Tehran Decree

by James Scorpio

  The TV image started to fade as if someone was draining the power. He slowly stood up swaying from side to side and reached for the adjustment dial. No sooner had he increased the brightness when the shed door burst open. Two men dressed in police blue track suites stood in the doorway. The taller of the two stepped forward.

  ‘We’ve just come to tuck you in bed sir,’ he sniped, with a strong hint of sarcasm. The two men closed the door behind them. Chester stared morosely at the two men, he thought he recognised one of them as a constable he had disciplined on several occasions. Used to handling the lower rank and file he stood his ground and confidently confronted them.

  ‘What are you two buggers doing here, shouldn’t you two be cleaning up the bloody mess in the tunnel?’

  ‘We have a bit of a mess to clean up here first sir,’ one of the men moved quickly around the back of the police chief, and before Chester could utter another word there was a tight cord around his neck. The second man smiled in his face while the other pulled the cord a little tighter.

  ‘This is a something we should have done years ago sir...afterall you’ve certainly earned it.’ Big as he was Chester was no match for the agility of the younger men. He choked and struggled but the blackness gradually moved in. His thoughts became jumbled, but in a short lucid moment he remembered once, long ago, on a police college defence course, that it was possible to remain conscious for a short time without blood entering the brain, providing one willed it by self suggestion.

  The cord tightened and Chester remained conscious for the next three seconds, then his body went limp, and the younger man let go as Chester slithered to the floor, the cord buried deep within his trachea

  ~ ~ ~

  Rosey Chester didn’t get back home until one p.m., she pulled in the drive way cursing -- the outside light was off but there was a dull yellow glow in Clement’s shed, with fluctuating light flashes in the side window.

  Clement had fallen asleep again in front of the telly, it was just one of a battery of irksome habits he had developed since his abrupt retirement. Rosey was at the end of her tether and had begun to wonder if this awkward recluse was the actual man she had married all those years ago. His habits had been largely hidden during his days at work and had now become fly blown and out of all proportion.

  She slammed the door on the Holden Commodore hoping this would wake him, then wrenched the shed door open. The varying brightness of the TV screen matched against the darkness of the rear of the shed confused her and she peered intently at the old armchair. It was several moments before she realised Clement wasn’t sitting there; she looked beyond, to the rear of the shed.

  She was met by an incomprehensible void of shifting forms, which refused to be focussed into a cohesive whole. The scarcity of the pervading light seemed to be creating misleading images of its own.

  Shouting his name in frustration she switched on the main light at the side of the door.

  Her face crumpled in horror: Clement was strung up to the roof of the shed, his head pulled crazily to one side by a plastic cord tied in a rough knot, a deathly gray pallor bathed his twisted features. Sputum and bloodied saliva dribbled from his open mouth and she wanted to vomit and cry in the one breath.

  An old stool lay on its side a mere six inches from his feet, apparently he had once again he had stuffed things up, botching his own death by slowly strangling himself instead of the swiftness, and finality of spinal severance.

  She looked up at him one final time in a prolonged wistful gaze, and held his cold hand between hers, trying desperately top warm it up...just a little.

  ‘Why Clement...why...?’

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Pentagon Washington

  THE CHIEF OF the Airforce Harold Wiseman stood outside the office door of the chief of the Army; tapped on the door, and walked in. The army chief got up from behind his desk a welcoming smile stretched over his well worn features.

  ‘Hi, Harold, glad you could make it,’ the chief of army, George Feltnam, clasped Harold’s hand and forearm in a sincere salutation.

  ‘Now what is it that you couldn’t tell me over the phone my friend?’ Harold lowered his head as if in mock despair.

  ‘I have a burgeoning problem which is eating the hell out of my viscera.’

  ‘Nothing can be that bad surely...have you tried sodium bicarbonate?’ Wiseman ignored the frivolous but well intended remark.

  ‘He’s virtually changed the government from top to bottom,’ Feltnam listened attentively and continued with his jocular remarks.

  ‘Who has...I’ll have him court marshaled immediately,’ Feltman then laughed openly in an attempt to defuse the serious atmosphere.

  ‘It’s no laughing matter George...we’ve got problems. The real president is in the hands of terrorists about to be put on trial for his life in Iran. The White House chief of staff and the presidents security adviser have all been written off, and the secretary of state has been relieved on serious charges of treason...who the hell is next?

  I tell you George, this bloody acting president is systematically replacing all the senior members of the cabinet -- now he’s bringing in his own ‘Yes’ men. All this, and not a primary election in site, hardly democracy is it?’

  ‘It’s real politics Harold...ours is not to reason why, we’re here to simply defend the USA as the president sees fit and he is the commander in chief.’

  ‘I know, that’s what worries the shit out of me. He’s already deployed a secret weapon without directly consulting us.’

  ‘What would that be?’

  ‘The DS302 micro homing bullet...its an advanced marker for a military strike.’

  ‘Its the first I’ve heard of it.’

  ‘That doesn't surprise me George, it is, or was, a profoundly secret device. I know he’s the commander in chief, but if he’s going to keep ignoring his generals superior professional knowledge, he’ll end up duplicating Hitler. While that doesn't really bother me, what does, is the fact that he’ll drag us all down with him. Don’t forget the patsy in these things is always a senior military man. I know he hasn’t done anything blatantly illegal yet, but he sure is skating on thin ice.’

  ‘But you’ve got to admire the man Harold, he’s using his powers to the hilt and then some, he’s quite the most dynamic president ever to occupy the White House.'

  ‘He’s also the one of the most frightening and corrupt presidents to occupy the White House.’

  ‘Aren’t they all corrupt in some way...this is Machiavellian politics, he does this because he can, and the president can be a bloody tyrant if he chooses to be.’

  ‘May I suggest that you open your eyes George...the bloody man is single and openly fraternises with the junior admin staff.’

  ‘All the better Harold, perhaps he’s looking for a suitable partner in his presidential quest.’

  ‘That I can understand if the junior staff were females but he seems to fancy the younger men too. The last thing we want is a bloody sex scandal involving the presidential

  office whether it be hetero or homosexual.’

  ‘Aren’t you going a bit overboard Harold, after all the man is only human, and don’t forget sex is merely a normal bodily function like urination, defecation or sneezing.’

  ‘Well if you feel that way I’d close your eyes George for what is coming, because it could just stretch your mind to breaking point -- the bigger the man, the bigger the fuck-up. And don’t forget, once he gets enough cronies behind him, he’ll perform a top down clean out that’ll make the shit house cleaner cringe.

  My advice to you George is watch your back if you value your position. Destroy every piece of info and file that might incriminate you in any way, that even includes e-mail's and dodgy coffee club payments.

  The man is a bloody parasite -- you may recall from your basic biology schooling the parasitic wasp, which lays its eggs in the caterpillar's body -- they hatch and eat their host alive. That’s what Jenkins is doing t
o the American political system.’

  ‘I think your taking this far too literally Harold; my advice is to take a good holiday, go to Tahiti, or Hawaii and relax, forget all about politics for the next three weeks,’ Wiseman collapsed in his chair and stared at the ceiling reflecting on his friends remarks. Perhaps his companion was right, even if going on leave at such a critical moment in time might mean his removal as chief of the Air Force.

  Maybe it was time he considered retirement, politics had become a rat racy shooting gallery, with himself now in the firing line.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Tehran, Iranian Military HQ

  A fine sweat had built up on Brigadier Al Zandi’s face as he worked through his exercise routine on his three thousand dollar tread mill. The machine was a state of the art apparatus imported direct from the UK ordered directly from a health magazine he regularly subscribed to. He had lovingly assembled it piece by piece and built his daily exercise routine around it. The elaborate contraption dominated his office space.

  A great fan of all things quintessentially British, he had noted the recent phenomenal strides they had made in the sporting arena -- beating some of the best athletes in the world during the Olympic Games, after a lack luster fifty years in the doldrums. This was the sort of progress he liked to see in a country which had previously lost its standing in world athletics. It was good to see any country doing well in any endeavor, even if that country was a potential enemy.

  A word in his ear by one of this close friends living in London, told him that fifty percent of the British success had been attributed to this same tread mill, with its electronically tuned exercise routines. The machine could also be programmed to ones metabolism and physiological needs on a weekly basis.

  The phone on his desk rang repeatedly but Al Zandi ignored it, concentrating on the rhythm set by his machine, which stipulated no interruptions were to be allowed during exercise. It was three hours later, during a computer filing transfer procedure, when the phone rang again. He allowed three rings then picked up the receiver.

  ‘Hello, Brigadier Al Zandi speaking.’

  ‘Hello, General Hakem Gamela...where have you been, I’ve been trying to contact you urgently.

  ‘I’m sorry sir, but I’ve had a bad attack of diarrhea.’

  ‘I see...well you’d better get rid of it before we decide to get rid of the person harbouring it.’

  ‘Yes sir, I have consulted the doctor.’

  ‘Good, now for your information Al Zandi, the decree has been changed. Apparently the supreme leader in conjunction with the Iranian president have reached a more satisfactory conclusion on the conditions of the decree. This has also been sanctioned by the National Security Council.

  Just about now you should find a revamped version in the e-mail box of your computer,’ Al Zandi clicked on his mail and scrolled down the list clicking on the e-mail marked ‘Decree Mod.’

  He looked long and hard at the message; his eyes brightened, the content was much more logical and he could see the mitigating input of the security council and possibly the president. But it was still extremely confrontational, and in his eyes...quite mad.

  It had taken a long time but he was beginning to see why the western leaders and the Iranian leadership could not get on with each other. The Arab world lacked a certain entente cordiale. It was surely time for a drastic change in policy, if we really wanted to defeat the western democracies, the Muslim hierarchy had to beat the West at their own game.

  A shrill noise came over his receiver as General Hakem Gamela whistled hard down the phone line. Al Zandi quickly pulled it away from his ear.

  ‘Are you still there Zandi...or have you had another attack of diarrhea,’ Zandi rubbed his ear and squinted menacingly at the receiver. This was the very thing that was wrong with the whole Iranian system, too much hate and antagonism...they couldn’t get on with each other let alone foreign nationals.

  ‘Yes sir, I’m still here,’ Al Zandi added hastily

  ‘Good, this still means you have to keep a ridged watch on the border areas -- make sure your men are up to the job.’

  ‘Yes sir!’

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Government House NSW

  Defence Minister Bruce Jones looked grimly at the PM. ‘These men have killed dozens of our own police and American security agents, kidnapped the US president, destroyed at least eight highly expensive limousines and we let them go sir!’

  ‘We had no choice Bruce -- it’s basically an American operation and they must ultimately call the shots, they will of course be shadowing the Learjet.’

  ‘A fat lot of good that will do, it might have made more sense to shoot them all, including the president -- it would at least have prevented a world wide trial and further humiliation on an unprecedented scale. They’re going to execute the president anyway,’ Jone’s mobile buzzed and he flopped into one of the comfy leather chairs adjacent to the long table before answering.

  ‘Hello police minister Jones here,’ Jone’s hand tightened around his mobile as the call continued. His face lightened, then darkened, and he stared at the floor as the caller terminated the connection. He folded his mobile, dropping it in his jacket pocket, then looked solemnly at the PM.

  ‘Everything has changed sir...that was a call came from the BIB Lear jet, Kazeni has done a back flip...he wants to sell the president back to the highest bidder his bottom price is fifty billion US dollars. He’s staked out Iran and the US to bid against each other.

  ‘Really, well that’s a turn up for the books -- an Iranian sponsored terrorist group holding their hostage up for ransom to the Iranian government. My, my, heads will roll should the Iranians ever catch up with them.

  Actually it doesn’t surprise me, what does surprise me is why he didn’t try it on much sooner.’

  ‘You know how it is with these hot headed fundamentalists sir, he’s just figured out how valuable his catch is...it’s policy on the run.

  The Lear jet is landing at Muscat in the next few hours and they’re taking the president to a hiding place on the outskirts of the city.Habib Sharazi has promised to keep in touch with us.’

  ‘Right, better inform the Americans, they look like being up for a another hefty bill.’

  ‘No doubt this will annoy them even more sir.

  ‘I’m sure it will, the BIB have beaten the best security organisation in the world and made mugs of the Americans on the international stage. The Yanks are now looking in our direction, they probably think its our fault, and I’m inclined to agree.’

  ‘We did our best sir...well at least some of us did.’

  ‘There lies the problem Bruce...our best was not good enough..’

  ‘However, ours is not to reason why, we may not be totally powerless,’the PM pressed his re-dial button and Jansen’s mobile lit up.

  ‘Hello Jansen here.’

  ‘Hello commander, PM...can you get to government house as soon as possible?’

  ‘Yes sir, I’m on my way,’

  The PM looked mischievously at his defence minister. ‘On second thoughts we might just delay informing the Americans of the change in plans until we’re up and running.’

  ‘Is that wise sir, we’re already straining the leash.’

  ‘It is very wise Bruce...sometimes golden opportunities come our way and if we don’t grab them instantly they are lost forever. So, the sooner we get organised the better, hopefully it will make us look good in their eyes...then we’ll tell them’

  The PM sat down with the defence and police ministers while a disgruntled US ambassador and FBI director left for the American Embassy without being told of the latest change in terrorist plans. Jansen made the short trip to government house in record time, in a flashing police car driven by an experienced police driver.

  He burst into the meeting room on his arrival to find the three men in deep discussion. The conversation stopped instantly and all eyes turned toward him. The PM smiled enthusias
tically which immediately put Jansen on his guard.

  ‘Come in commander...take your coat off and join us, we were about to drink to our recent success ’Jansen peered suspiciously at the three political heavy weights, and gingerly arranged his coat around the back of a well appointed leather chair, while the PM poured out three double whiskies from a bottle of Johnny Walker. He squirted a modicum of soda water in the third glass and handed it to the commander.

  Jansen’s face took on a surprised frown; the PM seemed to have his measure in the drinks department, which was both good and bad. Good because paying attention to ones personal habits was a sign of respect -- bad because familiarity tended to breed contempt. Secretly, Jansen despised most politicians, it was a profession that brought out the worst in human propensities. There was a time when had considered joining their ranks until he realised how corrupt politics and politicians could be. There were very few, if any, governments in the world who could truthfully boast that they were free of corruption.

  The term had come up so often in his business dealings that had decided to pin the term down once and for all. The Macquarie Dictionary listing gave an all embracing definition as follows: dishonest; without integrity; guilty of dishonesty; debased in character; deprived; perverted; wicked; putrid; infected; tainted...and so it went on, and on, and on.

  With all these definitive words it was clearly very hard to be free of corruption. But Jansen knew instinctively what corruption really meant within government circles and could detect it the minute it reared its ugly head.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  The PM gazed out of the window looking across the expanse of Sydney harbour, it was a view he had always loved since he was a five year old. His mother had taken him there from their humble weather board home in Bankstown. It was his first visit to the big smoke, and the thrill of it still resided in his memory, almost as clear as if it were yesterday. Sydney was at that time the epitome of freedom, a democratic city on a quintessential harbour; the envy of the whole world; and he had to admit nothing had really changed over the intervening years.