by David Bruns
Don bit his lip, and he involuntarily mirrored Reza as he brought the cigarette to his lips. “Can you tell me what it’s about, Reza?”
The Iranian shook his head. “I’m sorry, Donald, I cannot. My message is for the ambassador only. Please, you must trust me, this is not a trick.”
Don tapped his foot as another gust of wind shook the tangle of branches overhead. He saw Reza’s eyes shift to a spot over his shoulder, and he could hear the crunch of snow as someone made their way across the courtyard. “Meet at the Sauna Seura on Lauttasaari tonight at seven PM,” Don said in a rapid voice.
Reza nodded, then turned to greet his Iranian team member as the man entered the smoking area.
Don arrived at the Sauna Seura at half past six. He’d managed to get to Ambassador Evans in the afternoon and convinced him to take the meeting with Reza. The ambassador had nodded when he heard Don’s choice of meeting place.
“Very cagey, Riley,” he said. “I like it. I’ll have my assistant reserve a private sauna and send my bug man down to make sure it’s clean. Very smart.” The ambassador paused and swept his eyes over Don. “You’ll be there, of course.”
Inside, Don did a double fist pump. Damned straight! But he settled for: “I think that would be best, sir.”
He considered sending a sitrep back to Washington in the afternoon, but decided to let the ambassador handle the official communications. After all, he was in Finland in his capacity as a nuclear analyst, not as a CIA asset.
Ambassador Evans joined him in the locker room a few minutes later, taking a stall further down the row. He nodded to Don, but said nothing. The sauna had been reserved under a false Finnish name from 6PM to 9PM. One of the embassy staff had swept it for listening devices and was occupying the room now.
Don watched the ambassador out of the corner of his eye as he disrobed. The man was mid-fifties, with a thick mane of gray hair and piercing hazel eyes. He was also in pretty good shape for a guy his age. Don wrapped a towel around his own milky white belly and made his way to the showers.
The plan was for Don to enter the room first, then Reza, and the ambassador would follow along last. Don tried to keep his flat feet from slapping on the tiled floor as he made his way to sauna number six. They had chosen well: sauna six was at the end of the hall, with the door facing him, so there was no room adjacent to any wall. Very secure.
The door creaked as Don entered. The embassy security man, a short, muscled man in his mid-thirties, nodded to Don and left.
Don took a seat on the wooden plank and tried to relax. Saunas were not really his thing—all he got out of them was sweaty and uncomfortable—but he was pretty proud of his quick thinking about the location.
The door creaked again and Reza entered. Like Don, he had a towel wrapped around his waist and kept it on when he sat down. His plump form began to glisten with sweat almost immediately. “Good evening, Donald.” His voice seemed taut with apprehension.
The door opened again to admit the ambassador. He entered the room like a Finn—with full frontal nudity. Don averted his eyes, but not before seeing the mat of gray hair that covered a manly chest.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” he said, and waited for Don to make the introductions. Evans sat on the plank across from Reza and Don and breathed deeply of the hot air. He leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees and spread his hands. “What can I do for you, sir?”
Reza fidgeted with his towel. “I carry a message directly from President Rouhani. It is intended for the highest levels of the US government—Secretary of State at a minimum, and hopefully the President himself.”
Evans leaned back against the wall and crossed his arms, his legs splayed open. “I can’t promise anything, Mr. Sanjabi, but I am here to listen.”
Reza nodded. “I understand. In the event that your government chooses not to follow through on this proposal, we ask that you keep its existence private. The proposal could be very damaging to President Rouhani at home. We will, of course, deny its very existence if it should become public knowledge in an unfavorable way.”
Evans rubbed his jawline. “I’m still listening.”
Reza took a deep breath.
“My president understands the mistrust of the world toward Iran. He especially understands the mistrust of the Israelis. Our recent past, under previous administrations in the Islamic Republic, likely conveyed to Israel no sense of shared interest in a peaceful and prosperous region. The formation of an Islamic State, the group you call ISIS, reinforces the feeling that the Middle East is becoming less friendly toward Western ideals.
“President Rouhani would like to change this dynamic in a meaningful way. In American history, you often cite Nixon’s visit to China as a turning point in history. My President believes that we—Iran and the US—should engineer another historic event, one that will change the trajectory of the Middle East forever. President Rouhani would like to request that the upcoming nuclear negotiation in May be hosted in Tel Aviv, and that he be invited to meet with Prime Minister Netanyahu in Israel.”
Ambassador Evans’s arms had uncrossed and he leaned forward as Reza spoke. His mouth hung open.
“It’s brilliant,” he whispered.
“I assure you, President Rouhani’s proposal is quite sincere,” Reza said. “If the Prime Minister of Israel makes this offer, he will accept. Furthermore, he will ensure that the lion’s share of the credit for this diplomatic coup go to Prime Minister Netanyahu. This is a chance for Israel to secure a legacy of peace that will change the course of history.” Reza placed his hands on his knees and leaned forward. A drop of sweat fell from his nose.
“My President would like to emphasize the need for speed in this matter. The forces against this meeting—on both sides—are substantial. Our only hope of success is if we move quickly.”
“What about security guarantees?” the ambassador asked.
Reza’s face clouded, and his voice took on an air of exasperation. “My country has opened our nuclear facilities to multiple inspections, given you all of our data, including our transgressions. Have we not been as transparent as humanly possible? We do not possess nuclear weapons; this is a fact.” Reza shot a glance at Don, who nodded.
“Now we offer to go to the home of our most vocal enemy to show the world we are sincere, and you ask for guarantees from us?” Reza spat out the last words. Then he sat up and adjusted the towel across his waist, seeming to remember himself.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “My admiration for President Rouhani is exceeded only by my concern for his safety. The offer, Mr. Ambassador, is genuine. I ask that you treat it as such.”
The ambassador pressed his lips together. “Thank you, Mr. Sanjabi, and please convey my gratitude to President Rouhani for his boldness and his sense of history. I will do my best to make his request a reality.” He shook Reza’s hand and left the room.
For a long time, the only sound in the room was the wheeze of the hot rocks that heated the atmosphere.
“Thank you, Donald.”
“I hope it happens, Reza. It could change everything.”
Reza stood. “Perhaps, but that is not our concern at the moment. I’m told the food here is quite good. Would you join me?”
They took cold showers and secured robes before wandering into the common area. Reza pointed to a pair of comfortable chairs set apart from the crowd. They settled into the seats and ordered some beer and light food.
Reza scooted his chair close to Don’s and leaned across the gap between them. “You have seemed on the verge of wanting to ask me something for the last two days now. What is it, my friend?”
Don squirmed in his seat. The Rogue File plagued him again. Surely a man with Reza’s connections could fill in some of the blanks. Maybe he knew about the Iraqi nuclear program. Maybe he knew about this strange man they called “The Blade.”
He cleared his throat and paused as the waiter set their food down on the small table. “Well, now that you mention
it, there is one thing I’ve been wondering . . .”
CHAPTER 37
Oval Office, Washington, DC
18 February 2016 – 2000 local
The President paused on the darkened portico outside the Oval Office.
He drew in a deep breath and held it for a moment. The February air in Washington, DC, was more damp than cold this evening, and fog clung to the lawn of the White House. There was a smell of snow in the air. The Secret Service agent behind him fidgeted. He nodded for the Marine to open the door.
The National Security Advisor and the Director of National Intelligence were waiting for him. They rose to their feet when he entered and he waved for them to sit. “Good evening, ladies. How long til SecDef joins us?”
“He’s five minutes out, sir,” replied Letitia Lowen, the DNI. “And we have State and Ambassador Evans from Helsinki on the line as well.”
The President forced a smile at Tisch Lowen. “How’s the new job, Tisch?”
DNI Lowen’s appointment to replace James Clapper had been one of the few appointments he’d made that was not blocked by the Republicans in the Senate. That was not to say her hearing had been easy, but the fact that it had gone through at all was nothing short of a political miracle.
“We’re settling in fine, sir. Shall I open the phone line?”
The Secretary of Defense rushed into the room and took a seat on the couch next to the DNI. The President accepted a cup of coffee from the steward just as the light on the speaker phone went from red to green. “How’s your flight, Mr. Secretary?” he called.
The flat New England vowels crackled with an undercurrent of static as the Secretary of State answered: “Fine, sir. This must be some meeting to get you away from your family this evening.” The room smiled. It was well known that the President preferred to spend his early evenings with his family.
The President let the polite laughter die down before he continued. “Ambassador Evans—Charlie—are you there?”
“Yes, sir. I’m here and I have Mr. Donald Riley with me. Riley is with the CIA and currently assigned to the NCPC. He’s been acting as a nuclear expert for the planning meetings here in Helsinki.”
The President wrinkled his brow. “Good evening, Mr. Riley. Are you the same Riley I see on all the Iranian nuclear assessment reports?”
Riley’s voice came over the phone as a squeak. “Yes, sir.”
“Alrighty then. Charlie, how about you explain why you’ve gathered us here.”
In the measured sentences of a professional diplomat, Ambassador Evans described the meeting with Reza and the bones of the offer from Rouhani. The President had heard the report already, of course, but he wanted to see the reactions from the rest of the team. Charlie Evans, an accomplished international law expert, was not the kind of ambassador to bring him sketchy offers. The tone of his voice told him that Charlie thought the Iranians were sincere.
The president waited a beat after Ambassador Evans finished speaking before he asked, “And whose idea was it to meet in a sauna?”
“Mine, sir,” came Riley’s voice.
“Very culturally appropriate, Mr. Riley. What is the nature of your relationship with this Reza character?”
Riley’s voice grew stronger. “I first met Mr. Sanjabi as part of the Iranian delegation for nuclear talks. He approached me and offered a private contact number in the event that we needed back-channel communications. We’ve since learned he is very close to President Rouhani, acting as a special projects officer. He has several times fed me information about upcoming events that have proven out. In short, sir, my recommendation is that we treat his offer as genuine.”
The President nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Riley. Charlie, I know it’s 3AM there. We’re going to let you both go get some sleep. The Secretary will be in touch in the morning with our answer.” He waited until the Helsinki connection was dead before he continued. “State, what are your thoughts?”
“It’s bold, Mr. President, maybe even brilliant. Rouhani realizes his time is now. He’s at the height of his power, and he needs to deliver something. If the Israelis get on board, nothing can stop this agreement from going through.”
It was brilliant. Rouhani had anticipated the needs of all sides perfectly. The fly in the ointment for the US had always been Congress. Even if they managed to get a nuclear agreement hammered out, lifting the sanctions still required Congressional action, something that could take months, maybe longer. Less than a year ago, forty-seven Republicans had sent a letter to Iran in an attempt to derail the nuclear negotiations. The political gymnastics those unfortunate senators would have to put themselves through to go back on that position were unthinkable.
But throw Israel into the mix? Show Israel as a supporter of the Administration’s nuclear deal? The Congress—both sides of the aisle, and both houses—would be tripping over themselves to stay aligned with the Israel lobby.
“So why would Bibi go for this deal?” the President asked. “What’s in it for him?”
The National Security Advisor leaned in, her eyes gleaming. “I think that’s really the genius of this plan, sir. With Ahmadinejad in power, the Israelis’ hard line was justified. But Ahmadinejad is long gone. As Rouhani gets more moderate and wins support, Netanyahu sounds more shrill, more like a war-monger, more out of touch with the reality of the world around him. Look, the Iranians have agreed to every inspection, every questionnaire, everything we’ve asked of them. How much longer can Israel hold out without looking unreasonable?
“The Arab Spring has left the region in chaos. But what if the two largest players got together and created a peaceful agreement? If Rouhani’s moderates control Iran, the funding for Hamas, Hezbollah, Assad in Syria—it all goes away. Bibi Netanyahu goes from the guy holding up red-line cartoons in the UN to the Israeli leader who brought peace to the Middle East. Think about that as your legacy.”
The President blew out a long breath. “Defense, what are your thoughts?”
The Secretary cleared his throat. “I have to agree. As Israel goes, so goes Congress. Getting the nuclear deal signed, lifting sanctions, it all becomes doable if Israel is behind it.”
“Tisch, your turn.”
The DNI removed her glasses and tapped them against her knee as she spoke. “Mr. President, I think we have to assume the offer is genuine. Bold, yes, but genuine. Everything we know about Rouhani says he’s going for real reform. My interpretation is that the boldness of the offer shows us how precarious his position is within the regime. He needs to show progress quickly to stay in power. He’s weighed the odds and decided to go for broke.”
“State?”
“I agree with what’s already been said, but I would add one thing. There are many ways Rouhani could have made this offer to us, but he chose a low-level meeting in Helsinki between an analyst and his man. If we assume the offer is legitimate—and I think it is—that tells us two things: this Reza character is plugged into the very top of the Rouhani power structure, and our man Riley is our way in.
“Our best weapon now is speed. If the hard-liners find out about this, they will go ballistic—pardon the pun. Every day that goes by increases the chances that the opposition from either side will find out and kill this plan before it ever sees the light of day. We need to get Israel to make the offer as soon as possible.”
The President sat back in his chair and steepled his hands in front of his face. His strained relationship with the Prime Minister of Israel was a much talked about aspect of his time in office. He straightened up suddenly.
“Thank you all. If you’ll excuse me, I have a phone call to make.”
CHAPTER 38
Tehran, Iran
15 March 2016 – 1800 local
The news broke on Tuesday evening in Tehran, timed to lead the evening segments in the Middle East, and hit the morning talk shows in the US. It went without saying that it would dominate the news cycle all week and into the next weekend.
The Al Jazeer
a screen shifted into its breaking news montage, settling on an attractive female anchor. The screen above her right temple blazed with the headline: Israel agrees to host Iran nuclear negotiations.
Hashem choked on a mouthful of tea, then snatched up the remote and increased the volume:
Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu announced this afternoon that the upcoming Iran nuclear negotiations will be held in Tel Aviv on May 16. In a surprise move, the Israeli Prime Minister also extended an invitation to meet with Iranian President Rouhani as part of the talks.
She cut away to a clip of Netanyahu, a stern look on his blocky face as he stood behind a podium making his announcement.
Israel’s bold gesture of confidence in the nuclear talks met with widespread affirmation from the world community—
Hashem’s mobile phone rang. He answered it without taking his eyes off the TV screen.
“Hashem, please come quickly. It’s your brother.” Hashem could hear the tears in Maryam’s voice.
“Is he okay?”
“He’s very angry, throwing things, and now he’s locked himself in his office again and refuses to answer the door. I—I don’t know what to do.”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can.” Hashem reached for his jacket with one hand and thumbed the speed dial on his phone for his driver with the other.
The car was waiting for him in the front portico of his apartment building. He slammed the door as he got in and tried Aban’s personal mobile for the third time.
Once they left the gated grounds of the apartment, they merged with the crawl of evening rush hour. His driver inched along, jockeying for position in the stream of cars on Valiasr Avenue, the main artery running north to the rich suburbs.