My Nephew & Mossad Vs. Iran's A-Bomb

MY NEPHEW & MOSSAD VS. IRAN’S A-BOMB

novel by

Mordechai Landsberg

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2012 Mordechai Landsberg

All Rights Reserved.

CHAPTER 1

In the secretaries’ room of Iran President’s office, two women typists were clicking rapidly on their PC keyboards, like runners competing who will arrive first to the target. They were both dressed in dark Islamic long robes, and their heads were wrapped by white kerchiefs. Their young pretty faces were concentrated on scribbled handwritten pages, put beside their keyboards. Their lips were sometimes mumbling something, as if trying to repeat an umbigious word, that they wanted to be sure of it. They should see it in the computerized Persian vocabulary, that they had pulled out from the ‘know All’ Google, or from somewhere else.

The younger of these two maiden was Geetea. She had a very good looking face, and her dark big eyes were expressing wisdom, liveliness, alertness and self confidence. She was about twenty five.

At that moment she saw a man who had just entered the room, and nodded to her with a mumble. She rose and offered him a chair at the second larger desk, that had been in the room. Her medium height and womanish figure attracted him. He was Sayed Hussein, the President’s consultant for special affairs. He was about sixty, his long full grey beard and his special ‘Amamma’ -Sheite grey turban, which was wrapping his bald head - suggested that he would serve two masters at the same time: President Muhamad Binajad - and the Great Ayatulla.

An unexpected impetus was pushing this guest to look at secretary Geetea quite longly. Yes, also curiously and whimsically, what would cause him almost to lose his mind. We may say, that he was seduced by Satan to forget his entire image as a pious and respectable clergyman. He wanted to tear pretty Geetea’s robe and kiss her brown sunburnt leg (recently she visited -anonimously and secretly - for two days, a sea shore resort in the Gulf )– from her toes up to her thighs and hips, then arrive to her sweet lips…So, now not only he was looking uninnocently at the nice feminine creation of Allah, but he was turning his long nose and wide nostrils toward her – for a sinful smelling of her French perfume, made by Elane Delon. It was a honorary gift that she had received from the President himself, who was fond of her, but with no sexual intentions or fantasies; unlike those of Sayed Hussein - a widower for a long time. His wife had left him to have a seat in Paradise, while he was forty. God knows why had she dropped herslf or pushed by someone - from their nice balcony in Teheran.

In short, Hussein was overwhelmed for two moments by his senses, like any covetous old sinner. For him, as a clergyman and high Official – it was socially and politically unacceptable - to simply stroll in the street or enter a supermarket, that would always be populated by beautiful women, no matter how they dress. Such a pretty woman like Geetea- became to be in his eyes one of the virgins who surround a rightous Muslem in paradiae, and here he had found one on earth, very real flesh and blood…

However, very soon he felt guilty of that. He discerned that Geetea went back to her chair, so he desparately turned his head away from her. Surely he had reminded himself, that somehow he should be brought back to his official dignified figure: He was holding a high position in the Iranian regime, and that demanded an enormous sexual restraint, at least in public.

There were six chairs and two tables in the room. Hussein seated himself at the empty one, and began to fumble in the narrow file, that he had brought with him. Then he saw the small bookcase setup nearby at the wall. So he rose a little, and pulled out one of the books. He opened it and murmured loudly, so that Geetea could also hear:

Oh! The President hasn’t told me he’s so interested in that issue!

What did his excellancy say? asked Geetea.

I see that book about Israel’s nuclear capability, he said, but stopped talking. He only meditated now: ‘I wonder, that Binajad relies on foreign journalists - regarding that issue, rather than on our military experts. As if he does not believe in what our men tell him."

At the other table - the two workholic secretaries continued silently with their boring ticking-clicking. But they suddenly stopped, as a voice was breaking from the megaphone. It came from the President’s room:

Has my respected advisor arrived? asked the President.

Geetea pushed a button at the telephone apparatus and replied:

Yes, Mr. President. Shall I tell him to enter?

Of course, said the voice. She indicated the advisor Hussein to enter, and heard again the voice: You should come here also, Geetea.

She said O’Key and arranged her hair. One of her black curls was dropping out of the kerchief cover, falling on her forehead. A certain smile appeared on her face. She looked at the other secretary and whispered to her, or only to herself:

I don’t know why he needs me there. Maybe something serious happened. I’ll have to write a stenography of a Presidential Declaration, then type it. He likes to read himself such things on the media – to the public. He moves his hands and howl from time to time. The crowd likes his manner of addressing a topic.

She was thinking about the telephone call she had got from Syria, and transmitted it to the President. It had arrrived just an hour ago. General Azarian spoke with president Binajad, and she knew that the situation in the rebellious mixed-up Syria was not as usual. Before the clashes had begun, Binajad was sometimes frivolously asking her- if she had found already a bridegroom. But lately he was so gloomy, that he had forgotten how to hide his tension. He was shouting on her frequently, unlike his paternal and polite behavior to her in the past. However, in the presence of his subordinates, he still tried to pretend that things were as usual. He had always been a tough and decisive man, and ruthless. So, in no way he would surrender to ‘cloudy circumstances or gloomy events’- as he used to say, ‘whatever will happen’.

She entered and took a chair at the President’s desk’s side, looking at the him and at his chief advisor, who was seated straight opposite to him.

The President’s room was not larger than the ante-room. On its wall, opposite to the entry door, there were hanging two pictures: One - of the Greatest Ayatulla Humeiny, the Islamic Republic Establisher; the other- of the sacred city Kom’s Shrine and Mosque. A third picture was hanging over the president’s head. It was a profile of the current Ayatullah.

The President was seated on a high chair, so that his own short height would not be felt by his visitors’ eyes.

Well, she heard him tell Hussein, I am confused by what I see in our diplomatic and military reports. I mean- regarding the State of that Jirafa throat…

Yes, the situation is complicated, said the Mullah (Islamist clergyman) Hussein.

Therefore, said the President, we both, with some generals and various weapons’ experts, have to fly to that country…tomorrow. Yes, tomorrow! To be impressed directly, from first hand, about the situation. We can’t be fed only by General Riza and his staff. Nor by stupid reportages brought by broadcasting teams - nor by bloody internet websites, where inciting fanatics or mad journalists can jolt without our interference…

But mister President, the Mullah and advisor raised his voice, It would be a very risky voyage. Dangerous for you- I should say…and you will…

You aren’t afraid about my life, laughed the President sarcastically, and his narrow eyes flickered from their cracks, you are worried about the life of one Sayed Hussein, ha ha. .. But my responsibility is to report to our Great spiritual Guide, his excellancy the Ayatulla - about the exact situation of the Syrian Regime. Also of our allies, who are their neighbors – and now are furious. Hizbullah are wondering how the Syrians cannot crush this revolution of the insects. . I’ll then explain to the holy man - what will be the impact of that cursed mix- up on us.

Let’s send there a delegation of ten Generals, on whom you rely; and they’ll report to you.

No! I don’t rely on anyone. I must see the situation in my own eyes.

So, we’ll need two thousands fighters to shelter you and make a secure zone in any street or building, that we will visit. A general cleaning in a radius of two thousands meters. It will delay some healthy actions taken by the regime’s army...As well as by other security and gangs forces, called Shabikhaa. You should ask the Jiraffa, if he agrees to all that. And even if he promises a good shelter for us - you can’t be sure…

Geetea! said the President, have you stenographed every detail of our talk?

She nodded, and asked: Your original schedule for tomorrow was - to meet the Russian and Chinese ambassadors and their military Atachees. Shall I tell them that these meetings are cancelled?

Y-es…therefore I’ve called you. In the meantime –Hussein, you call the High Command Generals here, for a final consultation. Wer should be deciding who will escort my small staff...

The president waved his hand toward Geetea, as a sign that she should leave. While she was out, he whispered to his advisor: I will take her with us too. The Ayatullah allowed me to take female secretaries against your wish, remember? She is wonderful. By the way- how is the Ayatullah’s health lately? I haven’t seen him for a week.

Thank God, he is healthy as a rock. He thinks that the spirit of Sheikh Ali will shelter us along the unprecedented path, through which we are passing nowadays. He suffered from some pains in his stomach, but the attack has passed. He received the natrium posphat medicine, that doctor Abu-sheriff had given him.

Thank God, Allah Almubarek.

By the way, said Hussein, I think that we should keep your visit strictly confidential. Therefore- no more than fifteen people should join us.

I agree, said the President, If I could rely on ten, let’s take only ten.

The best would be, remarked the advisor, If you yourself would have disguised.

No!’ shouted the President, A president is not a pawn in Chess game, though we had invented it many many years ago, remember? Nor am I a General, nor even an Ayatulla! He is a dignified personality. I will sacrifice ny head- and not pretend to be another man, and disguise myself – to shave my beard or throw down my excellent sunglasses or arrive with a raincoat. No, not at all. A president shouldn’t disguise to anyone, nor be mocked as a coward."

I thought- maybe we can arrange for two days…a figure of some African President. So the president’s glamour will remain, and his suit too. Only his exposed face and hands should change.

I know that you sincerely want me to be well secured. But forget all that. You are my political advisor, but I won’t accept your advices regarding my personal security or appearance. See you tomorrow morning, dear Sayed Hussien. He gave him his hand for dismissal.

CHAPTER 2

It was noontime. In the clerks’ and simple workers’ small buffet of Iran President’s House – was seated an Iranian Pilot, Iraj Teherany, waving with his palm above a hot glass of tea. The man had been for three or four years the dedicated pilot of the President’s airplane. He was about thirty, with handsome cunning face. His dress was a deep blue suit, like many uniforms common for Airlines Companies pilots. His shirt was white, but he did not wear a tie. On his head was a cap-shaded hat with wings symbol at its front.

As he began to gulp the tea, his forehead became perspired, so he put down the hat from his head, and his fingers were nervously kneading crumbs of the sandwitch that he had begun to eat. From time to time- his eyes were turning to the front door, as he was waiting for someone.

Then he saw him coming. He was Navigator Cirus, dressed like his pilot. He was an aged weighty person of sixty five, white haired; however, he was an energetic, experienced and self determined person, and the pilot ‘s face beamed as he saw him enter the buffet. They said ‘hello’ to each other, and the navigator walked to the corner, where the boiler had been set. He began to prepare tea for himself, then was taking a glass of tea- and walked, carrying the glass in his hands, to the table where Iraj had been seated. Cirus was seated opposite to him.

The two ‘blue uniformed’ men were looking from time to time toward the door in suspicion- while they began talking in Iranian.

Do we expect somebody else to come? asked Cirus.

I am waiting for a lady. I have full confidence in her.

In our delicate issue - you try to involve a woman? asked Cirus.

The young lady is a secretary, translator and stenographist…

So what?

She has a job in our President’s office. And She happens to be my girl friend.

Oh, that’s a different story, Cirus was smiling, and said: O’key.

A knock was heard at the open door, which was open.

Geetea was there. She closed the entry door behind her, and was walking rapidly into the room, and like didn’t pay attention to the air-men. She was already staying at the Boiler’s corner, and filling water into a glass. Then she put tea and suger in it, and walked to sit alone at the other table - looking at the wall.

The eyes of the two men followed her moves. Iraj murmured something to his collegue Cirus. Geetea turned her head toward him, for a very short time.

As I’ve said, he said to the wall, Cirus is our Navigator. He knows all the details of our schedule.

Geetea moved her head, in a ‘double nod’ for a sign of approval that she had heard.

For our best performance, continued Iraj, "we need to know the exact flight’s destination.

If it’s Damasque, or any other location."

We have a difficulty with the President’s Bureau Manager and consultant. I mean, Mister Sayed Hussein. He is a poker faced person, hiding any detail. The President himself don’t know exactly the route of flight. Hussein is the coordinator with the army- for all the voyages.

"But he can’t hide it all the time. He must coordinate with outside people, who will have

to host and accommodate the VIP-S, and so on. Unless I know the airfield name now- I can’t, you know, make the final contact…"

"I imagine that the President wants to visit Lebanon or Syria or both, or only a particular location there. I could not hear more than I heard. The