33

IN THE WAR ROOM of the Revolutionary Guard four stories underground in Teheran, General Niroomad sees something he doesn’t like in the satellite image on the wall of tiled TV screens. “Closer on screen three, colonel.” He likes this less. “What are they thinking? Colonel, get me the Syrian fool.”

The adjutant transmits the order. “Syrian operations, sergeant.”

Almost instantly the small screen in front of General Niroomad opens on the Syrian war room, where Field Marshal Al-Asadi can be seen smoking a cigarette in a long holder.

“Greetings, my brother,” Al-Asadi says in English, smiling as he delivers a virtual slap in the face to Niroomad, whose Arabic is rudimentary despite three years of study. He is smiling.

“Blessings upon you, field marshal. I see all goes well.”

“The fruit of careful planning, my brother.”

“For which you and your magnificent staff are to be commended,” General Niroomad says. “Only one small thing.”

“Certainly, my brother.”

“Regarding your descent from Lebanon...”

“On schedule,” Al-Asadi says. “All proceeding as planned.”

“Yes,” General Niroomad says. “But I beg to bring to your attention a Jew tank brigade moving to intercept Revolutionary Guard armor moving south on the coastal road.”

Al-Asadi flicks the ash off his cigarette in the holder. “This is not possible. Syrian Air Command has neutralized all Israeli armor across the north.”

“Field marshal, I regret to inform your excellency that in this matter your intelligence is faulty.”

A long silence ensues. “Do you offer criticism, my brother?”

“I offer advice. This is the same armored brigade that stopped your tanks in previous wars. And for the same reason: insufficient field intelligence which did not call in air support.”

“Traitors were responsible,” Al-Asadi says with studied coolness. “As you may know, we in Syria have a Shia problem. As a Shia, you yourself know they cannot be trusted.”

“Sunni dog, if you cannot fight a war, at least fight your tongue.”

“Dog? Your mother’s cunt, Persian.”

The screen goes black.

General Niroomad purses his lips. He knows the answer, but asks anyway. General Niroomad assumes nothing: it is his trademark. “Colonel, is there no line of communication with our unit heading south from Lebanon?”

“Only through Damascus, sir.”

“Thank you, colonel.”

“Sir, given twenty minutes perhaps I can revive communication via—”

“Optimistic, colonel, but not realistic. Here then are my orders. Should we receive a Syrian request for support in any action from this moment on, be sure to answer in the affirmative.”

“Certainly, my general.”

“Send nothing.”

“No support, my general?”

“The Sunni dogs are sacrificing our 32nd Tank Division. Do you know who commands that division, colonel?”

“I do, my general.”

“When we finish with the Jews, we will deal with the Sunni,” General Niroomad says, his voice dry, his gaze on the wall of screens. “My son will be avenged.”