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  still immaterial," Deputy Minister Marasimov, the commander of Strategic Rocket Forces, said. "The station is in polar earth orbit. It does not permanently position itself over the Middle East. It can only provide short-term glimpses of the region a few times each day. Which would make it impractical as a warning and control station. "

  Govorov hesitated for a moment. "That's true, but-" "This expensive toy has no more capability than an ordinary reconnaissance satellite," Marasimov went on, smiling benignly at young Govorov. "What you have said about the Armstrong's radar is true ... if the radar is in operation when it passes over the area, if it works properly, if its operators and interpreters correctly analyze the images, and if they can get the information to regional commanders in time to be of some use. By my count that's four pretty damn big ifs. "

  Marasimov nodded to Czifikov. "I believe our young colleague has presented some very ... interesting information, but I also believe that the radar on the American space station would be no obstacle to the success of Feather."

  Govorov looked amazed. "Excuse me, but-" "Thank you, General Lieutenant Govorov," Czilikov said, dismissing him. "I will -expect detailed briefings, on each command order of battle for Operation Feather in two weeks. "

  Govorov sank back into his metal folding chair as Czilikov continued issuing his orders. He struggled to remain pokerfaced, his eyes narrowed into angry slits as a few of the deputy ministers and marshals cast amused glances his way.

  They can't believe now, Govorov told himself. But they will. The American space station won't just be talked, or wished, away.

  EDINBURGH, SCOTLAND

  From the northernmost cannon mounts known as the Argyle Battery of Edinburgh Castle, the view of the New Town section of Edinburgh was breathtaking. Far below the craggy

  heights of the ancient castle, which seemed to grow out of the rock like a gnarled oak, the snow-covered Princes Street Gardens stretched from St. Cuthbert's Church to the west, to Waverley Station to the east and far, far down the Lothian Valley to the North Sea. Beyond Princes Street Garden, the modem shops, hotels and homes of New Edinburgh-"new" in this instance meaning the part of town that was only two hundred forty years old, as opposed to the rest, which was over twelve hundred---bustled with activity despite the

  cold winds and occasional snowfalls.

  There were a few die-hard tourists visiting this imposing stone castle overlooking Edinburgh, but for the most part the site was deserted except for the warders and members of the Castle Guard. Only a few hardy, well-dressed individuals stood by to watch as the Royal Scots Dragoon Guard made their way to the Mills' Mount gun platform for the one

  o'clock signal. "The townspeople, merchants and sailors of Edinburgh have set their timepieces to the one o'clock gun ever since the time of Napoleon Bonaparte," a tour guide was saying. His thick Scottish brogue, dulled by the chill winds swirling around the top of the castle, made him difficult to understand, but the man who stood a few feet to his left, dressed in a gray trenchcoat, wool-brimmed hat, leather gloves and sunglasses was not really listening. "It is even said that Saint Christopher, the patron saint of travelers, stops by Edinburgh every day to check the spin of the earth and moon with the gun so

  sailors won't get lost." "Why do they fire the gun at one o'clock?" a man with a slight Middle Eastern accent asked. He had been waiting there for some time, and was now standing right up near the chain and stanchions that kept visitors away from the small fifty-five-nii1limeter howitzer. "It seems a strange hour. Why not signal at noon?"

  Now the man in sunglasses was interested, but not in the tour guide's reply---being a native of Scotland, he'd already guessed the answer. "Ye forget, sir," the tour guide replied, his lips forming a sly smile, "you're in Scotland. Having to fire only one shot

  per day, rather than twelve, appeals to a Scotman's sense of economy. "

  The foreigner gave a short laugh and the tour guide went on with his well-rehearsed script. The Scots, the man with the sunglasses observed, seemed as fond of making fun at themselves as they were of the English and Irish.

  Presently the guards entered the chained-off area, and at the direction of the officer in charge, fired one economical round to the north over the New Town. By force of habit the man in sunglasses checked his watch--the timing was perfect. The Scots were nothing if not both thrifty and punctual.

  The tourists quickly retreated out of the numbing wind that blew in from the glacial bay called the Firth of Forth; even the Dragoon Guards' pace seemed to quicken as they marched off the Argyle Battery back to the massive group of twohundred-year-old buildings called the New Barracks.

  The man with the slight Middle Eastern accent turned away from the Mills' Mount Battery as if reluctantly relinquishing the sting of the icy winds on his face and walked down the cobblestone concourse toward the Portcullis Gate. He almost walked right into the man in the sunglasses. "Excuse me." His voice was even colder than the chill Scottish winds.

  The man in the sunglasses began in French. "Pardonnezmoi, Monsieur le Pr6ident Alientar. "McDonough?" "Yes, Mr. President." "I was afraid you were not going to come. I thought your government was going to change its mind again." "We can talk over here, sir," McDonough said, letting Alientar's shot glance off him unanswered. He led him past the former cart sheds turned souvenir shops and down a narrow alley to the Back Parade between the Butts Battery and the building marked "Governor's Residence." They then turned left across to a cobblestone half-moon carriageway to an entrance in the rear of the governor's residence. "We are going in here?" President Alientar asked. "The English and Scottish governments were kind enough to offer us a secure place to talk," McDonough said. They walked up the stone-and-filed portico of the rear of the building and were immediately met by a member of the Royal

  Scots Dragoon Guard in a black cold-weather uniform. No kilts, dirks or ceremonial basket-hilt broadswords here-the guard had a very mean, modem-looking Heckler and Koch MP5A3 assault submachine gun at portarms. He checked McDonough's ID, compared it against a separate roster, motioned them inside.

  A man dressed in household whites but clearly a member of the Dragoon Guard-the bulge of a Special Air Services Browning high-power automatic pistol was

  Visible under his tunic-led the two foreigners through the outer galley and kitchen area, through the well-appointed dining room and large sitting room and into a smaller office area. He eyed them both suspiciously, then left without saying a word. "Not very friendly ... 11

  "He probably feels this meeting of foreigners demeans the surroundings," McDonough said, and motioned Alientar to a leather-covered seat. A few moments later the guard returned with a tray of tea and scones.

  -M' omerica, " McDonough said in Gaelic. "My thanks." The guardsman gave McDonough a piercing look, obviously feeling that the foreigner was making fun of him by speaking the ancient Scottish tongue. He left with a loud thud of the heavy oak door. "No doubt my presence is a particular irritant," Alientar said. He eyed McDonough as he removed his hat, coat, and gloves. "What is it you do, Mr. McDonough?" "I'm an assistant to the president of the United States. I'm assigned to the National Security Council but I report directly to the president." "Are you a military man?" "Retired-United States Air Force. I was an air attachd to Tehran before the revolution." "A spy, then." "No, an air attachi. I was liasion between the Iranian and U.S. air forces." "You would deny it in any case," Alientar said blandly. McDonough took a deep breath, surprised at how steady his hands were as he poured the tea. "I am distressed that the president did not send one of his senior advisors to this meeting," Alientar said. "I would

  have expected at least a cabinet-level officer, or the vicepresident." He looked casually around the office, as if trying to decide whether or not to continue. "This troubles metroubles me deeply. I question the sincerity of your government if they can't at least send someone of ministerial or ambassadorial rank-"

  McDonough thought how a few years back Bud McFarland said almost the sam
e thing to second-rank Iranians when he had come to Tehran to sell arms for hostages. Full-circle. . . . "My apologies if we've offended you," McDonough said. He had been expecting this. "But the president requested this meeting in anticipation of a more formal state visit by you to Washington at the earliest opportunity. He asked me to talk with you, hear you out, and transmit your messages to him.Alientar shrugged. "Very well, but I am disappointed. And to have this meeting in Scotland? In the dead of winter? A poor choice." "Excuse me, sir, but this was by far the most secure place for this meeting. True, it's not recommended that you stray too close to these Royal Scots Dragoons. Too many Scottish seamen in the Royal Navy have lost their lives in the Persian Gulf because of your predecessor's attacks on British escort vessels in recent months. But almost any other site would be far more dangerous." McDonough paused for a moment, then went on. "Internal disputes in your own Revolutionary Guard make it no longer safe for you to be in your own palace in Tehran. Half the Muslim nations have shunned you or are afraid to show you any friendship, and the other half want you dead. Even France, where you've stayed for the past month, is close to deporting you because of the terrorist attacks you provoke by being there. You were let into Great Britain only after personal assurances from my president that secrecy would be maintained. All in all, I'd say we am lucky that this meeting is being held in the office of the governor of Scotland rather than in some jungle hut in South America-" "I resent the implication that I am some sort of banana republic tyrant come begging before a third-rank American bureaucrat. I am the president of the Islamic Republic of Iran. I am the political and religious leader of fifteen million

  Muslim soldiers of God who would gladly die for Allah, and myself. Please do not insult me."

  McDonough shrugged, thought to himself that this Iranian was even touchier than he'd expected. "I apologize for my remarks-" "I would hear the apology

  from the president himself." "I'm afraid that's impossible." "Why impossible?"

  McDonough sighed. "Sir, in this election year it would be ill-advised for any American politician to be seen with you. This meeting alone carries significant risk.... But the president does feel it's urgent to open a dialogue with you. I happen to be the best-qualified person in the administration to talk to you about your present situation. " "You are also ... how do you say it ... deniable? A secretary of state must answer to the people and to Congress. A junior aide in some back-room office in the White House can easily be hidden from public view."

  McDonough smiled in spite of himself. "You know your American politics, Monsieur le Pr,4sident."

  This small bit of flattery went a long way, helped Alientar to save some face. "Continue, Mr. McDonough. You are impertinent but I believe we can still talk business."

  McDonough nodded. "Well, in this case business simply involves an exchange of information. The president wants to know how you view the situation in your country." "That is all?" Alientar let out a short laugh. "I dare say your point of view is more informed than mine at this point." He turned away and stared out one of the tall columnar windows of the Governor's House. "They thought the Ayatollah Khomeini was Jesus Christ resurrected," Alientar said finally. "The damned outcast socialists, the bored students, the poor starving fundamentalist Muslims-it was as if they all wanted to re-create the New Testament, with Rubollah Khomeini as Jesus and the Shah as Pilate. There were secret police and atrocities on both sides, but Iran was a flower in the desert in the days of the Shah. Khomeini was supposed to make it better, and I believe that he could have made Iran prosperous under Islam. But he began to believe the things they were saying about him. He waged war on whoever the

  priests and elders told him were threatening his ascent to glory. He slaughtered thousands of the Shah's men, the only Iranians who knew how to run a government. He strangled the life out of the foreign oil companies. He made war on the Israelis, the French, the Americans, the British and then the Iraquis. He ordered the slaughter of ten thousand children in one month by sending them, unarmed, against Iraqi tanksand he rejoiced afterward. The power, it simply drove him mad. "

  Alientar paused for a moment, then continued. "He spent millions on educating the young mullahs overseas. We were taught diplomacy, defense, finance, every facet of government; then when we returned, he tossed us aside in favor of the religious fanatics. Many of us were made military field commanders-many of us died in Iraqi bombing raids or at the hands of Khomeini's Revolutionary Guard." "But not you. Your military successes led you back to Tehran. "

  Alientar looked surprised. "Yes. I led a successful guerrilla attack against some isolated Iraqi headquarters. My squad of old men and children had been abandoned by our Revolutionary Guard regulars; we were cornered like rats and we fought like rats and somehow were victorious. We captured some useless desert territory and a few Soviet tanks. They made me a hero and suddenly I found myself with access to the inner circle of power." "Where you began to build the groundwork for a more moderate government," McDonough added.

  Alientar looked at him. "I cannot tell if you are baiting me or if that is what you really believe. Never mind ... I was a lackey in the so-called Islamic Revolutionary Council. I kissed the feet of the psychotic fundamentalist warmongers like everyone else. But I discovered that I was not the only one who wanted a more moderate, more profitable Islamic government. A group of us arranged for arms to be secretly shipped from several countries, including the United States, and only a fraction of those weapons ever found their way into the hands of the Iranian army or the Revolutionary Guard The rest were stored in secret caches in Iran and Pakistan and Saudi Arabia, waiting.

  "It was a bad day, back in 1986, when our operation was revealed during your infamous Iran-Contra scandal. We went underground when our activities were made public, survived the internal investigations, and became stronger. The Revolutionary Guard may be the flower of the Ayatollah's chivalry, but they are just as corrupt as anyone. They kept their tongues silent for a little gold-no, hear me out, McDonough," he said as McDonough seemed about to interrupt.

  "You asked for information; you need background to understand it.... When Khomeini finally became too ill to function, Larijani, Khomeini's chosen successor, inherited a sinking ship. Even the support of the Soviet Union could not save him when we decided to take over-" "Yes, my government is impressed with your ability to consolidate the rival factions in your country," McDonough said. "Your progress has been encouraging. We know, of course, that there are still fundamentalist religious leaders and Revolutionary Guard commanders who claim you don't represent them, but their numbers seem to be dwindling. The president is optimistic. "

  Alientar stood and began to pace the tiny office, absently studying the books on the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lining the walls. He stopped and opened a concealed panel above a small letter desk, revealing a very well-stocked liquor cabinet with rows of shining crystal snifters and gracefully fluted decanters. "I learned much in the West. I learned about single-malt Scotch whiskey--he poured himself a shot and returned to the high-backed leather seat--and I learned about the rivalry between the East and West. I think I learned what motivates the Russians-fear of powerful neighbors, losing control of territories, having insecure borders, not having access to warmwater ports. And I believe I learned what motivates the West-worrying where the next tank of gas will come from, fear of losing markets, losing investment opportunities, losing control of the Soviets. There is a saying in the Middle East : ,there is no difference between Russian money, and American money, but with the Russian money comes Russian troops, and with American money comes Exxon and Holiday Inn.

  "Iran is tearing itself apart, Mr. McDonough," Alientar said matter-of-factly, as if casually describing the weather outside. "I have two choices. I can allow my country to be dismembered like a wounded hare set on by a pack of wolves, or I can align with a keeper to save us from self-destruction. I prefer the latter. I would like our keeper to be the United States of America."

  Mc
Donough nodded, his face showing no expression. Alientar went on, "If promised money, arms, and assistance from the West, I will pledge to withdraw from this Soviet-inspired war with Iraq, retreat back to our prewar boundaries and open negotiations with President Hussein of Iraq to normalize relations. If I manage to keep myself alive in the process, I will authorize an exchange of ambassadors between our countries, allow foreign oil companies access to petroleum deposits and eventually try to return Iran to its prerevolution status while retaining a moderate Muslim society and government. . . . It would also be in our interests to arrange that docking rights be granted to American naval vessels and aircraft, and to reestablish an American military presence in Iran. I believe the wolf with the sharpest teeth ready to swallow us is the Soviet Union, which would like nothing better than to have direct access to the Arabian Sea and the Persian Gulf and control of the Strait of Hormuz. It would be of incredible strategic value to them." He looked squarely at McDonough. "Or to the United States." "Our immediate priority," McDonough said, "is a stable, neutral and genuinely moderate regime in Iran. Naval bases and listening posts may come later."

  Alientar nodded, but his expression showed skepticism. "Of course. So what will you tell the president?" "Tell him? Well, I believe I'll tell him that President Alientar has promised the world. Again. I'll offer the opinion that you-are in no position to deliver anything, that you can't even guarantee your own safe return to Iran."