The Red Cell. André Le Gallo

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СКАЧАТЬ no lawyer,” Steve said, “but, at this point, we’re not at war with Iran, and I can say with confidence the president will veto any action requiring boots on the ground, even if it’s only a commando team.”

      Marshall was struck by Steve’s statement. It was the first time he was faced by his son in his White House role, and he had mixed feelings. Though the comment might provide ammunition for anyone against the idea, Marshall was proud Steve was speaking on behalf of the president.

      “What about the other 65 targets on our list?” Seymour asked.

      “The level of destruction is more of a political issue and not a topic for our group today,” Steve said. “But isn’t the objective to stop the nuclear program with as little political blowback as possible? If it can be done with minimum collateral damage, that’s a major plus for this option.”

      One of the TV screens on the wall suddenly came to life, and President Adam Tremaine, thin and professorial, appeared.

      “Thérèse, I just learned about your meeting, so let me give your group my parameters on stopping Iran from getting a bomb. First, I believe becoming a nuclear power will remain on the Iranian agenda no matter what we do. But we can keep slowing their progress, to the point where they will decide by themselves the effort is no longer worthwhile. What I’m saying is I do not want to carpet-bomb Iran. I’m looking for surgery on one or more key nodes that will stop their progress for another year or two. With minimum collateral damage.”

      Marshall turned sharply toward the president thinking after another year or two it will be somebody else’s problem.

      “Mr. President, my Red Cell has the plan you describe, and we’ll get on your calendar,” LaFont replied.

      As they left the conference room LaFont invited Steve and Marshall to her office, whose large windows overlooked the verdant CIA campus. Before they all sat down at a round table, she said, “It was too early today to surface another operation I have in mind. I have a more immediate task for your Red Cell. Based on what nearly happened to Steve, I want an extraordinary rendition of General Ghassem Yosemani, Commander of Iran’s Quds Force.”

      4. Damascus

      Ghassem Yosemani, the Yas Air Boeing 737’s only passenger, gazed toward the South, mindful he was within easy striking distance of both the Americans and the Israelis. After a circuitous route from Tehran to avoid surveillance by the U.S. and Israeli air forces, the aircraft, bought secondhand from Venezuela, circled over Damascus, the oldest continuously inhabited city in the world.

      General Yosemani hated Iran’s pariah status, which forced him to sneak into a country that historically and by rights still ought to have no more than provincial status in a Persian empire. Most galling was having to use old American equipment. He yearned for the day when Persia regained its rightful status among the world’s great powers. Instead of masquerading in a collarless civilian shirt, the gold wreaths on his black shoulder boards would shout to all he commanded the elite Quds Force, Iran’s intelligence and action arm.

      He saw himself as Persia’s satrap for the Middle East, responsible for Hamas in Gaza, and Hizballah in Lebanon. Now, Syria’s regime needed his help to handle the rebels. He was the tip of the Persian spear.

      Jamil Hassan, head of Idarat al Mukhabarat al Jawiyya, Syria’s Air Force Intelligence, welcomed him at the airport. On their way to Mukhabarat headquarters on Tahrir Square, Yosemani directed him to make a stop in Sayyida Zainab to pray at the shrine. Compared to the Quds Force commander, whose meticulously trimmed, salt-and-pepper beard and penetrating gaze conveyed an almost biblical authority, Hassan was shorter and rounder with a bushy white mustache. Yosemani knew the man had begun his climb up the ladder during the Hama massacre in 1982, when the Syrian intelligence and military had killed over 20,000 citizens. He was not fooled by Hassan’s jocular manner.

      The serious bargaining didn’t begin until they were sitting in the Syrian’s spacious office under a large photo of Bashar al-Assad, the Syrian president whose fate, according to western observers, was to appear before a tribunal for crimes against humanity.

      “I have good news for you, my brother,” Hassan said, leaning back in his easy chair. “But first, tell me what you can do to snuff out this rebellion. It is over a year old, and these foreign terrorists keep attacking my men. Jabhat al-Nusra is causing us serious damage. Al Qaeda keeps pouring more men and weapons into the country. It is an international force. Amazing, they’re coming from all over the world.”

      “What else do you want?” Yosemani asked, hiding his disdain for Arabs in general and for this one in particular, sipping strong coffee from French porcelain. “You still have hundreds of my best men. They tell me the training is not going well, because your men can’t read or write. They know more about goats and donkeys than weapons.”

      “I have too many men—officers—defecting to the terrorists.” Hassan said, sitting up. “And although I banned the foreign press, too many stories from the traitors are getting out. Our sarin attacks are having wonderful results. The rebels are retreating but, somehow, the press has gotten hold of the story. I really don’t give a damn about United Nations condemnations, and I really don’t understand Western thinking. According to their own figures, there are almost one-hundred-thousand deaths since the start of the uprising, but that number caused almost no reaction. Now, the Americans are threatening to arm the rebels because, again, according to their lying numbers, our use of gas warfare killed fifteen hundred more people. Why are these fifteen hundred more significant than the hundred thousand that preceded them?”

      “You didn’t buy enough correspondents when they could be had for a song, when they were starving for pro-Palestinian stories. It is still a good way to take their minds off what is going on here. Play the Palestinian card. Underline the centrality of the Palestinian issue.”

      Yosemani was trying to add some subtlety to the Arab’s game in a way that also advanced Iranian policy, although he doubted Hassan could go beyond guns and violence. “Get the international community to focus on Israel, the source of all our problems, and the world will overlook the gas attacks,” he added.

      “I know that,” Hassan replied. He waited, while a young man in uniform placed a bottle of water, two glasses, and a bowl of grapes and oranges on a small table between them.

      The Iranian started peeling an orange and, looking directly at his Arab colleague, said, “this rebellion is lasting much too long. The longer it lasts, the more Jihadists it attracts. Starting next week, I’m going to truck in five-thousand Hizballah fighters from Lebanon, and you are going to eradicate this pestilence.”

      Yosemani understood the Syrian conflict was not a simple popular rebellion against the Assad regime. There were wheels within wheels. The Sunnis against the Alewites. The seculars against the Jihadists. The Sunnis against the Shiites. All were backed by their own separate foreign supporters, among them Saudi Arabia, Qatar, Iran, Russia, Turkey, and, so far on the edges, Britain, France and, with Assad crossing the Americans’ so-called red line, the United States. Secular rebels were starting to focus their military activities against Hizballah mercenaries backing the regime. Hizballah leaders were asking for a quid pro quo. These sophisticated armaments would keep them quiet.

      The Syrian clapped his hands. “I promise quick results, my brother.”

      “At the same time, your government will ship one-hundred Russian SA-17 missiles, five-hundred tons of sarin, mustard, and VX gas canisters, fifty FATEH 110 surface-to-air missiles, and fifty Yakhout cruise missiles to the Hizballah in Lebanon. We must be ready for an attack on СКАЧАТЬ