A gas company truck was parked in front of the restaurant, and the door sported a closed sign. The hotel seemed to be doing business as usual, though. He left his car with the valet, gave his bag to the bellman and went inside.
The hotel was in a building that had been a bank. The lobby was huge, three stories high, and a round open safe door formed part of one wall. Patrons went through the safe door into a cocktail lounge. The check-in counter had obviously once been a teller window. The counters and floor were marble.
As Jake signed in, he asked, “I notice there is a gas company truck parked right outside. Is there a problem?”
“Routine maintenance, sir.”
“Fine.”
His room was on the fifth floor. He had a view of a side street and an apartment building across the street. After a few minutes of standing at the window watching Washington in the rain, he rigged up his computer, arranged his cell and encrypted satellite phone on either side, took off his shoes and sagged into the padded easy chair. Callie had given him a copy of the Post and Wall Street Journal, so he settled in with them. By seven, after sunset, he was disgusted with the state of the nation and the planet. He turned on the television, found a baseball game and ordered dinner from room service.
At nine his wife called. “Any fish yet?”
“No.”
“Sounds exciting.”
“I’m taking my pulse every quarter hour to ensure I’m still alive.”
“Sooo… I don’t have anything scheduled for tomorrow morning. Mind if I join you in your little love nest?”
“Take off your wedding ring, sneak in and don’t let anyone see your face. Room five-oh-seven. Seriously, take a taxi and use the side entrance. The elevators are in a hallway off the lobby. Don’t go into or through the lobby.”
Callie chuckled. “See you in about an hour.”
They were still awake at midnight, lying in bed watching raindrops on the window. A light shining on the side of the hotel made every drop visible on the glass. Apropos of nothing, Jake said, “I’ve had a good life, you know.”
“It isn’t over yet.”
“I know. I’m just commenting.”
“We are very lucky,” she told him. “We’ve had each other all these years, Amy, good health, interesting jobs… This fish you are waiting for-has he anything to do with Iran?”
“Yes.”
“You are going to have to go there one of these days, aren’t you?”
“One of these days,” he said and kissed her before she could say any more.
Israeli agent and embassy janitor Tom Mottaki stopped by the break room where Frank and I hung out when we weren’t denying Paradise to the locals. Since he and I were the only people there just now, he showed me a photo. The camera had captured an image of a figure dressed in a chador, on an empty street, with the remnants of an iron pipe fence behind her.
“She serviced the drop.”
“Man, I can’t make out her face.”
“Welcome to the club. That photo was taken with a little unmanned surveillance camera mounted in a tree. The camera actually took twelve pictures of her, and that’s the best one.”
“Terrific. Who the hell is it?”
“A woman, probably,” Mottaki said, pulling the print out of my grasp. He studied it for a moment. “Maybe not.”
“Okay. What did she put in there?”
From his pocket he pulled a sheaf of papers. I opened them. They were copies of government documents, reports of production of enriched plutonium. One of the documents was the plan for testing a neutron generator, the trigger for an atomic weapon. The last sheet in the pile was a timetable. I studied it. According to the timetable, if I was reading this correctly, the Irani ans were still a year away from having an operational warhead.
When I finished perusing the papers, I asked Joe, “Do you have your own copies of these?”
“Yeah. The originals went back in the drop.”
“I’ll keep these, then, and send them to Washington.”
“Okay.” Joe got up and walked toward the door as I folded the papers and stuck them in my pocket. “Hazra al-Rashid always goes around in a chador,” Joe said, tossing the words over his shoulder.
“She and a million or two other women in this town.”
“Just a thought.”
“Sure.”
The Graftons ate breakfast in the hotel dining room on the top floor. The satellite phone was in its case at his feet, and his cell phone was in his pocket. Afterward, Callie headed off for her ten o’clock class at the university. Jake took a complimentary newspaper back to his room and settled in. Robin called him from the office on the encrypted phone, and three long conversations took up most of his morning.
The afternoon passed slowly when he wasn’t on the telephone. Fortunately, telephone conversations took up about half the time. He looked at his watch at least every five minutes, so he took it off and put it in his pocket. The clock on the television control panel said it was a few minutes after six when he hung up for the last time.
He ordered dinner again from room service. He had finished eating and was watching the Discovery Channel when his cell phone rang. He grabbed it.
Myron Emerick. “Our guy is in the restaurant. He’s got the table in the back left corner as you stand at the door. One man is having a drink with him.”
“Okay. I’m on my way.”
Jake put his shoes on, then his sports coat, turned off the television and picked up the satellite phone and his cell. He walked out the front entrance of the hotel and looked around.
A gas company van was parked across the street, which glistened in the lights. Everything was wet from the rain. Grafton walked to the van and tapped on the rear door.
Emerick opened it. He and two other men, technicians, were packed between two banks of equipment. There was almost no free space left, but Grafton squeezed himself in and pulled the door shut behind him. He got a cardboard box to sit on. Emerick handed him a set of headphones.
The admiral found himself listening to two men relaxing over drinks, one the voice Jake knew, the other one he didn’t. Obviously these two knew each other well. They talked like old friends, sure of how their comments would be received, sure of the values and experiences they shared-and they talked in Farsi. As Jake listened to the raw audio in his left ear, an off-site translator was giving him the English translation in his right.
“Who is this guy?” Jake murmured.
Someone had already managed to photograph the two men with a small digital camera. That photo was on the computer monitor behind Jake’s right shoulder. Emerick nodded toward it. “We’re trying to find out,” he said. One of the two techs in the truck was working the keyboard, accessing various databases.
Soon the two in the restaurant were discussing the Iranian political situation, inflation, unemployment, and the scandal du jour, the removal from office of one of Ahmadinejad’s lieutenants by Parliament, which was getting restless. Then they moved on to the political situation in the entire Middle East.
They had finished with the main course and were noodling about dessert when the strange man said, “What have you heard about this Carmellini?”
“He wants Rostram’s help.”
Emerick caught Jake’s eye. Jake nodded, and Emerick got out of the van.
The conversation continued, and after some thought, the stranger said, “Tell her no to both requests.”
“I have already instructed her not to help him into any forbidden place. She will obey.”
“What is it precisely that this Carmellini wants?”
“Proof that we are making nuclear weapons, and our plan for using them when they are operational.”
The man snorted, then said, “There is no plan. He is looking for something that doesn’t exist.”
Jake took off the headset and handed it to the technician who was recording all this. The man running the other computer handed him a written note. On it was an Iranian n
ame, and the notation trade secretary at the UN mission. This was the identity of the stranger.
Jake was sitting in an office in the Washington FBI complex when two agents brought in a man in handcuffs. He looked tired, depressed-and scared. His belt, tie and jacket had been taken from him, and the pockets of his trousers were pulled inside out.
“Well, well, well, Professor Azari,” Grafton said acidly. “We meet again. A little espionage over dinner, eh?”
“I want a lawyer.”
“So they told me. Be seated.” When Azari sat, Jake nodded at the two agents, who departed.
“You think maybe you can beat this charge? Is that it?”
Avari said nothing.
“You think, These infidel fools, they were too stupid to make a recording of our conversation.”
Azari bit his lip.
“Once you go into the holding cells and we call a lawyer, you will be flat out of options. We will charge you with espionage and try you and probably get a conviction. You’ll live out the rest of your life in a cell in a federal prison and, considering your age, probably die there. Is that what you want?”
Silence.
“Answer me,” Grafton roared. He had a good roar, and it stunned Azari.
“No.”
“The alternative to that is that we wait on calling the lawyer and you tell me everything. Everything! If I think you have been truthful and cooperative, and you continue to cooperate, you won’t need that lawyer. Life will flow on for you just as it has been. You will go home to your wife, continue to teach mathematics, be a respected member of the academic community and live a long and happy life. But you will be working for me, and only me. Do you understand?”
Azari was perspiring freely. He tried to wipe his forehead with a shirt sleeve and succeeded only in soaking the fabric.
“Am I being clear enough?” Grafton asked.
“You want me to betray them,” Azari said bitterly.
“You have been pretending to betray the Islamic Republic for years, professor. Think of the lies you told, thousands of lies, millions, tons of them, and the articles, the book. When I read your scribblings, I wondered why you were still alive. A man like you who frequents public places-you would be easy to kill, and yet they let you live. I asked myself, Why is that?”
Azari simply stared at Grafton, who got out of his chair and seated himself on the edge of the desk. Azari had to look up to see his face, so he didn’t. He looked at the wall.
“So easy to kill,” Jake mused. “If someone shot you dead at the university one of these days, everyone would be sure the IRGC had ordered the hit, wouldn’t they? Ahmadinejad or Khamenei gave the order in Iran, and you died here.” He snapped his fingers, and Azari looked at him. Those gray eyes were as cold as ice in winter.
“You could try to rabbit back to Iran, of course,” Grafton continued, “but your IRGC superiors would be less than pleased. Your mission here would have failed. Then they would know that we know. Because we would tell the newspapers that you talked. That you told us everything, even if you didn’t. Would they reward you handsomely for your failure, Azari? Tell me that. Would they?”
Azari couldn’t help himself. “No,” he whispered.
“So you see, you really have only two options. You can go to the cells, get the best lawyer money can buy to hold your hand and go to prison for the rest of your life. Or you can cooperate with me, do as I say, and life will continue as it is. There is no third option.”
He reached back, picked up the phone and pushed a button. After a few seconds he said, “You got it ready? Bring it in.”
Fifteen seconds later an agent brought in a laptop. He set it on the desk. Then he pushed a key.
A voice could be heard speaking in Farsi, and the translation overlay. “What is it precisely that this Carmellini wants?”
Then Azari’s answer. “Proof that we are making nuclear weapons, and our plan for using them when they become operational.”
The agent stopped the replay. “You could have only gotten that information from Rostram, your agent in Iran,” Grafton said softly. “I never said those words to you.” Grafton leaned toward the Iranian. “Remember that prison in Tehran? The rats? The screams at night…”
The afternoon before I was to meet Davar, Herman and Suzanne Strader and Mustafa Abtahi came down the stairs to my monk’s cell. Mr. Strader shoved Abtahi’s tourist visa app through the hole. He introduced me to his wife, said, “We’re leaving for home this afternoon,” then got down to it.
“We came to ask you to process this application for Mr. Abtahi as a personal favor to two American taxpayers,” Herman said.
“I’ll send it along,” I said, glancing at Mrs. Strader, who started to speak.
I held up my hand, stopping her. “Don’t tell me anything you don’t want repeated to my superiors or any other federal agency.”
Mrs. Strader was in her fifties, I would say, but she could easily pass for ten years younger. She eyed me carefully, then said, “Thank you, young man, for that warning, but I have something to say to the United States government, and you might as well be the one to hear it.”
She struck me as a woman with a mind of her own. Herman certainly didn’t tell her what to think. I wondered what she thought of fundamental Islam and the subordination of women. I thought she might tell me, but she didn’t.
“My grandfather went to America as a young man with only the clothes on his back. People like him, poor people, people with nothing to leave behind and everything to earn in the future, have been immigrating to America since Columbus discovered it. Say what you will about the Columbian exchange, the fact is that hundreds of millions of people live better, more productive lives today because their forefathers came to a land that valued individual freedom. Individual freedom, Mr. Carmellini, is our gift to the world. Mr. Abtahi deserves a chance to earn a place in America for himself and his children yet to come. With a little luck, he will make life better for himself, for them and for all Americans.”
She eyed me, checking to see if I wished to disagree. I didn’t.
She stood. “Thank you.” She turned and headed back up the stairs. Herman grabbed my hand for a quick shake, then went with her.
Abtahi dropped into the chair, radiating hope. I decided to check the app to make sure everything was correct. “Passport, please.”
He passed it across and sat there watching me check the numbers against the app form as if I held the threads of his life.
***
That evening I drove around Tehran for an hour to ensure that I wasn’t being followed before I took the road I wanted, which led north toward the mountains. The houses and estates became more opulent the higher in the foothills I went. Obviously some people in Iran were doing quite well, thank you.
Finally the estates petered out, the entire megalopolis was below me, and I was climbing a rough dirt road up a wooded canyon. The road literally clung to the cliff in places. I checked my watch, saw that I had plenty of time, so I pulled over at a wide place where I could see the road behind me. It was an hour past midnight, and the road was empty.
I got out my binoculars and scanned down the canyon, making sure there were no vehicles coming. Looked up the mountainside and also saw no headlights. It looked dark as the pit up there. Then I got out a radio receiver, a bug finder, and checked the car for beacons. Nothing. The needle refused to move.
Satisfied, I drove on up to the pass. No cars there. I pulled down the other side and found a place I could run the car off the road into the brush. I parked it there and walked back to the pass.
A chilly wind was blowing at least twenty knots through that notch in the mountain, which the map had said was over ten thousand feet above sea level. East and west along the ridge I could see the muted whiteness of snow on the higher elevations, snow that had yet to melt. No snow right here, but by God, it was nearly cold enough to do it. At least the road was relatively dry.
I scrambled fifty yards or
so up a steep bank, which was nearly a cliff, stepped into the trees where I would be out of the wind and sat down with the AK across my lap. The pistol was in my coat pocket. I put my backpack on the ground beside me. I had an hour to wait and fret.
I sat there listening and heard only the wind in the trees. With nothing better to do, I got out my night vision goggles and put them on. I could see jagged peaks across to the east, across the cut, jutting up several more thousand feet. It looked like the snow was lying in the crevices above the treeline and in gulleys hidden by the sun. I wasn’t at the treeline at my elevation, but almost. The trees around me were low and hunkered down.
Two trucks ground up the grade from the north and disappeared down the road toward Tehran. One car came up from the city and crossed headed north.
No people, no huts, no sign of fires…
I wondered why we were meeting here. She was bringing someone, I hoped, who could help me gain entrance to a bomb factory. Or maybe Ahmadinejad’s clerk, the guy who typed the tippy-top secrets of the Iranian regime. Or perhaps a guy who had filched Ahmadinejad’s missile targeting plan.
God, I hoped it was someone important, someone worth getting this scared and cold for. I pulled my legs up to my chest to keep warm and sat there in the darkness, in that cold wind, thinking miserable thoughts.
When Azari started talking, the dam broke. He had been arrested by the IRGC, interrogated and tortured. Ahmadinejad himself had supervised the interrogation, sat in on the questioning. Of course, he was frightened and realized they could inflict more pain than he could stand, so he betrayed his friends in the MEK, told his interrogators everything.
They tortured him anyway. Beat him; threw him into a cell with no food, only water in a pan, made him lap it like a dog; tied his hands behind him so that he dirtied his trousers. Twice they used electric shocks. He had screamed.
He was sweating profusely when he told this-the words just came pouring out.
Finally, after a week, with only enough food to keep him conscious, they put a proposition to him. He could serve the Islamic Republic and live… or be executed.
The Disciple Page 18