by Jeff Nesbit
So if Iran’s Revolutionary Guards could not shut down the hardware or end mobile coverage in the country, then their last resort was to target well-known people who were on the mVillage network and prosecute them.
But history said this wouldn’t work, either. After Ahmadian had stolen the past presidential election, the moderate opposition in Iran had not been intimidated and had not backed off.
When IRGC put nearly one hundred of its leaders on trial—in front of a hard-line cleric newly appointed as the head of the judiciary system—and then sentenced all of them to prison, they had not backed off. If anything, the traffic on mVillage only increased after both events. And when the clerics ordered two dozen of the opposition leaders hanged as “drug traffickers,” the mVillage reports also did not cease.
Nash’s mobile buzzed. He glanced at it. It was his dad again. Nash wondered if he’d worked through the night. “Hey, Dad. What’s up? Have you gotten any sleep yet?”
His father ignored the question. “I assume you’ve seen all the reports out of Iran?”
“Yeah, I’ve been up most of the night reading through the mVillage reports on the portals.”
“Anything about the attacks yet south of Shiraz, near Fasa?”
Nash remembered the few posts he’d seen. “A few, wondering about the extent of the damage. But no one seems to know much.”
“I see,” his father said. “Well, stay tuned. There will be more.”
Nash knew enough not to ask his father more questions about this. “So what’s your guess on Iran’s response?”
“That’s why I’m calling.”
“I’m not sure there’s much I can do from here in Lilongwe.”
“There is, though. Remember when I asked you to check and see if Razavi was posting anything?”
“Yeah. His post from ‘a friend of Razavi’ started showing up on the community portals early in the morning.”
“Good. I’m glad to hear it. So…can you send him a text back, just from you?”
Nash sat up straighter at his desk. “You’re looking for back-channel discussions into Iran?”
“We all are right now, Nash, at every level,” his father said quietly. “The next twenty-four hours will be critical. None of us know who will be making the decisions. It could be their Guardian Council, or the Supreme Leader consulting with a few of the clerics, or Ahmadian. Or, heaven forbid, the Revolutionary Guards. If Zhubin and Bahadur get their way, we’re in trouble.”
“If it’s the Guards, then they’re—”
“Yes,” his father said quickly. “They’re likely to retaliate with a medium-range missile, armed with a nuclear warhead—one that can reach Israel.”
“That’s assuming Israel didn’t take all of the HEU out of the system. I’ve looked at the Google Earth pictures circulating through mVillage. The damage was pretty extensive.”
His father sighed. “There’s no way they could have taken it all out of the system. Absolutely no way. They slowed Iran down, perhaps for a few years. But they didn’t stop them.”
“So that’s a problem?”
“Yes, a problem…which is why I need your help with Razavi.”
“He won’t know who I am,” Nash said. “Why would he respond to my text?”
“He might not. But it won’t take him long to figure out who you are, with your last name and the position you have with VHC and mVillage.”
“And why would he trust the text if it came from me, and not someone inside Iran’s government?”
“He won’t, necessarily,” his father said. “But we have to try. If he responds, he might be able to help. If he doesn’t respond, then there’s no harm in having tried. We’re trying to get to everyone inside Iran as quickly as we can.”
“And there’s no other way to Razavi?”
He could almost see his father shaking his head at the other end of the line. “No, there’s not. The IRGC has him under very tight house arrest. They can’t afford to throw him into prison—not yet. But no one is getting in to see him, and they’ve pulled all of the computers from his house. Obviously, they don’t know about his mobile yet. Which is why you can get to him.”
“Okay,” Nash said. “I’ll give it a shot. What do I say?”
“Tell him he has to get to the moderate clerics around the Supreme Leader.”
“The Supreme Leader—you mean Amir Shahidi?” Nash interrupted.
“Yes, Shahidi. We know he has questions about Ahmadian. He’s had them for some time now. Tell Razavi that he probably has only a few hours, at best. The Revolutionary Guards, Ahmadian, the Guardian Council—there isn’t time. He has to get to some of the moderate clerics who can talk to Shahidi. He has to make the case.”
“Anyone in particular he should try to get to? Is there anyone Shahidi will listen to?”
“Yes, urge Razavi to try to get to Ayatollah Ahura Ehsan.”
“I haven’t heard of him.”
“Most of the West hasn’t. He’s a senior cleric. He’s consistently said publicly that Iran is not a threat and is willing to engage in direct talks with the U.S. He always maintains that Iran’s actions are defensive, not offensive, and that they don’t wish a war with Israel. But he’s also conservative enough to earn Shahidi’s trust, and has said that Iran will launch a retaliatory strike if it has to.”
“So if he’s in favor of a retaliatory strike…?”
“He has to say that publicly. It’s the only way he can stay credible. But he may be our only hope, if Razavi can get to him.”
“And if he does, what does Razavi tell him?”
“That they cannot, under any circumstances, launch the Shahab 3 as retaliation. We’ll deal with the Strait of Hormuz ourselves,” his father said. “They have to give the United States more time to deal with this, with the world community. We will organize sanctions against Israel—”
“The U.S. has never done that,” Nash said quickly.
“We will now. We have no choice. If we don’t act, others will. If just one Shahab 3 makes it through, none of us want to consider what happens next.” His father paused. “Nash, I can’t emphasize this enough. I’m not big on end-of-the-world scenarios, but if a nuclear weapon lands in Israel, it will set things in motion that we can’t reverse.”
“Okay, got it,” Nash said. “So I’m delivering the message to Razavi that he has to get someone like Ayatollah Ehsan to weigh in with Shahidi on the missile.”
“They have to keep the Guards from launching that missile. We don’t have much time. The U.S. will intervene on Iran’s behalf, in some fashion. But we have to keep that missile out of the air. If it launches, everything changes.”
“Okay.” Nash was already thumbing through his iPhone’s directory. “I’ll try. But you know this is a long shot.”
“I know.” His father’s voice was grave. “But we’re trying everything we know. We have to do what we can to keep Iran from launching that missile.”
“And if they launch it?”
“First things first,” his father answered. “I’m always hopeful that rational actors will emerge in times like this.”
14
WASHINGTON, DC
Anshel couldn’t believe it had only been twenty-four hours since he’d taken the call from the deputy head of the Mossad. The world had changed in those twenty-four hours.
They’d held briefings at the Pentagon, the Capitol, and the situation room almost around the clock. They’d sent more than a dozen stern messages to the Israelis. None of it had worked. Israel had gone ahead with the attacks. And now the various heads of state were starting to react in both predictable and irrational ways.
Anshel had been in and out of the Oval Office so many times in the past twenty-four hours that he’d hard-wired the path in his brain. He could probably make the trip with his eyes closed at this point.
The U.S. media was just now waking up to the story that Anshel had known was about to break from the moment he’d read about the drone’s fin
ding of highly elevated uranium hexafluoride in the atmosphere above a covert site south of Shiraz in Iran.
He looked up from his desk. He’d been there since five o’clock that morning, poring over the scattered intelligence reports from around the world.
“You’ve been here all night?” DJ asked, leaning up against the doorway. Only his head actually entered the room. His own tie was slightly askew, and his eyes were every bit as red as Anshel’s.
“Just about,” he answered.
DJ glanced around the room. “No kids with you this morning?”
“Not today. Way too much going on.”
DJ nodded, taking a tentative step into the office. DJ was one of the few aides on the White House staff who did not live in mortal fear of Dr. Gould. Other aides tended to arrive at Anshel’s office in the safety of a group. Not DJ. He preferred wading right into problems headfirst. That’s why Anshel respected him.
“Um, so…I was wondering,” he said, easing into the conversation.
Anshel looked up again. “So you’re not here on a social visit? You have something on your mind?”
“Yes, I do,” DJ said firmly.
“And?”
“And…I was wondering how it is that Israel was able to fly in, bomb more than a dozen sites overnight, and get out without a single plane detected.”
Anshel almost smiled. “You don’t think their F-15s and F-16s are up to that fight?”
“They’re up to a fight,” DJ answered. “Just not that fight. The media are going crazy on me. They know the IAF doesn’t have that sort of ability. They’re speculating that maybe the U.S. jumped in with our Stealth fighters.”
“We didn’t,” Anshel said softly.
“But they’re talking to everyone they can about the IAF’s ability to get there and back, without even as much as a shot fired at an IAF plane. It isn’t possible. They’re all saying that only the U.S. fleet of F-22s and F-35s can carry out that sort of mission.”
Anshel held a hand up. He knew where DJ was going with this, and that both he and the media would eventually run this to ground. He’d been prepared for this for weeks, in fact. Only a handful in government knew about the secret sale to the Israelis months ago. But it was time to confirm the sale. They just had to be careful and make sure there was a huge amount of distance between the sale and Israel’s own decision to act.
“There’s another Stealth fighter that can handle that mission,” Anshel said.
DJ stared at Anshel Gould. Anshel’s expression confirmed what DJ had suspected since the middle of the night, and what some of the media were starting to ask about. “So it’s true? We sold the F-117s to them?”
“About six months ago. It is a silver bullet for them. It’s the only plane that could have handled such a mission. Anything else is just a suicide mission for the Israeli pilots.”
DJ took a deep breath. “I don’t see how this is possible,” he said finally. “How could we make a decision like this without anyone knowing?”
“The Group of Eight knew and pushed it through as part of the black budget,” Anshel said. “I talked to all eight of them personally. They all approved. More than that, most of them were advocates of the sale.”
“Really? Both parties?”
“Really. We were going to sell them modified F-22s and, eventually, F-35s anyway,” Anshel said. “Selling them the F-117s was just an extension of that.”
DJ was surprised that the Group of Eight knew and that details of the secret sale had not leaked. The Group of Eight included the leadership of both the House and Senate, from both parties, who were always informed of anything significant on national security. But the White House had long ago learned that nothing remained secret for long once it had gone up to the Hill. And, DJ knew, Anshel visited the Capitol almost on a daily basis to consult with them.
Still, this was different. Support for the defense of Israel was so strong in both parties that neither side ever used Israel’s defense as a political football. It just didn’t happen in the United States, for any reason. So it was possible they could keep this particular secret.
“And the training?”
“Done as part of our regular joint training with them out at the Nevada bases. We flew the F-117s out there for years when they were black projects out of Skunk Works, and no one knew.”
“Wow,” DJ said. “Well, that would explain it.”
“You seem surprised.”
“Yeah, I guess I am.” DJ shrugged. “I know we’ve denied Israel landing and takeoff rights in Iraq. So why sell them a Stealth fighter?”
Anshel sat forward in his chair. The world would never know this, but he’d been the strongest internal advocate for the sale, right from the beginning. It made all sorts of sense, both politically and from a national security posture. They had to give the Israelis something to defend themselves.
“Look, as I said, we were going to sell Israel—and Japan—planes out of our Stealth line. That was a given. The timing of those sales—that’s the question. The F-117s were available now.”
“And the sale allowed this administration to show its support for Israel, early on, even as we were changing the nature of our military and diplomatic relationship with them in Iraq and elsewhere,” DJ said, warming up to the task at hand.
“There you go,” Anshel said. He could always rely on DJ to get right to the core. He did it quickly.
“So will the leadership in Congress confirm the sale?”
“They will.”
“Good. That will take some of the heat off the White House.”
Anshel turned back to his intelligence papers. There was a lot to get to before they briefed the president that morning. But DJ didn’t leave the office—not just yet.
“Yes? There’s more?” Anshel asked.
“The media is wondering about some of the other reports.”
“Other reports?”
“That Iran is preparing a second strike because Israel used a tactical nuke on a site in Iran.”
“If Israel used a tactical nuke, that’s their business,” Anshel said brusquely.
“We urged them not to, right?”
“Of course. But what they choose to do in their own defense is their own call.”
“And a second strike from Iran?”
Anshel sighed. It had been a very long night. “We are doing everything in our power—and I mean absolutely everything—to convince Iran’s clerical and political leadership that a second strike would be an enormous mistake.”
“Has President Camara weighed in?”
“He spoke to Rowan in Russia late yesterday. China’s scheduled for this morning. They’ve convened an emergency meeting of the UN Security Council this morning as well. The president will talk to them by phone for a few minutes.”
“What about Iran?”
Anshel shook his head. The silence had been deafening from Iran, on all fronts of their leadership. “We’re trying to get to Shahidi. We haven’t had any luck.”
“And Ahmadian?”
“A waste of time,” Anshel said dismissively. “The clerics are making the calls right now. We’ll see how much rope they give the Revolutionary Guards.”
“Do we have any ties to Shahidi? Any hope there?”
“Not much, to be honest. All back-channel stuff. But we’re throwing everything we have at it. We’ve asked for formal talks at every level.”
“And no response?”
“None to speak of,” Anshel answered. “Shahidi’s going to let the Guards do something in response. He has no choice. He cannot simply do nothing.”
“So a second strike is possible?”
“Sure,” Anshel said, almost casually. “If they have enough enriched uranium left, they’ll probably launch something.”
“The Shahab 3?”
“That would be my guess.” A dark smile lit up Anshel’s face. “If they do, we’ll get our answer after all these years.”
“Which one?”
&nb
sp; “Whether defenses are any good against missiles with that sort of range,” he answered. “We’ll see if the emerging third generation of the Arrow missile defense system we’ve built for Israel is any good. For Israel’s sake, I hope so.”
15
LILONGWE, MALAWI
Nash was stunned. He’d gotten through to Razavi almost immediately. His father had been right. Razavi must have seen his last name and chosen to respond.
Nash had written in his text:
Mr. Razavi,
My name is Nashua Lee, and I am the creator of mVillage. That is how I was able to secure your number for this text. If you are able, can you call me on my mobile? I am in Malawi, Africa. I need to speak to you immediately about the events happening in your country, if you are able.
When Nash had pushed the send button on his text to Razavi’s personal mobile number in Iran, he had not expected a response. When Razavi had responded just minutes later, Nash was left shaking his head at how small the world could be at times—and how technology had created one large community in many ways.
Yes, I will call, Razavi had responded. Nash’s phone rang a moment later.
“This is Nash,” he’d answered.
“Nashua Lee, the person who contacted me?” The voice on the other end of the line had a distinct Persian accent, but the English was impeccable.
“Yes, this is Nash.”
“Your father is an ambassador of the United States, and you run mVillage?”
Nash smiled. It always amazed him that strangers could summarize your life in a matter of seconds. “Yes, I run mVillage, as part of the Village Health Corps—”
“Yes, yes, I know,” he said, cutting Nash off. “But mVillage—”
“I run mVillage,” Nash said softly. “So is this Mr. Razavi?”
“It is. But, please, call me Reza.”
“Yes, sir, Reza,” Nash said politely. “I’m calling at the request of my father—”