The Disciple

Ilin glanced back at the escort. This must be the minister’s nephew Ghasem.

General Sultani shook hands perfunctorily, motioned toward a chair and pushed an ashtray across his desk. “You may smoke, if you wish,” he said, then seated himself behind his desk.

Ilin settled into the indicated chair, crossed his legs and took out his silver cigarette case from an inside coat pocket. He selected a cancer stick and snapped the case shut. “Being a good Muslim, of course you don’t smoke,” he said as he stored the case back in his pocket.

“No,” Sultani muttered.

“Too bad,” said Ilin, then lit his weed. When it was giving off smoke, he added, “Every man should have at least one antisocial habit.”

“This attack on the Syrian reactor… The Syrians tell us that the S-300 anti aircraft defense system did not function. Not a missile was launched at the attacking planes; not a single shot was fired.”

Ilin nodded his head once, a silent yes.

“You sold us the same systems.”

Ilin’s nod was barely discernible. He puffed at his cigarette.

“General Ilin… May I call you that?” Habib Sultani paused, then rolled on. “General Ilin, we have the great misfortune, like the Syrians, of dealing with you incompetent, perfidious Russians. The Americans are on three sides of Iran-in Afghanistan, Iraq and the Persian Gulf. Even as we speak warplanes may be on their way to attack us.”

Ilin examined the glowing tip of his cigarette. “You people are producing highly enriched uranium, and you promised you wouldn’t.”

“Iran must have a stable, modern source of electrical power.”

“Don’t give me that! We both know the mullahs want nuclear weapons and they’ve squandered billions on the facilities to make them.”

Sultani’s voice rose to a roar, and he came out of his chair. “Lies, all lies! You justify an attack on the nation of God with lies! We will not listen. Russia took our money, made promises, and we are left with useless hardware, defenseless against powerful enemies. You tell your Premier Putin that he ca

Sultani sat and mopped his face with one hand.

In the smoky silence that followed, Ilin said, “Obviously, the Israelis were using secret American electronic countermeasures technology to shield their planes from detection.”

“Americans invent, i

“General Sultani, if your reactors are used for peaceful power generation and you don’t enrich the spent fuel for fissile material,” Ilin said coolly, “as you promised us and the international community, you probably have nothing to worry about from the Americans and Israelis.”

“Don’t lecture me or try to dictate foreign policy to the Iranian government,” Sultani snarled. “We are surrounded on three sides by enemies of God. Keep your promises. Give us an antiaircraft defense system that works as you said it would.”

Janos Ilin was still as cool as he was when he walked into Sultani’s office. “The latest American CIA assessment, which they made public, said Iran does not have a nuclear weapons program. Is that true or false?”

Sultani’s eyes narrowed to slits.

Ilin stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray and rose to go.

Habib Sultani stared at Ilin’s back as he walked out, followed by the escort, Ghasem.

CHAPTER THREE

There were two of them standing on the sidewalk ahead, two young men, watching me as I approached. We were in a working-class neighborhood-read slum-in Tehran, Iran. They stood there watching me, then glanced at each other.

I was out for my morning run, wearing shorts and a sweatshirt, and I stuck out like a sore thumb-clean-shaven, barbered, fair skin. Obviously I was a foreigner, European or American, and consequently rich. No doubt they thought I had something worth stealing. I did-my wallet, diplomatic passport, and cell phone.

I kept my eyes on them as I trotted toward them. I sized them up as working-class guys, rough clothes, unshaven, who thought they were tough. Well, all three of us would soon find out.

I glanced over my shoulder to see who was watching or following, just in case this might be a setup. No cars following, none parked nearby, no cops, three or four men in sight, all busy doing something else.

The distance closed rapidly; then I was there and they came at me, one from each side. I veered toward the one on the left, set my feet just so and kicked him in the crotch. Caught him solidly. He hadn’t expected that move and doubled over.

I spun around and went at the other one, who had started to come at me. Only then did I see the little knife he had in his right hand. My charge was unexpected. I grabbed his right wrist with both hands, half turned and threw a hip into him. Using his momentum, I pulled him into me and threw him, still holding on to that right wrist with both hands. The bones in his arm snapped with an audible crack. As he hit the sidewalk and the knife skittered away, I released his wrist. His lower arm was twisted and turned about sixty degrees from its proper angle.

I was tempted to tell him, “Bad break,” but stifled myself.

It was all over in less than eight seconds and I was trotting on. I glanced back. Both of them were writhing on the sidewalk, with a couple of bystanders staring at me.

Ru

Like most cities in the third world, Tehran had grown exponentially as the population exploded in the aftermath of World War II. The dearth of contraceptives meant large families, the medicine men used just enough modern medicine to keep more of the kids alive, and rural peasants moved to town looking for a job. Today Tehran and its sprawling suburbs contained somewhere between fifteen and twenty million people, about one-fifth of the Irani an population. The population explosion meant the Iranian economy needed to create eight hundred thousand new jobs a year, and that wasn’t happening.

The streets, avenues and boulevards, all built for one-fifth the amount of traffic they were carrying, were clogged. Gridlock was the proper description of morning and evening rush hour. Road rage was endemic. Many of the drivers and motorcyclists regarded a pedestrian, especially one moving quickly, as a sporting challenge. Crossing the street became an exercise in terror.

There was heavy air pollution, too, so bad it made Los Angeles’ smog seem like an unattainable dream. It seared the lungs, burned the eyes and limited visibility on windless days to no more than two miles.

Today, as usual, I managed to get back to the hotel in one piece, with more close calls in my logbook.

After a shower, I dressed and walked the three blocks to the Swiss embassy a