The Nostradamus Secret (Danforth Saga Book 3), page 21
Marshall escorted Naimzadeh to a conference room at the State Department headquarters. Naimzadeh expected, because of the importance of this meeting, that Tafoya and Marshall would be joined by a representative from the White House. But he was surprised to find others at the table. Besides Sylvia Goodman, the President’s National Security Advisor, and Walter Peterson, a Special Assistant to the President, there were Jack Cole, a senior officer from the Central Intelligence Agency and a Brigadier General Ferouz Moqaddam from the Joint Chiefs. Moqaddam was an Iranian-American who spoke Farsi. His presence disturbed Naimzadeh.
After Marshall made introductions and Martin Tafoya thanked Naimzadeh for meeting with them, General Moqqadam, seated across from Naimzadeh, said, “The mullahs have had over three decades to indoctrinate the populace of Iran. What makes you think the Iranian people will throw off the mantle of Islamic fundamentalism?”
“It will not be easy,” Naimzadeh said, “but, although there is a fanatical minority, the vast majority of the people want a more secular society.”
“So, why did they elect a hardliner as President?” Moqaddam pressed.
“I am embarrassed to say the elections were rigged.”
“It is illegal for Iranian citizens to own weapons,” Jack Cole said. “The military, the police, and the Islamic Revolutionary Guards are the only ones with guns. How can you overthrow the current regime without armed popular support?”
“The People’s Mujahideen have dozens of arms caches around the country,” he said. “They have committed to join me at the appropriate moment.”
“So, what do you want from us?” Sylvia Goodman asked.
“A massive build-up of American troops on the Iraqi border, ready to invade Iran if the Iranian military decides to fight.”
“We’ve been there before,” Goodman said. “It didn’t work, long term, in Iraq. A military victory won’t win the hearts and minds of the populace.”
Naimzadeh smiled at her. “Please forgive me for saying so, but your intelligence in Iraq was faulty. Plus, you didn’t have an armed resistance in place to oppose the remnants of the Saddam Hussein regime. And you had no Iraqi leader who could muster support the way I can. The transition in Iran will be relatively easy, compared to your experience in Iraq. I truly believe the Iranian military will support me over that dwarf of a President they now have.”
“What about the Revolutionary Guards?” Cole asked.
Naimzadeh said, “I will provide you with the locations of all strategic military and Revolutionary Guards locations and weapons storage facilities in Iran, including their secret nuclear sites.”
“And what of the mullahs?” Moqaddam asked.
“You will take care of the Guards. With them out of the picture, the mullahs will be exposed as nothing but “empty suits.” After thirty years in power—thirty years of extreme, Stone Age rhetoric—the Iranian people have had enough. The mullahs would have been overthrown by the people except for the presence of their enforcers—the Revolutionary Guards. The mullahs will disappear.”
“What does that mean?” Goodman asked.
“They will . . . disappear. The mullahs of Iran are fomenting Islamic insurrection and terrorism all over the planet,” Naimzadeh said. “They are self-righteous and fanatical. They believe Islam can thrive only in a world devoid of non-Muslims. They want to take over—or destroy—the United States and every non-Muslim country. How else can you deal with such people?”
After two hours, the Americans seemed to have run out of questions.
Goodman rose and extended her hand to Naimzadeh. “Thank you for joining us today. This meeting has been very informative. We will be in touch soon.”
After all the Americans had left, except Tafoya and Marshall, Naimzadeh said, “Mr. Secretary, how long must I wait?”
Tafoya looked at Marshall before answering. “This is obviously top secret,” he said. “We want to see if the Europeans and the Iranians can come to an agreement about nuclear weapons within a month. An agreement could change the entire dynamic in Iran and the Middle East.”
Naimzadeh had just heard from one of his men in the Iranian government that the mullahs were prepared to make concessions. They weren’t all hopeless fanatics, and they weren’t stupid. A war with the United States and its allies would cost them billions of dollars in oil revenue. Billions they couldn’t afford to spend. And they knew what little popular support they enjoyed among the Iranian people could be lost with the ravages of war. The mullahs didn’t particularly care about public opinion, but they dreaded a repeat of the popular uprising that ousted the Shah in 1979. If Iran backed off its tough stand and stopped provoking the West, coming to terms with the United States over its nuclear weapons program, Naimzadeh knew his chances of taking power in Iran could be dead.
He tipped his head to Tafoya. “Thank you for your candor, Mr. Secretary. I’ll be in the U.S. for another few days. Please let me know if you wish to meet again.”
“We’ll be in touch, Mr. Naimzadeh,” Tafoya said.
Sooner than you think, Naimzadeh thought.
CHAPTER 64
“So, tell me, Sylvia, what’s your opinion of Mr. Naimzadeh now that you’ve met with him again?” President Garvin asked, holding up a quarter-inch thick dossier Sylvia Goodman had given him when she’d entered the Oval Office.
Sylvia Goodman took a sip of tea and placed her cup on the table in front of the couch. “You want the good news or the bad news first?”
Garvin narrowed his eyes. “No games, Sylvia.”
“Sorry, Mr. President. Ali Reza Naimzadeh is a member of an influential Persian family tracing its roots back hundreds of years. The family has somehow not just survived, but thrived through over four hundred years of turmoil in what is now Iran. These people are survivors of the first order and they have amassed a world-class fortune that makes the Rothschilds and the Rockefellers look second class. He has international banking, manufacturing, real estate, and shipping interests, among others.
“Ali Reza is forty years old, single, and the head of the family. An only child whose father passed away in 1996.”
“Why haven’t I heard of the Naimzadehs before?” Garvin asked.
“Apparently, no one really had, other than the successive leaders in Iran,” Goodman answered. “Unlike some other wealthy families, the Naimzadehs have for centuries been satisfied with playing a behind-the-scenes role. They didn’t aspire to be kings, just king-makers. They aren’t jet-setters and don’t put the family name on their enterprises, the way many of the world-class rich do.”
“If they are so private, why does Naimzadeh want to be the new Iranian leader?”
Goodman took a moment to answer. When she did, Garvin noticed the worry in her voice. “That’s part of the bad news. His eagerness to claim the position is so out of character for the family I can’t help but be skeptical.”
“Can he pull it off?”
“Yes, sir, I think he can. He’s got the contacts, the knowledge, the education, and the resources. And I assume he’s got our support.”
“Didn’t you say earlier Marshall at State brought him to our attention?”
“That’s correct.”
“How does Marshall know him?”
“Marshall has friends at The Council for Foreign Relations. Apparently, those friends introduced Naimzadeh to Marshall.”
“What’s the rest of the bad news?”
Goodman leaned forward. “Don’t laugh, Mr. President, but I don’t like the look in the man’s eyes.”
“What look?”
“You know, that . . . lean and hungry look.”
Garvin chuckled. “Haven’t you noticed, Sylvia, that all ambitious men and women have that look? This city’s full of the lean and hungry breed.”
“Of course, Mr. President. But Naimzadeh has the look of a predator, sir, a blood-thirsty carnivore.”
MONDAY
WEEK TWO
CHAPTER 65
Naimzadeh sat in a chair in his D.C. hotel room, watching the movie The Mask of Zorro. This was one of Naimzadeh’s favorite American movies. He saw himself as a hero—a nobleman who employed a secret alter-ego to vanquish the enemy. But he wanted more than to just vanquish the enemy and then to retreat to his hacienda. Unlike Zorro, who fought against injustice, Naimzadeh aspired to only one thing: Absolute power.
In spite of the saber rattling of the Iranian mullahs, he feared they might strike a deal with the European nuclear weapons negotiators. He wasn’t about to take that chance. The Nostradamus prophecy dictated his future. If things went as he planned, The Leader Nostradamus mentioned—the American President—would hand him the power he lusted for. Naimzadeh chuckled. And then Garvin would discover Naimzadeh’s own true destiny.
He used his encrypted cell phone to call a number in Iran. Major Homayoun Bakhtiari, the commander of the Abadan missile site, answered on the first ring.
“It is Al Da’i,” Naimzadeh said.
“Yes, Arbob,” Bakhtiari answered after a slight pause.
“It is time to act.”
“Praise Allah,” Bakhtiari said. “We have waited for this day for too many years.”
“Are your people in place?”
“Of course, Arbob. They will do their duty. They are ready to serve you.”
“Good, Homayoun. I am depending on you. Your rewards will be many in this life and for eternity.”
Naimzadeh terminated the call. He was confident that after Bakhtiari launched the missiles, the launch site and everyone there would be eliminated. The Americans would see to that. Or the accursed Israelis would do the job. Either way, no one would survive to connect him to the attacks. And the more the Iranian government denied responsibility, the guiltier it would seem to the world community.
Major Homayoun Bakhtiari felt as though his skin was too tight for his body. He knew Allah was shining His silver light upon him. Allah would bestow heavenly riches upon him in the afterlife and Al Da’i would make him rich in this life. Despite the holy feeling, he couldn’t deny the prospect of material wealth also brought him joy. Al Da’i had already paid him a substantial sum. Bakhtiari used his desk phone in the missile command and control van to call Lieutenant Jafari, the officer in charge of the launch area.
“It is time for the wrath of Allah to visit the infidel,” Bakhtiari said to Jafari.
Jafari sighed. “This is the most wondrous moment of my life, sir,” Jafari said.
The missile base sat on the eastern side of Abadan, in extreme southwestern Iran, in the Khuzestan region. Abadan was situated on an island in the Shatt Al-Arab River, thirty-three miles from the Persian Gulf. Lieutenant Jafari visualized the paths the missiles would take. They would cross into Iraq, overflying the conjunction of the Tigris and Euphrates Rivers. Two of the missiles would strike a U.S. military base west of the holy city of Najaf in Iraq, south of Baghdad. The flight of the other two missiles would be longer, but much more important. They would strike Tel Aviv in Israel.
Lieutenant Jafari reveled in the anticipation of striking a blow against the hated Jews and the satanic Americans. Iran’s rise to greatness would begin today.
He expected all of Iran’s other missile sites to join in this grand attack. That’s what Major Bakhtiari had told him would happen. But he wondered why he was to fire only four of his nuclear missiles. If he unleashed his entire battery of missiles, he could do incredible damage. But that was what the major had ordered.
Naimzadeh now lay on his hotel room bed, but he wasn’t relaxing. His mind raced with the anticipated mayhem his order to Bakhtiari would cause. The missiles would be launched at any moment. The President of the United States would know about the launches almost immediately. CNN and Fox News would more than likely announce the attacks within an hour of launch. Naimzadeh knew his time was fast approaching.
The Iranian government would panic, knowing reprisal would be swift. But the Iranian government would not know who had ordered the missiles launched, or why the order had been given. The Iranian government would contact the United States, the United Nations, and the governments of dozens of other countries to rightfully claim innocence. But the claim would fall on deaf ears. Iran had played the game of brinksmanship too long to have its denials deemed credible.
Even if the air defense systems in Israel and Iraq intercepted the missiles before they reached populated areas, it wouldn’t really matter. The damage to Iran would be unavoidable.
Chaos would reign in Teheran. The mullahs would assume President Rastafani had ordered the missile strikes. His ally, The Ayatollah Khorasani, would recommend Rastafani be deposed, and would then declare the new Imamate of Iran. Rastafani would “disappear,” and he, Naimzadeh, would assume the presidency. The Ayatollah, the reincarnation of Ali, would be at Naimzadeh’s right hand, his secret weapon against the West. His secret weapon in creating an Islamic hegemony across the petroleum producing countries. And the United States would help place him in power. The presence of the American military would discourage other Iranian politicians from trying to fill the leadership void once Rastafani was eliminated.
By the time the nuclear dust settled, he—Al Da’i—sponsored by the U.S. and the UN, and by The Grand Ayatollah Khorasani, would be installed as the leader of Iran.
But there would be no democratic government in Iran. Naimzadeh would seize control of the Iranian oil fields and refineries and, with Ayatollah Khorasani’s messianic message and his partnerships with co-religionists, expand his control over oil production in the Arab states. Khorasani would make it clear that the new jihad would be about control of oil distribution. What better way to smite the infidel!
His family had served shahs and mullahs for centuries. Now it was time for the Naimzadeh Dynasty to take its place in the pantheon of Persian history.
CHAPTER 66
Three hours before Bob was due to fly to Athens, Raymond and Frank came to his office. Raymond handed Bob a list of all Agency employees who had been issued travel vouchers to Greece or listed Greece as a vacation destination. There were dozens of names on the list, including Jack Cole’s. Jack was booked on a flight to Paris that had departed earlier in the day. In Paris, he was scheduled to board a flight to Athens.
“Jack knew you were flying to Greece,” Frank said. “Why didn’t he just go along with you? Why didn’t he tell you he was going over there?”
Bob shrugged. “I can only assume he didn’t want us to know he would be there.” He folded the list; put it in his shirt pocket. Bob was distressed about Jack going to Greece. He was even more distressed that Jack had said nothing to him about it.
“You know that list of names may not tell you anything. If there’s a mole in the Agency, all he or she would have to do is call an assassin and order a wet job,” Raymond said.
Bob nodded.
“Where are you meeting the informant?” Frank asked.
“He and Tony Fratangelo will pick me up at the Athens Airport. From there we’ll drive to the Tholos Temple, a hundred miles northwest of Athens.”
“Tholos. That sounds familiar,” Frank said.
“It’s the site where the Delphic Oracle presided, one day per month, nine months of the year.”
Frank shot Bob a look. “You plan on seeking a message from the Greek Gods?”
Bob frowned. “It couldn’t hurt.”
CHAPTER 67
Lieutenant Roger Mobley of the Patriot Missile Battery of the 52nd Air Defense Artillery Brigade was sick and tired of Iraq. He couldn’t stand the heat and the blowing sand got into everything—his boots, his fatigues, his jockey shorts, his bedding, his food. He hated being away from his wife and baby. And the boredom of not having SCUD missiles or airplanes to shoot down was almost worse than the heat and the blowing sand.
As if reading Mobley’s mind, Staff Sergeant Steve Crumpler, who was seated next to Mobley in the engagement control center, mumbled, “I can barely keep alert. Sometimes I wish we’d get a little action down here.”
Specialist Randy Jaramillo groaned. “Watch what you ask for, Crumpler. You may get it.”
“Why don’t you go check on our cable link to the radar?” Mobley told Jaramillo. “God forbid there’s any sand in the connector.”
Jaramillo moved to the engagement control station door, but just as he reached for the door handle, Sergeant Crumpler yelled, “What the fuck is that?”
“Stay here,” Mobley ordered Jaramillo, as he leaned closer to his console. “Man the commo station.”
“We got incoming, Lieutenant,” Crumpler said.
“I see them,” Mobley said, taking a deep breath and releasing it slowly. The radar mounted on the trailer a few yards away and controlled by the digital weapons control computer in the engagement control station had done its job. Two blips showed on his console.
“You seeing two targets?” Crumpler asked, tapping a finger on his console screen.
“Yeah, I got them,” Mobley answered. “And the computer’s saying they’re coming from Abadan and targeting our base near Najaf.”
“From Iran?” Jaramillo said. “What the hell are those bastards up to now?”
“Radio headquarters,” Mobley ordered Jaramillo. “Tell them we’re tracking two missiles on a flight path from Abadan to Najaf. They’ve probably picked up the launchings already, but let’s make sure.”
While Jaramillo operated the communications station, Mobley took another deep breath and tried to keep cool. “Select launch stations one through four,” he told Crumpler. “Manual mode.” Mobley knew that as soon as Crumpler executed his instructions, pre-launch data would be transmitted to the four selected missiles. In automatic mode the missiles would fire automatically.
