45

THE PRESIDENTIAL PALACE, TEHRAN, IRAN

It was now 6:36 p.m. in the Iranian capital.

Yadollah Afshar was set to address the nation in less than an hour.

Though his speech was substantially complete, the president of the Islamic Republic had retreated to his private study to polish the text. He had instructed his aides to hold all calls and refuse all visitors until the broadcast was over. He was both startled and somewhat annoyed, therefore, when his private mobile phone buzzed. Glancing at the number, however, he took the call.

“General, now is not a good time,” he said without pleasantries.

“I apologize, Your Excellency, but there is one thing I need to tell you,” said Mahmoud Entezam, pressing on though he had not been invited to do so. “You and I both know that the last thing this country needs is a lengthy and drawn-out succession process. Worse still would be a messy succession battle. The Supreme Leader, peace be upon him, was beloved and irreplaceable. He was a transformative leader who will be cherished for generations. And while the Assembly of Experts has a number of competent clerics from which to choose, we both know none of them are up to the challenges that lie before us.”

“What exactly are you saying, General?” Afshar asked, careful to convey with his tone that he was pressed for time and determined not to sound too eager though he sensed, with no small measure of surprise, where Entezam was headed.

“Your Excellency, I am hesitant to take much more of your time,” the commander of the IRGC continued. “I suggest we meet soon and discuss these matters in person and in private. But suffice it to say for now, I believe your country needs your unique set of skills and experience more than ever. And I want you to know that if you are willing, I am prepared to help you in every possible manner.”

Though he was both stunned and electrified, Afshar nevertheless sounded noncommittal as he thanked Entezam and suggested they have tea the following evening. Then he hung up the phone and turned back to the sheaf of papers in his hands. He could not, however, concentrate on his remarks. He had just been given a game-changing pledge of support for a campaign he had told no one yet that he was about to wage.

Entezam’s support was all the more surprising because the general had never seemed particularly warm toward him. Indeed, the Supreme Leader himself had cautioned Afshar not to get too close to Entezam or expect too much. The commander of the IRGC was a military man, not a theologian. He could be trusted to carry out complex military campaigns and special operations, but Entezam was not a Twelver. Nor did he have his own national political network that could prove useful to Hossein Ansari’s successor.

And yet, Afshar now wondered, was it possible that both he and Ansari had misjudged the man?

Surely Entezam’s loyalty—and that of the two hundred thousand or so Revolutionary Guards under his command—could prove exceedingly useful as Afshar began to execute a plan years in the making, a plan that if successful would make him the most powerful man in the whole of the Islamic world.

SOUTHERN LEBANON

Al-Masri sat alone in his makeshift office.

His aide brought him a hot cup of Turkish coffee, some pita, and a small tub of hummus. The Egyptian nodded his thanks, waited until the man was gone, then got down on his knees, faced Mecca, and said his prayers. Only then did he eat. The food, simple though it was, tasted sublime. Both the smell and taste of the unsweetened coffee were magical. Combined, the sustenance went a long way to reinvigorate his strength and lift his spirits.

Barely eight hours had elapsed since he had led his men into battle, and the more he thought about it, the less he could believe his good fortune. Yes, he had certainly lost men. More than he’d expected. And he’d lost his brother—that was true. But as ferociously as al-Masri hated the Zionists, he was confident they weren’t going to torture Tanzeel. The boy would talk. That was certain. But he knew nothing of value. He’d be fed well. Given a comfortable bed. Be allowed to pray five times a day. And eventually he would be released in another prisoner swap. It wouldn’t be so bad. Tanzeel would survive.

What’s more, none of the surviving members of his team had any serious injuries. They had seized not one but three enemy combatants. All three were officials in the Great Satan’s government. He had taken a risk by demanding more money. Yet Kairos had responded much faster than he had expected. They had, in fact, given him everything he had asked for, and the money had already been wired.

Kairos just had one request, and to this al-Masri had readily agreed.

Powering up the satellite phone again, he dialed the only number he knew for the Hezbollah war room in Beirut. When the call was answered, al-Masri disguised his voice and asked for the commander of the Al-Talil unit. The man was responsible for infiltrating Hezbollah operatives into northern Israel. Yet not in the six years he had been in the post had he ever actually done so. The commander, however, did not come on the line. An aide did instead. Knowing the call was untraceable, the Egyptian nevertheless delivered the message, as he had been instructed by Kairos.

“I am the man responsible for taking the hostages this morning,” he began.

“Who is this?” the aide demanded.

“None of your business—just take notes and give them directly to the Sheikh.”

“Not until you identify—”

“Shut up, and do your job,” al-Masri ordered.

There was now silence on the other end of the line.

“I led the raid,” al-Masri continued. “I took hostages. And I’m more than willing to sell them to the Sheikh and let him take the credit for the raid and let him turn the captives over to our allies in Tehran. But I will set the terms, and I will not negotiate.”

There was a long pause. “How many hostages do you have?” the aide finally asked.

“Three,” al-Masri replied.

“Zionists?”

“No.”

“No?” came the incredulous response.

“No,” al-Masri repeated. “All of them are Americans.”

“Americans?” came another stunned response.

“Yes—two men, one woman. All of them agents of the Diplomatic Security Service.”

“They’re alive?”

“For now.”

“Wounded?”

“Of course.”

“How badly?”

“If the Sheikh wants them to live, he’s going to have to pay for them, and fast.”

“How much?”

“Twenty million dollars, wired to a numbered account in Zurich.”

There was another long pause.

“How do we know you’re telling the truth, that you really have the hostages, that they’re really alive?”

“Give me a secure email account.”

“Why?”

“I will send you videos of the prisoners.”

“Fine—anything else?”

“Yes, so listen carefully.”