As soon as the rotors slowed, Taleh was out, favoring his leg but moving as quickly as he could. The Defense Council meeting was still four days off, but there were preparations to make.
Somewhere in the air over Tehran, he’d made his decision. This waste and destruction must never be allowed to happen again.
FEBRUARY
10
Tehran.
General Mansur Rafizaden sat in the back of his speeding black Mercedes sedan, angrily contemplating the upcoming meeting. By rights the Supreme Defense Council should have been gathering at his headquarters, not at those of the Army. He scowled. That cunning fox Amir Taleh was growing bolder in his efforts to steal power away from the Islamic Republic’s true and tested guardians.
For more than a decade, Rafizaden had led the Basij, the People’s Militia. He and his officers had mobilized tens of thousands of teenagers into hastily trained battalions for service in the war with Iraq. Many had died in that service, but since their deaths assured them all a place in Paradise, he was sure they had gone gladly.
Now he found himself suddenly thrust into command of the whole Pasdaran, a promotion earned when American warheads decimated the upper ranks of the Revolutionary Guards. Though new to his post, he took his responsibilities most seriously and he had no intention of surrendering his organization’s hard-won powers to Taleh or any other tainted soldier.
Rafizaden began considering plans to humble his rivals. A guardian of the Revolution had to be energetic. He couldn’t wait for threats to appear. He had to find those who were dangerous and crush them long before they could become a threat. Well, Taleh and his fellows were clearly dangerous.
While he sat deep in thought, his black Mercedes sedan raced through northern Tehran, escorted by two jeeps one leading, the other trailing. Each jeep was filled with teenage Basijsoldiers carrying a collection of assault rifles and submachine guns. During the more violent days of the Revolution, and during the war with Iraq, such escorts had been a necessity. Now they were viewed as almost a formality, and positions in the jeeps were given out as honors to favored soldiers.
The ambush took them all by surprise.
Just as the Pasdaran convoy passed one intersection, an Army truck suddenly roared out onto the street behind them. Before the men in the rear jeep could react, the truck braked hard and turned sideways, blocking the street to any other traffic.. At the same instant a panel van pulled out across the convoy’s path. The van’s driver scrambled out of his vehicle on the passenger side, diving out of sight.
Even as the surprised Basij troopers readied their weapons, rifle and machine-gun fire rained down on the two jeeps from several second-story windows. Hundreds of rounds ricocheted off pavement and metal and tore the guards to pieces in seconds.
Both escort jeeps, their drivers killed by the fusillade, spun out of control and crashed into the buildings lining the street. The Mercedes, armored against small-arms fire, tried to steer around the abandoned panel van, bouncing up and over the curb in a desperate bid to escape the trap.
An antitank rocket slammed into the sedan’s windshield and exploded, spewing white-hot glass and metal fragments across the driver and a bodyguard in the front seat. Rafizaden and an aide in the back ducked down and were spared the worst of the blast. The move bought them only moments of life.
A second rocket ripped the Mercedes’ roof open, showering both the Pasdaran commander and the younger officer with lethal splinters. Then the first
RPG
gunner, hurriedly reloading, fired again. This third warhead streaked downward and exploded deep inside the vehicle, turning it into a shapeless pyre.
Defense Ministry, Tehran General Amir Taleh supervised the last-minute arrangements for the Supreme Defense Council meeting personally.
It was a sign of the mullahs’ confusion that they were unable to prevent him from hosting the gathering here on his own ground. Like the armed forces, their ranks had been thinned by the American missile strikes. Many of the ruling faction’s top men were dead buried beneath the rubble of the Parliament building and other official ministries. Power had been lost and gained, and political alignments were in flux.
Taleh stood near the door to the conference room, watching his nervous aides hurriedly arranging the maps and other briefing materials he’d ordered prepared. This was to be a critical meeting, one that would change the course of the Islamic Revolution, possibly even deciding its ultimate success or failure, and along with it the survival of Iran as a state. It was clear that changes were needed. Taleh understood that, even if the faqih did not.
Captain Kazemi appeared at the door to the meeting room, quietly waiting to be noticed. Taleh nodded to him, and the young officer strode over to the general, doing his best to look calm.
“Sir, we’ve just heard from the police. There’s been an attack on General Rafizaden’s car. He’s dead.”
Taleh’s eyes narrowed. “Go on.”
The staff clustered around Kazemi as he recounted the first reports flowing in: The convoy ferrying the new head of the Revolutionary Guards to the conference had been smashed in a swift, violent street ambush wiped out by some auto-weapons fire and rocket-propelled grenades. The only clues to the crime were some pamphlets scattered over the scene. Written in Kirmanji, they demanded independence for Kurdistan.
Taleh sighed audibly, and inside, the knot of tension almost disappeared. “Very well, Captain. We’ll move the meeting back an hour. The Pasdaran will need some time to appoint new representatives.” Kazemi asked, “Should we cancel the session altogether?”
Taleh shook his head. “No, Farhad, everyone else is already enroute. Unless the Imam directs otherwise, we will meet.”
He glared at the rest of his staff. “There’s nothing we can do about Rafizaden. Everyone, back to your tasks.”
The cluster of officers and civilians dissolved. Taleh turned back to his aide. “Do the police have any clues to the assassins’ identity?”
Kazemi shook his head. “Nothing much. Nothing more than a description of wellarmed men in civilian clothes. The entire attack was over in just a minute or two. They promised to send anything else they find to our intelligence office.”
Taleh allowed himself a small smile. “Good. Carry on, Farhad. You know your orders.”
The captain nodded crisply and hurried away.
The general also nodded, but inside, to himself. Over the next few weeks Kazemi would make sure that the Special Forces troops involved were transferred to other units in other provinces. As highly experienced soldiers they would be welcomed by their new commanders. At the same time, Taleh’s net of die-hard loyalists in the Army would grow.
That was a sideshow, though. The most important thing was that Rafizaden was dead, and the Pasdaran would be confused and leaderless.
Taleh looked at his watch. In a little more than two hours, the President, Prime Minister, the remnants of the Defense Ministry bureaucracy, the armed forces, and the Pasdaran would meet to decide on a response to this latest American attack. He now anticipated little serious resistance to his proposals. Though they were both mullahs, the President and the Prime Minister were also canny politicians, adept at setting their sails to ride out every shift in the Republic’s stormy factional politics. Neither man would choose to confront the man who led their nation’s armed forces not without assured backing from the Revolutionary Guards.
No, with the Pasdaran crippled, Amir Taleh would dictate Iran’s future course.
MARCH
4
Defense Ministry.
Perched on a small settee outside Taleh’s private office, Hamid Pakpour waited in mounting dread. He mopped the sweat off his brow, cheeks, and neck with a large handkerchief, acutely aware that his nerves were stretched to the breaking point. Why had he been summoned here? What could the head of Iran’s military possibly want with him?
Certainly, he was a prominent merchant and one of the richest men in all Iran. But he had always been very careful to stay out of politics. Just as he had always taken pains to make public his intense devotion to Islam and to the Revolution. Many in the government had received tangible proofs of his devotion discreet gifts of land or marketable securities.
Could that be the reason? Pakpour wondered uneasily. Did the general want his own “assurances” of the merchant’s loyalty? He prayed fervently to God that was so. Anything else would be disastrous.
Only the blind and the deaf could not know that Taleh had emerged from the chaos of the past month as He power behind the President and the Parliament. Security duties once the exclusive province of the Revolutionary Guards were increasingly performed by Regular Army units. The Pasdaran was little more than a pale shadow of its former self. Its best men were being transferred to the Army. Many of the rest were simply being pensioned off. A few, the most radical, were said to be under lock and key detained for certain unspecified of fences the state.
“General Taleh will see you now. Come with me.”
Pakpour looked up to find an Army officer standing beside him. Sweating again, he rose hurriedly and followed the taller man into the next room.
Even for temporary quarters, Taleh’s office seemed spartan. Beyond a single desk and two chairs, there were no furnishings. Maps of Iran and its neighbors covered the walls. The general’s desk held nothing more than a phone, a blotter, and a personal computer.
Taleh himself looked up from reading a dossier and nodded towards the chair in front of his desk. “Sit down, Mr. Pakpour.”
The merchant obeyed, conscious of the taller Army officer still standing almost directly behind him.
“Your family? They are well?”
Pakpour moistened his lips, somewhat reassured by the other man’s manner. No Iranian moved too quickly or too directly to the business at hand, preferring to open any discussion with small talk about small matters. Whatever Taleh wanted, he was evidently willing to observe the usual social niceties. “My wife and children are all in good health, General. They long for the spring, of course.”
“Naturally. This winter has been bitter for us all.”
Pakpour found himself relaxing minutely as the conversation drifted lazily through the prospects for warmer weather ahead.
When it came, the change in Taleh’s manner was swift, sudden, and horribly direct. He leaned forward, all pretence gone from his voice and manner. “You have close ties to the West, Mr. Pakpour.” He tapped the dossier in front of him.
“Ties which many of our fellow countrymen would consider treasonous.”
Pakpour paled. They knew. Despite all his precautions, despite all his clever bookkeeping, they knew. With inflation running at more than fifty percent a year, the sums offered him by America’s
CIA
for snippets of political and economic information had been too tempting to refuse. Gold held its value at a time when the rials circulated by the Republic were scarcely worth the paper they were printed on. He tried to croak out a denial.
Taleh cut him off with a single icy glance. “In fact, I fear that many would consider your connections to a foreign spy agency worthy of a death sentence.” He paused for a long moment before continuing. “I do not.”
The merchant sat dry-mouthed, stunned.
Taleh smiled thinly. “I have messages I want you to carry to the West, Mr. Pakpour. Messages I cannot and will not entrust to regular channels.” His smile disappeared, replaced by a frown. “The HizbAllah’s foolish war of terror against America has gone too far and cost us too much. I wish to end it. We have been isolated from the world for far too long.”
He closed the dossier on his desk with an air of finality and pushed it aside. “Will you act as my go-between in this matter?”
Pakpour, still trembling, was scarcely able to believe his ears or his good fortune. “Of course, General. I am your servant your humble servant.”
“Good.” Taleh seemed satisfied. He nodded to the tall, silent Army officer standing behind Pakpour. “Captain Kazemi will show you out. We will speak more of this later.”
When the door closed, Taleh rose from his desk. He stood for long minutes at the window, contemplating the city spread out before him. New-fallen snow carpeted the streets and rooftops and turned the rugged mountains lining the northern horizon white.
His eyes closed in concentration. He disliked having to rely on a fat, greedy fool like Hamid Pakpour, but he would not spurn the gifts laid before him by God. It was time to set his long-dreamed plans into motion. For years the radicals of the HizbAllah and other terrorist groups had been a constant drain on Iran and its armed forces, sucking up money, arms, and other resources for no worthwhile end. Well, he thought grimly, no longer.
MAY
2
Over Iran.
SwissAir Flight 640 rolled ponderously into its final approach to Tehran’s Mehrabad International Airport. The huge DC-10 shuddered as it lost altitude, buffeted by columns of hot air rising off the sunbaked sand and silt below. Outside the jetliner, the clear blue sky faded abruptly into an ugly brown murk. Sited nearly a mile above sea level, Iran’s sprawling capital city lay buried under a perpetual sea of smog.
Lieutenant Colonel Peter Thorn caught the first acrid, oily whiff of the polluted outside air slipping through the aircraft cabin’s filters. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. He frowned slightly, irritated at himself. The smell was unpleasant, but he knew his reaction was evidence of growing tension, not of a refined sensibility. The closer he got to Iran, the more the animal instincts buried below layers of intellect and training came to the fore, silently screaming out a warning to fight or flee.
Thorn shrugged inwardly, forcing himself to relax. In this case, his instincts could be right on target. Few Westerners would view a stay in the Islamic Republic calmly no matter what combination of profit or curiosity drove them. The Revolutionary government was still too unpredictable and too arbitrary in its enforcement of the harsh Islamic code. The slightest slip in speech or action could land even an ordinary tourist in hot water. Three months after U.S. cruise missiles blew the hell out of Tehran and other Iranian targets, the stakes were far higher for an American soldier especially for a high-ranking officer in the Army’s counterterrorist Delta Force. Even for one carrying a safe-conduct pass personally signed by General Amir Taleh, the head of Iran’s regular armed forces.