Strike Force

“Maybe you deserve to spend a little time in prison, General — a little hard labor might improve your attitude.” He shook his head and wrote orders on the message he received from the Supreme Defense Council. “You are to be sent to a Bureau detention facility. I’ll see to it that…”

“A Bureau facility?” Buzhazi retorted. This bit of news really scared him. The Edarehe Hefazat va Ettelaate Sepah, or Intelligence Bureau, was the Pasdaran military and internal intelligence agency, run by a Pasdaran two-star general. If the Pasdaran itself was fearsome, the Intelligence Bureau was a hundred times worse, because it was from their intensive espionage and monitoring activities that the Pasdaran derived its power. Even though the Pasdaran itself had been officially merged into the unified military command, the Intelligence Bureau still operated quite separately from the military. “I thought you said you were handling the investigation? Why don’t you assign me to your staff investigation directorate? Why aren’t they handling the investigation if you have been assigned the task?”

“The Pasdaran handles investigations involving possible security breaches inside military units…”

“No, the Pasdaran handles the ‘wet work’ for the mullahs,” Buzhazi interjected. “You might as well just put a bullet in my brain now, Hoseyn. They’ll come up with whatever verdict the mullahs want.”

“Be sure not to say any of that at your deposition, General,” Yassini said, nodding to the guards to take him away.

The Pasdaran headquarters, including their directorates of operations and intelligence, was located at Doshan Tappeh Air Base on the eastern outskirts of Tehran; the heavily fortified installation was also the headquarters of Iran’s air force, air logistics command, and several aircraft maintenance, repair, and modification centers. Buzhazi was taken inside the Pasdaran headquarters compound, a thirty-acre walled fortress on the northwestern side of the air base, and turned over to a very large, burly, bearded jailer who looked as if he lived in the subfloor jails. He was ushered into the central building, down two flights of stairs, and down a long corridor to the detention facility. He was taken past several dozen locked solid steel jail cells to an in-processing room, which had a fingerprint station, desk, computer, stainless-steel examination table, file cabinets — and, Buzhazi noted, sound-deadening tiles on the walls and ceiling.

“Strip, prisoner,” the big jailer ordered after his handcuffs had been removed.

“As you were, Corporal,” Buzhazi said. “You’re speaking to a general officer.”

“I said strip, prisoner,” the jailer growled again.

“My name is General Hesarak al-Kan Buzhazi, commander in chief of the Iranian Internal Defense Forces. You will address me as ‘sir’ or ‘general.’” The jailer reached out to grab Buzhazi, but the general deflected the jailer’s hands away. “You dare use physical force against a superior officer?” He was careful not to scream or curse at the jailer — he wanted to sound authoritative, not crazy or threatening. “Before I was chief of the general staff, I was commander of all Iranian Shock Troops.” The jailer was surprised to hear that his prisoner was the former chief of staff. Buzhazi hoped that the corporal would equate the disbanded “Shock Troops” with “Pasdaran” and back off a bit — the Pasdaran had no respect whatsoever for the regular army. “We were taught how to immobilize the biggest man without weapons. I won’t hurt you, but I will not allow you to abuse me like a common criminal.”

“You will stop resisting and comply, prisoner.” He reached for him again, eyes blazing in fury. Buzhazi let the jailer grasp him by his tunic, then easily broke the jailer’s grip and shoved him away, digging the tip of his thumb into the man’s sternum. Even though the jailer easily had thirty kilos on the general, Buzhazi knew exactly where the vulnerable pressure points on a man were.

Now the jailer was completely confused. Buzhazi saw him glance at the red alarm button on the wall, and he knew if he reached that button, Buzhazi would be restrained…or, more likely, shot for resisting. “Corporal,” Buzhazi said quickly, in a bit more conciliatory voice, “I am not going to tell you again: I am a general in the Iranian military, and I have not been charged with a crime. You will address me as ‘general’ or ‘sir,’ and you will not attempt to touch me, is that clear? If you extend to me this ordinary sign of respect, I will comply with your instructions.”

The jailer was obviously now concerned that he couldn’t handle this thin, older man by himself; afraid that he would be dismissed from this post, perhaps even punished, for not doing his job. “You must obey my orders…”