The Sword of Cyrus: A Thriller (A Rossler Foundation Mystery Book 4)

by JC Ryan

  “When is this going to end? When will these people have seen enough bloodshed, death and destruction? ” Harper had caught Daniel’s angst and was asking questions that had no answer.

  Daniel revealed his despair in his answer. “I don’t know. I’d say when we’ve mopped up the terrorists, but that seems to be like pulling weeds. For every one you pull, three spring up in the same place.”

  “My assistant is calling me into a meeting. Take care Daniel. I just wanted to call and offer you my condolences and to also tell you I am making arrangements for better security for you, your family and the staff of the Rossler Foundation” Harper was gone before Daniel could get out his response.

  “Thanks, Nigel.”

  Persian supremacy

  Mid-July, Tehran

  Dalir’s task in creating his secret society was made a little more difficult by the fact that several of the people he had in mind to invite to his party did not live in Iran at all. In fact, the wealthiest Persians had fled to the far corners of the earth during the overthrow of the Shah fifty years previously. However, their roots in Islam had brought many of the younger generation into the fold of the Islamic Republic on a stealth basis. How the stupid Americans would squirm if they knew that a famous and popular search engine’s profits might fund retribution against them, or that the clothing that turned their wealthy young women into harlots, baring their skin for all to see, might purchase guns and ammunition to be used to destroy their sinful way of life.

  What fun it would be to reveal to the Americans just how much of the most costly and prestigious real estate in their great cities belonged to expatriate Persians. But, that would come later, much later. For now, Dalir decided to contact men he knew to be wealthy, and invite an elite twelve of them to form a committee to put his plan into motion, both by their influence and with their funds. Three Americans, a pair of brothers from the UK, four Iranian citizens who had managed to amass some wealth under the iron rule of the Ayatollahs, and one each from France, Greece and Italy were the ones who agreed to meet with Dalir in Tehran to hear his plan.

  On a day only three weeks after the speech that had galvanized him to action, Dalir met with these men to lay out his plan.

  “Gentlemen, you know that my goal is to restore the Persian Empire in all its glory in the present day. Do I have your commitment to work together for this goal?” Jahandar had explained it to each of them, once he had their assurance that his words would go no further. He didn’t expect to have to explain it again.

  The eldest of the group, a man of sixty-eight, who was the only representative of the first generation of expatriates who’d fled Iran in the late 1970s, spoke for all when he interrupted.

  “How do you propose to do this? Assuming we are all here because your goal intrigued us when you stated it, we would like to see this come to pass. But, history has showed us that we cannot do it by military might. Some of us resorted to conquering through economic superiority.” A ripple of laughter ran around the table. Everyone there knew that this man owned significant real estate holdings in New York City and had an estimated net worth of nearly one billion dollars.

  “Don’t worry, Massoud, we will not be bombing your precious buildings,” Dalir joked in return. Seeing that the others had deferred to the older man and that all seemed to be willing to commit only after they had heard the plan, Dalir explained.

  “I think we are in agreement that radicalism has cost us our finest young men, while gaining nothing,” he began. “Between economic sanctions and wars that we cannot win, and now this demonic virus, we have been brought to the brink of extinction.” The nods around the table encouraged him to lay out his bold plan. “There is an American saying, ‘if you can’t beat them, join them.’ This is how I propose to do it.”

  Dalir went on to marshal his arguments, as the twelve listened avidly, encouraging him with expressions of agreement.

  “The quality of life of our people has deteriorated, even before this latest blow. The Ayatollahs established the Islamic Republic with the support of the people because of the inequality in distribution of wealth under the Shah. Can it now be said that the Ayatollahs went too far? That their repression and extreme measures all but returned our great nation to the Dark Ages? Many of our best minds fled with their wealth, some of your families among them. Are you now ready to join with me to reverse these errors?

  “Where would we be today if we had signed the 10th Cycle Treaty and reaped the benefits of technology and modern medical practice that other countries have seen? Our riches in oil did not benefit our people; for two decades, our people have suffered because the greatest consumer of oil in the world would not buy ours. Now it is of little use, since the 10th Cycle cold fusion technology was discovered. Of course we use it for ourselves, but does the government supply its benefits to the people at little or no cost? No!”

  Dalir paused in his speech, looking around the table to judge the effect of his words.

  “Our people still die of diseases that have been wiped out in the rest of the world. Because the Ayatollah Kazemi declared that the secrets of the library belonged to Egypt and must be delivered back there before Muslims may take part in those miracles, we have become a third-world nation. And the toll of this virus!”

  “Dalir, surely you no longer believe that the virus was engineered by America,” another of the American members of the committee interrupted.

  “It does not matter if America engineered it or merely let it loose,” Dalir said, his eyes darkening to black with the intensity of his emotion. “We died in our millions. Our hospitals were not equipped, our medics not trained. America could have helped more than it did, and that was partly because the Ayatollah would not allow it.” Dalir failed to mention that he had been in perfect agreement with the decision at the time. Nor did he reveal that his entire family had been wiped out. It was critical that he forge these twelve men into one fist to do two things: first, to rid him of the Ayatollah to pave the way for the second. And second, to back his bid to infiltrate the Rossler Foundation by professing a new, peace-loving regime in Iran.

  “Before I go any further, I must insist that, if you are with us, you swear a solemn oath to do everything in your power, using your influence, your wealth, and if necessary your life, to restore Persia to its former glory. If you are not, leave now, but know that you are bound by honor and by blood not to reveal our plans. Swear it!”

  As Dalir moved his gaze from one to the next, each followed the lead of the eldest in fisting his right hand and clapping it to his left shoulder as he said, “I so swear.” When all twelve had followed suit, Dalir thanked them.

  “I propose that we name ourselves The Sword of Cyrus. You will be richly rewarded when we have prevailed. If your wealth has been spent, it will be returned to you. If you have died, your families will be well cared for. In due time, the world will know and revere your names. I, Dalir Jahandar, descendant of Cyrus the Great of Persia, swear it to you in return.” Jahandar’s passion swept through his chosen, binding them to him in spirit as well as honor. As the twelve stood, applauding in agreement to the name of the group, Dalir motioned for them to sit down. There was still urgent business to attend to.

  “This is what we must do. Does any one of you believe that the Ayatollah Kazemi is fit to govern in the wake of his refusal to allow treatment for the infidel’s virus?” Once more, Dalir scanned the room. Seeing no dissent, he continued. “What, then, shall we do with this man? I attest to you, because I have had occasion to be in his presence, that he is deluded, perhaps insane. He believes himself to be the Twelfth Imam, and yet he was powerless to stop what was happening to our people. My suggestion is that we remove him by whatever means necessary.”

  “What of the government when he is gone, Dalir?” asked Massoud. In spite of the fact that he’d been a mere lad when his family left Iran, he knew that the Ayatollah was the real leader of Iran’s government.

  “There is of course the actual gove
rnment. Certainly they have no power at this time, nor do we wish to give them any. Let us call for elections and put our own men in power, those who will support us in our mission.” Dalir’s plan had already called for this.

  “You, Dalir?”

  “No, not at this time, although I thank you for your faith in me,” he answered. “It is my opinion that we, the Sword of Cyrus, must stay out of the public eye in both political and religious capacities. We must use our influence in a measured and logical way, not get caught up in populist agendas.

  “I propose that we work toward making the West believe that Iran has become a nation of those who would support peace and democracy. Let us work to bring our people into the modern world of technology and medical advancement. When we are fully accepted and have had the opportunity to fully exploit the technology in that library, we will strike. They will never see it coming, because their decadence keeps them complacent. They do not learn from their errors.” Dalir took up a ceremonial dagger that had lain on the table in front of him the entire time, and stroked it, his eyes darting from one of the twelve to another.

  “When you say remove…” started the member from Italy.

  “I mean he must die,” Dalir finished for him, with a firm emphasis on ‘must’. With a swift motion, he stabbed the dagger into the table.

  ~~~

  Each of the Twelve had an assignment to consider the manner of death of the Ayatollah. They were to meet by videoconference link in three days to discuss how to assassinate the most heavily-guarded man in all of Iran. It was one of the four Iranian members who came up with the best plan.

  “I have learned that Kazemi will be attended by his personal physician next week, on Wednesday,” he explained. “Once the physical exam is complete, a physician’s assistant will hand the doctor several syringes, containing some regular inoculations. It seems our Ayatollah reserves for himself the best of Western medicine.” His sneer was easily visible to the others, who shared his disdain for a hypocrite.

  “What inoculations are these?” asked Dalir.

  “Some vitamin shots, as I understand it. Also, a flu vaccine.” Once again, Saman could not hide his disgust.

  “That son of a goat!” Dalir exclaimed. The others raised their heads in surprise, but Dalir did not explain that his family had died for lack of the gene therapy treatment, and that Kazemi’s use of a vaccine against seasonal flu was one of the worst betrayals he could imagine. Instead, he remarked that it was a direct contradiction of Kazemi’s own policies.

  “Just so,” said Saman. “May I continue?”

  “Of course.”

  Saman said the rest in a rush, unwilling to be interrupted again. “This physician’s assistant has a vulnerability we may exploit. He is known to love his family very much. I do not propose to harm them, but he need not know that. On my signal, men in my employee will snatch them from their home and convey them to mine, to be my guests until this man performs our mission. We will have him substitute a substance we give him for the flu shot. You’ll appreciate the irony, Dalir. This substance will mimic a heart attack, and Kazemi will die with no one the wiser that it was an assassination.”

  “An excellent plan, Saman! Are we in agreement?” Dalir smoothly took control of the conference with his question.

  With the others all nodding, Dalir asked a follow-up question. “Saman, have you determined the substance to use?” If not, he thought, I have a few ideas of my own.

  However, Saman had apparently thought of everything. “After much research, I believe that the best would be eight grams of potassium chloride. The substance breaks down immediately in the body into potassium and chlorine. The chlorine bonds to the body’s naturally occurring sodium, forming sodium chloride - ordinary salt. The freed potassium, however, will result in a potassium overload, which will create tachycardia, leading to a heart attack.” His self-satisfied smile revealed that he’d taken pride in the thoroughness of his research.

  Dalir stated the obvious, while toying with the dagger he’d taken to carrying with him everywhere. “So, it will appear to be natural causes.” He would have preferred to stab the traitor through the heart, but that would not be prudent.

  “Yes, Dalir. Death will occur within half an hour at most, and the method will be undetectable.” Saman was certain; he’d made sure of it before bringing it to the table.

  “Excellent! Nothing can be found upon autopsy?” This from Massoud, who had a fondness for the TV show, CSI, and prided himself on his knowledge of criminal investigation in America.

  “Perhaps an elevated level of sodium chloride - nothing that should raise suspicion,” Saman returned.

  “How soon can you arrange to have this man’s family detained?” Dalir asked.

  “I have taken the liberty of doing so already, Dalir. They should be arriving as my guests at my home right now. Every precaution has been taken. I even did my research into the method of death on computers than cannot be traced to me. Everything is in readiness except for gaining the physician’s assistant’s cooperation. Shall I make the call?”

  “Make it from an anonymous location. Purchase a pre-paid phone for the purpose.” Dalir was well-versed in field-craft, though he would not reveal the nature of his experience to these men.

  “Certainly, Dalir.”

  Two hours later, a frightened man was shown into the conference room, where only Dalir and his colleague were waiting for him, both with their faces obscured by cloths covering their lower faces. He had been brought blindfolded to this place, but the blindfold had been removed so that he could see the grandeur of the room and be impressed by the importance of the anonymous men in front of him.

  “Kasra Turani, do you know why you are here?” The voice was stern and regal.

  “Bebakhshid Agha. Excuse me, sir, I do not. The voice on the phone, it said my wife and children…” The frightened man could not finish his sentence, and his legs were about to betray him.

  “Are safe, Kasra, I assure you. They will remain safe as our guests until you have accepted our mission and carried it out. Then they will be returned to you, none the worse for wear.” The voice was kinder now, and Kasra began to take heart.

  “Please, sir, I know nothing of missions. I am a simple man, a physician’s assistant. What could I do for a man of wealth and discernment such as yourself? A special medication, perhaps? Something Dr. Abbasi could prescribe for you?” He feared to name it, for use of illicit drugs was punishable by death.

  “Thank you, but that will not be required. You will be given a syringe with a special medication for the Ayatollah Kazemi next week. You will substitute this syringe for the medication you usually give that most resembles the appearance of our special medicine. Do you have questions?” Dalir’s voice had gone stern again, guessing what the man offered. For that, he would change the plan for the man’s fate.

  “Yes, please sir. What is this special medication?” His voice quavered, a sign that he had a good idea.

  “That does not concern you. Do you accept this mission?”

  “Will the Ayatollah be harmed, sir?” Once more, he tried, and once more, was rebuffed.

  “Again, that is not your concern. Do you understand what will happen to your wife and beautiful young daughters if you refuse?”

  “Yes, sir, I think so, sir.” Resigned.

  “To whom do you owe your allegiance?”

  “To my family, sir.”

  “Then your choice is clear, is it not? Do you have any more foolish questions?” Dalir was now out of patience. The man’s immediate fate hung in the balance.

  “No, sir. I accept the assignment, sir.”

  “Very good. This medicine will be handed to you when you make an excuse to leave the examining room briefly. Make sure to conceal the unused syringe with the vitamin injection in your clothes, and get rid of it outside the palace somewhere within half an hour of Kazemi’s injections. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Ex
cellent. You will be well rewarded. Not only will your family be returned to you, but you will receive generous payment besides. You will never have to work again if you choose not to, and you will be free to choose where you wish to live.” At the moment, Dalir fully believed what he was saying.

  “Will I not wish to live here in Tehran after this mission, sir? This is my home.”

  “Certainly, if you wish.”

  Meeting with an old friend

  August 15, Boulder

  “Luke, how’s it going?” Luke Clarke, ex-CIA agent, head of security for the Rossler Foundation and uncle to Sarah Rossler, knew the voice, but couldn’t place it, nor the slight accent.

  “Fine. I believe you have me at a disadvantage.”

  “Luke, I am wounded! You do not recognize your old friend, Arsalan?”

  Luke froze, an expression of wonder flashing across his countenance. “I’m glad to hear from you, Arsalan. Congratulations on escaping the flu.” It had been so long since he’d heard from Arsalan, before his retirement from the CIA. Luke didn’t even know if his old sleeper agent was still in the Middle East. Of course, he should be. When someone agreed to lie low and be activated when needed, it was expected that they’d stay put.

  “It was not easy, my friend. I have some information for you,” Arsalan continued.

  Luke had a question first. “Wait just a minute. You know we thought you dead? Why have you been silent all this time?”

  “It was not safe to contact you before. I am in New York right now. When can we meet?” New York?

  Luke thought fast as he answered, “Hold on, buddy. I’m retired. You’ll have to give it to someone else.”

  “I think not, Luke. Your government will want to hear this. I trust only you. You must broker a meeting with someone of importance, and very soon. Time is critical.”