by Vince Flynn
“What did you find out?” the president asked.
“The Israelis aren’t talking to anyone. From the top down to the mid-level guys, no one is answering their phones.”
“Your assessment?”
“They did it,” Rapp said plainly.
“You’re sure?”
“One Hundred Percent.”
“Mitch,” Kennedy said cautiously, “you can’t give that kind of guarantee.”
“All right…ninety-nine point nine, nine, nine.”
“Explain.” The president leaned back and crossed his legs.
“The Israelis are very insular. They can close ranks like no other outfit I’ve ever worked with. They’re trying to get their story straight. Figure out if they can weather this and lie to the world that they had no involvement in it.”
“But why wouldn’t they have given us some signal that this was coming?” Alexander asked.
“Easier to ask for forgiveness than permission,” Kennedy answered.
“Exactly,” said Rapp.
The president thought about it for second and then asked, “What if it was an accident?”
“This was no accident, sir. Israel was behind it, and their silence is all the proof we need. If they honestly had nothing to do with this they would be calling us asking why we didn’t give them a heads-up. My guess is that this was a very tight operation run by a very limited team within Mossad, possibly including a few people from the military, the prime minister, and one or two cabinet ministers. I don’t know how they did it, but they caught the Iranians flatfooted. The analysts back at Langley reviewed the satellite footage, and there is absolutely no sign of any activity prior to the place collapsing. No response from the guard barracks on site, no rush of people fleeing any of the buildings. No sign of anything unusual.”
“And why is that significant?”
“There were no gunshots. If this thing were a full-blown commando raid, you would have seen a reaction from the base security. This is part of why the Iranians think it was an air strike. No one alerted them that anything was wrong. One minute the place was there, the next minute it wasn’t. The logical assumption for them is that it was stealth bombers even though to the best of my knowledge we’ve never conducted a daylight bombing run with ours.”
The president looked over at Kennedy. “I know I’ve asked this, but is it possible that the Israelis have developed their own stealth plane?”
“Highly unlikely.”
“But possible.”
Rapp waved his hands in front of him, signifying not to go down that road. “The Israelis don’t have the money to develop a plane like that, and even if they did, there’s still one other piece of evidence that points to an inside job. When you get back to Washington, Secretary England is going to give you a bomb damage assessment report from the Pentagon. I haven’t seen it, but I know what it’s going to say.”
“How?”
“Because I’ve been there. I’ve been in the field marking targets for these flyboys when they drop their bunker-busters. I’ve crawled down into a few of those command and control centers after they’ve been hit, and they don’t look like the satellite photos we’ve seen of this place. Holes are made, parts of floors and ceilings collapse, and everything inside is charred, but it doesn’t look like the earth opened up and swallowed the whole damn building.”
“Then what was it?”
“They had some people on the inside and they’ve probably had them there for some time. They were able to move unnoticed, place the charges, and blow the building. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”
The president swiveled his chair and thought about what he’d heard. After a long moment he looked up and said, “What does it really matter if the Israelis destroyed it by air or by any other means? In the end they are still the ones who destroyed it.”
Rapp smiled. “It matters because it gives us an opportunity to create an alternative truth and make the Iranians look like they are lying to their own people and the world.”
The president was speechless for a second. He looked at Kennedy briefly and then back at Rapp. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Neither do I,” Kennedy added.
“Have you ever heard of a group called the People’s Mujahedin of Iran? The PMOI? They’re a group that falls loosely under the control of the National Council of Resistance of Iran. It’s made up of dissidents of all different stripes. They live mostly in Europe. They’re scientists, teachers, artists…pretty much anyone who felt repressed by the clerics and decided to leave. They were around during the revolution back in seventy-nine and then found out they weren’t welcome at the table after the shah fled. In 1981 hundreds of their top members were rounded up and taken to Evin Prison, where Khomeini had them shot. The PMOI is also referred to as the MEK. These guys have been our saving grace in Northern Iraq. Every time the Sunnis get out of line or the Iranians send one of their Badr Brigades into the area to cause trouble, we call in the MEK and they make the problem go away.”
“Aren’t they on a terrorist list?” the president asked.
“Bad move by the previous administration. They thought they could get some brownie points with Iran, which was foolish, but now’s not the time to get into it. The important thing is that the MEK has become a force to be reckoned with. There are a few reasons why Mosul is far more peaceful than Baghdad or Basra, and one of the biggest ones is the MEK. The Iranian government hates these guys with a passion, and MEK suffers no lost love for the hard-line clerics.”
“So how do they figure into the current crisis?”
“They don’t,” Rapp said with a grin, “but we’re going to make them part of it.”
18
TEHRAN, IRAN
Ashani felt as if he had been sucked into some alternate universe where up was down and down was up. It was one thing to put on a brave face and plot a proper course of retribution, but this was simply nonsense. The man who had put them in this tenuous position was yet again going to be the chief propagandist in the next phase of the conflict. The last thing they needed was more inflamed rhetoric and promises of grand retribution. The council needed a reality check. Under normal circumstances Ashani would have never thought of confronting Amatullah in front of the Supreme Leader, but it was different now. Something had changed within him, and he had no doubt it was precipitated by his close brush with death earlier in the day.
He had always known Amatullah was perhaps the most reckless and arrogant man in the government. His inflammatory words more than anything else were what had gotten them into this national crisis. There was no limit to the man’s ability to delude himself and others. He was incapable of understanding the obvious. Iran’s nuclear program was in shambles. Literally, not a speck of equipment was salvageable. All of their intelligence estimates told them that Israel had in excess of one hundred nuclear devices and America had so many they spent hundreds of millions of dollars decommissioning old ones. The idea that they could bring utter devastation to either country was simply ludicrous.
Emboldened by his near-death experience, Ashani looked at the diminutive leader and asked, “And just how are we going to destroy them?”
“What?” Amatullah was caught off guard by the question.
“I said, how are going to destroy them?” he asked with a slight edge.
“We will launch wave after wave of martyrs. We will target their infrastructure. We will bring their economy to its knees.” Amatullah dismissed his intelligence boss with an irritating frown.
Ashani was not to be deterred. “The 9/11 attacks were nothing more than a twenty-four-hour flu for their economy. They bounced back even stronger than before.”
“We will make 9/11 seem like it was nothing.”
Ashani gave Amatullah a doubtful look. “And you think the Americans will sit there and take it?”
“Yes. They cannot afford to go to war with us. They have learned their lesson in Iraq.”
; “What if you’re wrong? Suppose they are willing to go to war with us. According to you, they are behind this attack which by de facto means they are willing to risk open war.”
“Never.” Amatullah shook his head vigorously. “That is why they had Israel drop the bombs. They themselves did not have the courage to confront us.”
The man’s absolute confidence in his ability to predict what the Americans would do was unnerving. Ashani turned and looked at the Supreme Leader. “Mark my words. If we push the Americans too far, they will strike back.”
“They will never invade,” Amatullah said dismissively.
“I did not say they would invade. They will drop bombs, and plenty of them.”
Amatullah scoffed at the threat. “And we will hit them everywhere. Not just in America, but all over the world. We will bring their aviation industry to its knees. We will disrupt oil flow and their economy will collapse.”
Ashani shook his head sadly. “Escalation will lead to escalation. They will rain bombs down on us like nothing we have ever seen. Mark my words, they will destroy our entire air force on the first day, and then they will turn their sights on us.” Ashani paused to look around the room, letting each man know that this time their own hides might be on the line. “It will take time for our martyrs to strike, and their success is not guaranteed. The Americans, on the other hand, have us surrounded. They have bases in Iraq and Afghanistan, and they have two aircraft carriers in the gulf. If war starts, they will send a third and maybe even a fourth and fifth carrier.”
“Good,” Amatullah proclaimed. “Let them pack all of their vaunted carriers into the gulf, where they will be that much easier to sink.” He leaned forward and pointed at himself. “We control the Strait of Hormuz. Not them.”
“You underestimate the Americans if you think they are dumb enough to put five carriers in the gulf. They will move their marine and navy air units to Qatar, the UAE, or Bahrain. They will have us surrounded on three sides.”
“Never!” Amatullah shook his head vigorously. “Our Arab brothers would never commit such a treacherous act.”
“Our Arab brothers are not exactly enthralled with our growing influence in Iraq. Don’t be so sure of their support, and even if they do as you say, the Americans can operate from the Arabian Sea. They will decimate our entire infrastructure within one week. Every refinery, every pipeline and rail line will be severed. All telecommunications facilities and power plants will be demolished. Except in the north, of course, where they will leave everything in place and begin arming the Kurds. It will take years for our already fragile economy to recover, and we will have to deal with an insurrection in the north.”
“You underestimate the strength of our people,” Amatullah said dismissively. “Unlike the Americans, who are fat and lazy, our people know how to sacrifice and make do.”
“And you,” Ashani shot back, “overestimate your popularity with the people. Don’t be so sure they won’t turn on you when their power is out and they have no food on the table.”
“You traitor!” Amatullah yelled. “How dare you!”
Ayatollah Najar reached over and grabbed Amatullah’s arm. “Both of you,” he said firmly, “need to remember who you are in the presence of.”
Both Ashani and Amatullah looked at the Supreme Leader and then averted their eyes in either a sign of compliance or humiliation. The Supreme Leader sat stoically in his chair, his arms at his sides and his long fingers draped over his knees. By design or nature the man gave off an air of tranquility.
In a measured, confident voice he said, “We have been attacked.” He took the time to look each man in the eye before moving on. “It is our just right to demand retribution in both blood and treasure.” He glanced at his minister of Foreign Affairs. “You will take our case to the United Nations. Those responsible will have to pay.” His gazed shifted to Ashani and Amatullah. “We must move carefully. It would appear that the United States has yet again used Israel to do the work of the devil.”
Every man in the room save Ashani nodded in agreement.
“There is a chance,” Ashani started, “that the United States did not have knowledge of this act.”
“Do you think they are mourning our loss?”
“No, but I would like to remind the council that the Americans have rid us of both Saddam and the Taliban. We have a back channel with their government. I would like to see what I can find out before we take action.”
“Lies,” Amatullah bellowed. “That is what you will find out.”
Ashani ignored Amatullah. “I do not see what harm it could do to hear what they have to say.”
Amatullah tried to speak, but the Supreme Leader silenced him with a disapproving look. He took a moment to straighten his robes and then said, “The right hand does not always need to know what the left hand is doing.”
Ashani had grown used to these imprecise proclamations from the Supreme Leader. It allowed him to keep his hands clean. The problem, as Ashani knew all too well, was that his edicts left too much room for interpretation.
“There is nothing wrong in finding out what the Americans have to say, but do not trust them. I will leave the details to all of you, but I want to be clear about one thing. This attack cannot go unpunished.”
The members of the council nodded enthusiastically, and a few broke into applause. Ashani had the sinking feeling that they were going down a dangerous road paved with emotion and national pride. The thought of where it might lead them brought on a violent coughing fit. Ashani doubled over in pain. The other members of the council grew concerned until at last it stopped.
“Excuse me,” Ashani said sheepishly. He felt a wetness on his chin and drew the back of his hand across his mouth. He looked down with embarrassment to see it was covered in blood.
The Supreme Leader looked at him with grave concern and said, “My son, you should be in the hospital.”
“My apologies. I will go at once.” Ashani stood and bowed. He felt a sudden shortness of breath. He took two steps toward the door, wavered, and collapsed.
19
WHITE HOUSE
On a slow day Washington, DC, was an electric city. People flocked to the capital from all over the world to conduct business, espionage, and a myriad of other activities legal and illegal. The city was home to countless nonprofits, trade organizations, and financial institutions, and the second-largest hub of journalists outside of New York City. Counting Baltimore, there were six major pro sports teams and another dozen college teams to cheer for. Everything, however, took a backseat to politics. A potential showdown with Iran had the town running on adrenaline. The city had awakened to find the papers plastered with photos of an angry Iranian president and aerial shots of Iran’s destroyed nuclear facility. Every TV and radio channel was buzzing with the story. Iran was blaming the United States and Israel. Thus far Israel had remained silent, but the administration had released a statement through Sue Glusman, the White House press secretary, saying they had absolutely no involvement whatsoever in the accident.
Kennedy had stressed to Glusman and the president that they should refer to the incident as an accident until Iran could prove otherwise. Kennedy was running on a few hours’ sleep. After landing at Andrews Air Force base the day before, she had hopped a helicopter out to Langley, where she worked until 11:00. Her driver took her home. She thanked her mother for watching her son, Tommy, kissed the sleeping boy on the forehead, and then grabbed five hours of sleep, before waking up, kissing her still-sleeping son on the forehead again, and then heading back to the office, all before the sun was up. This was, unfortunately, more common than she would have liked. The director of the CIA didn’t mind the work, but she did mind being away from her son.
Kennedy’s armor-plated Suburban pulled through the Secret Service checkpoint at the Southwest Gate and rolled up to the ground floor entrance. As requested by the president, she was early. An 8:00 a.m. meeting of the National Security Council was scheduled, an
d Alexander wanted Kennedy to bring him up to speed on any overnight developments beforehand. The director of the CIA said good morning to the Secret Service uniformed officer who was sitting just inside the door. She continued down the hall and took the stairs up one level. When she entered the president’s private dining room, she was momentarily surprised to find both Secretary of State Wicka and Secretary of Defense England.
The silver-haired secretary of defense was about to stick a spoonful of oatmeal in his mouth when he saw Kennedy. In his typical cut-to-the-chase mode he said, “I love Rapp’s idea. The president was just filling us in. These guys never let the truth get in the way of their message. I say it’s time we give them a little taste of their own medicine.”
Kennedy smiled uncomfortably, which caused the gregarious England to laugh.
He pointed across the table to the president and said, “I told you she wouldn’t like it that you told us.”
Secretary of State Wicka was sitting directly across the table from Kennedy. She frowned at England and said, “That’s because she is one of the few people in this town who can keep a secret.”
“Don’t worry, Irene,” England said. “You don’t survive in investment banking by running around shooting your mouth off. At least not for very long.” England was referring to his tenure at Merrill Lynch and Piper Jaffray. The president had brought him on board because he wanted an analytical businessman to help him drag the Pentagon into the new millennium.
Alexander gestured at the one remaining chair and said, “Please sit.”
Kennedy set her briefcase next to the chair and handed her coat to a navy steward.
“What would you like this morning, Dr. Kennedy?”
“The usual, José. Thank you.”
The president pushed his plate of half-eaten eggs and sausage to the side and wiped the corners of his mouth with a white napkin. “Mitch was right about the bomb damage assessment report?”