Amatullah paused and folded his hands in front of him, adopting a less aggressive pose. “Until such time as America fulfills these obligations, we will keep CIA Director Kennedy as a guest of the country of Iran. And I can assure the international community that we will treat her with more respect and dignity than America has treated my Muslim brothers that have been captured on the battlefield.”
With that parting shot, Amatullah turned and walked off camera. Ashani stood among the other advisors absolutely thunderstruck by what he had just heard. The mad genius and sheer audacity of Amatullah knew no bounds. The idea that the Sabalan had done nothing to provoke being torpedoed seemed a bit ridiculous, but what Amatullah had just accused Kennedy of was an outright lie. Only several hours earlier he had sat across from a very sincere and believable Kennedy and listened to her offer an aid package worth billions of dollars. She hardly seemed like a woman plotting the overthrow of the Iranian government.
Ashani looked around the room at the faces of the other men and got the uneasy feeling that they all knew something that he did not. The door to Amatullah’s office opened, and the president burst into the room like an actor arriving backstage after delivering the performance of his life. Amatullah stopped triumphantly in front of the group with his chin held high. The generals offered their exuberant congratulations on a brilliant speech. The foreign minister, whom Ashani had forgotten about, was now standing in the corner behind him talking to someone on the phone. He began thanking the person loudly and then hung up.
“Wonderful speech, sir,” Salehi said enthusiastically as he returned to the group. “That was Foreign Minister Xing. The Chinese have agreed to bring our grievances before the UN Security Council, and put pressure on the Americans to make reparations.”
“Excellent,” Amatullah said with more relief than surprise. Almost as an afterthought he noticed that his intelligence minister was now present. Amatullah looked at him with a hint of suspicion and then said, “Azad, you have made it back safely. I would like to have a word with you in private.” Amatullah gestured toward his office and began walking.
Ashani did not move right away. His head was spinning with plots and deceptions. Defying the request would undoubtedly lead to bigger problems. With reluctance, he followed Amatullah into his office, and tried not to flinch when the door was closed behind him. Amatullah ordered the TV crew out of his office so he could have a word alone with his intelligence minister.
“I am sorry,” Amatullah started the conversation, “that I did not let you know about this sooner, but I did not want you tainted by it until the intelligence proved to be accurate.”
Ashani said nothing, but nodded as if it was a reasonable precaution even though it wasn’t.
“Imad and his people have been working on this for months. I wanted to bring you in on it, but Imad feared that the Intelligence Ministry had an unacceptable number of people who were sympathetic to the MEK and other resistance organizations.”
This was such an outright lie that Ashani could barely conceal his growing anger. In a measured voice he said, “I think I know my organization better than Imad Mukhtar.”
“I will not argue with you on that point, but we have arrived here nonetheless, and your skill and support are greatly needed to help us get through this crisis. Can I count on you?”
Here it is, Ashani thought to himself. A test of loyalty. He contemplated the two generals in the other room, both fiercely devoted to Amatullah, neither of them afraid to use violence to get what they wanted. Less than a second passed as Ashani’s thoughts raced to his wife and daughters and back again. Now was not the moment to take a stand against the madman.
“Of course you can,” Ashani answered in his most sincere voice. “I know better than perhaps anyone, other than yourself, that this nonsense with America must stop.”
“Good,” Ashani said as he clapped his hands together. “Now as you can imagine, I am going to be very busy. The Supreme Leader is on his way back from Isfahan, and I must prepare to brief him as well as continue to lobby our allies to support us against this American aggression.”
“How can I help?”
Amatullah led him across the office to his desk. “Imad is in need of desperate assistance. I’m afraid his network of agents may have been compromised. He has Kennedy in a safe location for the moment, but he thinks he might have to move her.” He opened his desk drawer and withdrew a sheet of paper. On it was a handwritten list of ten phone numbers. The first two had lines through them.
“I have spoken with him twice. After each call move onto the next number.”
Ashani took the sheet and looked at the numbers.
“If you go through all of them, start over at the beginning.”
“What would you like me to do?”
“Call him. You will refer to him as Ali and he will refer to you as Cyrus. Find out what he needs. The last time we spoke he was confident that he could get Kennedy to confess, but he said the city is crawling with American and Iraqi military units.”
Ashani felt a knot in his stomach. Mukhtar was a brutal thug. “Did he say where he was holding her?”
“No.” Amatullah shook his head. “I asked, but he did not want to talk about it on the phone.” He handed Ashani a mobile phone. “If there is an emergency, he will call you on this phone.”
“Is there anything else?”
“Yes. If there is any way to get her across the border without being caught I want you to do it.”
Ashani nodded dutifully and said, “I will look into it immediately.”
55
Kennedy lay naked on the floor. Salty tears streamed down her face and mixed with the puddles of urine on the dirt floor. Her panties and bra lay shredded a few feet away. The musty blanket that had given her a sense of security had been torn from her hands and tossed to the far corner. Her captors stood over her and laughed while they described in graphic terms how they were going to rape her. That had been about the only indignity she’d been spared thus far.
All she had done was ask to go to the bathroom. A simple function that she had taken for granted her entire life. The man who called himself Muhammad had made it sound as if it would not be a problem. Instead of taking her somewhere, though, the guards brought her a rusty bucket and stood a few feet away leering at her. Kennedy squatted over the bucket and used the blanket to try and maintain a modicum of privacy. When she was in the middle of relieving herself one of the men gave her a kick that sent her sprawling. The second man then joined in as they tore the blanket and her undergarments from her. The men pawed at her bare skin; slapping, punching, and kicking her. Kennedy attempted lamely to fight back, but they were too strong and far too vicious.
In the end all she could do was curl up in a defensive ball and hope they would tire. When they finally did, they dropped their pants and urinated on her. That was when they began to describe in gruesome detail how they were going to rape her. Kennedy did not scream or cry out loud. She simply lay there and let the tears flow. She thought of her son, Tommy, her mother, and a life she had devoted to her country. She did not ask “Why me?” or drown herself in pity, she simply accepted her fate for what it was-a very nasty ending to an otherwise wonderful life.
She had surrendered herself to the idea that it would be better to die than give up the most closely guarded secrets of her country. She owed that to the men and women of the CIA, and the spies they had recruited. She knew she would not be able to endure many more beatings like the one she had just gone through, so her mind began searching for a way to end it all. The tears stopped and in a strange way the thought of taking her own life gave her strength.