The Disciple

“Finally, here are the facts as the book sets them forth. Factories, locations, missile sites, names of officials, all of it.” All this was arranged on a large chart, with every entry numbered, so it could be cross-referenced. The references were piles of paper that covered the surface of the other tables, each pile numbered. Someone had spent a lot of time constructing the chart and checking every reference.

I began examining the chart, looking for the source of various information. Before long, I began to realize that a lot of the facts Grafton had on the chart had never been mentioned by Azari’s Tehran agent.

“How much of his tale is true?” I asked.

Grafton parked his heinie on the edge of one table. “Ahmadinejad and the boys may be pulling a Saddam Hussein, trying to make us think they are a more formidable threat than they are. The benefits to that approach are the same for them as they were for Saddam. Israel and the West must treat them gingerly, with respect.”

I knew he was speaking the truth. When a security service learns that there is a spy network at work in their territory, they have two choices: roll up the network by arresting everyone, or use it to feed lies to their enemies.

“Or,” he said, watching the expression on my face, “the reverse might be true. They could be a lot farther along the road to the bomb than Azari’s network says they are. The advantage to this ploy is that Iran’s enemies continue to dither, thinking they have time to work the problem, when in truth time is ru

The people who were going to help me do all this heavy spying, Grafton told me, were the survivors of an organization that had been decimated by Revolutionary Guard security. The members had been imprisoned, interrogated, tortured and executed by the dozens. The survivors, this little cabal of traitors, were the ears of Azari’s network.

I swallowed hard and said, “If the network is in the government’s pocket, after I make contact with Azari’s agent, Iranian security will know about me.”

“Yes,” he said, staring at me.

I stood like a statue marshaling my thoughts.

Grafton lifted his butt off the edge of the table and moved to his chart, which he examined with one hand in his pocket and the other on his chin.

“You know,” I said conversationally, “that a few years ago I was blackmailed into joining the Company. The guy who helped me steal the Peabody diamond spilled his guts. It was the CIA or prison. Right now I wish to hell I had given the government the finger and done my time in the joint.”

A shadow of a grin played across the admiral’s features. “The road not taken… Right this very minute you might have been picking up loose diamonds on the French Riviera.”

“Something like that,” I admitted.

“Azari’s network has been penetrated, Tommy. You can bet your life on it.”

“Sounds to me as if Azari is Ahmadinejad’s man in Washington.”

Grafton nodded.

“You want me to go to Iran anyway.”

“We have to know the truth about those weapons. And if they are making bombs, what are they going to do with them?”

There are moments when I would like to strangle him… slowly… and that was one of them. I flexed my fingers.

“To beat hell out of the obvious, if this goes bad I’m going to be in a real tight crack. Want me to just swim home, or am I supposed to chew a suicide pill?”

He examined my face carefully, then said, “Somebody has to do this, Tommy, and you’re the best I’ve got.”

I threw up my hands in frustration.

The admiral smiled, which irritated me more than a little.

I thought about things for a while. About religious fanatics who tortured and murdered their enemies. Some people think that death is the worst thing that can happen to them, but they are fools. There are many things worse. Much worse.

“If they catch me and toss me in some dungeon for Ahmadinejad or his disciples to carve on when they have a little time, I want you to get me out or kill me.”

“Tommy, I-”

I cut him off and steamrolled on. “I’m not talking to Jake Grafton, CIA spook dude. I don’t give a shit about the statutes or the rules and regulations of the fucking CIA. I’m talking to Jake Grafton, human being. I want your word on it. If you can’t get me out, kill me.”

Those gray eyes of his were locked onto mine. He nodded. “Okay,” he said softly. “You have my word.”

As I ran through Tehran this evening, I thought about all this-lies and bombs and life and death.

Professor Aurang Azari dropped by the Grafton condo in Rosslyn, across the Potomac from the university, around seven in the evening. Jake took him into the den and closed the door.

He poured each of them a glass of white French wine; then they sat on the couch.

“I haven’t had a chance to run your proposal by my network,” the professor said. “However, after serious reflection, I believe they will approve us cooperating with your government for the greater good of everyone.”

Jake Grafton nodded and tried the wine, which was delicious.

“We agreed, some years ago, that we would not assist any intelligence agency,” Azari continued, “but obviously, things have changed since then.”

Jake let him talk. Azari went through the members of his network one by one, naming them and the position each held in the Iranian government or with a contractor or subcontractor that was working on a nuclear project. Grafton made a few cryptic notes, but mainly he listened.

When Azari finally ran down, Grafton asked, “Do you trust these people?”

“Oh, yes. They do not believe in the regime or its goals. Of that I am absolutely certain.”

Grafton reached for the wine bottle and refilled Azari’s glass. “Tell me how your network works,” he said.

“None of them know the others are supplying information. They each send or deliver their information to Rostram, who sends it to me.”

“Rostram?”

“A code name. He is the only person in Iran who knows all the members of the net.”

“He sends you information via the encoded pictures?”

“Yes.”

“I have a man in Iran that I want you to put in contact with Rostram. Once he and Rostram are holding hands, we’ll go from there.”

They discussed the mechanics of setting up the meet. Once that was done, Azari had more questions. “Is the United States going to invade Iran?”

“Really, Professor!” Jake let his surprise show. “I am just an officer in a small government agency. Those decisions don’t get made in my office, nor are we informed ahead of time. We read the newspapers with everyone else.”

Azari studied his shoes. “I guess I really want to know if the United States is going to do anything at all to solve the problem of nuclear weapons in the hands of these madmen, or if you are just going to click your tongues softly and shake your heads sadly.”

“As I said-” Grafton began, stopping when Azari raised his hand. “I don’t want the members of my network to suffer for your foolishness,” Azari said. “They have suffered enough. More than enough. We have avoided giving direct aid to foreign intelligence services because most of them are incompetent. The CIA also has that reputation in Iran.”

Grafton scratched his forehead and didn’t reply.

“I tell you now, Admiral Grafton, if your man betrays Rostram, through incompetence or stupidity or for any other reason, he won’t be coming home again.”

“I’ll pass that happy thought on to him.”

“Inspire him,” Azari said.

“Yes,” said Jake Grafton thoughtfully. He emptied the rest of the wine into Azari’s glass.