Vahid's expression shifted again, now appearing to see into the distance.
"Iran was a beacon of civilization thousands of years ago, when most people around the world had not yet discovered the written word. It can be that beacon once again. I pledge to you tonight that the government of Iran has rediscovered the true purpose of the Revolution, which is to make that government serve its people. In the days ahead I will be announcing more changes, all to help unlock the potential of our glorious nation.
For now, though, I will content myself with this. May God bestow his blessings upon all of my fellow citizens, and may he protect the Islamic Republic of Iran."
Vahid nodded to himself as the red lights on the cameras winked out. Next he needed to dismantle the corrupt clergy and government-owned corporate edifice that for so many years had stolen the money that ordinary hard-working Iranians needed to survive.
Once the UN inspectors had done their work and — probably grudgingly — agreed that Iran's nuclear and chemical programs no longer existed, he had to be sure international sanctions were removed without delay.
And to help Iran return to the greatness that Vahid believed was truly its destiny, he had to find a way to integrate women into its society and economy, without allowing them to be turned into the sex objects he so despised in the West.
One step at a time, Vahid sighed to himself. One step at a time.
Dmitry Demchenko was nervous, and with good reason. Anyone at his rank of Assistant Director in the FSB had the right to request an urgent appointment with Director Smyslov. Since he had assumed leadership of the FSB, Smyslov had made it clear his door was open.
Once. If Smyslov decided there was nothing urgent about the request, at best the Assistant Director would find urgent appointment requests refused.
At worst, he would no longer be an Assistant Director. Smyslov was willing to forgive some things, but wasting his time was not one of them.
As Assistant Director for Recruitment most of Dmitry’s work was the very definition of routine. Today, though, a file had crossed his desk that made him want to break from that routine radically enough that it would require Smyslov’s approval.
As he was ushered into Smyslov’s office, Dmitry saw that the file he wished to discuss was already open on his desk. Smyslov waved him to the seat in front of his desk and asked with evident curiosity, “So, Dmitry, you wanted to speak to me about Neda Rhahbar. What did you have in mind?
Recruiting her, I presume?”
Dmitry nodded. “Yes, sir. But I want to do so on an expedited basis, and put her in training immediately.”
Smyslov’s bushy eyebrows flew upwards. “Most unusual. That would require waiving the usual security screening. She is from a country we don’t consider exactly our friend. Do you think that wise?”
Dmitry responded, “I understand your concern, and to some extent I share it. However, the circumstances of her defection suggest she’s unlikely to be an Iranian agent. It appears they tried hard to kill her. Anyway, I think a normal security review would add little to what we already know.”
Smyslov grunted, and sat quietly for a moment. It was true they were hardly going to learn more from the Iranian authorities, or her deceased husband.
“So, what makes this particular recruitment so urgent?” Smyslov asked in a voice that to Dmitry’s dismay was carefully neutral. He thought, incorrectly, that this showed Smyslov thought it was a bad idea.
Nothing to do but soldier on, Dmitry thought. Aloud he replied, “We have nobody with a knowledge of nuclear physics who is a native speaker of Farsi, and who is also fluent in Urdu. You know about my background as an agent in South Asia, and our long-standing focus on Pakistan’s nuclear weapons.
When I was there, I would have given a great deal to have such a resource available. I think some risk to take advantage of this opportunity is justified.”
Now Smyslov nodded, and leaned back in his chair. After tapping on his desk a few times, he suddenly leaned forward and glared at Dmitry. “And what makes you think it so important that we have such a resource in Pakistan at this particular time? What, exactly, have you heard, Dmitry?”
Of all the reactions Dmitry had imagined, this was not one of them.
Bewildered, he answered honestly, “I’ve heard nothing, Director. I just thought this defector was a windfall we’d be foolish to overlook.”
Smyslov’s glare persisted for several more seconds, and then he leaned back in his chair again. “Very well. I believe you. Does this person even want to be an agent?”
Dmitry shrugged, and replied, “We’ve not asked in so many words, but the handler I assigned her thinks she would be willing. Of course, she’s highly intelligent, and the report on her escape from Iran appears to show her instincts are good.”
Smyslov nodded absently, and asked, “When you say she’s fluent in Urdu, could she pass as a native speaker?”
Dmitry frowned, and rocked his right hand back and forth. “Only by claiming to be from the region of Pakistan bordering Iran, Balochistan. She has a definite accent. However, from my own time in Pakistan I think if she said she was from Balochistan, she could pass casual scrutiny.”
Smyslov nodded and then handed Neda Rhahbar‘s file back to Dmitry, saying simply, “Approved. Keep me advised of her progress.”
As he walked out of Smyslov’s office, Dmitry realized that their meeting had little to do with whether Neda Rhahbar would go through training as an agent. Instead, it was about whether Dmitry knew about something going on in Pakistan that he shouldn’t.
Dmitry was glad he hadn’t asked.
Enes Balcan had no formal title in the Turkish government. He had something much more important — the Turkish President’s complete trust. His carefully tailored suit and impeccable grooming perfectly matched his dark good looks. Never married, he had never been lonely.
Enes’ intelligence and common sense were unquestioned, but not the main reason he had risen so far in Turkey’s government. Instead, it was his total confidence. Enes never made a promise he could not keep. He knew the President’s thinking, and never needed to bother him with details.
The stakes had never been higher. But Enes knew in his bones this would be his greatest triumph.
The Saudi Crown Prince glowered behind his vast wooden desk. There had been no traditional welcome, no pleasantries. Enes had been delivered to the seat in front of the Crown Prince like a sack of mail, and for several minutes been ignored while the Prince pretended to review documents.
Enes had said nothing, but simply waited.
Finally, the Crown Prince spoke.
“So, you must already be tired of your guests. Two royal families must be quite a handful. Well, don’t worry. We’re ready to take them off your hands, and give each the welcome they deserve.”
Enes had no doubt that he was absolutely sincere. He also knew that the Saudis would waste no time restoring the Bahraini royal family to power. Just as he was sure that any Qatari royals foolish enough to set foot in Riyadh would be publicly executed.
“Actually, I am here to make a proposal that I hope you will agree is mutually beneficial. We have also discussed it with our mutual ally, the United States, and have their full support.”
Enes saw with satisfaction that this statement had caused the Crown Prince to hesitate, and visibly rethink his approach.
The Crown Prince sat back and said, “Very well. You have my attention.
Make your proposal.”
Enes nodded. “First, Qatar will hand over all military assets to the Saudi government, and will have no military in the future, only a police force.”