Tehran, Iran
Farzad Hemmati made his way through the alleys and back streets of his hometown with practiced ease.
It wasn’t difficult given the fact the route tended toward desertion this time of morning—the Tehran police didn’t feel any particular inclination to enforce the curfew unless someone appeared suspicious. A few of the citizens had work visas to be out during these hours, and Hemmati’s forged papers were enough to pass all but forensic scrutiny.
That’s if anyone bothered to check.
Hemmati had a cover story and had been schooled thoroughly in deception, first by the American CIA and then by his cleric masters. In fact, the head of the Pasdaran had ordered this meeting, summoning him to attend them at their hideaway nestled in the heart of the city’s worst ghetto—as if there could be a worst ghetto. Hemmati didn’t want to break it to his masters, but the fact remained this part of town didn’t exactly have the market cornered on poverty. To call it a ghetto could’ve described about three-quarters of Tehran.
Still, this had been Hemmati’s home for the past thirty years and it had seem him through the toughest times. It had also cost him the lives of his parents when he was ten, turning Hemmati into an orphan since none of his living relatives had either the interest or the money to take care of a growing boy. Hemmati might have ended up another street urchin or dead or even slaving away for the glory of the regime’s war machine. The Pasdaran had spared him that fate, taken him under its wing.
They’d fed him, clothed him, educated and trained him.
And then they’d turned him loose on society and made him earn his way, gaining him the experience he would need to survive. Now he knew in his heart and mind that it was time to repay all he owed them. Hemmati welcomed whatever tasks might befall him with all of the obedience and respect due his masters.
Hemmati reached the rendezvous point and made his way along a very narrow alley that stank of urine and garbage mixed with the occasional whiff of hashish on the air. In the predawn gloom he could make out the hump of a displaced person—there were many throughout the capital—hunkered down and wrapped in whatever tattered cloth they could find to keep warm against the icy nights the prevailed that time of year.
Hemmati reached what appeared to be a wooden door, although it was lined with two inches of lead. He rapped twice—a simple knock, so simple that few would think to duplicate it. A moment later a plate slid aside, a pair of white eyes peered out and then the see-through slammed closed with a thud. The door opened a minute later just enough to allow Hemmati to slide past.
The man attending the door said, “Go right in, Master Hemmati. They await you.”
Hemmati nodded and proceeded down a hallway about half the width of the alley. Only candles provided light. The place had no electricity and for very many good reasons that Hemmati opted not to consider at that moment. There’d be time for daydreaming later. Right now he would need his every wit about him for the task ahead. Hemmati continued to the end of the hallway and then turned to his left. He rapped once on the door before opening it and stepping into a room that was so familiar to him he almost felt as if he were a youth again, kneeling at his master’s knees, studying the Koran and memorizing the fatwas, principles of the jihad.
“Come, Farzad,” a voice called from the shadows on the far side of the room. “You are most welcome.”
“It is good to see you again, Mullah,” Hemmati said as he crossed the room and took a seat on the pillow at the edge of an ornate scarlet carpet covering the wooden floor.
Hemmati heard the rasp of a match against a striker and then a flame flared to life. The flash looked like lightning against the worn, haggard features of his master, but a moment later the wick of the oil lantern the cleric lit cast a glow to his countenance.
Hemmati had no idea how old Hooshmand Shahbazi actually was, as it would’ve been disrespectful to ever inquire of such matters, but the man seemed ancient to his ward. Among Shahbazi’s other students the subject had never been broached, even in private; not that privacy was something they’d ever known. Hemmati and his adopted brothers had eaten together, slept together and defecated alongside each other without shame. They’d never gone anywhere in public, such ventures being rare occasions indeed, without being in the company of at least two others. Shahbazi had insisted on this so they would maintain their purity and not fall victim to the temptations offered by a city out of control.
When they were of age, Shahbazi had brought women into their midst and observed them as they practiced the arts of sexuality. Every part of their lives had been controlled but never by coercion or threat of violence. Hemmati had never seen his master, a man whom he really viewed as his true and only father, lose his temper or even raise his voice. Even his commands were in the softest manner but with an implied imperative that dare not speak of the consequences for disobedience. It just simply was what it was, it always had been, and Hemmati knew fealty and honor to this one man.
“Where are my brothers, Mullah?” Hemmati inquired.
“They are preparing, Farzad,” Shahbazi replied. “The time’s now at hand for us to enact our plans. You’re to lead the way.”
Hemmati’s heart beat a little faster. “Me? I don’t understand.”
“You do,” Shahbazi countered. “You’ve been trained all your life for this. Although I loved each of you in equal portions, it was in you I saw the most promise. You excelled among your brothers, never revealing your superior intellect and skill when you could have flaunted it. This is the mark of a humble man and it’s this humility that makes you the strongest. Do you understand?”
“I think so, Mullah.”
“Then it is well.” Shahbazi smiled, his face wrinkling more. “So now let us talk of what you must do. Are you still in contact with the CIA agents the Americans claim they don’t have operating in the city?”
“I am.”
“You can contact them?”
“I can.”
“You must go to them and tell them you have knowledge of what’s happening in South America.”
“You want me to tell them the truth?”
“It is imperative you do this,” Shahbazi said. “President Ahmadinejad has made a critical error, a misstep in judgment really. We can no longer afford to support him. I’ve spoken with my other brothers in the government, and they agree that the Pasdaran must take control of the city before the president undermines the efforts of our brother Khamenei.”
That didn’t sit well with Hemmati. He’d never trusted Seyyed Ali Khamenei—head of Ahmadinejad’s elite paramilitary forces—despite the fact Khamenei claimed roots as a Basij Islamist. Khamenei had never lifted a finger to help Shahbazi or any of his father’s brothers in government. When Ahmadinejad dismissed a number of high-ranking officials within the Revolutionary Guard for being too “extreme” in their religious views, Khamenei had remained silent, almost stoic, in fact. The thought still burned in Hemmati’s gut.
“Forgive me, Mullah, but I don’t see how revealing our operations in Paraguay will help our cause,” Hemmati said. “Aren’t they still many months from completing the training of the Hezbollah contingent?”
“I received a recent report from Jahanshah,” the cleric said. “If I understood him correctly, they’ve already been discovered. It’s only a matter of time before the Americans learn what’s happened. Jahanshah has bought us some time but it isn’t much. We must act quickly if our plans can succeed.”
“You are planning a diversion.”
Shahbazi emitted a titter of amusement, what passed as the closest thing Hemmati could judge a laugh. “That’s exactly what I’m planning. I’m hoping you can be convincing enough that the Americans will come running here. The local men with the CIA won’t make a move until they’ve consulted with their superiors. Given the unrest