Prologue
Under the veil of darkness, Mohammad Assad was protected from wary eyes. Sweat dribbled down his neck, running into the lash marks that were engraved onto his flesh from weeks of being tormented by the whip. But pain would not stop him. Mohammad Assad would bring down the regime that had destroyed his childhood and killed his loved ones.
Tightening the grip on the steering wheel of his black Ford F-150, a mocking symbol towards the strict, hard-line, anti-Western clerics that taught him, Mohammad Assad reached the outskirts of the city of al-Quds. The tires crunched against the unpaved roads, which brought him across refugee camps and small shacks that housed those who tried to escape from the drama unfolding in the world. In the city of al-Quds, Mohammad Assad would change the world.
“Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ,” Mohammad muttered under his breath. His eyes wandered to the right, where his headlights illuminated a masked man by the road side. An AK-47 sat, loaded, strapped across his back. Assad hoped he would not be troubled. His hopes did not come true.
“Stop!” The man shouted in Arabic. Due to his education at the University at Tehran, where Assad studied the language that his teacher said ‘was the language of Mohammad, praise be with him’. Assad tugged at the cross that was draped over his right hand before coming to a full stop.
“You,” The man walked over, grabbing his AK-47. He was in his thirties, Assad thought. He was a little older, but his body was malnourished. Assad rolled down the window on his left side as the man crossed the street.
“You,” The man again muttered. He leaned against the F-150, breathing heavily. His breath stank from a lack of hygiene. Assad crinkled his nose.
“I don’t want to cause trouble,” Assad began. As he finished, the man raised his AK-47 and leveled it against Assad’s forehead.
“Give me your money, your car.” The gunman shouted. Quietly, Assad slid his hand down to the divide between the driver and passenger seats. In Tehran, he learned how to defend himself. But the Bible spoke of non-violence. Assad groaned in his thoughts.
“Please, let me pass.” Assad begged.
“Not until you give me everything you have.” The gunman replied calmly. He had not received a higher education than the fourth grade, Assad could tell. He probably did this to survive. Smirking, Assad found humor in the situation.
“Name me the leader of the Palestinians.” Assad shot back. The gunman lowered his AK-47 a little, but did not waver.
“The prophet Mohammad, peace be with him, leads us.”
“How cute.” Assad grinned. He laughed slowly, trying to buy time. His hand, still swimming in the divide, felt cold metal. Jesus could forgive him to defending himself.
“I don’t care!” The gunman shrieked. He poked the barrel of the AK-47 at Assad’s head, pressing it in deeply. “If you don’t give me everything you got, I’m going to blow you back to hell!”
Assad grabbed the pistol, bringing it in view of the gunman. Before his finger could pull the trigger, the gunman was hit with a forty-five caliber bullet in the chest. Immediately, he roared in pain, grabbing his chest instinctively as he doubled over onto the ground. Assad rolled up his window, and sped away in his truck. Soon, the Lord would forgive him. Assad was a sinful man. He’d followed the ways of Islam, under the radical impressions his cleric had imposed on him. He’d been trained to hit Tel Aviv as a suicide bomber at age 14. Fortunately, a Christian missionary group inside of Iran had taken him in when he ran away from his home city of Shiraz. There, Father Abraham taught him about the passion of the Lord, the forgiveness he could receive by accepting Jesus Christ as Lord. At age 20, Mohammad Assad was baptised. Gone from his Islamic fundamentalism, and now living in the arms of the Lord. He’d stayed in Iran, secretly pretending to be a Muslim. Although, two years ago, Assad hit a bump in the glorious road. And now, he was left on the road to Jerusalem. To meet with Israeli Prime Minister Levi Sharmon. To tell him everything he knew about the Iranian nuclear program. To bring about the utter destruction of the country of Iran, which had left him wounded as a person, physically and mentally.
The Ford F-150 reached eastern Jerusalem. The signs blazed with advertisements, displaying new products from all across the world. A new cell phone, a new car, and a new bank that had opened up in Tel Aviv. All things that, in Iran, would be replaced with messages of fanaticism. Assad was glad he escaped the regime. It couldn’t have come sooner.
Turning on his cell phone as the traffic light in front of him turned to red, Assad pressed the e-mail button. His Iranian e-mail, which he had used when, at age 24, he became a Revolutionary Guardsman, in order to fulfill the wish of Father Abraham to take secrets from the highest places in Tehran, was shut down. An encrypted e-mail, provided by the Israeli government, held one opened message in the inbox. One that Assad had read multiple times.
Prime Minister Levi Sharmon, who at age 57 was a rising star in the Israeli political scene, sent him a personal e-mail. The meeting room was in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs building. There, Mossad agents would guide Assad to Levi Sharmon. And finally, Mohammad Assad would tell him everything that the Iranians had held back from international UN reports.
Finally, the pick-up truck began to roll down the street. As it neared central Jerusalem, Assad looked at two black Volvos that began to trail his car. Mossad agents probably sat inside, guiding him to the meeting. In Jerusalem, maximum protection was what the Israelis specialized in.
The Ministry of Foreign Affairs, which was lit with bright white lights from foundation to roof, was a magnificent sight. The Volvos sped faster as Assad turned into the parking lot, honking their horns to stop him. Assad complied, and pulled over. Two men walked out of the cars, each wearing a matching black suit, accompanied with small penlights in their hands, which emitted a bright white light. They walked over to the driver’s side, motioning for Assad to lower his window. He did so, and one of the agents stuck his head inside , shining the light into Assad’s eyes.
“You Mohammad Assad of Iran?” The agent asked in rough Arabic. Assad nodded in agreement.
“Get out of the car.” The agent stepped back, allowing Assad to jump out. The other agent began to pat him down, feeling for weapons or bombs. They would not find any on him. Assad would never damage the people of the Holy Land. He would not do what the clerics wanted.
“He’s good,” One agent retorted to another. Nodding in agreement, the other agent took Assad by the arm and walked him across the street to the entrance. The second one was tasked with parking the cars.
Once inside, Mohammad Assad marveled at the size and scope of the building. It was quiet in the night, as employees prepared for the Saturday sabbath tomorrow. The click of people typing on keyboards was the only audible sound, save for footsteps.
“We’re meeting at the second floor. You will be escorted to Prime Minister Sharmon and then you will tell us everything you know.” The agent said, this time switching to Hebrew. Assad decided that becoming bilingual at the University of Tehran was great for this situation.
The agent led Assad to a glass elevator, which rose up into the air as it moved to the second level. Nervousness crept up inside of Assad. What if Sharmon didn’t believe him?
“Come,” The agent ordered as he walked forward. He walked past one door, and then turned to the right. He held the door open for Assad, who quickly followed.
Inside, Prime Minister Levi Sharmon, the man who had led Israel through so much in the past decade, sat at the far end of a circular conference table. Armed Israeli soldiers stood at the four corners of the room. The fluorescent lights were dimmed down, and the blue color to the room made it seem cold. Assad was directed to sit down across from Levi Sharmon.
“Good evening sir,” Assad said as he sat down. Sharmon, known for his sternness, was surprisingly warm in response.
“Same to you, Mister Assad.” The Prime Minister had gray hairs developing in the center of his hairline, which was slowly receding. When Assad first saw him on television ten years ago, his hair was jet black. As he rose through the ranks of the Israeli political scene, the effects showed greatly.
“Sir, I come to you not as an informant, but as somebody who strongly disagrees with the theocratic regime in Iran. I know more than a man wants to. I have seen how people lives their lives in Iran, living in complete mayhem. President Omar al-Anwar is a monster. The Supreme Leader Ayatollah al-Aziz has no emotion when it comes to his people. This regime wants to destroy you, and al-Anwar has made that clear. The information I have will solidify an attack on their nuclear reactors.”
“Tell me, please.” Sharmon pleaded.
“The Iranians have multiple underground nuclear reactors around the country. While they contend it is for peaceful purposes, I guarantee it is quite the opposite. By my estimations, Iran will have an atomic weapon in three months. They have Russian Scud missile, and they have new modern ICBMs. They have one prototype warhead. It is armed with a biological weapon. I’ve seen the intelligence center in Iran. Every minute, they watch every movement from Israel and the United States. Maps of Israeli, maps of Tel Aviv and maps of Jerusalem plaster the walls. They know their targets, and are not afraid to use a nuclear device to destroy every person in Israel.”
“How is this going to justify an attack?” Sharmon questioned Assad, much to his surprise. “They have a prototype; if we bomb Tehran and the nuclear sites, then the world says we’re the bad guys. Give me more information. Tell me everything.”
“Well, Iran has a prototype warhead in storage. They are working as fast as possible to create a fully operational nuclear warhead, and without question they will use it on Israel.” Assad said once more.
“Where is this prototype warhead, and where are they creating the nuclear warheads?” Sharmon pressed on further. Sweat dripped down Assad’s back. He prayed to God inside of his head.
“The prototype warhead is inside of a mosque in Qom. They put it there so no foreign military personnel can go inside and destroy it. Remember, no warfare in mosques?” Assad looked at Sharmon’s expression change to utter fury. “And the nuclear warheads are being created at numerous sites around the country. Underground, in bunkers. That way regular bombs can’t get them.”
“Thank you very much for the information, Mister Assad.” Levi Sharmon collected himself, letting out a deep sigh. “Believe me, you have greatly aided the country of Israel. Thank you, and may God bless you.”
Mohammad Assad nodded slowly, and was prompted by Sharmon’s eyes to rise from his seat and exit. He stopped before completely getting up, staring Sharmon in the eyes.
“I killed a Palestinian man on the way here. He approached my car and pointed an AK-47 at my face. Then I killed him.” Assad murmured quietly. Sharmon stared blankly into his eyes.
“It’s fine. With this information you gave, I promise the police won’t be on your tail. It was only a dirty Palestinian.”
Assad gulped hard, and was then grabbed by a Mossad agent who tugged him towards the door. The meeting was over.
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