Warriors of God

by William Christie

  "Yes, I know. Being one of what my predecessor called his "bullshit detectors." I’m not so sure I want to continue that. Analyzing material and questioning assumptions that more qualified people have already made."

  If he thought Welsh was going to beg for his job he was sorely mistaken. "Your privilege, sir."

  "I’m not saying the Iranians don’t want to hit us," the secretary said. "But we’ve made the price too high. They’re not selling any oil. They can’t feed their people and we didn’t bomb any of their cities to push the Iranian public on the side of mullahs. They know we can do a lot worse. What do you say to that?"

  I say you couldn’t open your mouth without equivocating, Welsh thought. But what he said out loud was, "What if they don’t care, sir? We always make assumptions based on the way we think. But face is a big thing in that part of the world, and the Iranians in particular have never taken it before. We have, but they haven’t."

  "I didn’t know you were an expert on Iran," the secretary said.

  "I’m not, sir," Welsh replied. "I used to stay up nights thinking of ways to flush them out of my AO in Iraq. Managed to get myself a couple, too, but not nearly enough."

  "Whenever anyone around here disagrees with me they tell a war story," the secretary complained. "If the Iranians do move against us, it will be through Hezbollah in Europe or South America. That’s where we have our eyes and ears now."

  The Marine Corps had a long institutional memory, and a longstanding grudge against the Lebanese guerrilla group that blew up the Marine barracks in Beirut in 1983. "Hezbollah is Iran, sir. And if the Iranians hit us it will be here. And big. They’re not going to allow themselves to do anything less than Al Qaeda has already done. Al Qaeda are copycats. The Iranians are the old-school originators of suicide terrorism."

  "They won’t pay the price," said the secretary. "We’ll take them apart."

  Welsh offered the counter-argument he’d been saving for a moment just like this. "What if they schwack us just as hard as they possibly can, and then test fire their first nuke right afterward? We’ll be checkmated, and they’ll be thumbing their noses at us."

  "Best intel says they’re between one and five years away," the secretary said dismissively.

  "All the more reason to believe they’re tightening the last bolt on their bomb even as we speak," Welsh replied.

  "I don’t agree," said the secretary. He tossed the folder into the burn bag behind his desk.

  Welsh forced down a sudden impulse to twist the little bastard's head off. "Your privilege, sir."

  "Rich, you’re an intelligent guy, and you do good work, but you need to put more effort into getting along with people. Are you sure you’ve gotten past the trauma of being wounded? DoD has some fine counseling programs."

  Welsh just smiled the smile he used to scare naughty lance corporals with. "It’s your privilege to think that, too, sir." He got up and walked out of the office.

  Fifteen minutes later Carol Bondurant found Welsh sitting quietly in his cubicle, trying to cool down. "That bad?" she asked.

  "That bad," said Welsh. "I have this wonderful talent. I get diarrhea of the mouth and burn all my bridges."

  "I don't think you're going to get fired, but don't be surprised if some really crummy jobs start turning up."

  "That's what I figured. Why do I keep doing this to myself, Carol?"

  Carol gently put her hand on Welsh's arm. "Rich, you're one of the true believers. A guy like you just doesn't understand careerists. You think if you push people hard enough, they'll do the right thing."

  "But what if I am right?"

  Carol patted his arm. "All it means is that everyone who was wrong ends up hating your guts."

  Welsh made it back to his apartment in Arlington before 6:00. He opened the first of what looked like many beers and flopped down on the couch. The walls were bare; the only other furnishings were an armchair, a TV, and a breakfast table. The bedroom was somewhat better appointed. It held the queen size, the stereo bought in Japan before the dollar crashed, his desk and computer, and overstacked bookcases.

  Welsh picked up the remote control and turned on the news. While he still had income, he probably should get around to buying some furniture.

  CHAPTER 5

  The late summer heat was intense in Teheran. There would be no rain until late fall, and the air was so dry that at the few remaining sites where construction had not been abandoned, the cement was stored in great uncovered heaps. The wind came down from the high desert and left a layer of fine dust on everything.

  What had once been called a village of eight million people was now the most expensive city in the world, for the price of war and isolation was food rationing, unemployment, and hyperinflation. After the attack on Kharg Island the Iranian government had ruthlessly crushed any outward expressions of dissent, and the Basij militia patrolling the streets had exchanged their clubs for assault rifles.

  It was sunset, with the usual monotonously brilliant bloody-orange sky courtesy of hydrocarbon pollution. The traffic was still amazingly heavy. Little could be heard over the din of horns as the epically bad Iranian drivers jockeyed for position and ignored the traffic regulations, expressing either Iranian individualism or Shia fatalism, depending upon one's point of view.

  Emerging from a clotted mass of traffic, a black Mercedes sedan turned onto Takht-e Jamshid Avenue. It was a broad, busy street lined with ten-story buildings and fronted by sidewalks made of ceramic tiles. The vehicle drove past what had once been the Embassy of the United States of America. The wall surrounding the complex had been whitewashed and covered with revolutionary slogans.

  A bit further the Mercedes turned onto a side street, then into an alley. The entrance to the alley was blocked by a military jeep and two Pasdaran, or Revolutionary Guards, dressed in tight-fitting mustard-green fatigues. One guard approached the Mercedes with the arrogant swagger of authority, leveling his Kalashnikov AKM assault rifle, the lightweight, modernized version of the famous AK-47. A distinct snap could be heard as he thumbed the safety catch one step down from safe to automatic. The driver carefully handed the guard a pass. After examining the document and the passenger, the guard stiffened to attention and waved them through.

  The Mercedes stopped at a non-descript door in a non-descript building. A man in a civilian suit and no tie emerged and helped the passenger from the car. A septuagenarian who wore the robes of a Shia clergyman and carried a briefcase. The man in the suit held the door and bowed respectfully as he passed.

  The clergyman acquired another escort inside, and he was guided along a corridor to an inner conference room guarded by two more armed Pasdaran. He entered the room and was greeted by a small, gray-haired man who grasped his hand and kissed it.

  The clergyman, Ayatollah Nashazi, had as a much younger man in the late 1950s become a follower of a group of clergy led by an ayatollah named Ruhollah Khomeini. This group became known as the radicals.

  Their movement changed forever on October 26, 1964, when Ayatollah Khomeini made a thundering speech attacking an agreement exempting American military advisers in Iran from Iranian law. He also made clear his bitter hatred for the United States. Nine days afterward he was arrested and exiled to Turkey. A short time later, he moved to Iraq under the protection of its radical government. Nashazi left Iran to join him. For both, the humiliation of exile was underscored by the protection given the Americans who had introduced the hollowness and corruption of Western values and culture into Iran.

  Like his mentor, Nashazi believed Iran should be isolated against Western influence and that only the dominance of the clergy would ensure this. He took a hard line in favor of confrontation with the United States, which he and the Ayatollah regarded as the principal source of evil in the world.

  When Ayatollah Khomeini died in 1989, Nashazi allied himself with the hard-line members of the government who shared the ayatollah’s views. Even after years of exile, plots, and intrigue, Nashazi looked
like a jolly old man: chubby, round-faced, fond of good food and playing with his great-grandchildren. He led the group of clerics who oversaw the Islamic Revolutionary Guards Corps, in particular the Guards’ Qods—Jerusalem—Force, which was responsible for operations outside Iran.

  The small gray-haired man, in contrast, had the ascetic look of a biblical prophet. He was in his early fifties but looked ten years older. He was gaunt, and his face was deeply lined by the stress of being hunted most of his life. His hair was cropped close to the skull, easy to care for but not helping his appearance. Unable to shake the bourgeois Iranian's determination to be properly dressed, he was clad in a worn and indifferently tailored pin-striped suit; his only concession to revolutionary chic was the collarless shirt and no tie. He used the name Amir, which had been his nom de guerre in many operations around the world.

  He had been a conscript soldier in 1979, and when the revolt against the Shah began shot dead the officer who ordered his unit to fire on street demonstrators. Having established his bonafides to the new Islamic regime, he was groomed for intelligence work. He began his career assassinating exiled Iranian opposition figures in Europe. He trained Hezbollah, and was one of the group of Iranian intelligence officers who interrogated and tortured the kidnapped CIA Beirut Station Chief William Buckley for over a year until there was almost nothing left of the man to execute at the end, thoughtfully sending the CIA periodic taunting video tapes marking their progress. Later he set up covert networks among Iranian émigrés in South America, worked against the Taliban in Afghanistan in the 1990’s, aided the Taliban against the Americans after 2002, and organized Qods Force operations against the Americans in Iraq.

  Now he was on the verge of his crowning achievement. The only question was whether Nashazi was confident enough of his and his group’s position within the government to authorize it. Even after thirty years of observing Iranian politics from the inside Amir still found the mullahs’ decision making process opaque.

  Amir led the ayatollah to one of the padded chairs and served tea Near Eastern fashion—heavily sweetened in a glass. An assistant would normally have done this, but Amir had allowed no one else in the room. "May you never be tired," he said, passing the tea and a plate of sweet cookies.

  "May you find salvation," replied the cleric. He opened his briefcase and extracted a sheaf of papers. "I presume the room has been checked for listening devices?"

  Amir gave no reaction to this stab at his professional vanity. "My technicians finished sweeping fifteen minutes ago. This was a business office, never used by myself or our people until this day, so no one had reason to watch it."

  "You still have not told me whether any listening devices were found," the ayatollah observed.

  "None," said Amir. He stirred his tea and said nothing further. Their positions brought them into frequent contact, but the two had never managed more than a respectful dislike for each other. Amir's work depended upon the exploitation of human behavior, with all the uncertainties and variations that entailed. The ayatollah's life had been governed by the absolutes of his Faith. They were both products of the same culture and ideology, but if it was true that each man's relationship with the world was shaped by the terms of his own experience, then the two were irreconcilable.

  Amir knew Nashazi could not resist theatrics. The tension would have to build before the cleric dropped his bombshell.

  True to the prediction, the ayatollah noisily slurped half his tea before speaking. "Your proposed operation has been approved," he said. He studied Amir's face, but it was unmoved. Amir felt that self-control was not only a mark of professionalism, but the most important aspect of his trade.

  "What of the necessary requirements?" Amir asked.

  "You mean your conditions, do you not?" said Nashazi. "I told you that you were being too presumptuous. You should be glad you still have your position."

  Amir shrugged. "To launch a mission like this and have it end successfully, extraordinary precautions must be taken. The people who undertake it must have the proper support."

  "He has given you complete control over this operation," said Nashazi. "You will report to him only through me. As you requested, no one else will know of the existence of the plan. For various reasons he also wishes this."

  I know, Amir thought, because many in the government would do anything they could to stop it.

  The cleric pointed a chubby finger at Amir. "But I warn you of the great responsibility you assume by adopting this arrogant attitude. You realize what the consequences would be if this mission failed, or worse, was exposed."

  "I understand," said Amir. "I did not make these conditions out of an inflated sense of my own importance. In my heart I know I cannot succeed otherwise."

  "He believes you," said Nashazi. "He also knows your feelings about the competence and discretion of others in the leadership. But he is convinced your precautions are necessary." He paused to let the impact of his words sink in. "There are questions, however."

  "I am prepared to answer them," said Amir.

  "Why not use our Lebanese brothers?"

  "I know them as well as any man," said Amir. "Their cadres in America are good for many missions, but this one I fear is beyond them."

  "That is not your main reason," Nashazi stated, with un-Persian directness.

  Amir had little need to remind himself that this creaking old man was no fool. "Since their last war with the Jews our Lebanese brothers have become very…," he searched for the right word. "Independent. Do you wish to bring this to them as a petitioner, and risk their saying no?"

  The cleric stared him over his tea before contemplating his reply. "No, I do not," he said. "There is still great risk in using our own people for this."

  "Greater risk in not," Amir countered. "It was our only mistake in the attack on the American ship." He had not been part of that operation and was very careful of what he said. The extent of Nashazi's involvement was still unclear to him. "We used foreigners, and our role in the affair was discovered when one escaped and talked."

  "That was a regrettable error," Nashazi said.

  "Errors sometimes happen," Amir replied. "Even in the best-planned operations." Carelessly he added, "It was a shame what came of it."

  The cleric surprised him once again. "Kharg was a blessing in disguise," he said fiercely. "Kharg will force us to be independent, to cast off the weaknesses of Western materialism. It is the failure of the Iraqis. Perhaps the Afghans have taught us how to defeat a so-called great power. When we have nothing the Americans can take away, then our people will not be afraid to fight. They will have their Faith, which is all they need."

  "I see," Amir replied, deadpan. Swiftly changing the subject, he said, "In any event, we must use our own people. None but the commander will know the objective of the mission until they begin. All communication will be restricted to face-to-face meetings in secure areas or by special couriers. We will ensure success with tight security, secure communications, and our men leaving no traceable evidence. The Americans will of course believe we are responsible. But they will be able to prove nothing, not even to themselves. However, as I have pointed out, there is still the chance the operation could be traced back to us."

  "You must prevent that," declared the cleric.

  "Our people will have nothing that could give away their nationality," said Amir. "Nothing, that is, except their statement under interrogation."

  "Our boys would never talk," Nashazi insisted.

  "With the proper stimulation," Amir said dryly, "everyone talks. This I assure you. I will choose the best people, but you must know the risk."

  The ayatollah quoted: ""Allah, what a fine band you have, one willing to kill Sallam and Ashraf! We went with sharp swords, like fighting lions. We came upon their homes and made them drink death with our swift-slaying swords. Looking for the victory of our Prophet's religion, we ignored every risk.""

  "Peace be upon Him," Amir said automatically. He had
his answer.

  "There will be success if you choose the right men," said Nashazi.

  And so Amir gained insight into how blame would be apportioned in the event of failure. "The commander I have in mind has led many difficult operations against our enemies, always successfully. He can plan as well as fight. Also, he speaks fluent English and is familiar with America."

  "Oh?" said Nashazi, instinctively suspicious of anyone who had come into close contact with the West. "Who is he?"

  Amir sipped his tea.

  The ayatollah’s eyes narrowed. "The keeper of secrets. So be it. The responsibility will be yours alone. When will this secret man begin?"

  "Not immediately," said Amir, with customary vagueness.

  The answer only made Nashazi angry. "Why do you delay?"

  "I have orders to conduct the operation against the Emirates first, as a screen for this one."

  "You mean the raid on the pumping station?" Nashazi demanded. "Why use the same man?"

  "He leads our best commando unit." Amir folded his hands in his lap and gave the cleric an emotionless smile. "And I wish to be sure of how good he really is."

  "We must move quickly," said Nashazi. "If we wait, we may not have sufficient resources to act. Do you understand this?"

  "Yes," said Amir.

  "Once again, do you accept the mission?"

  "Yes," he said.

  "Hundreds are dead on Kharg," said Nashazi, the spy chief fixed in his gaze. For the first time Amir had a close look at the man's eyes, set apart from the old and somewhat kindly face. They were unsettling, with a dangerous luminosity. "It is written in the Twenty-second Sura that God will assist whomever takes a vengeance equal to the injury which has been done to him. The Americans have the knife at our throats, but we will not die quietly. They must pay a great price for our hardship. So you will destroy the President of the United States. In his capital city. In his White House."

  Nashazi prepared to leave. Amir took the cleric's hand and kissed it. "May faith be thy daily bread," he said.