“Have you heard anything?” the taller of the two asked.
“Nothing. But his Holiness” — he nodded toward the Ayatollah Araki in front of them — “is very worried. That is why he is going to the mosque for the first prayers of the morning. Perhaps his devotion will move Allah to be compassionate.”
Normally Araki made the first prayer of the day in the privacy of his room. But the two men did not complain and pulled their robes tightly around them to fend off the cold of the early morning. The mullah who would call the faithful to prayer that morning opened the huge door of the mosque for the Ayatollah and bowed his head as the old man entered. The two bodyguards stopped at the back of the deserted open area in the heart of the mosque and knelt.
Araki followed the mullah to the front and knelt on a worn prayer rug that had been laid out for him. Slowly and with a conviction that had not grown dull from years of repetition, he repeated the Shahada. “God is most great. God is most great. I testify here there is no other God than Allah, and Muhammad is his prophet.” The words were to purify his soul and renew his hope that the most holy of men, the Ayatollah Khomeini, still lived.
In less than five minutes he was finished and slowly rose from the prayer rug. He could see his two guards on the floor but there was something wrong — they were not praying, but were sprawled out, dead still… Vague shadows moved around the walls of the mosque. He knew what was coming and stood as straight as his arthritis would allow. The years of teaching students erfan would serve him well. He watched one of the restless shadows detach itself from the wall and walk briskly toward him. Erfan, the trait of having character and courage in adversity, and knowing that emancipation came only from spiritual truth. He believed what he had taught his students.
The shadow materialized into the shape of a young man dressed in camouflage fatigues. He was not devout. That was apparent in his athletic gait as he crossed the tiled floor.
“The Ayatollah no longer lives?” But Araki knew the answer even as he asked.
The man said nothing as he strode up to the rigid Ayatollah Araki, raised a pistol in his right hand, pulled the trigger, blowing the old man’s brains out.
The room in the Citadel of Kerman was silent as the radio operator worked the deciphering mode of the Russian-made Urgo S-21 transmitter. The Russian adviser was proud of his student for mastering the complexities of the field radio. The young Iranian had no trouble programming the radio for optimum contact with six different locations throughout Iran. His fingers had moved swiftly over the control pad, punching in the right numbers when he needed to shift frequencies to establish contact with Ashkhabad. “The Urgo is a masterpiece,” the adviser told the operator, “but it takes an artist to make it work.”
An occasional gust of wind came roaring off the central plateau of Iran to batter at the windows of the room, sending swirls of dust across the floor. The adviser hoped the weather stripping on the Urgo’s case had not cracked. Poor quality control was a problem with the radio.
“Araki is dead,” the radio operator finally announced.
Every head in the room turned toward the man sitting in the corner, waiting for his next command. Apparently, he was asleep.
“The cell leader in Qom reports that Araki died quickly,” the radio operator said, continuing to decode the latest transmission.
The sleeping man’s eyes snapped open. “Then it was merciful.” The commander’s gaze took in the room. “Is the list complete?”
One of the standing men nodded in answer.
“Then the Guardianship Council exists no more. There is no one for the masses to follow. Iran is without leadership. We will fill that void.” He motioned to the Russian adviser. “In a few hours we will control the roads, and the convoys you have promised can move without interference. Send the messages to start them south.”
The Russian tapped the radio operator on the shoulder and moved into his chair. He typed a short message on the keyboard and pressed the encryption button. When a blue light came on he keyed up the Ashkhabad frequency and hit the transmit button. “Done,” he told the commander.
The commander of the People’s Soldiers of Islam (PSI), the name the Tudeh had given to their army, stood and walked out into the Citadel’s quadrangle. He stared at the clouds scudding across the early morning sky and climbed the stone stairs of the wall. His aide hurried after him with a great coat and threw it over his shoulders as he continued up the steps. At the top, the commander surveyed the small city spread out before him. “We will use the Russians,’ he said. “And in the end, we will be the masters of our country. We will be the servant of no man. It is the time of our jihad.”
The black Mercedes sedan hurtled down the center of Granovsky Street less than four blocks away from the Kremlin. A policeman had not gotten the word over his radio that a VIP was inbound to Borovitsky Gate and frantically waved traffic and pedestrians to the curb when he caught sight of the speeding car. He breathed a sigh of relief when the car shot past him and he saw the license plate with its distinctive MOC number. Someone very big was in a hurry. The foreign chauffeured car and license plates were a warning that he would not have enjoyed another Moscow night if an accident had happened at his corner. Since the gray curtains of the limousine were drawn, he had no idea who was in the car.
The barrier at Borovitsky Gate was up and the guard waved the Mercedes into the Kremlin. Comrade Viktor Rokossovsky had made the four-hundred-mile flight from Leningrad and the long drive from Vnukovo II airport in time for the unscheduled Politburo meeting called by the General Secretary.
The Tartar who served as the General Secretary’s bodyguard told the General Secretary when the Mercedes arrived so that he could time the walk from his office and enter the conference room immediately after Rokossovsky, denying Ulyanoff the opportunity to speak to the late arrival. The General Secretary stood behind his chair at the head of the table. “Thank you, Comrade Rokossovsky, for making such a quick return. Your presence is always to our advantage.”
You fox, Ulyanoff thought. Rokossovsky makes it back in time from visiting his blonde mistress and you try to turn it to your advantage with a compliment. It puzzled Ulyanoff how Rokossovsky had gotten the word about the meeting. The Politburo’s staff had not been able to locate his errant supporter. Lately, wisps of doubt about Viktor had been bothering Ulyanoff. Still, it made no difference. With Rokossovsky present, he could force a showdown with the General Secretary over Iran. He calculated he would be sitting at the head of the table in less than three days.
The General Secretary sat down and looked directly at Kalin-Tegov. “Developments in Iran are swinging in our favor. The Ayatollah is dead and the Guardianship Council has been eliminated. Our brothers in the Tudeh Party have taken control of the governing structure in Tehran but their political position is far from secure. The Tudeh are also moving their forces into position to block any renewed military adventurism by Iraq across the Shatt-al-Arab. Needless to say, the situation is very fragile. The Tudeh has asked for our help.”
“We don’t need to get involved in another Afghanistan,” Ulyanoff grumbled. “But that was before your time, you wouldn’t know.”
“But a different situation,” Kalin-Tegov said. “Perhaps if we are not directly involved… ” He deliberately let his words trail off.
Ulyanoff’s heavy eyebrows knitted together as he tried to judge the direction Kalin-Tegov was taking. His support was critical if the General Secretary was to be removed.