Tehran Decree Read online

  ‘Hello...’the earpiece hissed with static and a male voice shouted excitedly.

  ‘You have the US president...in the name of Allah prepare.’ The line instantly dropped out and Kazeni stared absent mindedly at the milling throng of men around him. He looked back at the mobile as if it were an alien instrument.

  It was as if Allah had suddenly patted his back and kissed his cheek. He dropped back in the driving seat in a trance and pushed the mobile back in the glove box.

  Strangely, he had anticipated something like this to happen, an inner sense had warned him of something big. In fact the preparations he was making at this very moment were based on his intuitive abilities.

  There would be time enough to reveal the great news to his men but pressing procedures would have to be completed first. Kazeni quickly recovered from the shock and alighted from the vehicle a changed man ordering his men to unload the vehicles.

  The SUV’s were stripped of their cargo and the contents placed in the middle of the small clearing.

  A long row of assorted firearms lay on white linen sheets. Habib Sharazi cast a thoughtful gaze at the array of weaponry. He had known from the start that Kazeni was a recruitment agent for the Islamic fundamentalists groups and wanted to see Australia ruled by sharia law. Kazeni’s greatest wish was to see a copy of the Koran on every school desk and in every hotel room. Then would come the old Fascist ritual of book burning, destroying all the bibles in the western world -- by this simple expedient, Christianity would be wiped from the face of the earth.

  Sharazi was no stranger to misguided militant causes and weaponry, having witnessed his parents and two brothers shot to pieces in Northern Iraq by over zealous US troops, during one of their many dissident roundups. Since that time weapons had both excited him and filled him with dread. To actually hold in ones hand the power of life and death no matter what your status in life was truly awesome to any young boy who had not yet developed any deep moral sentiments.

  But there was something different about these particular weapons laying as they were -- like pristine lamb and lettuce on a pure white table cloth. They had a sleek beauty of their own -- they were all brand knew -- just out of their oil skins.

  He went down the line identifying the different types, at the beginning of the row were four Ingram 9 mm Mac 10’s, possibly the worst and most deadly killing machine at close range, then came the ugly ubiquitous AK47, a half dozen of them reposed on the linen sheet. But the biggest surprise of all was a row of eight Russian Dragunov sniper rifles. He recognised these from the sprinkling of rifles he had seen on rooftops in Mosul in Iraq’s north. They were the cream of the Russian sniper’s arsenal, it’s development went back to the killing grounds of Stalingrad, and incorporated all the hard learned lessons gleaned from sniper warfare over the years. The Russians knew they had to find a flaw in the German offensive and sniping was something they could fine tune, which would finally outwit the Nazis.

  Although the total sniper kills during World War Two only ran into a few thousand, the overall effect was enormous, since most of these were important officers and technicians essential to the German Wehrmact’s long term success. The Russian’s had hung onto their little successes however meager they seemed at the time, and the Dragunov sniper rifle was the living proof of this. It had been honed and perfected by hundreds of the finest Russian snipers young and old. Life expectancy amongst the chosen few was perilously short, and they were considered dead men walking, but their contribution was incalculable. It was often said by latter-day sniping experts, that it was a weapon created by Russian dead, for the benefit of Russian living.

  Sharazi held the weapon between the little fingers of his hands -- it was relatively light and extremely well balanced, it was simple and exceedingly accurate; an engineering work of art, that only a true firearms aficionado could appreciate.

  Then came the burning question...why did Kazany need such technically advanced sniper rifles in Australia? Surely the overwhelming strategy would be maximum kill rates; rather than scoring an accurate bulls eye here and there.

  Kazeni was always tongue in cheek, he rarely revealed any of his stratagems until the last possible moment. He was a wonderful technician and a born leader, but it was his non communicative approach to every problem that worried Habib. Sharazi was a born killer and would sacrifice the life of anyone for a cause, justified or not, without giving a single word of warning -- he seemed emotionally dead...and yet, once a seed had been sown in his cerebrum it grow until the object of his emotions totally controlled him -- the current object was clearly Allah and all he stood for.

  Whilst this was good for the cause, it was absolute disaster for human relationships, and wasn’t this what life was really all about -- effective communication and good relationships, or at least reasonable ones? In spite of their subtle differences the two men became good friends as far as Farid Kazeni’s self orientated ego would allow, but the distrust remained in limbo. Then came the strangest revelation of all...as he pulled back the lower portion of tarpaulin a row of cardboard boxes appeared with stenciled markings along the sides.

  He read the bold print...

  GRENADES (Tear Gas)

  Military Grade x 24 Units.

  Military type gas grenades were something new in the Australian terrorist armory and tended to indicate close quarter encounters. They were rarely used in bush terrain as dispersal was a problem, especially in windy conditions, which rendered such weapons largely ineffective. However, when used in limited spaces and rigid confinement, they were excellent inhibitors.

  It looked like Kazeni was taking no chances by stocking up on everything he might need -- should the chance of kidnapping the president come his way -- perhaps he knew something nobody else knew.

  It was then Kazeni finally retrieved his senses and decided to confide in Sharazi. He came over and slapped his friend on the back.

  ‘I imagine you’re wondering why I’m going to such lengths my friend?’ Habib decided to grab the bull by the horns and tackle his superior directly

  ‘Don’t tell me we are the chosen few...’

  ‘That’s right Habib...the US president is coming to Australia...we have the won the prize...Allah in his wisdom has chosen us to carry out the task. I have suspected this for some time.’

  The news left Sharazi in a daze, half of his brain buzzed with excitement, while the other half filled him with dread. Kazeni patted him reassuringly on the back a second time.

  ‘So my friend, let us make the best of our good fortune. This is a two pronged opportunity that Allah has bequeathed us -- it is a chance to test my latest manual methods and the best reason to do so -- we have been chosen to catch a president. Grab yourself a weapon and lets get on with it.’

  Sharezi went through four hours of training in the outback, blindly following his terrorist commander, it was to be the first of many more training sessions in the Top End hinterland.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The document IN-Tray was bulging on the US vice president’s desk and the house phone buzzed. Jenkins looked at the pile of files and grimaced; there were more files than normal and he suspected a rush had been instituted to get run-of-the-mill documents out of the way before president Garner’s return to duty. It was a known, and an assumed fact, that the vice president was not as clued-up as the president on most current political matters, and a covert procedure was often instituted to go around him.

  The internal phone beeped and he plucked the receiver from its rest.

  ‘Hello, vice president.’

  ‘Steadman sir...message from the CIA office Iraq. One of the captured insurgents has broken.’

  ‘No kidding...and his nationality?’

  ‘He’s Iranian sir, after ten hours of internment he’s revealed that the Supreme Leader of Iran is promulgating a new decree.’

  ‘I see, what methods of persuasion were the CIA using?’

  ‘The usual interrogation techniques sir,’ Jenkins l
aughed and brushed his hair back with his open hand.

  ‘Really...anything significant?’

  ‘We have had some very useful results sir.’

  ‘I’ll bet you have...fill me in.’

  ‘Well sir, you’re not going to believe this...but the man has revealed in depth, details of the decree.’

  ‘I see, what are these mysterious details Colin?’ Steadman looked up from his second cup of coffee.

  ‘There’s a restriction order on them sir.’

  ‘What sort of restriction?’

  ‘It’s marked for the presidents eyes only, he has given strict orders for data of this type to be held over until his return...please don’t ask me to overlook it sir.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, this could be an emergancy and the president isn’t here...I am the acting president, therefore I’m instructing you to release the details -- bring the document here immediately.’

  ‘Garner won’t like it sir...shouldn’t we at least contact him?’

  ‘No...you’re talking to the current president, and if you don’t release the information I’ll have you removed from duty,’ Steadman grimaced, turned off his cell phone and thought for a moment, then picked up a slim, A4 manila envelope from his restricted tray and grudgingly walked the short distance into Jenkin’s office, placing the folder on his desk. Jenkins smiled impishly.

  It had been clear since the early beginnings of the presidency that a rift existed between Garner and Jenkins. The president had given Jenkins the vice presidents job as a means of placating the ambitious senator; knowing full well that his powers would be muted. He was now beginning to realise that this was a grave mistake, Jenkin’s had shown himself to be cunning, devious, and opportunistic. A political hot potato, as Garner often referred to him behind his back -- he was a man who had his own agenda and could not be trusted to toe the line. In response Garner had instituted a hidden procedural schedule within the White House protocol before he left in an attempt to keep Jenkins out of the loop.

  The vice president smiled mischievously at the secretary of state.

  ‘Thank you Colin, I trust you’ll keep me informed of all matters requiring the president’s attention from now on, otherwise, it’ll be your head on a platter,’ Steadman concealed a disparaging smile.

  ‘Of course sir, that goes without saying,’ Jenkins waited until Steadman returned to his office then opened the envelope.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Jenkins perused the restricted document in awe, it not only described in detail the Iranian leader’s decree and its deadly conditions, but actually named some of the terrorist leaders in the field.

  One problem immediately bugged him; was the information genuine, or was it an elaborate fake? He asked himself the question...why would they fake it? The more he thought about it the more it took on the colour of the truth. Perhaps in their wisdom the Iranian hierarchy had allowed the information to trickle into American hands for reasons of their own. This was clearly a long shot. It wasn’t Iranian style...a bit too subtle for the Islamic hierarchy or the extremist clique.

  He pondered the different options open to him. If no action were taken it would be an opportunity lost on complacency, on the other hand, if appropriate action were taken it could result in a monumental political coup. He squinted at the names and particulars moving quickly down the text.

  One particular listing stood out of the page, it was a man by the name of Farid Hassan Kazeni, who lead an Australian group. His mobile phone number was clearly displayed after his name. No details of size or armament of this particular group were given.

  Although Australia had instituted an armistice on privately held firearms some years ago there were still large numbers of illicit weapons available on the black market. Also the illegal importation of arms into Australia was virtually impossible to contain, due to its extensive coastline, which presented unlimited opportunities for budding arms smugglers as well as illegal immigrants.

  The president was in mortal danger, a tentative study had revealed that as good as the secret service were, they would have great difficulty in dealing effectively with an all out attack by a well trained paramilitary force.

  Equally, it would be impossible to guard the president with an effective well armed force unless his movement were severely limited. The secret service was simply a mobility compromise and worked well for the average assassin, providing the president was not unduly exposed. But the other alternative continued to plague him, the whole message could be false, few revelations of this magnitude had ever been hacked out of insurgents, even those who were literally tortured to death never revealed so much. Allah certainly had a pronounced strangle hold over his minions.

  It could also be a diversion for something far bigger and nastier. But the information could not be ignored -- 9/11 was a gross example of what happens when crucial information was systematically ignored. It also revealed some of the hidden limitations of the human species. Situations were becoming too complex for mere humans to handle effectively. The human anatomy actually needed an additional brain to cope with the worlds ever increasing Information Technology (IT). Massive resources costing billions of dollars and involving millions of people were employed in the security of the country. The lives of whole of the US population were based on this massive technological infrastructure, and yet, in the end, it all boiled down to the whims of one very vulnerable man.

  Jenkins sat back in his chair and continued to think about the implications of the information he had just received. Uncannily one of the first things to come to mind, was the British SAS motto.

  At one point in his young career he had met a young SAS service man on holiday in the UK. During payment for a round of beers the man had flashed his wallet full of English pound notes. It was his army pay and he wanted to spend as much as possible before he went back to Belize, where money was extraneous to ones needs. But his wallet had something far more interesting to the young Jenkins. It was embellished with a polished SAS cap badge. The simple design and motto imprinted on the metal stuck in his mind. It had remained there throughout his political career and now it had resurfaced. ‘He Who Dares Wins’ it boldly proclaimed, it equated with phrases like: Grasping The Nettle, Taking The Bull By the Horns, Having The Courage Of Ones Convictions etc. Decisive action was what history was all about. It was a role of honour of those who dared to grab power and use it to the full without compunction. Perhaps somehow he could use one of these compelling quotations to further his ends. The whole concept seemed to go with ego and the all American hero, it was the sort of stuff John Wayne movies were made of.

  But clearly times had changed rather drastically and new methods of delivery were needed. The six guns had been replaced with the mobile phone and the simplistic reasoning with the computer. Even the dress had changed the cowboy leather jacket and trousers had given way to the clean cut continental suit and the boots and spurs to the latest Italian fashion shoes.

  Above all else, Jenkins was a man of the modern age, he was slim and topped the six foot mark with high cheek bones, and a slick of graying hair combed to one side. At fifty-one he considered himself ideally placed to take over the presidency; not too young, not too old, he could easily manage two terms before retiring in comfort as an elder statesman -- unlike some of the 70’s brigade who would be eligible for a pension years before they gained such high office.

  Modern clothing attire fitted him like a dream, almost anything looked good on his athletic frame. He was highly aware of this and played it to the core. Dressing well was a hobby with him and he had taken to wearing Giorgione, an Italian label. The name was a new kid on the Washington block -- not that it was new, the clothing firm had existed for over fifty years as a top notch male fashion house in Italy and on the continent.

  He liked the supreme slick cut and first class accessories which went with every delectable suit they turned out. No suit was complete without necktie, shirt, and shoes, which were custom matched to all
the maestros creations.

  A dynamic president abreast with the times was what most people wanted, and this is what they would get.

  Chapter Sixteen

  David Bourne was a White House steward and busied himself with clearing up coffee cups and other unwanted scraps from the main offices. Part of his training was to be as inconspicuous as possible and not disturb any of the working staff particularly those of high office. He scooped up Jenkin’s paper cup from his desk and was half way out of the room before the vice president looked up from his notes.

  ‘Just before you go David...I would like a word with you.’

  ‘Yes sir,’ Bourne stood at a casual attention, his slim, youthful form, blocking the doorway. He turned and smiled slightly, in line with White House courtesy code behaviour, his jet-black hair highlights glinting in the light of the desk lamp.

  ‘How long have you been with us David?’ said Jenkins patronisingly.

  ‘Three years sir.’

  ‘And before that?’Jenkins politely demanded.

  ‘Before that I was a house waiter at San Brachen School of etiquette.’

  ‘Really, I know it well...just off 49th street isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes sir,’ quipped Bourne, trying to conceal a growing disenchantment with the prolonged questioning routine. Jenkins fixed him with a cold stare.

  ‘Don’t misunderstand my motivation David, but I always thought that hospitality people lacked a certain kind of motivation in the real world.’ Bourne inwardly cringed...was this a personal insult or just a passing observation? He decided to accept the latter lest he sullied the conversation.

  ‘That’s understandable sir, but our basic driving force is to serve others directly, and of course there are compensations and promotions along the way, just like any other profession.’