Even under the best case, the planners believed that several hundred American soldiers and Marines would die. The Iranians knew exactly the sites the United States was targeting. They could concentrate artillery and armor on the highways and bridges that led to Natanz and Fordow. American airpower would shred the Iranian positions, but not before they had inflicted plenty of casualties on the invading units. The Iranians would also try to lay the massive roadside bombs that guerrillas had used so lethally against Americans in Iraq, though the Pentagon had a countermeasure, round-the-clock drones overflying the roads the ground forces would use and destroying bomb-planting teams before they could even dig holes.
But the real concern was that Iran would block the advance of one or both invasion forces. Neither the 82nd nor the Marines had nearly enough men to protect long supply lines. Instead, they would advance in tight clusters, relying on the ammunition, fuel, and food that they brought with them until they reached Natanz and resupply. Along the way, they would have to depend on the Air Force to defend their flanks and rear. The attack would be almost a blitzkrieg, though aiming to take territory rather than encircle and destroy enemy armies. It ran counter to the doctrine the Pentagon had used to invade Iraq in 1991 and 2003. In both those cases, the United States had slowly assembled massive armies and then demolished the undermanned Iraqi forces that faced them.
The plan gave the United States the chance to destroy Iran’s nuclear program quickly, and potentially with far fewer casualties than a multiyear occupation. But if it failed, the invading forces risked being surrounded and trapped in a way no American soldiers had been since the Battle of Chosin Reservoir in the Korean War. After three days of simulations, the Pentagon put the odds of rapid success at 75 percent, of a campaign that was longer and bloodier than expected but ended in American victory at 15 percent, and of failure at 10 percent. Both the chairman of the Joint Chiefs and the Secretary of Defense told the President that 10 percent was too high a risk and that he should consider a bigger invasion force. “It will take longer, both to put together and to move once we cross the border, but it’ll be safer.”
“Maybe the first few days will be safer,” the President said. “Then we’re stuck. It’s your job to make sure that ten percent doesn’t happen.”
As she reread the plan, Green understood the military’s concerns. The United States had lost almost seven thousand soldiers in Iraq and Afghanistan, but those deaths had occurred during more than a decade of fighting. Here, the United States could see hundreds of soldiers killed in a day. And that wasn’t even the worst case. The worst case was that the entire invasion collapsed and that the 82nd or the Marines were forced to retreat to their bases in Turkey or Afghanistan. Or to surrender. Americans couldn’t even imagine that their soldiers would ever be forced to throw down their weapons and put up their hands. The psychic damage would be unthinkable. Green believed that a major defeat would cause America to retreat from the world, becoming isolationist in a way it had not been in generations. And history suggested that whatever the problems with American leadership, the world was a more dangerous place without it.
But the President had made up his mind. Despite all the uncertainties, including the fact that the CIA still couldn’t find the Revolutionary Guard colonel who had first told it about the highly enriched uranium in Istanbul, he would not back down from his ultimatum. At the same time, he did not want another long war in a Muslim country. He would live with a ninety percent chance of success. And the decision belonged to him, no one else.
Green had done her best to help him sort the pros and cons. But as she finished rereading the briefing book that night, Green was happy she hadn’t had to decide.
—
She and Rodgers left Dulles just after midnight and ran into a winter storm over the western Atlantic. She was so tired that even the bumps couldn’t keep her awake. She woke to bright blue skies, the sun already behind them. “Where are we?”‘
“Western France.” Rodgers looked grim.
“What’s wrong? Weather make us late?” She checked her watch: 7 a.m., so 1 p.m. local. Right on time, a few minutes late at most.
He handed her his CIA BlackBerry. “Reception just kicked in.”
The headline jumped out at her. American Airlines Jet Lost Off South America . . .
Iran’s hardliners had just incinerated five hundred people to send her, and maybe their moderate counterparts in Tehran, a message: You’re wasting your time. Point made. This meeting, their last best hope for peace, was over before it even began.
She wondered if she should order the pilots to land in Paris, refuel, turn around. But they were barely an hour from Marseilles. Might as well go ahead. At least she’d get to see Behzadi in person, judge for herself whether he’d had advance knowledge of the attack.
“I should call in,” Rodgers said.
“No.” Besides two hundred new emails, his BlackBerry had seventeen unheard voice mails. No doubt hers had dozens more. She didn’t want advice or opinions. Not now. She handed it back to him. “Keep reading so we don’t miss any updates, but don’t send any emails, don’t take any calls. I don’t want to talk to anyone until I hear for myself what he has to say.”
—
The runway at Istres–Le Tubé stretched three-plus miles, the longest in Europe. NASA had considered using the base for emergency space shuttle landings. The Bombardier taxied for what seemed like an eternity. When they finally reached the apron at the end of the overrun, Behzadi’s jet was nowhere in sight. Insult to injury. Instead, five armored SUVs waited, along with a dozen French paratroopers, red berets cocked jauntily, short sleeves cuffed smartly over their biceps. They rolled a Jetway to the cabin door. A French air force officer in a perfectly pressed uniform mounted the steps.
“Madame National Security Advisor”—only a Frenchman could make those four words sound like an invitation to dance—“I’m Colonel Muscoot. I regret to tell you your friend is not so punctual. We expect him within twenty minutes. Would you like something to eat while you wait? I have sandwiches.”
Muscoot’s manner suggested he hadn’t heard yet about the downed jets, and Green couldn’t bring herself to tell him. “No thanks.”
“They’re excellent, I assure you.”
Why not? They would be back in the air soon enough. Might as well ride on a full stomach. “All right, then.”
He whistled sharply and a paratrooper trotted up the stairs with a picnic basket, a ridiculous and perfect flourish. Under better circumstances, Green would have been thrilled. Muscoot took it and stepped past her into the cabin. She realized that the lunch had been an excuse for him to peek inside the Bombardier, make sure it didn’t have a kidnap team stowed in back.
Still, she was glad she’d agreed. The basket held salads, tomato-and-mozzarella sandwiches on black bread, a thermos of steaming hot coffee. She had a feeling that if she’d asked for a bottle of wine, Muscoot would have snapped his fingers and produced it. While they ate, she asked about the SUVs on the tarmac, which seemed to have come straight from a Mad Max set.
“We call them VBLs. Not so armored as the Humvee, but quick. Also, it—how do you say this—it swims.”
“Amphibious.”
“Oui, amphibious.” Muscoot gave her a thousand-watt smile. Before she could come up with a suitably witty answer, his radio buzzed. After a brief back-and-forth in French: “Please excuse me. Monsieur Behzadi’s plane is arriving.” He trotted outside.
Green put down the sandwich. She had lost her appetite.
—
Ten minutes later, Behzadi’s jet rolled close. Muscoot’s men brought a wheelchair ramp to its front cabin door. A minute later, two men emerged, one pushing the other down the ramp. Green could wait no longer. She pushed open her own jet’s cabin door, trotted down the staircase, across the tarmac. Rodgers followed.
She reached the base of the wheel
chair ramp just as Behzadi rolled off it. He was in his fifties but looked older. His eyes were pouchy, his skin sallow. He wore a white short-sleeved shirt and an elaborately knitted shawl over the stumps of his legs.
He reached up with a fleshy hand. “Ms. Green,” he said. “I’m Fardis.”
Either he was the world’s best liar, or he didn’t know. Green didn’t know which was worse. “Can we have a moment, Colonel?” she said to Muscoot. As the Frenchman retreated, Green pulled Rodgers close.
“No pleasantries. Ask him if he knows. If he doesn’t, tell him. Make sure he understands that we’re blaming his bosses for killing five hundred civilians.” No matter how good Behzadi’s English, she wanted this stretch of conversation in Farsi so she could be certain he understood.
Rodgers squatted beside the wheelchair, spoke for about thirty seconds. Behzadi shook his head, no no no. He interrupted, but Rodgers talked over him. After a few seconds more, Behzadi reached out and grabbed Green’s wrist with his right hand. She pulled back, but he held her tight, his grip strengthened by a lifetime working the wheelchair.
“I didn’t know of this,” he said in English.
She wrenched her arm away from Behzadi and squatted down beside Rodgers. International diplomacy at its finest. “You don’t even deny your side did this?”
Behzadi spoke for a minute in Farsi. When he was done, Rodgers said, “He doesn’t know who did it. He says he wishes that this hadn’t happened, civilian deaths are always a tragedy, but it doesn’t change the reality that an invasion would be a disaster for both our countries—”
The worst possible answer. Green felt a surge of pure fury. She wanted to tip the wheelchair over. “You were human for thirty seconds, now you’re back to toeing the party line.”
“Leave us,” Behzadi said to Rodgers. “I speak English well enough for this.”
“Donna?”
Green nodded. Rodgers stepped back.
“All right. Speak, then.”
—
“Iran has no need to apologize. Your country provoked all this. Your President. On false evidence. As you must know.”
“Prove it. Let us in.”
“Never.”
“When I left Dulles last night, I was in a good mood. Had my speech all planned out. I wanted to tell you, what the President’s said publicly is true. That we have our differences with you, but we’re not interested in regime change. Occupying Iran. We learned that lesson. We just want to be sure that your nuclear program isn’t a threat. Give us a chance to see for ourselves and this ends.” She shook her head. “Turns out you don’t want it to end.”
“I don’t make these choices—”
“I know you don’t. I don’t know if you’re a bad guy or not, Fardis. I don’t even know what you came here to say. At this point, I don’t care either. Here’s what I know. You’re just a guy with no legs who wastes my time while your bosses blow up planes full of Americans.”
Green stood, walked around the wheelchair, spun it to face the ramp. “Roll on home now, and tell Rouhani and everyone else they have two days to agree to what the President has asked. Otherwise, we’re coming in. To Natanz, Fordow, every other factory you’ve ever built. We’re going to figure out exactly what you’ve put there. How much uranium you’ve made. Then we’re going to blow them up. Every last one of them. Then, if you’re lucky, we’ll leave.”
Behzadi stared at her in silence.
“Your English good enough to pass that message on, Fardis? Or you need a translation?”
“You’ll regret this. You think you frighten me? And eighty million of my people? You think we don’t know what to do with Americans? I saw your guards at the embassy begging for their lives with my own eyes.” Behzadi pointed at his eyes. “Those brave Marines. I watched them piss themselves.”
Before she could do something truly foolish, like tip the wheelchair, Green walked away.
The last, best hope for peace.
23
TEL AVIV
Duberman’s office had the windows the outer suite lacked, overlooking the city to the south and the flat sea to the west. The winter sun hung low over the water, reminding Wells that this day, too, was mostly done. So many lost hours in this chase, so few left.
Duberman leaned against his desk. He was bigger than Wells expected, handsome, with a wide, square face. His brown eyes were flecked with something lighter. Leonine. He wore linen pants and buttery brown shoes, a plain white shirt, a simple wedding ring.
The man next to him carried a stubby pistol on his hip, the only weapon openly displayed so far in this mansion. The bodyguard was in his early fifties, with a trim body, a hollow face, and eyes as mirrored as if he were wearing sunglasses. He would shoot them without question if Duberman gave the order, Wells knew.
Duberman grinned like they were gamblers who had shown up at his casino with a million dollars each and a reputation for bad luck. “Mr. Wells. Senator Duto. A pleasure. I’m Aaron. This is Gideon.” The bodyguard shook his head. “Excuse him. He doesn’t like strangers.”
Duberman’s voice carried a touch of Southern twang. He’d grown up in Atlanta, Wells remembered. Like the room and the clothes, his voice broadcast an easy, overwhelming confidence. Wells wondered whether the attitude had come with the money or vice versa. He wanted to hate the man, but he had nothing to grip yet. Duberman was a thousand-foot rock face with no visible holds.
Gideon mumbled in Hebrew. “He’d like to search you,” Duberman said.
“Sure.” Though Wells didn’t want to be frisked again. He sensed Gideon would be unafraid to get up close and personal.
“No,” Duto said. He knew about the knife. “He’s got the gun. We were searched outside. Enough is enough.”
Duberman said something in Hebrew to Salome and she answered, presumably explaining that they’d been thoroughly checked already. Wells realized that her personal bodyguard, the one with the scars, wasn’t around. He ought to be. Wells couldn’t imagine an errand more important than this meeting. But asking about him would only call attention to the fact that Wells had noticed his absence.
“All right. No frisk.” Gideon muttered something else, and Duberman smiled. “But know he’ll shoot you even faster then.”
The office was thirty feet long, divided into three sections, with Duberman’s desk in the center, a couch on one side, a square wooden table on the other. Duberman led them to the table and they sat, Wells facing Duto, and Duberman Salome. Like bridge teams.
“Mr. Wells. Senator. I’m sure you won’t try to tape this meeting. If you do, know that this room has a jammer that disables microphones. Also, your mobile phones will not work here. Only the outer suite.”
“Great,” Duto said. “We can focus on work.”
Duberman ignored him, leaned toward Wells. “Let me start by asking, do you think your religion is playing a role in your efforts here? Maybe subconsciously.”
Wells knew Duberman wanted to provoke him, but he rose to the bait anyway. Duberman had insulted his faith, his honor, and his intelligence all at once. Maybe subconsciously suggested that Wells couldn’t understand his own motives.
“You’re Jewish, but your casinos stay open on Friday nights.”
“That’s business.”
“So is this, for me. I don’t want you to trick the United States into war.”
“And that’s all.”
Wells decided to believe that Duberman’s question was sincere. “I came to Islam to survive. In a place where I was the only American, surrounded by people who wanted to destroy my country. I needed something to hold on to and I had to choose, their religion or their hate. I chose their religion.”
“All right. I respect that.” Duberman spread his hands as if to push away the unpleasantness he’d created. He radiated charm like a banked furnace. “You strike me as a plainspoken man.
”
This close, Wells saw the unnatural tightening of the skin around Duberman’s jaw, the fullness in his cheeks. “It’s good.”
“What’s that?”
“Your face-lift.”
“Thank you. For what I paid, it should be.” You’ll need more than that to rattle me, his smile said. “You know our former operations officer is no longer with us. Early retirement.” A sly joke. They all knew Wells had killed Mason. “We have a vacancy. I doubt the new DCI will invite you back to Langley. And you’ve seen my resources.”
Could Duberman really be pitching? He was using a classic technique. Unbalance Wells by opening the conversation with an unpleasant question, then dismiss it and focus on what they had in common. E and E, Wells remembered an instructor at the Farm telling him. Empathize and emphasize.
“Even if we disagree about Iran, we have plenty in common. We both know the world would be safer without certain members of the Saudi royal family. Those Hamas cowards who live in Qatar and let their people serve as human shields. Salome tells me you have unique talents. The fact you’ve stayed alive for the last month suggests she’s right.” Duberman was laying on the flattery thick now.
“Mainly, I’m lucky.”
“You would have complete operational freedom. We, the three of us, would choose projects together. But after that you’d make every decision. Hire one person, a hundred, none. I can give you whatever resources you need. Salome has spent years setting up safe houses and communications all over the world.”
The offer tempted the way a syringe of heroin might. A bubble of sweet venom at the tip. Try me. Once. Once can’t hurt. Wells wondered if Duberman had planned this offer all along or whether he’d invented it when Salome told him that Wells hadn’t come alone.
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