The Leveling

Bates pulled out a series of charts, which she explained were regression analyses that took into account the age, religiosity, and social status of the fathers as a predictive measure of whether they would seek revenge.

“The bottom line is this—the older a man is, and the higher his social status, the less likely he is to seek revenge. For someone like Khorasani, you’re talking about less than a one percent chance that he’s going to resort to violence. But even that figure doesn’t tell the real story, because it doesn’t distinguish an eye-for-an-eye kind of revenge from what Khorasani, as the leader of a nation, is theoretically capable of. Most of the revenge killings we studied were rational, from the point of the killer. They redressed a wrong in a way that fit with the perpetrator’s worldview—an eye for an eye. In only two instances was revenge exacted in a way that could be considered irrational—in Turkey when a father went on a monthlong arson spree, killing twenty, and in Bahrain where a father drowned the five young children of his daughter’s rapist. In the case of Khorasani, all the evidence my office has compiled indicates that, despite his willingness to support groups that kill innocents, the intelligence reports we’re receiving would represent a break from his rational model. There’s not enough data to perform a decent analysis on the probability of his breaking with his rational model, but when we just plug in what numbers we have, you’re talking close to nil.”

“Except that the Mossad says it’s going to happen.”

“Except that the Mossad says it’s going to happen,” Bates confirmed. “And I trust their intelligence operation. And the Mossad report has been confirmed by our own sources in the MEK.”

The president rubbed his temples. “Are you saying you lack confidence in the assessment you just gave me?”

“I am, Mr. President. You know the rule—garbage in, garbage out. We did our absolute best to meet your mandate in a time frame that would prove useful to you. But we were assembling data, sometimes incomplete, from a variety of countries, all of whom treat crime statistics differently. Not to mention the fact that comparing the actions of your regular man on the street with a ruler like Khorasani is sketchy at best. I wouldn’t trust this analysis.”

After Melissa Bates left, the president leaned back in his chair, removed his watch, placed it on his desk, and ran his hand through his thin hair. White stubble covered his chin.

“I want every intelligence agency working overtime, vacuuming up every scrap of information they can about what the Iranians are up to,” he said to his chief of staff. “Open wallets, crack heads. Anything you get comes straight to me ASAP.”

“Wallets are already open. Heads are already being cracked.”

“I’d feel a lot better if we had some kind of confirmation, from a source outside the Mossad and MEK, that we’re not being jerked around and acting on bad intel.”





48


Turkmenistan, Near the Border with Iran



MARK MET MURAT at a roadside truck stop on the outskirts of Ashgabat. The dirt parking lot was littered with little straws and burned metal wires, evidence of truckers dosing themselves with opium before venturing across the bleak Kara-Kum Desert.

“Chadors for the religious ladies!” Murat, slouching, pointed to the dusty rolls of black fabric that filled most of the Russian 18-wheeler. The truck trailer’s canvas sides had been ratcheted down, but sand and road filth had swirled in through the gaps. “The chadors protect the vodka we hide inside them!” Murat seemed to think that was funny. “Call when you make it through.” He took a cheap cell phone out of his front pocket. “This will work in Iran and even at the border you will have good antenna. When you cross, give the soldiers this.” He handed over an Iranian passport that had been stamped with an expired visa. “Tell them you went to Ashgabat to gamble and are now paying the truck driver a fee to take you back to Iran. The soldiers on both sides of the border will accept the visa. Everything has been arranged.”

“And if they don’t?”

“They will not be paid. Which is why the documentation is always accepted. Where is the woman?”

“She’ll be going alone.” Daria, it turned out, had a perfectly valid Iranian passport—one that she’d neglected to surrender after leaving the Agency. So she was just going to drive across the border.

Murat eyed him. “No refund. Our agreement was for two.”

“I didn’t ask for a refund.”

Mark climbed into the cab of the truck. A Russian driver wearing a soiled dress shirt and a red bandana on his head acknowledged him with a surly nod.