The Disciple

Why have the weapons if the leaders weren’t going to a

Nuclear weapons were worthless unless your enemies knew you had them. Even Israel, which pretended it lacked such weapons, made sure the Arab states were well aware that they lived in a nuclear shadow.

Now Israel lived there, too, as did the American armed forces scattered around the Persian Gulf. And at sea.

The officials on the platform were huddled around Ahmadinejad, who was telling them something. He spoke so low that Ghasem could not hear his words, nor any of the other observers and soldiers near him.

“This afternoon before we began this inspection trip, I spoke to the Supreme Leader,” Mahmoud Ahmadinejad said. “The decision has been made. Iran will become a martyr nation. We will strike a blow for Allah that will resound throughout the world, a blow that will win glory for the Iranian nation and a place in Paradise for every Iranian.

“We have it in our power! Here are the missiles that we will use to destroy Israel and the concentrations of American forces that surround us. When the believers see our power, they will rally around us, unite and destroy the infidel dogs wherever they can be found.”

His listeners stood with mouths agape. They had been expecting some serious saber rattling, but not this! Not a nuclear strike against the Great Satan or its ally, Israel. To shake one’s fist at a lion is a political statement, but to stick one’s head in its mouth goes beyond politics.

In the silence that followed Ahmadinejad’s statement, a lone voice said, “If we initiate a nuclear war, the Americans and Israelis will kill us all. They will launch a hundred missiles at us for every one we shoot. Iran will cease to exist. The Islamic Republic will have committed suicide.”

Habib Sultani looked to see who had spoken. It was one of the two missile technicians, one wearing a white coat.

He looked Ahmadinejad right in the face and continued, “Jihad is for those who wish to be martyrs. Most Iranians have no wish to die like that. I-”

He got no further. Ahmadinejad cut him off with a roar. “No more! The decision has been made. You will serve your nation and Allah or we will execute you as a traitor! Do you hear me? You and your family will be shot. Which will it be? A traitor’s hell or a martyr’s Paradise?”

General Hosseini-Tash said nothing on the trip back to Tehran, nor did Habib Sultani. The strained silence was almost more than Ghasem could bear, but he kept his mouth shut, as did the math nerd. Ghasem figured he would hear whatever it was that his uncle thought when his uncle felt the time was right.

General Hosseini-Tash and his aide got out of the car at the WMD ministry, and the driver took Sultani to his. The driver stopped in the underground parking area that was used by the most senior officials. Sultani got out, followed by Ghasem. As the car pulled away, Ghasem spoke, only to be motioned into silence by his uncle.

“Later,” he said. He went to his car and motioned for Ghasem to climb in, and together they rode up the ramp and out into the streets of Tehran, now emptying for the night.

Sultani drove to a park, locked the car and walked away across the grass with Ghasem following.

“They listen to everything,” Sultani explained. “The office, the car, the house-there is almost no place that witch Hazra al-Rashid isn’t listening. No place.” Then he told Ghasem of Ahmadinejad’s statement.

Ghasem stood transfixed, unable to speak as the horror washed over him. Israel and America would transform Iran into a radioactive wasteland. This city, this nation, these people-all would cease to exist. Everyone not killed by the initial blasts, or the fires, would succumb to radiation poisoning. Everyone would die. Everyone. So the Supreme Leader and Mahmoud Ahmadinejad and a few chosen mullahs could earn a gold-plated ticket to Paradise.

When he again became aware of his surroundings, Ghasem saw that his uncle Habib was sitting in the dirt with his head in his hands.

Once a year the university faculty got together at a formal di

“You could get a hearing aid,” Callie whispered, eyeing him askance.

“I can hear you just fine.”

“You can not. You are merely getting better at reading lips.”

Before Jake could reply to that, Callie spotted her department head and led him in that direction.

After the cocktail hour, everyone went into the dining room-this affair was being held at a hotel-and looked for their names on the round tables, each of which seated ten people.

After the greetings by the president of the university and the dean of the faculty, waiters brought around salads. The waiter who placed a salad in front of Jake muttered, “Admiral Grafton?”

“Yes.” Jake glanced up. A young man in his twenties, clean-shaven and trim.

“This is for you,” the waiter said and passed him a letter-sized envelope. “I’m to tell you that it’s from a Mr. Ilin.”

Jake reached for the waiter’s arm, detaining him. “Who gave you this?”

“A man this afternoon. I didn’t know him. He paid me twenty bucks to deliver this envelope to you. I didn’t think you’d mind.”

Jake nodded and let the waiter go. He looked at both sides of the envelope: His name was typed on one side; the other side was blank. Made of cheap paper, the envelope was thin, containing no more than one or two sheets of paper, and sealed. He examined the seal. Apparently intact.

Jake stuck the envelope in an inside coat pocket and took a long hard look at the people around his table. All were colleagues of Callie in the language department, or their spouses. No one seemed very interested in him.

When he could stand it no longer, Jake excused himself and went to the men’s room. In a stall he opened the envelope. It contained one sheet of paper, which seemed to be a copy of an original. On the top was something in Arabic script. Then twelve pairs of numbers. Obviously latitude and longitude coordinates.

He recognized none of the positions. He put the sheet of paper back in the envelope and replaced the envelope in his coat.

Jake and Callie got home to their flat in Rosslyn about ten thirty. He went straight to the office and pulled out an atlas. He was plotting coordinates when Callie came in.

She watched him for a moment and said, “Was that what was in the envelope?”

“Yes. The waiter said a Mr. Ilin wanted me to have it.”

Callie had met Janos Ilin, a Russian high in the SVR, holding a rank equivalent to lieutenant general. He wasn’t the type of man one forgets. “Surely he didn’t give it to the waiter?” she said distractedly.

“Oh, no. Someone who works for him delivered it and used his name.”

“What is it?”

He handed it to her. Although she was a linguist, she couldn’t read the script at the top.

“At first glance,” he said, “I thought it might be the locations of Iran’s nuclear-armed missiles, but it couldn’t be. Two of the locations are Tel Aviv; the others are locations of American military bases in Iraq, Qatar and Kuwait. One of the locations is Baghdad International. Then there is this one.”

He pointed at the map.

She compared the location of his finger with the numbers on the sheet. “There’s some kind of mistake,” she said finally. “This couldn’t be a target list. That location is right in the heart of Tehran.”