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7

Omidiyeh, Iran

TIRED AFTER HIS LONG SORTIE, VAHID SKIPPED DINNER and headed straight for his quarters, a room on the second floor of the squadron dormitory. He lay down on the bed, staring at the ceiling; within moments he was asleep.

The next thing he knew, someone was banging on his door.

“Go away,” he muttered. “Go.”

“Up,” said a stern voice next to him.

Vahid opened his eyes and saw two soldiers. One was pointing a rifle in his face.

“How did you get in?” he demanded.

“Captain, it is not a good idea to make Colonel Khorasani wait,” said a sergeant near the door. “Get dressed and come with us. You should not be sleeping.”

“I was flying. The mission was long and trying.”

“That is immaterial. The three of us have worked around the clock to deal with this situation. No one should rest while the Revolution’s enemies are free.”

TEN MINUTES LATER VAHID SAT IN THE SMALL ROOM where General Shirazi had found him the day after the attack. He recognized the name of the man he was supposed to see, Colonel Khorasani. It was the investigator who had ordered him to blow up the truck.

While he didn’t like the fact that he had been woken from a sound sleep, he did want to talk to the colonel—he wanted to make sure the men he had killed in the truck were in fact enemy commandos, and not simply Iranian farmers.

But the colonel hadn’t come to talk about the truck. After he strode in alone, he got right to the point: “When you saw the airplane the night of the earthquake, what did you think it was doing?”

“I didn’t see very much at all,” Vahid said, rising. “Is that why you’ve come?”

“Answer the question fully. What was it doing?”

“I don’t know. It was flying south at first, then turned eastward. Maybe it had been off course. I never got very close. I had a brief shadow on radar, then later my IR detected it. I could see there was something there.”

“You radioed him?”

“I attempted contact, but there was no answer. By the time I closed in, I was already under orders.”

Vahid began describing how the radar would have been blocked by the ground clutter, or even the peaks between them. Khorasani held up his hand.

“It was a civilian plane that you shot down? A Cessna?”

“I believe so.”

“The air force has Cessnas?”

“We have a few,” admitted Vahid. “But they would have answered the radio or we would have known about it, the command would have known.”

“If it wasn’t the air force, it must have been flown by a spy. Or it was the air force, and it was a traitor. It may have very well been the air force, since all of the civilian planes in the area have been accounted for.”

Khorasani stepped closer to Vahid. He was not a tall man; in fact, he was several centimeters shorter than Vahid, who himself was not very tall. He wore a brown sport coat and an open white shirt, with gray trousers that strained slightly at the waist. He was in his thirties, with a soft face and large hands, and his fingernails were at least a week from a good clipping. But intensity was the colonel’s defining characteristic: he leaned forward, his body coiled as he fired his questions, his mouth a cannon more potent than the one on Vahid’s MiG. “How would this plane be fitted with a bomb?”

“It wouldn’t,” said Vahid.

“How would it be done, Captain?”

“You can’t put a bomb on a Cessna, or any light plane,” said Vahid. “I mean—you couldn’t put much of a bomb on it.”

“Why not?”

“It can’t carry much. A five hundred pound bomb—that would be as much weight as the plane could carry, depending on the weight of the passengers and fuel it needed. And a five hundred pound bomb would do nothing to Natanz.”

“How do you know how much damage would be done?”

“You’re trying to trick me,” snapped Vahid.

“How do you know the target was Natanz?”

“I don’t know anything. There was an earthquake near Natanz. Or an accident. That’s what I know. Why is the Pasdaran interested?”

That was a foolish question; nuclear program aside, the Guard felt entitled to know about everything that affected Iran in the slightest way.

“How about your plane, Captain?” asked Khorasani. “Could you attack the laboratories near Natanz?”

“How? By bombing them?”

“You tell me.”

“They’re impervious to attack. And—who would bomb their own country? It was an accident, and you don’t want to admit it. You don’t want to admit failure.”

The colonel said nothing. Vahid stared into his face; Khorasani stared back. Only when Vahid looked down toward the floor did Khorasani turn and leave the room.

THE THEORY HAD NOT FORMED ITSELF UNTIL HE WAS speaking with the pilot, but now Khorasani wondered if that was what really happened: had the air force sabotaged the program themselves?

They were extremely clever. Rather than setting things up to point the finger at the Israelis or the Americans, they had gone about things subtly—a private plane in the vicinity, stolen vehicles. They made it seem as if there were saboteurs on the loose. The clues were a false trail, something for himself and the other investigators to chase. In the meantime the air force said nothing.

And the decoy truck: what a lucky break to be ordered to destroy it. They had provided the perfect villains, unable to defend themselves from any accusation. The destruction had been complete, with no clues to their identities.

Captain Vahid had been the same pilot involved in both incidents. That was too much luck for one man.

Or proof that it wasn’t a plot. Because no one would have been so obvious.

Khorasani worked the problem over in his head as he walked down the corridor. If the air force was involved—he reminded himself he must keep it theoretical, it was just a wild theory—then General Ari Shirazi, the air force chief, would surely be behind it.

The motives were simple: the air force was jealous of the Pasdaran, and had been from the very beginning of the Revolution.

Would they go so far as to destroy the bomb? That seemed unlikely.

Sergeant Karim met him in the hall.

“Colonel, I have compiled the data we have gathered, including the interviews with the people in Jandagh and at the junkyard. I believe there was a car involved that may have gotten away. I have a description. I’ve issued an alert to all police departments.”

“Good.”

“An air search might be useful as well. Even if it were abandoned, the vehicle might have evidence.”

“True.”

“The squadron commander volunteered earlier that he would help you.”

“No. I don’t want their help. No one from the air force. The spotter planes that we used yesterday. Are those still available?”

The planes belonged to the Basiij Resistance Force—the Guard-sponsored militia. They were ancient, but the men could be relied on.

“I believe I can arrange it.”

“Do so.”

“Jets—”

“Move quickly.”

Sergeant Karim knew better than to question his commander further. Still, his raised eyebrow betrayed him.

“It is nothing more than routine security,” said Khorasani. “Just routine.”

“I’ll send the order immediately.”

8

CIA campus, Virginia

RAY RUBEO CLOSED HIS EYES AND LOWERED HIS HEAD, resting his brows on the tips of his fingers. Numbers and equations spun through his brain, percentages, statistics, possibilities.

In sum: chance—the great enemy of necessity.

“Both sites must be attacked,” he announced. “Both sites. There simply is no other solution.”

He opened his eyes and looked up. The others—Breanna, Reid, Smith, Armaz, the two Air Force analysts, Reid’s nuclear expert, three planners detailed from the Air Force chief of staff’s office—all stared at him.