The Inca Prophecy (10 page)

The ingenuity of General Shakiba’s plan slowly crystallised in Rostami’s mind. ‘And the infidel will not only have to deal with the massive devastation, but he won’t know where to strike back.’

‘Exactly. The infidel has had trouble working out how to wage a war on terror ever since Bush and his cronies declared it. On the world stage, Iran will be at arm’s length from the bombings, and our politicians can genuinely claim to have no knowledge of the attacks. But the plutonium suitcases will be produced here in Arak, and the design we’re working on is extremely powerful. The infidel might think his banking systems and stockmarkets are in trouble now, but when one Western city after another is reduced to radioactive rubble, the entire capitalist system will collapse. At that point Yawm al-Qiyamah Jihad will go public and release its requirements for peace, included in which will be a demand that Western governments rewrite their constitutions and institute Sharia law.’

‘And if they don’t?’ Rostami asked, eyes wide at the enormity of the general’s plan.

‘We keep striking until they do. We have an inexhaustible supply of martyrs who are prepared to die for Islam, and where Hitler failed, we will succeed, Rostami. Fear is contagious. As city after city is destroyed, the people will force their governments to comply with our demands. Ultimately, the world will be subject to the one
true religion of Islam, as Allah intended.’

‘But General … the technical difficulties,’ Rostami interjected. ‘A uranium bomb is difficult enough, but plutonium …’

That’s where the Pakistanis come in. We’ll discuss it over dinner tonight. If the morally bankrupt and corrupt Americans can perfect a plutonium bomb, we can too, Rostami, eh?
Allahu Akbar
… God is great!’

Chapter 10

O’Connor rubbed his eyes as Lufthansa’s flight LH 600 taxied towards Tehran’s Imam Khomeini International Airport, built on the fringe of the desert to the south of the capital. No American airline flew into Iran, but Lufthansa had been a good substitute, even if O’Connor had to fly economy with a six-hour stopover in Frankfurt. ‘Impecunious academics don’t fly business class,’ the DDO had reminded him, without a hint of sympathy. O’Connor looked at his watch. One-thirty a.m. It was a bizarre time to arrive, and he detested long flights, although at least the Lufthansa stewardesses were attractive, unlike the grumpy flight sergeants on military aircraft.

O’Connor took his place in the Men Only line. Security was tight, as he’d expected, with a heavy presence of Immigration Police and Revolutionary Guards. The CIA had not yet determined whether the Imam Khomeini Airport was fully integrated into the country’s
security system, but he knew the Ministry of Intelligence and Security and the Revolutionary Guards maintained watch-lists. But O’Connor also knew the regime was so paranoid about the transfer of information in Iran, and the dangers of the watch-list being hacked through the internet, that arrivals and departures were copied down manually and driven by car into town, which meant the list was always out of date.

‘Reason for visit?’ The young immigration officer’s dark eyes were burning with suspicion, but O’Connor kept his cool.

‘I’m a professor of political science, here on a study trip.’

The officer scrutinised the photograph the boys and girls in one of the back rooms of Langley had attached to Darragh McLoughlin’s passport. He stared at O’Connor, and scrutinised the photograph again, before entering the details into his computer. The machines were fitted with cameras, but O’Connor noted that facial recognition technology had so far eluded the regime’s security apparatus.

‘You’re Irish?’

O’Connor suppressed a smile and simply answered ‘Yes’. What the young revolutionary behind the entry barrier lacked in experience and guile, he more than made up for with zeal.

‘And what would an Irish professor know about Islam?’ the guard asked contemptuously.

‘That’s why I’m here … to learn.’

The officer scrutinised his screen again, stamped Professor Darragh McLoughlin’s passport, and handed it back.

‘Enjoy your stay in the Islamic Republic of Iran, Professor McLoughlin,’ he said unconvincingly.

By the time O’Connor reached the carousels, his luggage was
already circulating. Apart from a mandatory bag X-ray, customs was uneventful, and O’Connor made his way to the cab rank where a fleet of cars awaited: Tehran’s ubiquitous locally produced yellow Samands and Paykans, another local car based on the British Hillman. From previous experience, O’Connor knew that the Paykans were mobile shit-boxes of the first order and he headed instinctively towards the Samands. He waved the first driver away, looking instead for a Seiro-Safar-branded cab, identified by the company number. As was the norm in many countries, an airport cab driver would overcharge in a heartbeat, but the Seiro-Safar cab drivers had a good reputation. As for the cars themselves, while the Samands might be superior to the Paykans, Tehran’s traffic soon put paid to any notion of speed.

Even at three in the morning, it was over an hour before they swung into the Homa Hotel, which had started life as the pre-revolution Sheraton. Located a few hundred metres from Vanak Square and the bazaars, it was still one of Tehran’s better hotels, although O’Connor wouldn’t be staying long. And he kept his newly minted credit cards out of sight. American Express, Visa and MasterCard were of little use in a country like Iran – you needed cash. Wondering how many cab drivers back in the States would drive an hour for fifteen dollars, O’Connor handed over three crumpled brown 50 000-rial notes, embossed with the stern portrait of Ayatollah Khomeini. O’Connor grinned to himself. At least cash would make things more difficult for the account Nazis back in Langley to audit his expenditure.

O’Connor checked in, settling his hotel bill in advance. Minutes later, he pulled the curtains on his fourth-floor room. The peaks of the snow-capped mountains to the north of the city were bathed in the
orange rays of the dawn. The power and beauty of Iran’s landscape seemed incongruous when juxtaposed against the ruthless theocracy of the Iranian regime, he reflected. His thoughts were interrupted by a text message from Jafari on his encrypted cell phone:

Wife departed Tehran last night for Frankfurt. Back on duty in Arak. Assigned as escort officer for visiting VIP Pakistanis arriving today – Qom International Hotel tonight.

It didn’t happen often in this game, but sometimes you could get lucky, and O’Connor wondered if this might be one of those moments. A visit to Arak by high-ranking Pakistani officers would almost certainly be linked to General ul-Haq’s offer of assistance with the new P2 centrifuges and the reprocessing of plutonium. It looked as if Qom, 150 kilometres to the south and the theological heartland for scholars of Shia Islam, would be his first stop. O’Connor deleted the message, pleased that his protégé had kept the transmission short. The cell phone provided to Jafari by the CIA had been manufactured to look like any other that might be purchased in downtown Tehran, but it was programmed with a 1024-bit asymmetric algorithm, along with a 256-bit random key that changed every second. The encryption made Jafari’s text and voice messages almost impossible to break.

O’Connor left his room, locking the hotel door behind him. It was time to case the layout of the hotel while most of the guests were still asleep. Then he would head towards the markets and attempt a retrieval of the dead-letter drop.

Chapter 11

The sun sank slowly beyond the Mediterranean, bathing in a fiery orange glow the terraced hilltop orchards, vineyards, olive groves and the terracotta roofs of the cinder-block houses in the town of al-Bazourieh. Located not far from Tyre, Lebanon’s southernmost city, al-Bazourieh was just 16 kilometres north of the border with Israel, where once again, war clouds were gathering over the tiny strife-torn nation, once better known for its beautiful cedar forests and the haunting beauty of its snow-capped mountains.

An air of excitement permeated al-Bazourieh’s narrow streets and the souk was crowded. Cars, minibuses, motorcycles and scooters weaved their way past stalls selling everything from spices and fruits to cell phones and computers. The distinctive Lebanese national flag, with its green cedar tree imposed over a broad white stripe flanked with two red stripes, fluttered from every
pole and awning. Huge posters of al-Bazourieh’s favourite son, Hasan Nasrallah, the Secretary-General of Hezbollah, adorned the sides of stone buildings and billboards on the roads leading to the village. Although not without its Sunni malcontents, the hill town was overwhelmingly Shia, and for the past month, the occupants had been fasting during the daylight hours for the holy month of Ramadan. It was a practice of discipline, self-sacrifice and prayer, but now the new moon was on the horizon and Eid al-Fitr, the festival that marked the end of Ramadan, was in full swing.

For Mansoor Shahadi and his family, it was a double celebration. Mansoor’s only son, Ahmed, was home from the American University of Beirut, having just graduated magna cum laude in engineering. Ahmed’s mother, Jamila, and his three sisters, Soraya, Yada and three-year-old Rashida, had been in the kitchen all afternoon, and the heavy wooden table on the balcony was already groaning under the appetisers: olives, stuffed zucchinis, tabbouleh, eggplant dip and hummus. A delicious aroma of freshly baked bread wafted on to the deck as Mansoor, dark hair streaked with grey and his hands gnarled from years in the olive groves, faced south-east towards Mecca and led the family in the
mahgrib
, the sunset prayer, the fourth of the five daily prayers of Islam.

Allahu Akbar
… Allah is great …

Subhanak allahhuma
… You are glorified, oh Allah …

Mansoor’s voice carried across the palm trees towards the family olive grove and the Shahadis prepared to assume the
sujood
position, kneeling on their prayer mats. Ahmed helped little
Rashida and then bent his head so that his forehead and nose touched the ground.

Allahu Akbar
… Allah is great …

Subhana rubbiyal a’ala
… How perfect is my Lord, the most high …

Assalamu alaikum wa rahmatullah
… peace and mercy of Allah be on you …

At the end of the prayers Ahmed turned to help Rashida, but this time she was having none of it.

‘I can do it,’ she protested, her dark eyes flashing. ‘I’m a big girl now. I’m three!’ Ahmed turned to his mother and raised his eyebrows.

Jamila smiled as she watched her youngest daughter wrestle the prayer mat back into the house. ‘She’s going to be a handful, that one,’ said Jamila, and she disappeared back into the kitchen to retrieve the main courses: falafel, baked lamb with spicy rice, chicken shawarma, and eggplant, capsicum and burghul salad.

‘Hassan Nasrallah is speaking tonight. They’re broadcasting it on al-Manar,’ Mansoor said, pasting a healthy serving of garlic sauce on his chicken.

Al-Manar, or ‘the Beacon’, Hezbollah’s television station, broadcast from a secret location in al-Dahiye, the desperately crowded southern suburb of Beirut where Hezbollah had established control. Al-Manar broadcasts had become immensely popular throughout the Middle East and, as a result, Israel had vowed more than once to take the station it called Terror TV off the air, but the network was stronger than ever.

‘Hezbollah were recruiting in the village today. I’m thinking
about joining,’ Ahmed announced proudly. Jamila exchanged glances with her husband. Jamila and Mansoor had both lost their parents when Israel invaded Lebanon in 1982. Over 17 000 Lebanese had died in the bitter fighting. Now tensions were on the rise again. The previous evening, an Israeli patrol had penetrated the Blue Line, the border imposed by the United Nations in 2000 to ensure Israel had fully withdrawn from southern Lebanon. In the gunfire, three freedom fighters from Hezbollah had been killed. This had only served to strengthen Mansoor and Jamila’s determination that their children would pursue careers away from the military.

Yada, who was just six, her eyes filled with adoration for her brother, turned to her ten-year-old sister Soraya. ‘Wow!’ she said in hushed tones.

‘Over my dead body, young man,’ admonished Jamila. ‘We haven’t given you an education so you can join a guerrilla group. The world needs engineers, and you will make a very good one.’

Ahmed turned to his father, a pleading look on his young face.

‘Your mother is right, my son. Leave the fighting to those who are not as gifted as you. We can support Hezbollah in other ways. One day you might even study overseas. In the meantime,’ Mansoor added, flicking on the television, ‘we can listen to what Hassan Nasrallah has to say.’

An image of the secretary-general of Hezbollah appeared. Bespectacled, bearded and dressed in his customary brown robes and black turban, he was assuring Muslims around the world that there was hope in the afterlife.

‘Martyrdom, according to our culture and thought, is the door
through which one passes from false life to real life. It is the door through which one passes from mortal life to eternal life. It is the door through which one passes from a life of amusement, games, procreation and pride, to a life of eternal bliss, continuous peace, happiness and bounty …’

Ahmed listened, deep in thought. From an early age, he’d been brought up to trust in the will of Allah, and he’d always been encouraged to aim high. Ahmed had also been encouraged to be proud of his country, and the Israelis’ contempt for Lebanon’s southern border infuriated him. Lebanon’s myriad political parties spent their time squabbling for power, and in Ahmed’s mind, Hassan Nasrallah was the only one who was standing up to the Israelis. Hezbollah offered hope and a way out of the morass.

‘Some Lebanese may know more than us about economics or politics. Maybe they do, maybe they don’t,’ the secretary-general observed with a shrug. ‘I don’t want to go into this. But with all due respect, on the issue of Israel, we do claim to be experts. We follow what the Israeli officials say. We have a military presence on the ground and we follow what they are doing in detail. Some people say – and the Israelis repeat it daily – that Hezbollah wants to kidnap and take Israeli soldiers hostage, as if it were a crime. It’s not a crime at all! From now on, we must be clear and agree on this. It is our natural right to capture Israeli soldiers. Can I say it more clearly? It is our right. And it’s more than just a right – it’s our duty! How long has it been since our last prisoner exchange? Two years! And meanwhile, our people remain in Israeli prisons. The fisherman, Faran. Who is concerned with his fate? For two years we’ve been negotiating, but to no avail. Our experience
with the Israelis has shown that if you want to get prisoners back, you have to capture Israeli soldiers. When we do, that shouldn’t surprise anyone.’