The Disciple

Mahmoud Ahmadinejad was standing in front of his desk, and he wasn’t standing still. He moved nervously from foot to foot; his face was sweaty, his movements jerky. Even his hands were in constant motion as we filed in. The guy looked like he’d had a handful of uppers for breakfast.

Ol’ Mahmoud skipped the social pleasantries and got right down to it. He waved the letter and said loudly, “This is an ultimatum, a threat. If I had known that the Great Satan-the embodiment of evil and cruelty against mankind-was going to threaten me in my own office, I would have refused to see you.”

The translator did this in English for us as Ahmadinejad wiped a hand across his face and shifted his weight from foot to foot.

“Our nuclear program is designed for peaceful purposes, yet the Islamic Republic of Iran is surrounded by enemies. Never in history has a nation had a more righteous reason to gird itself for an onslaught by the forces of Satan.”

He was spouting Farsi, and I was getting most of this, and the translator rendered a faithful translation in English, which allowed me to get the gist in shorthand. Sometimes translators try to tone down more strident politicians. This one knew better. We were going to have to take it neat.

Ahmadinejad took off next on the Jews, on Zionism, on the malignancy of Israel and its supporters around the globe. The stuff was downright vituperative, and he ended with this: “The Zionists control the banks in Europe, the parliaments, the allocation of capital-and they control the American government, which treats us with contempt.” He waved the letter at his audience and at Schulz. So far he had ignored Ortiz, but that changed almost immediately.

“Your president treats us with contempt, as if we were foolish children. We are not children. We know an insult when it is thrown in our faces. You insult us when you send a woman as your representative, a woman who refuses to wear a chador, a woman who parades in Western dress that is an insult to every Muslim.”

A murmur went through his audience. I didn’t bother glancing at them. I scribbled on.

“You insult us with your threats. Now I say to you, tell your president that his threats didn’t work. If we are attacked by the Zionists, we will destroy them. We will bury Israel. We will defend ourselves before Allah and man against the attacks of Satan, and no power on earth can prevent it.”

There was more, but I’ll spare you. Still, I was a little surprised when he got to his peroration. “America is a living fossil, a godless imperialist that interferes with our commerce and prevents us from selling our goods internationally. America’s day is done. Over. Finished. America will soon be groveling in the dirt and begging for mercy from the true believers, who will show no mercy.”

A rumble of approval came from those behind us and to either side who were listening to this rant, and it grew in volume and intensity as he continued. “Death to the spies and provocateurs and saboteurs. Death to all those who sneak across our borders in the dark of night and murder Iranians. Death to all those who oppose the will of Allah. Death to their friends, death to all infidels. Death to America!”

As the audience cheered, Ahmadinejad threw the president’s letter on the floor and stepped on it.

“Be gone,” he said over the noise to Schulz, “and take this shameless woman with you.” He made a shooing motion with his hand.

We went.

We were in the car, creeping through traffic, when Eliza Ortiz swabbed her forehead with a hankie. “When you get back to Washington,” she said to Schulz, “talk to the people at State. I want another assignment, and sooner rather than later.”

“I talked to them before I left,” Schulz shot back. “The reason you are here is because you are the best they have.”

So I wasn’t the only person that heard that lie. I kept that comment to myself, though.

Schulz had more to say. “We can’t let the prejudices of third-world dictators decide the careers of our diplomats. Can’t and won’t.”

“Ahmadinejad is just… impossible,” Ortiz said. “All of them are. They are chauvinists, xenophobes, homophobes… ignorant, self-righteous, ranting prigs, and…” She ran out of words there.

“Assholes,” I put in.

Startled, Ortiz and Schulz looked at me as if I had just cut a stinky wet one.

I smiled broadly.

“Yes,” Ortiz said, nodding her concurrence. “That is the perfect word to describe them.” She turned back to Schulz. “I have had enough. The whole crowd is going straight to hell, and, personally, I think that is precisely where they ought to be. I want another assignment.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Schulz assured her.

“I’d like another assignment, too,” I said brightly. “Assistant visa officer at our embassy in Paris would be just perfect. I’ve been here for six weeks saying no, and I’m getting pretty good at it. As it happens, I know a couple of women in France, and-”

I shut up because Schulz and Ortiz were both staring at me as if I had three eyes. It’s such a bother when the help don’t know their place.

CHAPTER TEN

We followed Davar to a drop,” G. W. Hosein told me when I stopped by his cart to buy a pear. “It was sheer dumb luck. Joe saw her reach into an upright pipe, part of an old fence. She took out a piece of trash, reached in again and got something, then stuffed the trash back in and walked on. Couldn’t have taken more than ten seconds. By some miracle Joe was in the right place at the right time.”

“Where is this drop?” I asked as I squeezed pears, looking for one that was ripe, but not too.

He told me the location. “It’s a nice drop,” G. W. admitted. “It’s on the edge of a little park, really just bare dirt, and hard to observe due to the way the buildings and trees are situated around it.”

“You and Joe use your people to set up around-the-clock surveillance. I want a photo of the person who services it.”

Another customer came to the cart, so G. W. nodded at me and I left, without a pear. Better luck next time.

The sun had been up only an hour, yet desert heat had already begun to build. The sky was cloudless, and there was little wind, less than predicted. When one schedules an event weeks in advance, one never knows about the weather.

Perhaps Allah has taken a hand, Habib Sultani thought.

Sultani and his nephew Ghasem stood on a small rise a quarter mile away from a launcher that contained the largest missile to be fired today, a Shahab-3. The launcher had raised the missile into a vertical position. Since the sun was at their backs and reflecting off the stark, white-painted surface, it looked, Ghasem thought, somewhat like the finger of God.

Missiles were normally painted in a neutral, two-tone camouflage scheme to make them more difficult to see as they rode around on their launchers, but this one was painted white so that cameras could more easily follow its flight. Staring at the thing, Sultani thought it looked proud against the browns and yellows of the desert.

Sultani focused the large binoculars on the stand as he listened to the countdown on the radio that sat on the small table behind him. Then he turned and surveyed the crowd, noting who was there. Various technicians ma

Brigadier General Dr. Seyyed Ali Hosseini-Tash, in charge of the WMD program, stood, arms crossed, talking to no one.