115

THE PRESIDENTIAL PALACE, TEHRAN, IRAN—MAY 5

“Your Excellency, they are here.”

“Very well,” Yadollah Afshar told his aide, looking up from his briefing papers and removing his reading glasses. “Let them in.”

A moment later, the troika was back together—the president of the Islamic Republic, the commander of Revolutionary Guard Corps, and the director of the country’s ballistic missile program—huddled in Afshar’s private study with strict orders that they not be disturbed.

“I understand you have news, General,” the president began.

“I’m afraid I do, and none of it is good,” replied Mahmoud Entezam. “I just received a call from the Sheikh in Beirut. For starters, all the computers in their war room have been shut down by a computer virus.”

“The Zionists?”

“No.”

“The Americans?”

“No—al-Masri.”

“What?”

“The virus was embedded in the proof-of-life video al-Masri sent the Sheikh. For reasons that are beyond me, they didn’t run a virus check before they opened it. Now everything is fried. They’re working from a backup system, but it’s complicating everything. Furthermore, the war is turning very decidedly against them. The Sheikh admitted to me that his forces have sustained immense casualties, and—”

“How many?”

“Hezbollah has lost almost thirty-five hundred, to say nothing of their wounded.”

“Thirty-five hundred?” Afshar said in disbelief.

“I’m afraid so.”

“That’s, what? Seven or eight times what they lost in ’06?”

“Give or take, yes, Your Excellency,” Entezam replied.

“The numbers in the news reports have been much lower—barely over two hundred.”

“Well, sir, they’re telling the press that most of these are civilian casualties, but the bitter truth is the Zionists have had far better intelligence this time around, far more precise missiles, and are exacting a far higher price. Not only that, but the Zionists have intercepted roughly 75 percent of Hezbollah’s rockets, limiting their dead to 157 at the moment and their wounded to around 600 or so.”

Afshar was furious.

“How is this possible, Haydar? You assured us that Hezbollah’s rockets and missiles had our most advanced guidance systems.”

Dr. Haydar Abbasi looked pale. It was obvious he had no idea how to respond, but Entezam didn’t give him the chance.

“Your Excellency, this is not the worst part,” said the IRGC commander.

Afshar’s face was flushed as he turned back to Entezam. “No?”

“No.”

“What now?”

“Your Excellency, I must inform you that the main reason the Sheikh was calling was to tell us that . . .”

“That what?”

“It’s the prisoners, sir.”

“What about them?”

“They have escaped.”

“What? All of them? That’s impossible.”

“Actually, sir, rescued might be the better word for it,” Entezam clarified. “Yesterday morning, around eight o’clock local time, a team of special forces operators—all disguised as Hezbollah commandos from the Radwan Unit—conducted a raid on a cargo terminal at the Beirut airport. It is not clear at this time whether they were Americans or Zionists. Possibly both. Likely both. But anyway, what is clear is that they rescued all three hostages and took out the Hezbollah cell that had captured them.”

Now it was Afshar who looked pale. He sat there behind his desk for the longest time, unable to speak. Entezam could not help but note that the man was no longer dressed in a $3,000 suit from Savile Row, silk tie, French cuffs, and hand-tooled Italian shoes. Ever since his address to the nation on Saturday night, Afshar had begun wearing the black robes and turban of the clerics. He said it was to honor his mentor and spiritual father, the late Hossein Ansari. But Entezam knew better. The man was positioning himself to become the next Supreme Leader, and this was a none-too-subtle reminder to every member of the Assembly of Experts that, in fact, he was one of them.

With every passing day, it was becoming more unbearable for Entezam even to be in the presence of this man he so deeply despised. Yet this was not the time to make his move. The nation was in mourning. The assembly did not want a messy succession battle. If Afshar wanted the role, and there was no question that he did, then Entezam’s read was that the assembly was prepared to anoint him and to do it quickly. That was why Entezam knew he had to watch his step. He had to embrace Afshar, pledge his support, convince him of his loyalty. For now, anyway. Otherwise, Afshar would soon be in a position to remove Entezam from his post and banish him to the outer reaches of the Republic.

“Your Excellency, if I may,” he said, trying to reengage the increasingly despondent chief executive.

Afshar nodded his consent.

“Your Excellency, I believe the time has come to cut our losses,” Entezam explained. “Al-Hussaini was not your choice to lead Hezbollah. Nor was he mine. He was, as you well know, chosen by our dearly departed friend, peace be upon him. But he is clearly in over his head. He has made one decision after another that has put our entire strategic plan in jeopardy.”

“What are you saying, Mahmoud?” Afshar asked.

“I’m saying it’s time to tell the Sheikh enough is enough. End the war. Stop the missiles. Appeal to the U.N. to pressure the Zionists to pull back. Quiet things down. Let’s focus on making you our next Supreme Leader. And once that’s done—once you have what is rightfully yours—then we can make decisions about whether the Sheikh is fit to lead or whether it is time to install a man more worthy of the task and more loyal to you and the future of the revolution.”

Afshar nodded almost imperceptibly. But he said nothing. So Entezam continued, turning to his right, to the short, wiry, balding man in his late fifties with his thick wire-rimmed glasses and trim salt-and-pepper beard.

“The time has come for a clean slate and a fresh start, has it not, Dr. Abbasi?”

“Yes, of course—I could not agree more.”

“Those unable or unworthy must be rooted out, wherever they are—true?”

Abbasi, white as a ghost, nodded, and Entezam saw the man’s hands trembling. Without taking his eyes off the missile chief, Entezam pressed the offensive.

“Your Excellency, this man is a traitor. I have conclusive and overwhelming proof that he has been passing our most intimate secrets and plans to the head of Saudi intelligence. Video and audio recordings from cameras and microphones hidden in his apartment. Transcripts of the calls. Dates. Times. Like Amin al-Masri, this man has betrayed us to the worst of our enemies. I recommend we put him on trial and hang him immediately.”

Afshar’s emotions shifted yet again, from shock to rage. “Is this true, Haydar? Have you sold out the revolution, and to the House of Saud, of all infidels?”

“No . . . I . . . It’s not . . . But how . . . ?”

Afshar suddenly shot to his feet. Instinctively, Entezam did as well. Abbasi, however, could not move.

“In the name of Allah, I command you to tell me the truth,” the president demanded.

Abbasi tried but could say nothing, his face covered with perspiration.

“There will be no trial,” Afshar sneered. “The last thing we need, especially in the face of such incompetence by the Sheikh, is to give our enemies one more reason to gloat. You will burn for this, Haydar. You will burn today.”

The president nodded to the IRGC commander.

Entezam drew the nickel-plated pistol from his holster. He aimed into Abbasi’s terror-filled eyes. And then he squeezed the trigger.