“Based in Tehran and at Bandar Abbas until the transfer is complete,” Vice Admiral Qu Zhenmou, commander of the East China Sea Fleet, added. “Compliments of the Ayatollah Khamenei. This will coincide with the signing of a new friendship and cooperation treaty between China and Iran, including logistics and basing rights.”
“You … you will allow Chinese troops to be stationed on Iranian soil?” Buzhazi asked incredulously. “It … it is impossible!”
“Our two countries have grown together greatly over the years,” the Ayatollah Khamenei said. “We both desire expansion beyond our local regions, increased trade, fewer trading barriers, and greater technology transfer and development. Along with Afghanistan and Pakistan, China’s other two allies in the Middle East, this shall be attained.” He paused, fixing Buzhazi with a deadly stare, and added, “And it should prove to be a strong stabilizing force against foreign or domestic intrigue, wouldn’t you agree, General Buzhazi?” Buzhazi’s mouth went dry. He knew exactly what Khamenei meant—the Chinese troops were there to back Khamenei’s government against the threat of a military coup d’etat.
“We have summoned General Hosein Esmail Akhundi to assist us in completing the transfer of the carrier and cruiser to the Chinese navy, and to help establish the People’s Liberation Army’s liaison offices, headquarters, and barracks in the capital,” Khamenei said. Akhundi was the already-chosen replacement. Damn, Buzhazi thought, I should have had him executed when I had the chance! “I believe we have no further need of your services, General. There are guards outside who will escort you to your quarters.”
Khamenei said the word escort like a guillotine sliding down on its rails. “You are dismissed.”
Several Basij paramilitary guards—Buzhazi noticed that the Pasdaran guards normally assigned to the Council chambers were already missing!—appeared out of side doors and stood ready to escort Buzhazi out. He was relieved to see that none of them were armed with rifles, only side arms—good. If he had to kill them to make his escape, he would have no trouble. “I prefer to be alone, Your Eminence,” Buzhazi said. Khamenei dismissed him with a wave of his hand, and Buzhazi departed.
The hallways outside the Council chambers were empty; none of the Basij guards had followed him out. One of Buzhazi’s Pasdaran bodyguards had changed positions over to the elevator down the hallway. When he saw his superior officer, the guard immediately raised his radio to his lips to alert the general’s driver and other bodyguards that he was on his way downstairs. Buzhazi trotted toward the elevator, an action which only seemed to agitate the guard more. “Where is General Sattari?” Buzhazi asked.
“Waiting in your car, sir …”
“Good,” Buzhazi said. Sattari, his air forces commander and close friend, would be vital in helping to restructure and build his opposition force—he was one of the few military commanders he could totally trust. “Radio ahead,” Buzhazi told the Pasdaran guard. “Have my helicopter waiting at Doshan Tappeh ready for immediate departure. You stay here and do not allow anyone to use this elevator until you are notified that I am airborne.” The guard nodded and made his radio call.
The elevator was set in “express” mode, which would take it all the way to the secure parking garage on the second subfloor of the Council building and directly to his waiting armored limousine.
Finally, inside the express elevator, Buzhazi felt safe. Damn Khamenei! Buzhazi cursed. Damn his unexpected backbone. The only thing that would save him from the power and wrath of the Pasdaran was a bold innovative move, and inviting the Chinese to establish bases in Iran was such a move. What else had Khamenei had to promise Jiang Zemin and his powerful military warlords? If it worked, Iran, its Islamic partners, and China would make a powerful Asian union, strong enough even to take on the West and its overwhelming military superiority.
Well, this fight was not over, Buzhazi decided. Khamenei was not bulletproof, and the relations he now seemed to enjoy with China might turn sour very quickly. Both Jiang and Khamenei were ideologues, obsessed with fantasies of global domination and leadership—one Communist, the other Islamist. Buzhazi was more pragmatic. There might be others in China much like himself. The chief of the People’s Liberation Army Air Force, for example: General Cao Shuangming, young, brash, opportunistic, and eager to ascend the ranks of the world’s largest military force in the world’s most populous state.
The elevator stopped and the doors swung open—but it had not stopped on the second subfloor security level, but on the first subfloor. There, standing before him, was a woman, dressed completely in traditional black robes and a black veil—and aiming a small submachine gun at him.
Buzhazi screamed, raised his arms to his head to cover his face, and lunged at the woman. The gun fired, spraying bullets across Buzhazi’s head and left shoulder, but his sudden charge and the recoil of the weapon caused most of her bullets to pass up and over Buzhazi’s left shoulder. At that same moment, General Sattari and a guard burst through the stairwell adjacent to the elevator door—they’d seen the elevator unexpectedly stop one floor above and known it had to be a setup for an assassination.
The woman whirled toward Sattari and the Pasdaran guards and fired again, but she was too late. Several guns opened up on her at once, cutting her down.
Sattari ran over to Buzhazi. His face, neck, and shoulders were masses of blood and bone, but somehow the general was still osen for its small size and not necessarily for its dependable killing power. “The general is still alive,” Sattari said as he began to apply pressure to the larger neck and head wounds. “Get his car up here immediately! Get a first-aid kit, and notify the headquarters doctor and emergency medical team to meet us at the general’s helicopter. Move!”
Several guards took Sattari’s place, giving Buzhazi CPR and tending to his wounds, so Sattari went over to examine the assassin. An Arab woman, young and beautiful. Her robe and veil would have assured her almost complete anonymity, and thus virtual invisibility, on the streets of the Islamic Republic’s capital.
Somehow she had made her way down two secure subfloors of a major government building to attempt to assassinate the chief of staff.
“I want this person identified,” Sattari said, “and I want it done secretly. No one must know of this assassination attempt.”
Seconds later, Buzhazi was taken away by Sattari and his Pasdaran guards, leaving two guards to watch over the body of Riza Behrouzi until another car could come to take her away.
CORONADO, CALIFORNIA 1 MAY 1997, 1737 HOURS LOCAL
From the east-side patio of the high-rise condominium, Patrick McLanahan could see the beautiful skyline of San Diego, the glass towers illuminated by the first orange rays of the setting sun.
He put down the phone and walked through the eleventh-floor three-bedroom condo to the west-side patio, where Wendy was waiting. He sat beside her, and they locked hands and let the sun’s rays wash over them with delightful splendor.
“How is Hal?” Wendy asked quietly. “Devastated,” Patrick said.
“Angry. Just what you’d expect. But he’ll be all right, I think.” He gazed off to the city. “You know what he told me?
When ISA told him just how Riza had died, he thought … good for her. That’s how she would have wanted it.” He shook his head.
“Hell of a woman.”
“Hell of a warrior,” said Wendy. Patrick gave Wendy’s hand a squeeze, then looked around.
“I just realized: eleventh floor, unit eleven—Air Vehicle Eleven.”
“Jon Masters must be psychic—or he’s got a better sense of humor than we give him credit for,” Wendy said. She squeezed his hand.