CHAPTER 1

Tehran, Iran

Morning prayers could be heard from the minarets over the mosques, the haunting songs carrying their message to the children of Islam. Most activity had stopped as the faithful knelt on their prayer mats and began their prayers. Imam Ayatollah Kamala could be heard over loudspeakers for many blocks, and his followers hung on every syllable. He had finished with the traditional prayers and went on with this morning’s tirade against the West, Israel and the Great Satan. His political commentary was usually as long as his prayers, and his mosque was typically overflowing into the streets with the most radical and violent Islamists in all of Iran.

If they only knew. . . . But how could they? How could the tens of thousands of Islamic fundamentalists who followed the preaching of Imam Ayatollah Kamala, one of Iran’s most violent mullahs, possibly contemplate the notion that this man had actually been funneling information to the Americans for over twenty-five years? He was everything an Islamic fundamentalist was supposed to be: devoted to Islam, prepared to use every form of violence to change the world into what the true believers knew it should be, a hater of Jews and Americans, against equal rights for women, against any Western influences, including Western music and art—both guaranteed to turn their youth into whores and drug addicts . . . the list went on and on. How could his followers possibly know that Imam Ayatollah Kamala had actually been born Bijon Mujaharov, a Western-educated intellect who had been present during the sacking of the U.S. embassy some twenty-seven years earlier? Bijon, who had seen his parents killed during the revolution that removed the shah from Iran and changed his country forever. . . .

For the first few months after the revolution, Bijon and his brothers hid, going from place to place with any family members or friends who would help them. They were eventually turned in, and Bijon escaped only moments before his cousins’ house was searched, and his cousins and brothers were taken away to some medieval prison to be tortured to death in the name of Islam. It was at that time that Bijon, now alone in the world, decided that his life’s purpose was to save his beloved country and avenge the deaths of his entire family.

He wasn’t alone. There were other brave souls in Iran who also wanted life to return to normal. Not that they loved the previous shah of Iran so much, but at least they lived in a comparatively open, modern society. The revolution had set their country’s clock back a thousand years, and there was no hope in sight. It would take the bravery of a few citizens who remembered how life could be to make a difference. Bijon’s life changed forever when he was introduced to an American secret agent named Michael Skripak. Skripak, who had been somewhat unofficially attached to the embassy, had been stuck in Iran after the embassy fell. Four hundred and forty-four days later, the hostages were released, but Skripak stayed behind intentionally, using his contacts and safe houses to move about, finding loyal friends he could count on to move messages about the country.

Skripak had been getting secret messages to and from CIA headquarters in Langley regularly, even during the hostage crisis. He had been in position the night the rescue attempt had been made, heavily armed across the street from the embassy, waiting for helicopters that never came because two of them had crashed in the desert. No one had listened to his concerns about the sandstorms, and the celebrations in the streets the next day when the news of the failed rescue attempt became public was heartbreaking. Skripak had been introduced to Bijon shortly after that.

Skripak spent many hours with Bijon over that first month, interviewing him without Bijon realizing he was being interviewed. Every detail was passed back to Langley for verification, and when Skripak was sure Bijon could be trusted, he brought him in one last time.

They sat for hours, talking about the fate of his family and his country. Several times Mike floated out the notion that it would take the individual efforts of everyday men and women if there was to be any hope for the future. He explained to Bijon the need for reliable intelligence, and concocted the idea of reinventing his newly found agent into a religious zealot who could attract the most violent and dangerous Islamists in Iran. He would become the magnet, the lightning rod, for these people, who chanted daily about death to the West and to the Jews.

At first Bijon doubted his ability to pull it off. It took several months of study with Mike and a few of Mike’s trusted Iranian friends before Bijon realized he could do whatever was needed if he could just summon up the courage. Somehow, Skripak produced a grainy black-and-white photograph from a Tehran prison that showed several dozen naked men, hung and quite grotesquely dead, with their swollen black tongues sticking out of their mouths. One of the men was one of Bijon’s brothers. It was that photo that gave him the missing dose of courage. For the next six months, Bijon studied the Koran and read all of the most radical and violent Iranian commentary he could find. He grew his beard and donned the attire of a mullah. When Skripak and his Iranian friends were satisfied that he could answer any question, speak on any subject—religious, political or ideological—they drove him south to a small town west of Kerman, where he was planted as a traveling mullah.

The more violent and radical his views, the more young men flocked to him. It was his dangerous and independent decision to make a public statement that the Holocaust never happened that made him famous and catapulted him to fame and country-wide respect. At first, Skripak had been horrified when he read the comment in the state-run newspaper. Then, when he saw the public reaction, he recognized the brilliance of his new agent. The bigger the lie, the more it was believed. This was classic spy craft. Skripak had found a natural. Within two years, Imam Ayatollah Kamala was known all over Iran. Arab news agencies throughout the Middle East, some of which were not particularly fond of Persian Iran, recognized the great power and wisdom of this up-and-coming star in the Islamic world. Imam Ayatollah Kamala could change the fate of the Arab world just as easily as he could for the Persian world, and Al Jazeera and the rest of the Arab media listened to every word. The more vile and hateful, the closer it was placed to the front page. This man had potential. Within a few weeks, Syria, Lebanon and Egypt all had devout followers of this Iranian sword rattler.

Imam Ayatollah Kamala was a very brave man. Not because of the vile speeches he made to thousands of hysterical followers, but because once each week or so, he would send a burst transmission from his bedroom, identifying new thugs, murderers, planners and terrorists to CIA headquarters in Virginia. There were certain coded phrases he would use during his speeches—which of course were monitored by the CIA—which would alert the chief of Middle East Intelligence that a burst transmission was coming that night.

Imam Ayatollah Kamala, who only a few years ago had been a humble Bijon Mujaharov, could never have guessed how successful he would become. Before long, he was being invited to Tehran to speak with the clerics, the president, and even some of the conservative Majlis. Bijon had been a scholar as a young man, and harbored no ill will against the Jews, the Americans or the West in general. It had been his dream to one day live in America, and in fact, a professor whom he had corresponded with at Princeton University was a Jew. To be speaking such contemptuous and hateful ramblings about the Jews and infidels left a bad taste in his mouth, and he was only able to be believable by overacting and going over the top in his speeches. The irony was that the more he lied and made up history, the more he was believed. He had questioned his handler, Skripak, about this many months before, and was told to keep doing what he was doing since it was working much better than they had planned. The fact that it was working so well was what was troubling Bijon. Just how far could he go before he was either caught as an impostor, or incited World War Three?

It was this last transmission that changed everything at Langley. After his third trip to Tehran, where he was treated as a national hero, including an invitation to a private lunch with the president and several clerics, he went home and sent this:

Situation Urgent. Verified with highest levels of Iranian authority. Iranian nuclear facility producing weapon-grade material with aid from Russia. Weapons being developed. Syria connection. All being done with ‘end game’ in mind. Israel most likely target, but can’t rule out any Western nation. Estimated time to completion of weapons system less than six months. Cannot confirm site of facility yet, but will attempt soon. Advise highest priority be given to this situation. Check following: Muhammad Ali Basri, Ali bin-Oman and Kumani Mustafa Awadi. All were present at meeting and apparently have more information on this subject. Awadi link to Syria. Do not believe anyone suspects surveillance yet. No contact with Mike S. for two weeks, advise his health. Out.

CHAPTER 2

CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia, Middle East Desk

Oh crap, mumbled Dex.

Dexter Dex Murphy had been Middle East assistant chief for three years. It had been the longest three years of his life, costing him his girlfriend, most of his regular friends, and possibly his health. He typically worked seventy-hour weeks, weekends and nights, whatever. Only forty-three years old, Dexter’s hair was already graying from his Irish Red, and his ruddy complexion was giving way to more lines than a street map of New York City. After being around the block a few times, including two wars in Iraq and an invasion of Afghanistan before making assistant chief, very few things fazed him. This latest message from Bijon gave him heartburn.

He printed the message on his secure personal printer and grabbed the phone to call the chief’s desk. Darren Davis picked up on the first ring.

Davis, he grumbled, obviously as tired as Murphy.

"Chief, you got a minute? I need to show you something, pronto."

Come down right away, came the reply, followed by a click.

Thirty seconds later, Murphy was knocking on his glass door. Davis had a tight room, meaning it was a secure cube that couldn’t be eavesdropped on or interfered with from anywhere inside or outside of Langley. Aside from the heavy glass door, the room was a vault, with its own air-filtration system and redundant systems for everything from secure encrypted cable to satellite imaging and links to hundreds of secret places around the Middle East. Unlike Murphy, Davis had a direct phone to the director of the CIA himself, Wallace R. Holstrum.

Murphy entered the office and waited as Davis finished scribbling on a yellow legal pad.

"Jesus H. Christ. You been watching the news lately? NSA is catching a ration of shit about this wiretapping. The Hill ever gets wind of the crap we do, and we’ll all end up in front of a Senate subcommittee for the next four years. Do these pencil-pushing bureaucrats believe any of the shit coming out of their own mouths?"

Murphy started to respond, but Davis continued talking over him, "They very much don’t want to get letters full of anthrax or watch planes fly into their buildings, but they expect us to ask permission to do surveillance on scumbags that want to blow up kindergartens and shopping malls. Unbelievable. Just another day in paradise here in Virginia. What’s up?" He sounded particularly foul this morning.

Just received a message from Iran. It’s Bijon, but this is something you need to read yourself, Chief. He handed Davis the message, hot off his secure printer.

Davis read it quietly, rubbed his face, obviously tired and now even more stressed out than he was two minutes ago, then reread it slowly.

"Verified with highest levels? You think he got in to see the president again? Jesus Christ. This operation has developed a life of its own. He says the Russkies are giving the nuke intel to the Iranians. Are they out of their fucking minds? I know they are hurting for cash—but Jesus, the Iranians? Why not just sell nukes to Hamas and Hezbollah outright? First the Russians said they would build the nuke facility in Russia to make the low-grade uranium for power only. How the hell did they go from that to helping these fanatics build rockets? Six months? That’s just great. I’ll have to tell Director Holstrum about this right away. I want you sitting in on the meeting—you have more insight into Bijon than the rest of us. You run these three names yet—‘Muhammad Ali Basri,’ ‘Ali bin-Oman’ and ‘Kumani Mustafa Awadi’?"

Not yet, sir. This came in literally one minute ago. He also says there has been no word from Mike for two weeks. That’s unlike Mike. I haven’t heard anything out of him directly for months, which is pretty normal, but Bijon speaks to him regularly. Should I start sending feelers out? You think he’s okay?

"Skripak is resourceful as hell. I wouldn’t worry about him just yet. Get me Intel on those three names, pronto. We’ll meet with the director within the hour, and he’ll want something to chew on."

Yes, sir, I’m on it, he replied and took off back to his office where he called his staff together to start gathering whatever they could on the three names from Bijon.

CHAPTER 3

Duce

Anthony Duce Cory was a lifer. At thirty years old, he had already spent twelve years in the Army, and held the rank of first sergeant. It hadn’t really been his plan to stay in the Army for life when he enlisted. Originally, it was just a ticket out of the projects in New York City. A recruiter had spoken to him and some of his classmates when he was a senior in high school. Duce wasn’t exactly college material, and certainly wasn’t getting any scholarships. That being the case, he sure didn’t have an extra fifty or sixty grand lying around to pay his own way, and his mother was making just enough money to keep them in the disgusting apartment in which they lived. His choices were fairly limited: stay with the crew he ran with and commit petty crimes, sell drugs, jack cars and eventually end up dead or in prison, or get a dead-end job making minimum wage for the next sixty years or so, and then end up dead or in prison.

When the Army recruiter walked into Duce’s school, he raised quite a stir. He was an Army Ranger master sergeant with enough ribbons and commendations to cover his entire chest. The high school girls, many of them already with children from assorted fathers, whistled and catcalled the soldier as he walked down the hall, jump boots spit-shined until they glowed. He smiled at the girls to be polite, but he was all business. He headed straight to the guidance office, where he met the school’s principal and was given a small desk to sit at and chat with the seniors. There had been some dissention and comments about having a recruiter in uniform at the school, but the principal was a product of the GI Bill himself, and put those fires out relatively quickly.

Over fifty students met with the master sergeant over the course of the day. They represented mostly kids who weren’t going to have any chance at college, although there were three pretty bright prospects looking for financial aid through the ROTC programs. Mostly though, they were poor, tough kids from one of the roughest parts of the city. Going into a war zone wouldn’t be much different than walking home from school every day.

When he sat down with the master sergeant, Duce was quiet. He was looking at all of the ribbons and decorations, and then saw the patch that read Ranger.

Ranger? That like Smokey the Bear? said Duce, trying to look unimpressed.

Not exactly, said the master sergeant. Like Duce, he was African-American, although he looked to be about forty years old. His head was almost completely shaved, except for a slight shadow on the very top. He sat rifle-straight in the chair, facing Duce, who slouched back, one arm hanging off the back of the chair, a toothpick hanging from his lips. The master sergeant didn’t speak. They sat there for what seemed like a long time until Duce couldn’t take it anymore.

Well? Aren’t you gonna try and sign me up or something? he finally asked.

Not exactly. He smiled back.

What? You think I ain’t good enough for the Army?

I didn’t say that. I don’t know anything about you. Why don’t we start with your name?

"What’s your name?" he snapped back.

I am Master Sergeant Reginald Thompson, he said dryly. And you are?

Duce. Real name is Anthony Cory, but only my mama calls me Anthony.

I see. And where did ‘Duce’ come from? asked the master sergeant.

I have an older brother. Everybody used to call him Aces. When I got old enough to hang out with him and his friends, they joked that I must be the duce, since I was next. He’s in jail now. Busted a couple of times for jackin’ cars. Ain’t seen him in a few months now. He rolled up his sleeve to show his Duce tattoo. The master sergeant smiled at the misspelling of Deuce.

And what about you? You want to hang with your friends on the street until you get busted for something stupid, or do you want to serve your country and maybe learn some skills that can land you a job when you get out?

See? I knew you was here to sign us up. Get the brothers to fight for the man so whitey can stay home.

Whitey, huh? Would that be the president of the United States, or Major General Tate . . . Oh wait, Major General Tate is black, you can’t mean him.

They got black generals? Duce asked suspiciously.

Yup. Even had a black chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. You mean to tell me you never heard of Colin Powell?

I heard of him.

Yeah, right, laughed the master sergeant. Let me ask you something, Anthony—what do you want to do with your life? You want to go to college? You want a good job? Make some money to take care of your family? What are you going to do? Graduation is only a couple of months away. Then the party is over—time to get a job. What are you going to do?

I don’t know. Guess that’s why I’m talkin’ to you. How come you a ranger instead of a soldier?

I am a soldier. Every ranger is a soldier. Not every soldier is a ranger.

So what do you do if you’re a ranger?

Soldiers who qualify for ranger school learn the skills needed for special missions and tactics. You might end up jumping out of a plane, fast-roping down out of a helicopter, climbing a mountain—all kinds of things you’ve never imagined. You also get schooled in computers, mechanics, languages, lots of things that can help you get a good-paying job when you leave the service. Or, you might just stay, like me, and be a lifer. He smiled.

Lifer? Like you stay for life?

Well, twenty-five years. Maybe longer. The Army is a good home. It’s been good to me. Took me out of the slum in Los Angeles and sent me all over the world. I have seen and done things that you’ve never dreamed about. I have served my country, and I feel pretty good when I put on this uniform.

They let you keep it when you leave?

It took a second for the ranger to understand what he meant. The uniform? He laughed. Yeah, it’s mine. I earned it. You gotta earn your own stripes, though.

They talked for almost an hour, much longer than any of the other interviews. By the time they were finished, the master sergeant realized that Duce Cory had a brain, and a desire to escape the projects. They made an appointment to speak again, and the master sergeant invited Duce, whom he intentionally referred to as Anthony, to bring his mother to his office.

Duce walked home that afternoon instead of riding with his friends. He used the time to think, and mostly to really look around at where he lived. He had been to other parts of the city, but never other parts of the country. From what he had seen on TV, almost anyplace would be better than where he was now. By the time he got home, he had made up his mind.

Duce wasn’t sure how his mom would take it when he broke the news. There was just the two of them at home now, with his brother upstate in prison. His mom had brought home a sack of White Castle hamburgers from work for them to share for dinner, and she unloaded them on the kitchen table, along with some fries, while Duce grabbed a bottle of Pepsi out of the refrigerator. She sat down with a heavy sigh, obviously tired from another lousy day at work.

How was work? Anthony asked, trying to break the ice.

It was just great, Anthony. They gave me a check for a million dollars for working really hard all week, but I told them I didn’t need it. I said I just wanted some of the delicious little hamburgers instead.

They are pretty damn good. He laughed.

Watch your mouth, she snapped.

Sorry, he said quietly. On the street, Duce was a fearless wiseass. At home, Anthony Cory was quiet and respectful of the only person he feared on the planet. She was also the only person he really loved, other than his brother, but he hadn’t been around much when Duce was little, and now wouldn’t be around for at least three more years. He had never met his father.

A recruiter came to school today, Mom, he said after a few greasy bites.

Oh yeah? From what company? she asked.

The Army, Mom, he said as he looked up to see her reaction.

Oh child, please! she exclaimed. The Army? I don’t think so.

Why you say that? he asked.

"The Army? Child, you can’t be serious. You want to go fight halfway around the world and get killed for nothing? I don’t think so. Nuh-uh. I already lost one child and I will not lose another."

Mom, the sergeant said I could learn stuff and get a good job when I get out—

She cut him off. "Yeah, that’s right, he say all kinds of garbage till you sign on the dotted line. Oh God! You didn’t sign anything, did you?"

No, Mom. I didn’t sign anything, but I want you to come with me and talk to him. I been doin’ a lot of thinkin’—

She cut him off again. "Child! You ain’t been thinking! The Army? Puh-leeeze . . ."

They went around and around for almost an hour, until she relented and agreed to meet with the master sergeant at his recruiting office. That was twelve years ago.

Army Ranger Sergeant Cory had been in Kosovo when he was wounded the first time. He had only been in the Army for three and a half years at that time and had just made sergeant. A grenade had exploded nearby and shrapnel had gone whizzing by in a hot cloud of murder. The squad leader next to him had taken the brunt of the blast in his back as he faced Cory, yelling instructions. That didn’t stop several superheated fragments from hitting Cory in the face and arm, though. His Kevlar helmet and vest had protected him from being mortally wounded—not so for the staff sergeant in front of him.

In the movies when a soldier is wounded he sometimes gets a scar. When that occurs, it is always something dashing and symmetrical, adding a macho accent to a chiseled face. When Sergeant Cory’s bandages came off in an Army hospital in Germany, he had no such luck. The pieces of near-molten metal that hit his face almost removed his cheek and ear. It was at that moment that Anthony Cory decided he would be a lifer. In his uniform, he would look like a warrior. In his bathrobe in the hospital, he looked like a creature out of a horror movie. The scarring was a mess. It extended from his left ear to his mouth and chin. It was not the neat line on a GI Joe doll’s face; it was a raw-looking blob of scars that looked like they had been made by superheated, jagged metal.

Sergeant Cory was out of the hospital within a month; he was given light duty, and was allowed to return to his unit, which had been rotated back to the States. He was awarded a Purple Heart, the first of many awards he would receive in his life, although one he would have rather not have qualified for. No one in his squad commented on his new face, but he could always see the eyes darting back and forth between his eyes and his cheek when he spoke to someone. Shaving was a torturous assignment each day, and took twice as long as it had before. He was crushed when he learned that the staff sergeant with him that day had died in the firefight. He had never even had a chance to say good-bye or pay his respects. He had been unconscious after he was wounded; a pressure bandage