Tehran
Habib Nassour sighed as he signed another order and gave it to a clerk. He rubbed his chin and glowered at the stack of files on his desk.
He was in his previous boss’s office. An eventful week had passed since Mostofi’s disappearance.
He had been promoted to lead the Quds Force. The Supreme Leader had bestowed on him the rank of Brigadier General, bypassing all the intermediate ones, just because he could, and had anointed the former aide to lead the most powerful organization in the country.
Nassour’s elation was mixed with dread as news started leaking about the conspiracy and the audacious attack.
The Americans exposed Iran’s duplicity with their oil pumping capabilities and plan. Saudi Arabia summoned an emergency meeting of OPEC, whose members voted unanimously to kick the country out of that body.
Iran was out of OPEC. That was such a seismic move that the country’s leadership still hadn’t grasped its implications.
The Americans didn’t stop there. They revealed everything about the virus. Professor Nazer, the lab in MUT, his research paper that they had miraculously acquired.
In the world uproar that followed, the United Nations scheduled an emergency General Meeting the following month. Nassour dreaded its outcome. Nothing good for our country.
Iran’s President had denounced every accusation even though the evidence was irrefutable. He called it a conspiracy orchestrated by the Americans and Israelis.
Iran’s stature in the world was non-existent. Even China, which was its biggest oil customer, had made noises of ending ties with the country.
Everything had turned out just the opposite of what Mostofi wanted.
There was no sign of the former Quds leader. The Americans had paraded him just once and he had then disappeared. Nassour knew they would charge him. War Trial of the Century, was how The Washington Post had dubbed it.
He reached for an envelope addressed to him. He slit it open with a paper knife and shoved his chair back in horror as its contents slid out.
A finger. A photograph. And a note.
He stared at the human digit for a long time. It belonged to a dead person for sure. He reached for the photograph with shaking hands and went cold. Golzar’s blank eyes stared at him accusingly. The killer was dead, sprawled on an unidentifiable street. Nassour reached for the note and dropped it immediately as if it burned.
He gasped for breath as he read the words aloud.
We are watching.
It was unsigned, but who had sent it was unmistakable. He instantly identified the stamped seal beneath the brief line.
There was only one intelligence agency in the world that had a menorah in its insignia.
Mossad.
He looked up when footsteps pounded and his door crashed open. Vahdat, Tehari and Miri, now his aides, burst inside.
‘You have to see this,’ Tehari grabbed the TV’s remote and flicked to a news channel.
Nassour joined them and watched dumbfounded as a news conference in Washington DC began.
Center-stage was their former boss.
Siavash Mostofi was smartly dressed in a suit, but he was clearly a prisoner. Armed guards, FBI agents and soldiers were visibly present.
He addressed the journalists in fluent English.
‘I am here to correct what Iran’s President said.’
A murmur swept through the room.
‘What Iran is accused of by the world, oil dumping and a pandemic attack, is not a conspiracy theory. It was a well-planned operation.’
The murmur became louder.
Mostofi paused to let the journalists quieten.
‘I know, because I was responsible for executing it.’
Shouts burst in the room.
The former Quds leader stayed calm. He seemed to be enjoying himself.
‘I came here to set that record straight. I am also here to expose who came up with the plan in the first place.’
He waited a beat for dramatic effect and then stared straight into the camera.
‘It was the Supreme Leader’s idea.’
President Morgan turned off the TV when the press conference had exploded with journalists leaping to their feet to shout questions.
‘I am surprised Mostofi agreed.’
Clare, the Agency operatives and him, in the Oval Office. An intimate meeting to congratulate them on a well-executed mission.
‘What did he have to lose, sir?’ Clare replied. ‘As Zeb said, he is going down. By doing this,’ she jerked a shoulder at the TV, ‘he’s made his imprisonment marginally better.’
‘It was a master stroke. It will diminish their leader’s standing. The people on the street, they won’t stand for virus attacks and now that they think he was behind it … brilliant.’ His trademark thousand-watt smile flashed.
‘What’s next for you?’
Meghan answered before Zeb could.
‘Sir, there were three foreign agencies behind that New York attack.’
‘I know.’
‘One down, two still standing, sir.’
‘Who are you going after?’
When Bwana spoke, it was like the call of a leopard on the hunt.
‘Jian Hsu, sir. The head of China’s MSS.’