Khomeini's Boy: The Shadow War with Iran (9 page)

The old man in his sorcerer’s robes had a point. “As you say, Master. But chemical weapons are a nightmare to deploy. Hezbollah fighters don’t have familiarity with that kind of weaponry, and we can’t dare train them up to speed on such equipment. Neither can the Syrians—as you say, too much blowback for everyone,” Soleimani said.

“Yes, this is where your plan was modified. You will hate it, but I assure you, there is no other way. To make the nerve gas threat credible, we do need to train Hezbollah, or at least configure their weapons for maximum efficacy. But to fend off direct American or Israeli intervention against Iran, we still need plausible deniability.”

Khamenei stood up, cuing Soleimani that the meeting was over, even though Soleimani had no idea what they had concluded. Then the old man put his hand on Soleimani’s shoulder and said, “Qasem—stay for the evening and get a good rest in the mountain air. Tomorrow, you will recommend a Quds Force soldier who can quickly and efficiently configure these weapons for Hezbollah,” Khamenei gave a tired smile, like an oncologist giving a new patient their x-ray results, “Given the dangers of this mission, he must also be expendable.”

* * *

Kareem led Soleimani to a large wooden room with a balcony that gave him a sweeping view over the humming, beating lights of Tehran, the city he had spent most of his life defending from America and its vicious minions. He had make sacrifice after sacrifice in the name of God and the Hidden Imam. Every one had been worth it—he knew that in his bones. Even when his faith faltered, the holy voices of Khomeini and Khamenei had called him back from the ledge before he could have traitorous thoughts. It wasn’t Khamenei’s voice, after all: it was the voice of the Hidden Imam, and therefore it was the voice of God himself. But this time, with this order…

No
. Doubt and infighting were the enemies of Revolution, as surely as Zionism and capitalism. He was called, he would answer, no matter the price to himself, his honor, or his conscience. Conscience was a luxury soldiers did not have, at least in wartime. When the Hidden Imam stood triumphant,
then
his loyal servants could listen to the better angels of their natures. But not before that.

Soleimani smoked a cigarette. He usually allowed himself one a day, following dinner and coffee, but that night was a miserable time to be alive, and the smoke gave him company as he stood on the windblown balcony looking at Tehran, thinking of the one man who could do what Khamenei needed—the old friend Soleimani was sending out to die.

Soleimani didn’t see the Supreme Leader until the following evening. Kareem said Khamenei was busy, and Soleimani didn’t question him. The comings and goings of the Supreme Leader were not his concern. Some of the other clerics, the ones who scraped and crawled in Khamenei’s shadow, tried to pick Soleimani’s brain on matters of military security. He handled them all graciously, like any good Iranian, but reminded them that most of his ongoing projects were classified at a very high level, and he couldn’t divulge anything he knew without authorization from the Supreme Leader himself. That shut most of them up, and meant that after lunch he was able to get in a solid six hours of work. He wrote a few medium-security memos, filled out an expense report for his trip to Iraq (inflated a bit, to account for some room service in Bagdad), and shared a brief phone conversation with his grandson, who was having trouble concentrating in school. He killed another pack of cigarettes that afternoon, and his fifty-eight year old lungs hated him for it.

The knock on the door came at eight in the evening, long after he’d started pacing the walls of his suite wondering whether he had the courage to do what the Supreme Leader demanded of him. Then the knock came and Kareem held the door for the Supreme Leader as he walked in. Soleimani noticed that Khamenei wore shiny black boots, like a soldier on parade.

The old man stood in the middle of the room, both hands folded inside the depths of his robe. He looked around inquisitively, as though he’d never seen this part of his own chateau. “Good evening, Qasem. Did you get your work done? You looked so busy, I didn’t want to disturb you,” he said.

Soleimani hadn’t left the room in six hours except to smoke on the balcony, which meant there were cameras somewhere. Khamenei had been watching him, and the old man didn’t care that Soleimani knew it.
That
was power: admitting that you violated someone and making it clear you weren’t about to apologize.

Soleimani answered, “It was a productive afternoon, Master. Thank you for the opportunity to work in such beautiful surroundings. It reminds me of my command post during the war, in Kurdistan.”

Khamenei smiled and said, “I grew up near Kurdistan, you know. Lovely country. Simply lovely. Nothing but white snow, green valleys, and blue skies. Those are the things you miss, once you get titles like ‘general,’ or ‘ayatollah.’”

“I agree, Master.” Soleimani tried to remember he was a grown man who had personally killed thirty-nine enemies. An old man wasn’t about to unman him, even if that old man had God on his side. “Would you please accept my advice on the…assignment we spoke of yesterday evening?”

“With great pleasure, General. Do you have a soldier for me?”

“I do. He served with distinction in Iraq, when he was only a boy. The Guard practically raised him after that. He’s a specialist in explosives engineering, and has extensive experience training other Revolutionaries worldwide. His knowledge of chemical weapons surpasses every other operative I have. He also has deep cover, and very little exposure to enemy intelligence agencies.”

“Perfect. Can he work with Hezbollah?” Khamenei’s voice had taken on a cold, dangerous edge.

“He has before, Master, in Nigeria, Brazil, and Canada. He was also integral to our IED and EFP campaigns in Iraq.”

“I love this man and I have never even met him. Now tell me the rest, Qasem: can he die?”

The general reflected on how Khamenei had met Soleimani’s chosen victim twice, although the Supreme Leader wouldn’t have remembered it. Soleimani’s choice wasn’t politically connected, or the product of a great family. He was just a soldier, and a good friend. “In the Revolution, anyone can die,” Soleimani said detachedly.

“That’s all you needed to say. Please contact him, and I will supply the necessary briefing materials myself. I want him ready within three days. But before that, we need to do some preliminary work. Kareem,” Khamenei turned to his secretary, “Please take that Samsung phone out of your left trouser pocket. The one you keep muted and only use for messaging.”

Kareem clutched at his black robes, as though the old man had undressed him. “Master? I don’t own a Samsung. My only phone is the one your bodyguards have issued me,” Kareem responded a bit too quickly, like a man who had rehearsed a conversation many times prior to finally having it.

“Kareem,” Khamenei glared at his secretary over the brim of his thick glasses, “please do as I ask. Take out the Samsung. The one with the supposedly untraceable sim card that you got in Turkey.”

“Master, I don’t understand. I’ve never been to Turkey, or bought a Samsung, or any—“

Khamenei’s voice snapped like a whip, “I never said you bought it. I said you
got
it; rather, you were
given
it, in 2005, when you flew secretly to Istanbul to release your daughter after customs agents caught her smuggling hashish into Turkey as an exchange student.” His dark eyes glittered as he purred, “I warned you, Kareem: you should not have sent your daughter abroad for education. One way or another, she was going to learn bad habits.”

Now Kareem was rubbing his neck, while his other hand waved frantically. “Master, you’re right, my daughter Fatimeh, she did run into trouble in Turkey, and I did go there to release her, but there’s nothing involving a phone, or anything suspicious. I asked for a favor, and given my position, they agreed on the condition that—“

“The Turks had nothing to do with it. You didn’t ask anyone for a favor. You never even
saw
your daughter until she was sitting on the plane next to you, heading back to Tehran. No, someone approached
you
, and said they could intervene on your daughter’s behalf, if you would do a little job for them,” Khamenei concluded.

Kareem shut his mouth. There was nothing left to say.

Khamenei put his good hand on Kareem’s shoulder and offered, “I will not begrudge a man helping his family. But that ‘little job’ has gone on for eight years, Kareem. It was one thing when the Israelis were blackmailing you…and quite another once they started paying you. I kept you close because that’s how counterintelligence works, but I’m old, and less patient than I used to be. So now we’re wrapping your assignment up, and you’re going to help me one last time before you die. That will keep your wife and daughter from seeing the inside of Evin prison.”

Seeing that he was a dead man, Kareem hardened in a way that Soleimani had never seen from the mild-mannered bureaucrat. “We all know how you execute your rivals, Ali Khamenei. I won’t sign any confession. I won’t be videotaped begging for my life, so you can ruin my friends and family. Kill me here and be done with it,” Kareem said.

Soleimani picked up the black Sig Sauer P226 sidearm he kept on his desk, wondering whether the secretary would be foolish enough to try harming Khamenei. Kareem either didn’t notice or didn’t care that Soleimani had trained a gun on him.

Khamenei patted Kareem on the shoulder again as he responded nonchalantly, “Kareem,
I
am your friend, and I certainly don’t want to be ruined; there will be no confession. And as I said, your family will be safe, so long as you take out that phone and send a message for me, to whomever normally receives your messages.”

Kareem frowned, and reached into his robe to take out the phone. “What should I say?” he asked.

Khamenei regarded its smooth black form as though it were a snake. He scratched his bearded chin contemplatively, then answered, “Two words, I think, both in the Roman alphabet. First word in phonetic English, since I know you speak it: ‘Tuva.’ Then send.”

Kareem did so. Beads of sweat had formed around the divot in his forehead, like a ring of water at the base of a cold glass.

“Second word,” the Supreme Leader looked at Soleimani, “Qasem, you mentioned that your soldier is under deep cover. Does he have a code name?”

Soleimani had his gun trained on the divot in Kareem’s forehead, so for the first time in his life, he spoke to Ali Khamenei without looking at him. “
Jadugaar
. Sorcerer.”

“There you are, Kareem. Second word, also in phonetic English: ‘Jadugaar.’ Then send.”

Kareem sent the word.

Soleimani cleared his throat and asked, “Master—if we’re trying to get the nerve gas to Hezbollah secretly, why send a message at all?”

The Supreme Leader withdrew his hand from Kareem’s shoulder and slid it back into the black folds of his robe. He looked at Soleimani and said, “The goal is relative secrecy, not absolute secrecy. The point is to let the Zionists know that
something
happened, and it’s very bad for them. Based on the information Kareem just sent out, Mossad will surely piece together the plot, but not in time to stop it. Then they’ll have to live with the knowledge of what Hezbollah might have waiting for them, hidden in bunkers across Lebanon, if they ever move to stop Iran’s nuclear program. And they will never be able to prove it. They won’t
want
to prove it. Even if Mossad weren’t addicted to secrecy, they’d still never reveal that such a rebalancing of power had occurred. Basically…we win,” He looked Kareem up and down, from shoes to turban, “Now, Qasem, please open the balcony door for Kareem.”

Soleimani did so while keeping the gun trained on his target, but Kareem walked towards the balcony without a second thought. The winds of Mount Damavand blew into the room, scattering the papers on Soleimani’s desk and making the robes of both clerics ripple like waves on a black ocean. As Kareem reached the doorframe, Soleimani stuck the gun between his ribs.

“Forgetting something, Kermani?” the general asked.

The secretary nodded, sighing. He dropped the black Samsung in Soleimani’s hand without even looking at him. The mountain wind had blown the sweat off his forehead, and Kareem looked braver and calmer than Soleimani—or probably anyone—had ever seen him.

He spoke without turning backwards, never facing away from the distant lights of Tehran, “My family, Ali—you swear they are safe?”

The wind muffled Khamenei’s calm voice, but they both still heard him swear, “They are blameless, old friend. Only you will face the hellfire.”

Kareem nodded to himself then walked onto the balcony. Soleimani only saw his silhouette for a moment, blocking out Tehran’s pulsing lights, before Kareem Kermani threw himself over the railing and down the side of Mount Damavand.

2012

September

Thursday