Protect and defend (17 page)

Rapp opened his car door and stood, taking in the full scope of the front of the house and the motor court. Massoud Mahabad had done very well for himself.

“Mitch.”

Rapp turned to see Massoud coming toward him down a walking path covered with crushed rock that looked as if it led to an orchard of some sort. The man stood five feet eight inches tall and Rapp figured he weighed over 200 pounds. He had mostly gray hair and was probably in his late sixties. He was wearing a short-sleeve Tommy Bahama shirt. Rapp began walking toward the man.

“Thank you for traveling all this way to see me,” Massoud said in perfect English as he extended his hand.

“If I had known you’d moved into this beautiful place, I would have planned on staying longer.”

“You are welcome to stay as long as you like.” Massoud took Rapp’s hand with both of his and smiled warmly. “I can’t thank you enough for what your country has done for the Kurdish peoples.”

“And I can’t thank you enough for your loyalty and support.”

“You are welcome.” Massoud looked over Rapp’s shoulder and said, “Hello, Rob. How are you, my friend?”

“I am good, Massoud. And how is your family?”

“Good. Thank you for asking. Although every time this one comes around I have to lock up my daughters.” Massoud looked at Stilwell. “They all swoon over him.”

Ridley shook Massoud’s hand. “I can have him castrated if you would like.”

“Yes, castration.” Massoud laughed heartily. “That would be very nice.”

After the laughing died down, Rapp introduced Dumond, and then Massoud led them through the house. He stopped several times to discuss artwork that he had purchased and pieces he was hoping to get his hands on. The place looked more like a small palace than a house. The interior walls were constructed of limestone blocks. The main staircase with its black iron banister dominated the left side of the entry hall. Antique tapestries and oil paintings covered the walls. They made it out onto the veranda just in time to see the sun floating on the western horizon. The entire city of Mosul lay before them with the long shadows of evening stretching toward them.

Indoor furniture and rugs had been moved outside and were waiting for them along with two butlers. Drinks were served and then appetizers. They all sat and Massoud worked his way around the group offering each guest a cigar from his humidor. As the sun went down, heat lamps were set up and ignited. After everyone had lit up, Massoud settled into his oversized chair and looked at Rapp with a devilish smile.

“You are aware of my hatred and disdain for that little peacock Amatullah.”

“Yes, I am,” Rapp replied.

“And you know I would love nothing more than to see him embarrassed.”

“That makes two of us.”

“Then I’ll do whatever I can to help you. Tell me more about your plans.”

Rapp set down his scotch and took a long pull off his Monte-cristo cigar. “I want you to think this through because there could be reprisals.”

Massoud grunted with disdain as he shook his head. “I am not afraid of the Iranian government or their cowardly Badr Brigades.”

“You know their history as well as anyone. They are not afraid to assassinate their enemies.”

“And I am not afraid to strike back. If what Stan has told me is true,” Massoud gestured at Stilwell, “and you have a chance to really embarrass that little bastard, to catch him in one of his lies, then I want to be involved.”

“What about the MEK and PMOI? Do you need to speak to them before you agree to this?”

“I could speak for the PMOI, but I won’t. The MEK I can and will speak for, and if I am right about what you would like to accomplish, the MEK is more believable.”

“I agree.”

“We will support any attempt to create instability within Amatullah’s administration.”

“Compensation?” Rapp queried.

Massoud adopted an uncomfortable expression and shifted in his oversized chair. “You have been very good to us.”

“And you to us,” Rapp replied.

“There might be some dealings you could help me with, but I don’t want to make this about that. We are allies. We will both benefit from this.”

“True.”

“Now tell me of your plan. I am very interested to hear more details.”

Rapp held up his glass to toast Massoud. “Here’s what we’re going to do.”

Ashani checked his watch. If his driver made good time, they would avoid being late. The minister of intelligence popped the top off a small container of sedatives his doctor had given him and downed a few. Between meetings he had gone back to his office at the Ministry of Intelligence and checked in with his deputies. The get-together with Kennedy was set for the following afternoon in Mosul, where they had met the last time. Everyone was on edge except Ashani, which made him wonder if it was the pills. Ashani’s head of security was not happy about the rushed nature of the meeting. He wanted more time to do an advance review of the site. This did not come as a surprise to Ashani, since his security people by necessity were paranoid. He had to calmly tell them to stop sweating the details. The last thing the Americans would want right now would be to make matters worse.

Ashani’s security chief, Rahad Tehrani, told him it wasn’t the Americans he was worried about. It was the Mujahedin-e-Khalq. Tehrani explained that there had been a spike in MEK communications in just the last day and there were reports of civil disobedience in the northern provinces. Ashani wrote it off as the Kurds picking an opportune time to stir up trouble. Ashani assured Tehrani that he could relax, but inside he held some doubt. With every crisis the northern provinces were becoming increasingly bold in their defiance. The last thing they needed at the moment was to have to put down an insurrection.

As they neared the presidential palace the streets became choked with pedestrians and buses. Amatullah had sent his propagandists out into the city to foment an anti-American demonstration. Classes were canceled at the universities and free buses were provided. They were all headed for the old American embassy. Even though the Americans had been gone for more than a quarter century, Amatullah and the other revolutionary faithful still used the compound as a rallying point to preach against the Great Satan. They reached the gates of the Presidential Palace and entered the lush grounds. Ashani had no desire to see Amatullah for a second time in what was becoming a very long day, but he had learned in the past that a request from Amatullah was really a command.

Ashani was shown into a comfortable room next to Amatullah’s office for the viewing of Minister Salehi’s presentation to the United Nations Security Council. Brigadier General Sulaimani of the Quds Force was already there, as well as Golam Mosheni, the Vice President for Atomic Energy, and Major General Zarif, the head of the Republican Guards. Tea was offered to each man. Ashani said hello to everyone and took a seat next to Sulaimani on one of the leather couches. The big-screen TV was tuned to CNN. A man and woman were on the screen talking about the tension in the chamber between the Iranian foreign minister and the U.S. secretary of state.

Amatullah entered the room holding a glass of water. He was smiling from ear to ear. “I just spoke with Salehi. France, Russia, and China have all agreed to back our resolution. He said if we withdraw our language about the U.S., he thinks England will back it as well.”

“What about the other members?” Ashani asked.

“South Africa and Italy are on the fence. Everyone else is behind us. He said the Israeli ambassador looks very uncomfortable.”

“They didn’t send their foreign minister?” Mosheni asked in a surprised tone.

“No,” Amatullah answered. “They obviously don’t want to embarrass him.”

Amatullah sat down seconds before Salehi began to talk. The Iranian foreign minister was sitting at the large semicircular shaped desk that looked down into the well where the fifteen members of the Security Council sat at a long rectangular table.

Ashani had received a copy of the speech and skimmed it in advance. It was less than five minutes long. The first third dealt with a sovereign country’s right to seek energy independence and be safe from the aggression of other nations. Everyone on the Security Council knew the facility at Isfahan had nothing to do with energy independence and everything to do with nuclear weapons, but that didn’t deter Minister Salehi from playing his part. The middle third of the speech outlined the damage done by the attack.

Salehi pounded his fist on the desk as he gave the number of dead—328 scientists, technicians, and laborers. Ashani knew that the actual number was roughly a third of that, but Amatullah wanted it tripled for effect. On the screen behind Salehi flashed the photos of some of Iran’s best and brightest scientists. Salehi listed the price of the facility at three billion dollars, again roughly triple the actual cost. Most egregious of all, however, was the mess that had been created. The beautiful city of Isfahan now contained a nuclear disaster second only to Chernobyl. The damage to the citizenry was incalculable.

The last third of the speech spelled out the recourse Iran was seeking. There was no debate over who had carried out the attack. No offer of evidence that could pinpoint the rogue country that was behind this savage breach of international diplomacy. Salehi for the first time mentioned Israel. He ran off a litany of historic events where Israel had attacked her Muslim neighbors, while conveniently leaving out the times Israel’s Muslim neighbors had attacked her. He pointed out that Iran had done nothing to provoke this attack, and finally he listed his country’s demands. The price was steep. Ten billion dollars in reparations plus whatever the cost would be to clean up the Isfahan site.

Ashani knew about these points and had helped craft them. In light of the destruction of the facility he felt they were reasonable, and in fact he thought the Americans might even pay. The next demand was intended to make Israel squirm. Ashani didn’t think they would get it passed, but it was worth a shot. Salehi demanded that Israel admit that they had a nuclear arsenal and allow UN inspectors full access to their facilities. The Israeli ambassador actually appeared to squirm when this point was made.

Ashani thought Salehi was done, but the man took a drink of water and announced that he had one more point. He began by recounting the horrible downing of Iran Air Flight 655 by the U.S. warship
Vincennes
which had resulted in the deaths of 290 people, 66 of whom were children. He listed another half dozen merchant ships and Iranian naval vessels that had been sunk. He decried America’s continued support of Israel and their abominable persecution of the Palestinian people. He said his country would no longer tolerate the bullying of the world’s lone superpower.

Ashani got the sense Salehi was building toward something very dramatic.

“This organization,” Salehi said, “has failed to protect us in the past. We have been attacked by the two greatest antagonists in the world today, and we will not allow these crimes against our sovereign nation to go unpunished. In forty-eight hours’ time we will suspend the right of innocent passage for all U.S. and Israeli ships through the Strait of Hormuz. We will consider the attempted transit of any ship sailing under the American or Israeli flag an act of war, and we will take decisive action.”

The chamber exploded in an uproar of discussion. Salehi paused for a moment and then began talking over the clamor. “When the United States and Israel have admitted to this cowardly attack against the sovereign state of Iran, and has made assurances that recompense will be paid, we will reopen the strait.”

The reality of what had just been said took a moment to sink in. Amatullah had intentionally kept this last demand from him, knowing full well he would have said it was too inflammatory. The Security Council would undoubtedly make a move to separate each demand before voting, and there would be calls for investigations that would take months, but the closing of the strait could short-circuit all of that and lead to a speedy resolution. Or it could lead to an escalation that Ashani was afraid would not benefit his country. Ashani glanced over at his president and wasn’t the least bit surprised to find him nodding at the TV and looking very full of himself. Ashani had the sinking feeling that Amatullah actually wanted a confrontation in the gulf.

Rapp was sitting in Massoud’s theater room with Ridley, Stilwell, Massoud, and one of Massoud’s nephews. They too were watching the proceedings at the United Nations, but instead of drinking tea and water they were drinking beer and smoking cigars. Rapp had learned to expect strange behavior from the Iranians. Especially their president. In a way, they were a cross between the Cold War diplomats of the Soviet Union and the South American thug Hugo Chávez. Never afraid, for example, to take an issue like freedom of the press and decry restrictions by the United States while touting their own supposed openness. Closing the Strait of Hormuz to U.S. traffic, however, Rapp did not see coming. It was difficult for the press to prove the lie when people were talking about human rights and freedom of speech. There was all kinds of wiggle room, but in this case the line had just been drawn in a very clear way. An aircraft carrier sailing through the twenty-mile strait was impossible to miss.

International waters were simply that—international waters. Anyone was allowed to be there. Iran owned the water twelve miles from the beach and not an inch further. As long as the United States stayed far enough away there was nothing the Iranians could do. At least that’s what a logical person would conclude, but Rapp knew better. Iran liked to write their own rules and then rewrite them. They exemplified the adage, don’t let the facts get in the way of a good piece of propaganda.

Secretary of State Wicka appeared on the screen. Rapp noted that the usually calm and classy Wicka looked to be barely containing her anger. She was wearing her reading glasses and looking sideways in the direction of the Iranian foreign minister while one of her aides was whispering in her ear. Wicka nodded and then the aide sat back down. She opened her leather briefing book with the flick of a wrist, took a moment to review her notes, then closed the book and took off her glasses. Looking into the well at the ambassadors who represented the fifteen countries holding seats on the council, she slowly began shaking her head in the manner of a disapproving mother.