“They will catch you,” she said scornfully. “The computer will remember everything. The hard drive will retain it even if you try to erase it.”
“I have the manuscript hidden in Uncle Habib’s office. I cannot leave it there. If it is found there, Habib Sultani will be ruined.”
“You will be ruined,” she shot back. “They will execute you. Or beat you to death, as they did Grandfather.”
He had no reply.
After a moment she asked, “Why do you help Uncle? Why do you help them make nuclear weapons to murder their enemies, as they did Grandfather?”
“I don’t know,” he said softly. “Uncle says the weapons will cause the world to respect us, will prevent the Americans from invading or bombing us.”
“Do you believe that?”
“I don’t know what to believe.” Unable to sit for another second, he sprang from his chair. “Never, ever, did I think they would murder an old man, a scholar who was no threat to any living soul. Never!”
“I know a man,” she said. “He is an American diplomat. He could take the book to the Swiss embassy and send it to America. Perhaps someone there will publish it.”
“A diplomat?” Ghasem was flabbergasted. His cousin? “How do you know a diplomat?”
“He is a spy. He came to me. I have been sending information to Azari in America.”
“Azari? The MEK Azari? What-”
“I met him at Oxford. He asked for my help when I got back to Iran, and I said yes.”
“Azari? Wasn’t he one of the men the MOIS released, banished into exile?”
“Yes. They tortured him. He hates them.”
Ghasem wouldn’t let it rest. “Or he agreed to help them if they spared his life.”
“Don’t be such a cynic! We must trust someone! Do you want the book removed from the country, or don’t you?”
His cousin! A spy! Her brother had betrayed Grandfather, and he and Uncle Habib were building nuclear weapons for Ahmadinejad and the mullahs.
They were all doomed.
“I must think on it,” he whispered, and left her there in the darkness of her prison.
He didn’t mention that Davar was a spy when he talked to Habib Sultani later that morning in Sultani’s office. The sun was up and shining in the window. The book was safely in his coat, the pages divided into packets and tucked into slits, which was the way he had brought it into the building last week.
The news of the old man’s death at the hands of the MOIS shook Sultani badly. He slumped in his seat and closed his eyes. Finally he opened his eyes and focused again on Ghasem. “Why?”
“Khurram told them that Grandfather wrote a book, a blasphemous book. He told them he had read some pages of it at some time or other. They arrested Grandfather and took him to headquarters. I sat there last night waiting until one of them came to me and said he was dead.”
“A book?”
“A book.”
“Khurram.”
“Yes.”
“They didn’t call me. Didn’t consult me. Just dragged him away and interrogated him until he died.”
“Yes.”
“What do you know of this book?”
“Nothing.” The lie was right there, ready for Ghasem to spit out, and he did so without hesitation. He respected his uncle, and yet…
Habib Sultani sat silently for a long time. Ghasem found he could sit no longer and walked slowly around the room, looking at this and that. The death to america sign on the wall captured his attention. He was still staring at it when he heard Sultani say, “Come. We will get his body and see to funeral arrangements.”
Habib Sultani didn’t talk to his nephew Khurram at the mosque. He tried to ignore him. What could he say? If Khurram was a spy for the MOIS, what might he be whispering about his uncle the defense minister?
The family had not discussed the reasons why the old man had died. Fortunately, Sultani reflected, there was not a mark on the body. If he had been beaten, the damage had been internal. More than likely, Murad’s heart had simply given out.
His daughters knew that his health had been deteriorating, so they accepted his death as a natural occurrence. If they had any doubts, they did not voice them. He had died talking to the police. They left it there.
Yas Ghobadi seemed preoccupied with his construction projects. He had little to say, seemed to be merely going through the motions.
Being human, Sultani reviewed his official and private conduct over the last few months, trying to decide if there was anything he had done or said-or failed to do or say-that might be misinterpreted by the secret police. Or twisted to use against him.
The Supreme Leader controlled the MOIS. Obviously there were political tensions swirling through the upper echelons of the government-people are pretty much the same everywhere. Ahmadinejad was on a tightrope, steering the nation along a perilous course. Any miscalculation by the government could cause a major political backlash that might endanger the mullahs’ grip on power. So they were worried, trying to discredit the political opposition, arresting domestic enemies, breaking up demonstrations, looking for any hints or signs of disloyalty. They were keeping the Basij busy.
One of the inherent problems with any secret police force, Sultani reflected, was that they had to find traitors and domestic enemies to justify their existence.
Whispers circulating in the government said that Ahmadinejad had been badly shaken by the Mossad’s attempt on his life. Well, the Israelis wanted him dead, to be sure-but Ahmadinejad must be wondering about his domestic enemies, too. After the last election, his claim to popular support had evaporated. Perhaps, Sultani mused, the president was the driving force behind the investigation of Murad. If the mullahs ever doubted his zeal for defending the faith, Ahmadinejad was through. The MOIS report on the interrogation and death of Israr Murad would also be routed to Ahmadinejad. Would the president mention it to Sultani?
Davar held her emotions under tight control. She, too, avoided speaking to Khurram, who was busy pretending he knew nothing of the events that led to Murad’s arrest and interrogation. She watched him when he wasn’t looking at her… and saw nothing. Khurram was in his early twenties, a disappointment to his family. He preferred Basij activities to working, in his father’s business or anywhere else, which was just as well, since he had few if any skills. He was, she thought, a classic sociopath, interested only in himself, whose antisocial urges were legitimatized by the religious Nazis.
Had he really betrayed his grandfather, though? Why had the MOIS officer given Ghasem his name? One possibility, she realized, was to protect the real informant, who could be anybody. Any student at the university who took an unauthorized peek at some manuscript pages… or Murad’s housekeeper. Secrets are difficult to keep from a nosy housekeeper, Davar thought.
The more she thought about it, the more certain she became. She made inquiries. The housekeeper had stopped going to Grandfather’s house immediately after his arrest. She hadn’t been back.
Ghasem found that his emotions were not under his control. His grandfather had been a true holy man, willing to forgive anyone anything. That was clear from his writing. No doubt he would have forgiven Khurram-if he had been told that it was Khurram who had betrayed him. One suspected he was not given that information.
It was curious, Ghasem reflected, that the secret police had dropped that tidbit on him. Like his cousin Davar, he realized that the MOIS could have given him Khurram’s name to protect the real traitor. Did the police hope he would attempt to take revenge?
He was tempted. Thought about killing Khurram, because in his heart of hearts he hated the lazy, sanctimonious, bullying bastard. Thought about how gratifying it would be to slowly strangle Khurram with his own two hands, crush his windpipe, watch his face turn blue, then purple, watch his eyes glaze over in death.
Yet when he tried to reconcile his rage with his grandfather’s life and teachings, he couldn’t.
Out of this swirling ca
uldron of emotions came one concrete thought. He decided to meet with Davar’s spy, give him Grandfather’s manuscript-and he was going to do it sooner rather than later.
When I got the call on my cell phone from Davar, I was amazed. She wanted to meet at a mountain pass north of Tehran, she told me in English. She gave me the time, 2:00 A.M., and left it at that. We had previously agreed that any meet would occur three nights after I received the call.
I got out a map and looked for this pass. Found it, and got really antsy. The road led up a canyon, through the pass and down the other side. If Davar was followed, our only options were to drive on over the mountain, so we would be on the side away from Tehran, or to hike along the ridge in one direction or the other.
The place had no easy exits, which was very bad. Did she just not realize how wrong the place was, or was I being set up? Did someone tell her to lure me out there?
I buttonholed Joe Mottaki, Israel’s man in Tehran.
“I need a weapon,” I said.
“I have a pistol. Nine millimeter. I can let you borrow it.”
“A rifle, too, if you have one.”
“The pistol holds thirteen cartridges. If you need more than that, you’ll be in a war and had better shoot yourself.”
The guy was a real ray of sunshine. “A rifle,” I said.
So he came up with one. An old AK-47 with two magazines. I was less than thrilled. AKs are not known for their accuracy. The warriors in these parts like to shoot them from the hip, empty a whole magazine in the general direction of their enemy, spray and slay. Sometimes they get lucky-usually they don’t.
I spent the afternoon contemplating my luck and listening to tourist visa pleas. Just before quitting time, Abdullaziz Nasr Qomi came carefully down the stairs, leaning on his crutch. He saw me and his face lit up. “It’s been two weeks,” he said. “Has my visa come?”
“Sit right there and let me check.” He made himself comfortable in the visitor chair on the other side of the room divider. Fortunately my colleague Frank Caldwell was out for the day, so he didn’t have to witness my treason.
I trotted upstairs and checked with the clerk. Nothing from the State Department today, and I hadn’t seen anything this week.
I went downstairs to tell Qomi the bad news. “Not yet,” I said. “Maybe you had better check back in two more weeks. I can’t imagine it would take more than a month to get a yes or no.”
He took a deep breath and glanced around the room. Then his eyes found me again. “Why would they say yes?” he asked.
I smiled. “Why would they say no?”
He had no answer to that so levered himself up and went up the stairs. I sat there alone contemplating my navel. I had disobeyed the rules when I marked the yes box on the visa app form, and in doing so had gotten Qomi’s hopes up. If he was turned down-and I suspected that he would be-what was I going to tell him?
You didn’t get approved for a tourist visa because you are an uneducated Islamic peasant from a third-world shithole, and we have found folks like you never, ever leave the U.S. of A. if they can get there.
While I was sitting there, someone came trooping down the stairs. I knew he was an American when I saw his shoes. Now the trousers, the shirt and jacket, and the clean-shaven white face. Behind him was an Iranian male.
“Hey,” he said. “My name is Herman Strader.” He shoved his passport through the window at me. “This guy is Mustafa Abtahi. He’s been writing letters to the State Department in Washington asking for a visa and hasn’t gotten any answers. The people upstairs said to talk to you.”
I pretended to scrutinize Strader’s passport. Meanwhile Herman and Mustafa arranged themselves in the only two chairs on their side of the divider. “What kind of visa?” I asked.
“Hell, I dunno. Guy wants to go to America. He’s an engineer. Works for a mapmaker here in Iran. If you can get him to the States, I got a job for him in my construction company.”
Three minutes later I had it all. Strader’s wife, Suzanne, thought Mustafa Abtahi should get a chance at America. While Strader was talking, I looked Abtahi over. He seemed okay, no obvious deformities or diseases, so when Strader ran down, I asked him in Farsi who he knew in America. A brother in Hoboken, he said, and launched into a five-minute exposition of his brother’s life and car repair business. He was voluble, well spoken and engaging. I liked him, too. Actually, I liked most of the Iranians I had met during my stay. Maybe I’d been here too long already.
Finally I stopped Abtahi’s speech with an upraised palm and spoke to Strader in English. “Mr. Strader, we are not accepting immigration visa requests these days from Iranians. They have Khomeini and the mullahs to thank for that. Nor are we supposed to recommend anyone for a tourist visa unless we are absolutely certain that they will not overstay their visa.”
Strader looked at me as if I had lost my mind. “Half the taxi drivers in New York are from Iran. Where in hell have you people been?”
“I don’t run the government, sir; I merely work for it. Greater fools than I make all the big decisions. As I was saying, we are not supposed to recommend anyone for a tourist visa. However, if I do and Mr. Abtahi gets one, goes to America and overstays his visa, he will become an illegal alien. If the INS snags him, out he goes.”
Strader made a noise with his lips and tongue.
“If you are employing him, you might get in trouble. It’s a federal crime to knowingly employ an illegal alien or help him obtain false documents, such as a Social Security card or driver’s license. In fact, it’s a felony.”
That shut him up.
I took a tourist visa app from my desk drawer. “You and your wife need to do some thinking. Here is a tourist visa application.” I passed it through the hole.
He took it, nodded and stood. Abtahi had obviously been trying to follow the conversation and had gotten lost. His face mirrored his confusion.
After they left, I went down the hall to my soundproof phone booth and placed a call to Jake Grafton on the satellite telephone.
“Hey, Tommy,” he said.
“Hey, boss. Got a favor to ask. I approved a tourist visa application for a guy named Abdullaziz Nasr Qomi and haven’t heard back from the State Department. I doubt they’re going to approve it. Could you check on that?”
“Tommy-” he began.
“This is a personal favor I’m asking, Admiral. This guy has only one leg, and he needs a chance. I want the app approved.”
He hesitated for about three seconds, then said, “Spell the name.”
After I did, he said, “Anything else?”
“Yeah. Guy named Mustafa Abtahi is maybe going to submit a tourist visa application.” I spelled that name, too. “If he does, I’d like it approved as well.”
Grafton chuckled, then the chuckle became a belly laugh. “Tommy,” he said finally, “you are supposed to be a rough, tough spy guy.”
“Yeah.”
“Anyone else you want smuggled in? A widow, orphan, child prodigy or somebody with a weird disease?”
“Not right now.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” he said.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Jake Grafton was in his office at Langley when his assistant, Robin, brought him a cassette tape. “They just brought this upstairs. Said you would want to listen to it as soon as possible.”
“Thanks.”
When the door closed behind her, he got out his old tape player and slipped the cassette in. This player had some miles on it, but it still worked pretty well. Even the earphones. He put them on and pushed the play button.
“-ed to chat. I thought we might meet for drinks tomorrow evening.” A man’s voice, one Grafton recognized.
“Solzhenitsyn’s, perhaps. On H Street. Do you know it?” Another man’s voice, with a pronounced accent, yet easily understandable.
“Perfect. The usual time?”
“Right.”
The connection was severed.
Grafton listen
ed to the conversation two more times, then picked up the telephone and called a colleague in the FBI, Myron Emerick.
After the social preliminaries, Emerick asked, “So what can we do for you today, Admiral?”
“I want a restaurant bugged under that National Security John Doe warrant we got last week. Solzhenitsyn’s on H Street.”
“When?”
“Just as fast as you can get it done. Meet may be tomorrow night, ‘at the usual time.’ That could mean this evening, tomorrow, Friday, Saturday, Sunday noon, whatever.”
“You don’t want to wait until they close tonight?”
“No. Invent an excuse to close them when you get there. Leaking gas next door, whatever.”
“What if ‘the usual time’ means someplace else?”
“Then they’re just too clever for us old fudds.”
“I’ll get right on it.”
“I’m a phone call away. If the bugs pick up that voice, call me immediately.”
“I know the drill.”
“Thanks, Myron.”
After Jake hung up, he sat staring at the cassette. The conversation on this cassette had been picked up by a computer that sampled tens of thousands of telephone calls an hour, listening for particular voices. The voices were actually compared by voiceprints, no two of which were exactly alike. When the computer found a voiceprint it recognized, it began recording the conversation.
A similar, although smaller, computer would monitor the bugs the FBI agents were secreting all over the Solzhenitsyn restaurant. No conversations would be recorded, protecting the privacy of the diners, until the computer recognized that voice. The agent monitoring the computer would alert Grafton, who had to be nearby. He would need a hotel room in the neighborhood.
He called Robin in, and together they examined a map of downtown Washington.
The hotel nearest to the restaurant turned out to be right above it. Solzhenitsyn’s was in the basement. Robin reserved three rooms, one for Jake and two for the FBI. Jake went home, packed clothes and managed to get to the hotel by four that afternoon. A light rain was falling from a low gray sky.
The Disciple Page 17