Ashani knew it was all part of a great effort by the clerics who ran his country to show their Arab brothers that they were better Muslims. The Saudis and their Sunni sect of Islam may have been the custodians of Mecca and Medina, but the Shia held true to the prophet. Unlike the Saudis, they heeded the call of Muhammad and rejected a life of possessions and opulence. Ashani, however, knew this to be an act. Many of these same clerics who publicly abhorred modernity, were surrounded by luxuries in their homes. They spent thousands of dollars having their robes and vests custom made for them. There were a few exceptions of course, and one of them had just entered the room.

Ashani looked up and saw Ayatollah Ahmad Najar, the head of the Guardian Council. In many ways he was the second most powerful man in Iran. After he had run the Ministry of Intelligence and Security for nearly a decade, the Supreme Leader had picked him to head the council that was the behind-the-scenes arbiter and advisor to the Supreme Leader. The move had been welcomed by many at first. Najar was a hard-liner, and as minister of intelligence and information he had made life very difficult for the media and anyone who chose to disagree with the Supreme Leader. Ashani had worked for Najar for years and despite his grumpy disposition he liked him for the simple reason that there wasn’t a single hypocritical bone in the man’s body. If you were straightforward and respectful in your dealings with him things went smoothly. If you weren’t, you ran the risk of suffering his monumental temper.

Part of their job was to make sure the media was reporting only the news that was fit to print. The Ministries of Intelligence and Information were the official censors of the revolution. Ashani could think of no better example of Najar’s temper than an incident with a newspaper editor several years earlier. The paper was running a series of articles about young Muslim men and women dating. The day before they had run a photo of a young couple holding hands. Najar’s fervent religious sensibilities were inflamed, and the editor was hauled in for a stern reprimand. Ashani watched with amusement as the smarmy journalist began to explain to Najar that they could not live in the past forever. The debate grew heated with the editor refusing to admit he had made a poor decision. Najar became so enraged that he threw a teapot at the man.

Ashani remembered that he was grateful that it was only a teapot. Najar carried a gun with him at all times and had been known to wave it around and point it at people when he became really upset. In this instance Najar decided that rather than draw his gun he would throw himself at the editor. Najar wrestled the man to the ground and began chewing on his arm like a dog. The editor was taken to the hospital where he received more than a dozen stitches. The incident galvanized Najar’s enemies and within months he was removed from his position as minister of intelligence and information.

Any hope that Najar would be content sitting on the council of old men and simply fading away quickly vanished. In a matter of months he reformed the council and began to comment publicly and harshly about anything that led the people away from the roots of the revolution. Less known to the people, and the world at large, was the fact that Najar had been locking horns with President Amatullah with increasing frequency.

Looking back on it now Ashani could see that the Supreme Leader had elevated Najar to the council so he could act as a bulwark against the increasingly bellicose and popular Amatullah. The one steadfast rule of modern Iranian politics was that the Supreme Leader did not get his hands dirty. As the religious leader of Iran, he had a duty to stay above the fray.

Najar moved quickly across the room to where Ashani was sitting. He was wearing a long, black qabba and a white turban. His beard was mostly ashen with patches of dark gray along each side of his mouth. He looked down at Ashani, who was trying to get up, and said, “Don’t you dare move. I can’t believe you are here.”

“I am fine,” Ashani responded.

Najar reached out and clasped Ashani’s right hand in both of his. “You should be in the hospital.”

“It won’t hurt me to sit and listen.”

“I will do the talking for both of us. You don’t need to worry about that.”

Ashani smiled. “Thank you.”

The minister of foreign affairs and the chief of the Supreme Command Council of the Armed Forces entered the room with the vice president of Atomic Energy on their heels. All three men looked sullen, none more so than the vice president of atomic energy. The full council had eighteen members plus the Supreme Leader, but this evening only the executive council had been asked to attend the high level meeting. All of them had heard of Ashani’s near-death experience. Some expressed genuine relief that he had been saved. Others feigned concern. The problem for Ashani was that they were all such practiced liars he couldn’t tell who was sincere, and who was merely politicking.

President Amatullah entered the room five minutes late, as usual. Trailing on his right was Major General Zarif of the Islamic Republican Guards Corps, and on his left was Brigadier General Suleimani of the Quds Force. Ashani would have liked to think it was merely coincidence that Amatullah had entered the room with the two military men who would be in charge of making Iran ’s enemies pay for the attack, but he knew the diminutive politician too well.

Amatullah was barely over the threshold when he announced, “Well, gentlemen, we finally have our excuse to push the Zionist dogs into the ocean.”

Ashani stared at the vertically challenged president in his boxy, ill-fitting suit. It was one thing to lie to the press and the people; it was an entirely different matter to have the audacity to do so to men who knew better. Everyone was now seated except Amatullah, the two generals, and the head of the Guardian Council. Ashani slowly turned to witness Najar’s reaction.

The fiery cleric looked through his tinted glasses at Amatullah and said, “And with what do you propose we push them into the sea?”

Amatullah remained unflinching. “General Zarif has assured me that the Republican Guard is ready and willing to fight. Over five hundred thousand men. The Jews will be lucky to field an army of a hundred thousand.”

“And how will we get them there?” Najar asked with unbridled contempt. “Should we ask the Americans if we can march them across Iraq? Or should we put them on magical troop transports and float them through the Suez Canal? Do you think the Jews would allow us to put all of our men ashore, or do you think they might sink the transports while they are at sea?”

Amatullah gathered himself and in a reasonable tone said, “I was not implying that we could begin military action tomorrow or even next week. I am simply saying that the Jews and the Americans have committed an act of war and we must make them pay for it.”

“I am in complete agreement, but let’s not delude ourselves into thinking that we are going to push the Jews into the ocean. It was that kind of thinking that led us down this path to begin with.” Najar had been an early, outspoken critic of the nuclear program.

Amatullah feigned shock. “What are you implying?”

“I am implying nothing. I am stating a fact. I was against developing this program for this very reason. I told you years ago that this was how it would end. Countless dollars and irreplaceable scientists, all gone!”

“We have a right to defend ourselves,” Amatullah shouted.

“And we have a duty to the Iranian people to do so wisely!” Najar countered forcefully.

“You are both right,” a calm voice announced from the doorway.

Ashani turned to see the Supreme Leader standing tall in his finest robes. The look on his face was one of intense interest. He was a thoughtful man, not known to be ruled by his emotions, and Ashani couldn’t help getting the impression that Ayatollah Ali Nassiri often viewed his president and closest advisor as two bickering children.