The Inca Prophecy (9 page)

Ryan put down his Bible very deliberately. ‘We’ve been through this before as well, my dear. How many times must I remind you that Palestinians are Arabs? They’re Muslims.’

‘And that means they don’t count? You speak about Muslims as if they’re another species!’

‘They’re certainly not God’s chosen people, but that said, they’re free to go wherever they want.’

‘That’s just it, Ryan. They’re not free! The bloody Israelis come along in the dead of night with their bulldozers, destroying homes and ripping out olive groves that are hundreds of years old. Then they build a wall between the Palestinian villagers and their farmland, preventing the villagers from making a living while the Jews build more settlements on territory they occupy illegally … all of which has been condemned by the International Court of Justice!’

Ryan sighed. ‘The International Court of Justice carries no weight in the Promised Land, Aleta. We’ve been over this before. This is God’s business, and not the business of some court staffed by ignorant, overpaid lawyers.’

Aleta felt like shaking him. ‘And what sort of a God creates seven billion people, and then turns around and says, “You Christians are okay”, oh, and let’s not forget God’s chosen people,’ she added, ‘“but the rest of you are fucked”? Not any God I want to know!’

‘Aleta!’

Aleta grabbed her coat, torn between rage and despair. ‘You’re not the man I married, Ryan. You’re becoming more like your father every day – a Bible-bashing bigot,’ she fumed, fighting back her tears. ‘When we get back to Guatemala City, we need to talk!’ Had the door not been on a lever-spring, she would have slammed it behind her.

Ryan shook his head, frowning. Guatemalans could certainly be hot-headed. Confident in the rightness of his position, he felt sure his wife would soon come to her senses. He picked up his Bible, as he often did, and turned to the last book, The Revelation, and began to read: ‘Blessed is the one who reads aloud the words of the prophecy, and blessed are those who hear and who keep what is written in it; for the time is near.’

Chapter 9

The lights were ablaze on the cooling towers soaring above a mass of pipes and storage tanks, giving the heavy-water plant and adjacent nuclear reactor the appearance of a massive oil refinery. The heavily guarded facility was set into barren, rocky hills in a sparsely populated area some 60 kilometres to the northwest of Arak, between the towns of Gazran and Khandab. The hills were patched with snow and the small valley below was dotted with irrigated fields where the local farmers eked out a meagre living.

‘Major Jafari! General Shakiba is here. He wants to see you in the colonel’s office now,’ the corporal said, out of breath as he caught up with Jafari outside one of the laboratories in the heavy-water plant.

Jafari’s heart sank. The commanding general. He’d only reported for duty this morning, and already they were on to him. Fleetingly he thought about making a run for it, but he knew he had little chance of getting past the guards on the front gate, and
even if he did, they’d be watching the air and sea ports. And even if he could make the borders, to the east lay war-torn Afghanistan and Pakistan, under siege from the Taliban and Islamic extremists; to the west, the shambles that was now Iraq. The only hope might be crossing into Turkey through the Kurdish areas, but that border was a long way from Arak.

‘Did he say what it’s about?’

A quizzical look crossed the corporal’s face as he shook his head and Jafari immediately regretted his nervous question. Commanding generals were not in the habit of confiding in corporals.

‘So, you have returned safely from the clutches of the infidel, Major Jafari.’ Colonel Davood Rostami’s expression was inscrutable and Jafari could feel his heart thumping against his chest. ‘This is the young officer I was telling you about, General,’ Jafari’s stocky commanding officer explained, turning to General Shakiba.

Jafari snapped his heels together and saluted.

‘Remind me of the purpose of your visit to the United States, Jafari?’ the general asked. Shakiba was dressed in immaculate camouflage fatigues, his black shoulder boards embossed with a large gold star, surmounted by gold crossed swords and a gold wreath.

‘I have a sick uncle in Maryland, sir. He has cancer, and not long to live,’ Jafari replied, struggling to keep his voice steady.

‘I see. Well, now that you’re back, we have a very important task for you. A high-level scientific delegation is arriving from Pakistan this afternoon, and Colonel Rostami has recommended you
be assigned as their liaison officer. Your colonel has the details, but shortly you will accompany me to the airport. Tonight, I’m hosting a dinner in honour of our guests at the Qom International Hotel. You’re to remain with the delegation for the duration of their stay, and you will be on call twenty-four hours a day. It will be your responsibility to ensure their needs are met, and that includes any after-hours requirements, the cost of which will be met from our budget. The delegation includes General ul-Haq and one of Pakistan’s leading nuclear scientists, Dr Wasim Yousef. Both men are fond of whisky and other night-time pleasures, so you will be authorised to ensure there are adequate supplies of both … Whatever they require.’

‘Whisky, sir?’ Jafari asked.

General Shakiba and Colonel Rostami exchanged glances. ‘The Pakistani delegation is here to assist with our technical difficulties, Major,’ the general said. ‘Until the whole world is governed by Sharia law, we sometimes have to look the other way … This is one such occasion.’

‘This trip to the United States … was Jafari under surveillance over there?’ General Shakiba asked, after Jafari had left.

Colonel Rostami shook his head. ‘I’m told we don’t have sufficient assets. There were higher priorities, apparently.’

‘Do you think he can be trusted?’

‘He’s one of the most promising officers we have, General, and one of the few with a nuclear science degree, so he’s suited to this task.’

‘Nevertheless, given that he’s been to the US, I want him placed under surveillance until we’re certain.’

Rostami nodded. ‘I will ask Major Golzar from the Close Personal Protection Unit to keep an eye on him.’

‘Good. In the meantime there are some problems in Tehran that will bear careful watching, Rostami. What I’m about to tell you is for your ears only, no one else. Is that perfectly clear?’

‘Perfectly clear, General,’ Rostami replied gravely.

‘For the moment, Ahmadinejad is secure, but we live in turbulent times. The ultimate responsibility for the defence and protection of Shia Islam will fall to the Revolutionary Guards, and those of us in senior positions have to plan for every eventuality. We need to ensure the nuclear program underpins our security. Do you understand me?’

‘Yes, General. It has not escaped our notice, even out here, that the younger generation is restless. They will need to be controlled, although some of the younger guards are squeamish about opening fire on their own.’

‘We’re dealing with that. Law and order on the streets is best controlled by the Basij.’

Rostami nodded. Set up after the Iranian Revolution to protect the Iranian Republic, the Basij, a paramilitary volunteer militia, could mobilise more than a million members. Many of the Basij had fought bravely when Saddam Hussein had invaded Iran in 1980, and in the eight years of war, over half a million soldiers lost their lives; but now, the Basij had a very different role. Young men equipped with clubs, hoses and iron bars broke up demonstrations on the streets and on university campuses, attacking their opponents
with a vicious zeal that rivalled the worst days of SAVAK, when the Shah’s dreaded secret police had roamed the streets. Each city and town had its own Basij, and the volunteers had also assumed the role of religious police, beating those found guilty of attending mixed parties or fraternising with members of the opposite sex, and arresting women who were not wearing the hijab.

‘But it’s not so easy to control the internet or cell-phone cameras,’ Shakiba continued. ‘We can shut down internet sites that operate from inside Iran, but people are changing their tactics, and instead of mass demonstrations, they’ve taken to uploading images of the Basij on to YouTube, or they’re using Facebook and Twitter, and the Great Satan is encouraging that.’ Shakiba paused, weighing his next remark. ‘The other problem we face is the Ayatollah’s health.’

‘He’s still not well?’ For months rumours had been circulating about the health of the Supreme Leader.

Shakiba lowered his voice. ‘Terminal cancer. He may have months, or he may last longer, but if the Islamic Revolution is to succeed … if we are to institute Sharia law throughout the world, then our nuclear program has to be at the cutting edge. That’s where you come in.’

‘I’m not sure I understand, General. I’m a soldier … I know very little about nuclear physics.’

‘It’s your capability as an administrator that’s important, Rostami. The nuclear physics we can leave to the scientists. Ahmadinejad can only run for one more consecutive term, so it will be up to us to protect the state of the nation post-Ahmadinejad. There are some in the Majlis who want this country to become a liberal Western democracy, Rostami! They’re a bigger threat to Islam than even the
United States or Israel, and in Tehran we’re working to ensure they don’t gain control.’

Rostami nodded. For the moment, the Majlis, or Iranian parliament, was controlled by hardliners who were devoted to the expansion of Islam and to the downfall of the West. But a growing number of moderates, supported by younger Iranians, wanted freedom of speech and a dialogue with the West, along with greater freedoms for women and the media. Both Rostami and Shakiba knew that any dialogue with the West would result in the US demanding a scaling back of the Guards’ nuclear program. For Shakiba, that was unthinkable.

‘If one of the moderates is elected to the presidency, then the nuclear plan will be at risk. To guard against that, I’m setting up a program that will be outside the control of the Majlis. Only our most trusted officers will have access to Operation Khumm.’

Rostami smiled knowingly. ‘Muhammad, peace be upon Him, would be pleased,’ he replied. The pond of Khumm, in Saudi Arabia, was the place Shia Muslims believed Muhammad had anointed his son-in-law Ali to be his successor. Sunni Muslims vehemently contested the interpretation. Since Muhammad’s death in the seventh century, the succession debate had been at the core of the Sunni–Shia split.

‘There are to be no progress reports, Rostami,’ the general said, withdrawing a file marked
Top Secret
–
Operation Khumm
from his briefcase, ‘but this file contains the directives governing both our nuclear missiles and an additional capability I’ve described as a battlefield nuclear weapon. In essence, it’s a plutonium suitcase bomb. The aim of Operation Khumm is to ensure that the development of
our nuclear weapons program proceeds, regardless of what happens in Tehran.’

Colonel Rostami scanned the directives. ‘I’m up to date on the intercontinental missile capability, sir, but a mini nuclear capability?’

‘Ultimately –
Insha’allah
– our missiles will be able to target any city in the United States or Europe, but that will take time, Rostami, so for the moment, our missile program is concentrated on defence. We’re determined that the Americans will never be able to attack us in the way they attacked Iraq, but I’ll come to that directly. The new battleground is Lebanon, and with the help of Hezbollah, Lebanon will become the next Shia Islamic Republic.’

‘You want to equip Hezbollah with mini nukes, sir?’ As dedicated as Rostami was to the defence of Shia Islam, arming suicide bombers with nuclear suitcases was not something even he had considered.

‘Not for the battle in Lebanon – Hezbollah are already winning the hearts and minds, and we’re making progress towards Lebanon coming under Sharia law. But when it comes to the Sunni Arabs and the United States and the rest of the West …’ The general’s dark eyes were fired with a deep-seated hatred for the infidel.

‘Think about it, Rostami. Lebanon can be taken by stealth, as can Tunisia, Egypt, Bahrain, Libya, Yemen and even Saudi Arabia, but if we attack Israel or the United States with a nuclear missile, they will retaliate on a massive scale. Every one of our major cities would be destroyed. So we wait. And in any case, once we are equipped with nuclear warheads, the US and Israel will think twice about launching a pre-emptive strike. While we wait, we recruit
dedicated young men to join a special elite suicide squad, Yawm al-Qiyamah Jihad.’ It translated as the day of reckoning or judgement. ‘Then … if our scientists can overcome the technical difficulties, this squad can be equipped with nuclear suitcase bombs. As soon as the Pakistanis have left, I’m putting Major Golzar in charge of the recruitment and training, and he will report directly to you.’