Mohammed bit his lip. Ashammi saw it. “I see you are worried,” he said. “Do not fear. Does not the Koran say, ‘Those who have said, “Our Lord is Allah,” and then remained on a right course—the angels will descend upon them, saying, “Do not fear and do not grieve but receive good tidings of Paradise” ’?”
Ashammi walked to the window of the compound and threw it open. The sound of the afternoon muezzin wafted into the room. He took a deep breath. Then he pulled out a disposable cell phone and dialed.
A man’s voice answered at the other end. He spoke with a thick Russian accent. “Yes?”
“Tomorrow,” Ashammi said, then hung up abruptly. He turned to Mohammed. “Go, Mohammed,” he said, “and Allah will go with you.”
As Mohammed left, Ashammi knelt on his prayer rug.
When he got up, he turned to the door and smiled. There, standing before him, was a large American man in a military uniform. He wore a blindfold.
“Welcome, General Hawthorne,” Ashammi said.
Mohammed glanced nervously around Café Naderi as he sipped his nana tea. It was a classy joint, and everyone wore a suit—it was a business café, located in the lower level of a hotel. It wasn’t the kind of place that would kick up any sort of fuss in a Western city, but in Tehran, it was a rarity. In fact, it bragged that it was the last non-Islamic café in the city.
Which is why it was perfect for the meeting. It was crowded, so Mohammed wouldn’t draw any suspicion; there were many non-Iranians, too, so Andrei would fit in. It also had the benefit of maintaining a solidly anti-regime reputation, so there would be no connections to any officials who had approved the operation. Intellectuals and writers hung out in packs and talked treason. For that reason, regime informers populated the place.
It was the last location the Western intelligence agencies would watch. After all, it was their home territory. If somebody was going to plan something, it wouldn’t be at this café.
At least, that’s what Ashammi was counting on. And Mohammed had complete faith in Ashammi. Ashammi was the man who had taught him the emptiness of secularism, the beauty of belief. He was a master strategist who had launched several substantial attacks on targets ranging from embassies to hotels to restaurants in America, Europe, and Israel. He is with Allah, and I am with him, Mohammed thought.
He just wished that Andrei would show up already. Even if this was a safe spot, he was getting sick of listening to the Western-style sinful music blaring over the speakers. What, he asked himself, does it mean to “hit me baby, one more time”?
Beneath the table where he sat was a small satchel. He had bought it at a local market along with a shaving kit so as not to draw suspicion. He tossed the shaving kit immediately, of course—it had taken him long enough to cultivate the beard—and kept the bag. This morning, Ashammi had crammed it full of euros (Iranian rials were far too inflated for this kind of payment) and handed it to Mohammed. “Good luck, my son,” he said. “Stay for half an hour. No more. If he does not show up, leave.” Then he stood up and hugged Mohammed tightly. “Take care, my son. You go on Allah’s mission, and He will guide you. I promise you.”
Mohammed looked down at his cheap Casio watch. Andrei was already twenty minutes late. Wild thoughts ran through Mohammed’s head. Had Andrei been followed by the Americans? Had he been taken out of play by the Israelis? What if every minute he stayed here, the Zionists were drawing closer? He had heard the stories about the Jewish devils, about how they had blown the heads off of nuclear scientists with their headrest bombs, about how their computer specialists had stifled the Iranian nuclear program. If they knew what he was planning, the sons of pigs and monkeys would surely take him out of play.
Even as the panicked thoughts played with Mohammed’s mind, a short, balding man in khaki pants and a white button-down shirt walked into the café. He was sweating profusely, and his shirt was stained through already. In his right hand, he rolled a small suitcase. He was struggling with its weight, cursing softly as he rolled it over his own feet.
A waiter approached him and asked if he wanted to store his bag. “No,” the man said in fluent Persian. “I have just checked out of the hotel, and I wish to keep it with me. But I do have a bad back. Could you wheel it to my table?”
The waiter bowed, smiled, scraped—good tips were hard to come by. He ushered the man to Mohammed’s table; the short man handed him a five-euro note and waved him away. He sat down across from Mohammed silently. Mohammed looked him up and down. “You’re Andrei?”
The man nodded, amused. “You expected Dolph Lundgren, perhaps?”
A puzzled expression crossed Mohammed’s face. “Who?”
The Russian guffawed, rolled his eyes. “But of course.” He motioned for the waiter and ordered a few pieces of gaz. The waiter complied immediately.
“I love the service here,” said Andrei. He scarfed down one of the pieces of white pastry. “Delicious.”
Mohammed shifted in his seat uneasily. “Can we get this over with?”
“Nonsense,” said the Russian. “It’s not often I get to eat this well in this country. Besides, if we get up now, we’ll only look rushed and suspicious. What’s your hurry?”
Andrei took his time with the pastries, then ordered a cup of coffee. By the time he’d completed his meal, another twenty minutes were gone. Mohammed kept glancing at his watch. Finally, he’d had enough. “Sir,” he said, his coal-bright eyes burning, “I wish to consummate our business.”
Andrei sighed. “Ah, well. Speed is for the young. Let us walk outside.”
Mohammed paid. Andrei thanked him, then got up. They walked outside, and Andrei hailed a taxi. After a few blocks, Andrei told the driver to pull over and let him out. He left the suitcase in the trunk.
As the taxi was about to drive away, the short Russian tapped on Mohammed’s window. Mohammed rolled it down. “Good luck,” he said in English. Mohammed nodded.
Mohammed watched him walk down a bright alleyway and lose himself in a local marketplace. Then he turned to the driver again.
“Take me to the airport,” he said.
Part 2
COLLAPSE
Brett
“TOMORROW.”
The word hung in the air for a moment. Spoken in Arabic. Not meant for his ears. Brett was sure of that. He couldn’t see a thing—the blindfold over his eyes prevented him from seeing the room. But the next words confirmed Brett’s worst fears; he recognized the voice.
“Welcome, General Hawthorne,” said Ibrahim Ashammi, in a clipped accent.
Brett’s captors forced him to his knees. He felt them hit stone. Then he felt a sweaty hand remove the blindfold. Before him stood the world’s most well-known terrorist since Osama bin Laden. Smiling.
“I hope you weren’t too mistreated on your journey here,” Ashammi said, turning his back to him. “We wouldn’t want a famous war hero victimized by—how did you put it in your interviews—‘barbarians’?”
Brett kept his mouth shut. He knew how this would go, and he knew that the taunting presaged something far more frightening. Instead of listening to Ashammi’s monologue, Brett quietly scanned the room for tools, anything he could use. He almost didn’t notice when Ashammi turned back around, thrust his face just inches from his own. Brett could smell his breath, the faint vestiges of chelo khoresh still on it. “General Hawthorne,” Ashammi said, “I know you, and that you are a resourceful man. I also know that your country is a paper tiger, and that your president is a weakling. Weaklings watch as the world burns around them, thinking they are safe because they have a mirror, and they are lost in the reflection. That is why your country will lose.”