Blaze (19 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

THE KREMLIN, RUSSIA

H
is hamstrings were extraordinarily sore from the brutal and intense kickboxing sessions of the past week. A deep relaxation fell over him, along with a profound sense of therapeutic satiation, as the massage therapist continued to perform deep work on his hamstrings.

The massage therapist had managed to work out all the troublesome knots that accumulated within the taut tendons and muscles of Maksim Koslov's hamstrings, and from the rest of his warrior's body.

Maksim found his weekly massages to not only be pleasurable but a necessary alignment of both body and soul. The massages centered his highly fertile mind and ultimately enabled him to more effectively tackle the simultaneity that encompassed his very busy schedule.

Maksim closed his eyes and felt himself floating on air as he allowed his body to reach new heights of relaxation—the therapist's hands briskly working his muscles all the while. It was in this state that he often found clarity on issues he was wrestling with—or that his mind would finally crystallize on an approach for an upcoming meeting.

This particular day, it was his approaching call with Hadi Samani, the president of Iran, that occupied his now loose and limber mind. He knew what Samani wanted to talk about. The attack at Esfahan. They had not had a formal conversation about the implications of the attack yet and Samani was eager to do so.

Koslov thought about the situation.
Samani's terribly impatient. His religious insanity is beginning to become more than just a tolerable annoyance. He'll be frantic over this set back and try to push for unrealistic recoveries on the timeline.
Koslov's mind drifted away from his thoughts on Samani. He had already resolved to manage Samani's expectations with reserved caution and vague answers. His mind now wandered to thoughts of his over-arching goals.

If he could accomplish his goal of neutralizing—or liquidating as Samani would describe it—the Jews, and get Israel out of the picture, Russia would have a strategic role in the control of the Mediterranean and all the resources and advantages it boasts. Russia had already made great strides in controlling the flow of gas throughout Europe. Koslov knew that similar resources, and the ambition to acquire and control them, would be the key to Russia's continued reemergence.

If the Americans keep electing naïve Presidents like Fitz, maybe we can even talk them into giving us Alaska back so we don't have to take it from them.
Either way, we will get those resources. Alaska should never have left our control. Just like Ukraine.
The thought almost made him chuckle.
For years now, we've had the Americans in the palm of our hands—sucking up and giving it up. Weak and apologetic, just the way we need them. They are their own worst enemy. They are a skeleton of their former strength.
For a nanosecond he almost felt bad for the Americans.

Koslov did not take his time to get up off of the massage bed as was often suggested to him by his therapist. He was sufficiently fixed up and was eager to make his call to Samani and move on with his day.

After he dressed, he strode to his office and promptly dialed Samani to get on with the inevitable.

“Good afternoon Hadi.” Maksim loudly said—an extra bit of strength in his voice after his rejuvenating massage.

“And good afternoon to you Maksim. I trust all is well at the Kremlin. I am happy to hear from you and eager to discuss the important matters at hand.” Hadi had not been the same since his mystical encounter with the Mahdi. His ambition was more feverish than ever. He could almost taste Israel's destruction, and he could smell the downfall of America and the West like an aroma rising from his tea cup.

“I understand. I know you must have some serious concerns regarding the unfortunate attack at Esfahan.”

“Yes, I do. We're taking as many precautions as we can think of to ferret out gaps in our security there and at Natanz and Bushehr, but those Jews are tricky. We should never underestimate their deceitfulness, particularly when matched with the ingenuity and technology of the Americans.”

“There's no doubt that the Jews will never give up on their attempts to thwart our plans, but they'll never stop us. You know that.” Koslov was attempting to reassure Hadi, knowing it would likely do nothing to soften Hadi's impatience.

“Of course they'll never stop us. The Madhi is returning imminently and there's no force that can stop his implementation of Allah's plans. The Jews can try all they want, but their time is running short. I'm not concerned about them stopping us, but I'm frustrated with them slowing us down and making things difficult. We need to accelerate all plans to overcome this setback, and we need to do that immediately.”

“Hadi, please, you don't need to speak to me with such firmness. We have the same interests. I'm doing what can be done to overcome as much of the setbacks as possible, but it's challenging. Realistically, I think we can expect to overcome a third of the setbacks. We'll likely still experience a net setback of six to nine months if we're fortunate.” Koslov knew this would not sit well and he did not care. Yes, they had the same interests in terms of antipathy towards Israel, but they had vastly different motivations. Koslov's timetable didn't have to keep pace with the religious-driven urgency that Samani possessed.

“Maksim, I appreciate your analysis, but I think you're being wildly conservative in estimating your abilities to affect the situation. Please rethink this scenario and find a way to hasten the process. A six to nine month delay is simply unacceptable.” Samani, caught up with religious fervor, felt no sense of having over-stepped his boundaries.

“Let me remind you of your limited options for completing the development without Russia. If we can't reasonably work together, maybe we shouldn't be working together after all.” Koslov was clearing bluffing, but felt compelled to drive home the point.

“Do what you can, but please stay on this with diligence. Of course we'll continue to work together. We're of one purpose on this.” Samani did not take the bait, and backing down and being apologetic was not feasible for a megalomaniacal theocrat.

“I'll keep that in mind as we continue to run political interference for you on the world stage. Which, I must remind you, isn't always completely in our interest.”

“I understand Maksim. The Islamic Republic of Iran is grateful for our relationship and we honor your loyalty. We'll continue to reciprocate that respect.” Samani was done. He had made his point and was no longer interested in talking.

“I'll report to you next week the status of everything. Have a great rest of your afternoon Hadi.”

“You as well Maksim”

In Moscow, as Maksim hung up the phone he peered reverently at the skull-shaped mug in his office and hung his mind on the grand nature of all of his plans. His Scythian ancestors would be proud. A revived Soviet Empire was within his reach.

In Tehran, as Hadi Samani hung up the phone he peered anxiously at the digital counter hanging in his office displaying the number of days that had passed since the beloved Twelfth Imam had gone into hiding. Samani knew that it would truly not be long at all until that counter was no longer needed. The Mahdi was in transit and the Caliphate was on the precipice of emerging, and Hadi Samani could not wait to assist in the bloodshed necessary for this phenomenon to reach completion.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

NATANZ, IRAN

A
rash Jafari was trying to settle into his work day. He decided to organize his office and clean up his desk before digging in. He was unsettled inside and thought that maybe if he got more organized he could calm down a bit. His new life continued to jostle him. It was nerve-racking enough to have been thrust into the role of a spy. It was downright horrifying to be a spy in one of the most brutal and risky countries in the world. Not just a spy, but a traitor. It was even more brazen to embark on such activities just weeks after Iran's facilities at Esfahan had been attacked, by what President Samani insisted was a joint Israeli-American effort.

Gallagher had coached Jafari endlessly on his approach, and attempted with his own brand of pseudo-interpersonal skills to instill in Arash the confidence he would need to cleanly complete the mission. Arash tried his hardest to assimilate the encouragement, but was ultimately still plagued by strong, persistent waves of insecurity and fear that tugged against his internal sense of purpose.

“Treat it like any other day at Natanz. You're going to work. You're troubleshooting IT issues. Along the way, while taking a working lunch, you happen to casually hack into the system you know so well and plant the Stuxnet Worm in-between bites of your khoresht.”

“I'm glad you think so simply of my mission. I'm afraid I feel a tad differently about the seriousness of being a traitor against my country—particularly being a traitor by working hand in hand with the big Satan and the little Satan simultaneously,” Arash reminded.

“All you need to be concerned with are the risks of your immediate surroundings when you go in to accomplish this mission. You needn't worry about the larger risks at the time of application. It'll interfere with what I'm telling you is the simplicity of the task. Focus. Simplify. Complete. You'll succeed and you'll clock out like any other day.”

Arash nodded his head accepting the advice. Gallagher's words were finally breaking through. “Okay. If you say so, then so it will be. I'll get it done as described. No use talking it through any more. It's go time, as they say.”

Arash Jafari recalled his own words the one day he had clocked in for his normal 7 am to 3 pm shift at Natanz. It was like any other day at the plant, except for the fact that everything had changed since the attack on Esfahan. Production schedules were reduced, even suspended in some departments. Arash's work had slowed down as a result of the decreased activity, all stemming from the attack on Esfahan and the resulting production disruptions. He had heard it said that the attack would set back Iran's overall nuclear plans by a minimum of six months. Arash knew that if he was successful he'd add a much greater delay.

Arash still couldn't get used to carrying a pistol. He was never a gun enthusiast or a military guy, and he'd never gotten into so much as a schoolyard scrap. Confrontation was something he had avoided all of his life at all costs. Arash made no attempts at covering up the fact that he had pretty much lived the life of an out-of-shape computer nerd since his youth.

The pistol he carried, however, did not need to be hidden, as it was issued by Natanz, not the CIA. Natanz decided to arm all employees, even IT, after the debacle at Esfahan. This, he saw as a blessing, because he may very well need the pistol, and he wouldn't have trusted his ability to successfully hide the gun had it been a gift of the CIA. Of course, he now had to wrestle with the fear of his gun-carrying colleagues, but he tried not to think about that.

Shortly after Arash logged onto his computer and settled into his office chair, his office landline began ringing. It was his superior, Dabir.

“Good morning Sir.” Arash did his best to hide his nervousness.

“We're on high alert still, Arash. I expect total vigilance from you. Are you keeping your eyes open? We can't afford to be attacked like Esfahan.”

Arash could here the contention and condescension in Dabir's voice and he wondered where this was all coming from. It had been weeks since the attack occurred at Esfahan and Dabir had never taken such a tone with him like this.
Have I aroused suspicion somehow? Had he sensed disloyalty in me in someway? Or was this just some sort of erratic and arbitrary paranoia that had randomly struck Dabir?
Arash did not know.

“I fully understand sir. I'm conscious of my surroundings and am fully on guard.”

“Good. We can trust no one, and nothing, in times like these.”

Arash didn't like the potential inferences in Dabir's last comment. Of course, Arash recognized his own unusual sensitivity in interpreting such comments, given his newfound covert activities.

After hanging up the phone, Arash wiped a few drops of sweat off his brow.
I need to really lose some weight, my fat sweats don't go so well with my new life as a spy.
He did his best to recall a verse from Psalm 25 to reinforce confidence within himself. His memory was rather good, as he did not have the luxury in his country of carrying around a Bible for quick retrieval of needed scripture. His Bible had to be carefully tucked away. The verse came to him. “Guard my life and rescue me; let me not be put to shame, for I take refuge in You.” He felt the comfort of the Holy Ghost immediately upon recitation of the Psalm.

For several hours that morning, Arash proceeded with his normal tasks. He had to finish a few reports, double check on some amended issues from the previous day, and run some routine security tests. All the while, he was waiting for an opportune moment to hack into the system and plant the Stuxnet worm 2.0.

Throughout the early morning hours of his workday, various colleagues came in and out of his office in the usual way. Strangely, more than ever, it was talk of the Mahdi on the lips of many that morning. Praise and reference to the Mahdi was commonplace, but this particular morning it seemed more frequent and more intense. Arash wondered what the impetus for this might be. ‘He is coming soon!' some said. Others uttered ‘I feel the Promised One might even now be upon us!' And yet others proclaimed ‘Allah's wrath be to the infidels! The beloved Mahdi is coming and the Caliphate will emerge!'

It was not long ago that Arash had such religious thoughts stemming from a different source. He would have never guessed in a thousand lifetimes that instead of lifelong devotion to the Twelfth Imam, he would instead become a committed Christian and a spy against his Persian homeland. Life sure had a funny way of carving its on path, particularly once he put his life in the guiding hand of the Nazarene.

As his colleagues and co-workers expressed their Messianic fervor throughout the day, Arash enthusiastically faked a perceived zeal for the coming of the Mahdi, while retaining a deep devotion to Jesus Christ in his heart.

It was shortly after the whistle blew for the normal line workers that Arash sensed the perfect window to begin his daring task. He quietly closed his office door, even though his office was enclosed entirely by walls fully made of windows and all passerby could clearly see in. Nonetheless, he wanted to give the impression that he was hard at work concentrating and did not wish to be disturbed.

He sipped from his cup of tea and began typing. He was indeed the proverbial fox with the key to the hen hound. His passwords gained him access as usual, and he began taking the necessary digital steps to cover his tracks as he embedded the well-tested and well-researched Stuxnet worm into Iran's centrifuge-controlling computer systems.

His heart slammed against the interior of his chest and the fat sweats were indeed now coming on strong once again. The moment in which he triggered the installation of the worm had felt entirely surreal.

He could not believe he was risking his job, his life, and his family's well being as a result of his newfound belief in Jesus as Messiah and his bizarre partnership with Israel and the CIA.
My parents would shun me fiercely if they were alive to see and know about this.
He knew deeply just how radical were the decisions that had brought him to this point; initiating a bold digital warfare attack on Iran's beloved nuclear weapons program.

The fix was in, but the job was not over. The worm would just now begin recording all operations of the plant while slowly tearing the program apart. The quickest the nerds at Negev were able to get the worm to begin to tear apart the program was estimated to be five to seven days. This was where the tough part began. Arash had to play it cool, and play stupid for a while until this cycled through. He prayed for the discernment, wisdom, and steadiness of mind to see it through.

The rest of the day was uneventful, just as his friend Chuck Gallagher back at Langley had assured. Arash clocked out at the end of his shift as he did any other day, and went home to greet his wife and quietly pray to Jesus while kneeling to Allah; a duplicity that had become second nature to the burgeoning overweight spy.