures of all sorts to stop Iran from getting the bomb. As usual, this position was advanced amidst a haze of unwelcome cigarette smoke and swearing that would make the Sons Of Anarchy blush.”
Gabriella never watched television. She was a bit of a recluse and a nerdy bookworm. She had absolutely no clue in the world who the Sons Of Anarchy were, but she nodded her head and went along with his line of thought anyhow.
“How did you react?”
“I instinctively came from the other direction. I’ve been more and more leaning towards the notion that Iran having the bomb would not be the end of the world. Pakistan has the bomb and they are Islamic. Israel has the bomb and no one, save the Islamic world, really challenges them. And of course, we have the bomb. I just don’t think that starting a war would be a better option than trying to diplomatically handle an Iran with the bomb. I know they have an extreme religious slant with the whole Shia Twelver thing, but at the end of the day, I just refuse to believe that they’re anything but rational. I don’t believe that they can’t be managed with a reasonable batch of carrots and sticks, like any other rogue nation.”
“So you’re weighing the known risks of war versus the unknown risks of allowing Iran to get the bomb. Keep in mind, I am your psychologist. I can’t give opinion on policy, nor should any of my comments be interpreted as such.”
She knew he understood this, but it had to be continually re-emphasized as a matter of requisite CYA.
“I know Gabriella, it goes without saying.”
“So what has shifted your thoughts? Last time this issue came up, you were leaning towards doing whatever you could, short of going to war, to stop Iran from getting the bomb.”
Her face crinkled with a feigned look of confusion.
“I haven’t moved from that position. I’ll continue to support aggressive sanctions and covert actions to stop them. I’ve already just commissioned a series of new covert actions against their nuclear development efforts. That said, in my heart of hearts I am bracing for the reality that all these efforts may only slow them down. I suspect it is simply a matter of time, which means that I have to imagine a world in which Iran has the bomb, and strategize how that inevitable reality might best be managed.”
“That’s quite a stark realization.” Gabriella deliberately contained her own thoughts on the matter, which were quite different than the President’s. But she knew her role. He paid her to listen and to prompt deeper reflection, not to interject with her own beliefs and opinions.
“I suppose. I’m not sure how a thinking person can come to a different conclusion.”
“Who else shares this sentiment?”
“Well, Maksim Koslov does, but that’s to be expected. For as many areas where I can find agreeable overlap with him, he’s still by and large not a certified friend of the United States in the eyes of many, and he clearly minimizes the Iranian threat. However, we’ve both been very open about our desire to see a unified world in which borders are eroded and a centralized, fair global governance emerges.”
A silence fell over the room for about twenty seconds or so. Fitz stared off slightly upwards and to the right as he pondered the magnanimity of his vision. Conversely, Gabriella sat with a neutral look on her face, while internally she was horrified with what she was hearing. She thought of the biblical and historical traces of global unity and one-world government aspirations. The Tower of Babel came to mind first. She couldn’t imagine that the fleshing out of Fitz’ utopian vision could possibly end any differently.
“Do you truly think that such a vision of a unified world is not only achievable, but inherently benevolent and a worthy goal? Do you really trust that Koslov truly wants that as opposed to a re-empowered Russia?”
She was pushing it with this question, and she knew it. She scaled back her body language and temperament after launching this question. She hoped to disarm Jack by signaling to him that it was nothing more than a naturally challenging question intended to provoke him to more deeply scrutinize his own ideas.
“While I suspect Koslov is a nationalist at heart and will always care about Russia first, he still sees the need for larger global cooperation and unity. Gabriella, the growing consensus among the world’s power brokers is that this is a necessary and inevitable structure the world must move towards in order to preserve itself in this current information age. The world is getting smaller by the minute. Processed information makes the world go round. Divisions, hate crimes, and prejudices are condemned by the citizen’s of the globe. In order to continue to manage such social threats, along with terrorism, we need a comprehensive global structure. We have global banking, global trade unions, global commerce, but yet we have failed to install a global currency or a global government? It’s a normal progression. Those who stand against might as well get back on their horse and buggy and get out of the way.”
“It sounds like you’re convinced on this.”
She was diametrically opposed to the notion and didn’t buy for a second that Koslov was doing anything but using the global governance rhetoric to bend Fitz his way. It was times likes this when it was extremely difficult for her to keep her thoughts to herself during a session.
“It’s one of the main goals I purposed to strive towards upon taking office.” Fitz’s face was full of perceivable focus.
“Do you trust the intentions of leaders like Koslov when it comes to the coordination of such ideas?”
“Everyone knows how Koslov is. The rumors of his unseen brutality and dictator tendencies are ubiquitous. I’ve no illusions about him. That said, it wouldn’t be the first time in history in which two leaders, or nations for that matter, joined together for a positive common purpose despite the inherent flaws or unfavorable actions of either individual leader or nation.”
His naiveté was astounding to Gabriella. It was as if the clear lessons of history were completely lost on Jack. Gabriella struggled to fight her instinct to further challenge his thinking. I’m a citizen of this country right? Do
I not have the right, or even the responsibility, to challenge him if I think he is way off course? Is he delusional? Is he living in some sort of fantasy world? Peaceful global governance? Really? She fought her internal thoughts and struggled for an appropriate way to get her point her across without overstepping. She couched her warning in her extremely soft, soothing voice. “As long as you’re on guard. You’re in a position of extreme power and many will attempt to influence and manipulate you if you’re not perceptive of their true intentions.”
“I hear you loud and clear. Koslov is always a concern of course, but my main target of scrutiny remains Samani. This conversation has been helpful, but I still have much to pray on, if I could find the focus.”
With that Gabriella informed the President that the hour had come to an end. The President thanked her as usual. He walked out with a sense of validation in all that he had been contemplating, oblivious to the true thoughts that his therapist would have loved to share with him in response, had she had the appropriate chance.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
EVIN PRISON, IRAN
Horrific screeches of incomprehensible agony curdled within Arash Jafari’s ears. He laid on his stomach, naked. On the dirty floor of his cell. He listened intently to the sounds coming from the other cells—vile and torturous. The sounds were so awful he’d almost rather be one of the prisoners screaming in agony, than one of the cellies having to listen to it. The pleas of the prisoners prompted mockery from the guards—and further beatings. Arash heard the diabolical exchanges in full, loud and clear Farsi. The begging never stopped. The torturers didn’t relent. Neither did Arash’s misery.
His cell was no larger than a bathtub. Walls kept him trapped in with heavy, menacing cement blocks. They crushed his soul as he stared at their cold affront. The luxury of a window could not be found. The doors were built of thick, impenetrable metal. Two ventilation holes could be spotted in the ceiling that hung a claustrophobic distance of a mere six meters high above.
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