“The only reason I am here is because your president requested that I meet you. What do you want?”

“I don’t want anything, Ben.”

Freidman scoffed. “I suppose you flew all this way because you missed my pretty face.”

“No, I flew all this way to thank you.”

The Israeli spy chief rolled his eyes. “For what?”

“For doing us all a favor and destroying Iran ’s nuclear program.”

Freidman stared Rapp straight in the eye and said, “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

Rapp put one foot in front of the other, crossed his arms, and admiringly said, “I think you’re the best liar I’ve ever met, Ben.”

“That means a lot, coming from someone as accomplished as you.”

“Thank you. Now let’s get serious. I know you destroyed that facility, and you know you destroyed that facility. I’m on your side. I told President Alexander you guys did us a huge favor.”

“We did not drop bombs on that facility. I don’t care what that crazy little man has said… No Israeli planes were anywhere near his country when this attack occurred, which leaves me with only one conclusion.”

Rapp smiled. “This should be good.” He waved his hand toward himself. “Let’s hear it.”

“I think maybe it was American planes that were spotted over Isfahan.”

“Yeah, right. One of our pilots decided enough was enough and he just went and bombed the hell out of that place without getting approval from the Pentagon or the president.”

“All I’m saying is that this plane that was reportedly seen over Isfahan was not one of ours, which means it was more than likely one of yours.”

“You’re unbelievable. I fly almost six thousand miles to save your ass and you think I’m dumb enough to buy some load of crap like that?”

“I don’t remember asking you to save my ass.”

“You didn’t, but I’m going to anyway.”

“I don’t need your help.”

“The hell you don’t,” Rapp said with frustration building. He took a step back and then admitted, “Maybe I was the wrong guy for the president to send, considering our history, but here it is. I am sincerely grateful that you guys had the balls to do what needed to be done. The president, while he can never say so publicly, feels the same way. I have permission from him to launch an operation that will take the blame off you guys, and expose the Iranian leadership for the lying bastards that they are.”

“I don’t…”

Rapp cut him off. “Ben, please let me finish. I know you did it, and I know how you did it. There was no plane or planes. No missiles. Nothing like that. You had someone on the inside. You guys blew that damn thing up and it collapsed into a nice little pile right on top of itself. I admire you for it, and if you weren’t such a pain in the ass I’d probably give you a hug right now.”

Freidman’s already sour face twisted into a deeper frown. “How many people have you discussed this with?”

“Only Irene and the president.”

Freidman exhaled and took a look around the hangar. The pained look on his face said it all. He was deeply troubled that Rapp knew one of his government’s most closely kept secrets. “What are your sources?”

Rapp smiled. For Freidman to ask such a question was as close to an admission as he was ever going to get. “I’ve got a friend in your building.” Rapp knew the lie would drive Freidman nuts. Changing gears, he said, “I need you to get your government on the same page. Stay silent. Keep denying. Whatever you need to do. I don’t care what kind of evidence the Iranians say they have, just don’t admit you were behind this thing. They’re going to show up at the UN on Friday and try to pin this whole thing on you. After they’ve presented their case, we’re going to pull the rug right out from underneath them and leave them looking like lying fools.”

Freidman was intrigued. “What do you have planned?”

“Don’t worry. You’ll see soon enough. Again the president sends his thanks. I don’t like you, Ben, but I sure as hell admire your audacity.” Rapp turned and started walking away.

“Where are you going?” Freidman yelled.

“To Northern Iraq,” Rapp shouted over his shoulder. “To bail your ass out.”

21

Ashani had spent the night in the hospital under sedation. He woke up in the morning with a screaming headache and a vague memory of the meeting he had attended the evening before. His wife and daughters were there to explain what had happened and offer comfort. They made a great joke out of the fact the doctor wanted him to abstain from work and talking for at least two days. His lungs were operating at ten percent of their normal capacity due to the amount of dust he had inhaled. The doctors tried to remain positive. They told him that with rest, and antibiotics to ward off an infection, he should be back to himself in a week or so. Ashani got the distinct impression they were lying to him.

Deputies from the Ministry of Intelligence began showing up at his bedside by mid morning to deliver briefings and keep him apprised of what was going on. At first these were nothing more than routine reports, although in the wake of the attack on Isfahan there was a new sense of importance to everything. His wife hovered nearby and twice she tried to stop people from getting into the room. While Ashani appreciated her trying to protect him, it was not realistic. He needed to know what was going on.

It was shortly after noon when Ashani started to get the feeling that trouble was brewing. There were little signs here and there that Amatullah was putting the country on a full-blown war footing. To a certain degree this was fine. It would force the Americans and the Israelis to react. Putting bases on high alert and organizing protests was one thing, but ordering the entire Iranian Submarine Fleet to sea was an entirely different matter. The Americans were very skittish about the Kilo-class submarines his country had purchased from Russia. Putting all of them to sea as well as the minisubs and the noisy Iranian-made subs would make the Americans even more skittish.

Ashani was sipping his lunch through a straw when his number two entered the room with a box of chocolates and a worried expression. The man leaned over him so that no one else in the room could hear and he whispered, “We have problems.”

Ashani had known Firouz Mehrala Jalali for sixteen years. He was not prone to exaggeration. The worried look on his face told him the problem was internal. Ashani lifted his hands from his lap and made a shooing motion. Four people filed out of the room, but his wife held her ground. Ashani’s jaw line tightened and he jerked his head toward the door. His wife shook her head in disappointment and left.

Jalali pulled up a chair and sat at the edge of the bed. “Has your room been inspected?”

Ashani nodded. The sad truth was that he was more concerned with espionage from within his own government than from a foreign agency.

“The mutt,” Jalali said with a look of disgust, “is prancing around demanding this and that. He acts like he is running things.”

Ashani nodded. His friend was talking about the abrasive Mukhtar. The man’s non-Persian roots did not endear him to Jalali and many others.

“Amatullah has told us to give him whatever assistance he wishes. The man is planning attacks on a scale that will provoke the Israelis and the Americans to strike back. And that isn’t even the worst of it. Our fearless president has come up with another one of his ideas.” Jalali held his index finger next to his right temple and rolled it over and over in a circular motion, the universal sign for crazy. “He wants us to put together a plan to sink one of our own tankers in the Strait of Hormuz.”

Ashani’s eyes grew wide.

“I know,” Jalali shook his head. “He wants to frame the Americans. He says everyone will believe us and it will further isolate the U.S. ”