The Tehran Initiative (21 page)

* * *

Oakton, Virginia

“Dr. Malik?”

The agent, making his hourly check on the doctor, stopped pounding on the door of the master bedroom for a moment. He could hear the shower running, but there was no response.

“Dr. Malik? Can you hear me?”

Still nothing.

He radioed downstairs to the watch commander and explained the situation.

“Go in,” the commander said.

“You’re sure?”

“Absolutely.”

“Very well.” The agent tried the handle, but it was locked. So he drew his pistol, put his shoulder to the door, and broke it down. Then he pounded on the bathroom door and called out a few more times. When there was still no reply, he gave one last warning, then broke down that door as well.

To his astonishment, Najjar Malik was not to be found.

* * *

Jerusalem, Israel

Roger Allen arrived at the Knesset building early.

He cleared security and was taken directly to the prime minister’s office, only to learn that Naphtali was not going to be available for another hour. There was no explanation from the PM’s chief of staff other than that dinner wasn’t going to work any longer, that Naphtali had been “unavoidably detained” and “would appreciate Mr. Allen’s patience.” He also said that when the meeting did occur, it would take place with principals only. Staff, even senior aides, were not invited.

Allen was furious but did his best to keep his legendary temper in check. He knew exactly what was happening. Naphtali was trying to send him a message that he didn’t take orders from the United States, least of all from a man who ran the very agency that had failed to detect or prevent an attempt on his life and was doing precious little, in his view, to punish the country he considered directly responsible. Allen was tempted to thank the PM’s chief of staff, say he had other business to attend to, go check into the King David, and get some work done until the leader of the Jewish State could deign to meet with a senior representative of Israel’s only serious friend left on the planet.

But now was not the time for a diplomatic temper tantrum. That would surely get picked up in the Israeli media—and then the Arab and Iranian media—and cause more harm than good. So he sat alone in an electronics-clean anteroom down the hall from Naphtali, unable to make calls, unable to use e-mail, and without any of his staff.

* * *

Oakton, Virginia

Najjar knew he didn’t have much time.

He climbed out the bathroom window of the safe house, then lowered himself onto the garage roof and jumped to the ground. Then he sprinted through the backyard of the safe house and into the side yard of the neighbors who had just gone on vacation, crouching behind a row of shrubbery and praying that he couldn’t be seen. He’d fully expected to be caught. The fact that he hadn’t been, he hoped, had to be the hand of Providence.

Glancing around to make sure no one was looking or within earshot, he wrapped a hand towel he had taken from the master bathroom around his fist and smashed through a basement window of the neighbors’ house. Then he scraped away all the remaining glass and climbed inside.

Najjar landed in a sea of Barbie dolls and toy cars. He paused for a moment, wondering if a security alarm was about to go off. When it didn’t, he started breathing again and hastily proceeded to the main floor.

Staying low and away from any of the windows along the back of the house, he found his way to the laundry room and through it to the garage. Sure enough, the subcompact he’d seen drive in and out every day was still there, right beside the empty space for the minivan. Now all he needed was the key. He checked the wall by the door but found only rakes and tools. So he moved back through the laundry room and into the kitchen, furiously riffling through drawers and cabinets but finding nothing. Next he headed into the main foyer. Unfortunately, though there was a small table with a vase of roses by the front door, there were no keys. Nor were there any hanging near the door.

Najjar’s heart was racing. He’d never broken into anyone’s house. He had certainly never borrowed anyone’s car without their permission. He was terrified of getting caught.

He raced upstairs, past the children’s rooms to the master bedroom at the end of the hall, grateful that the layout of the house was exactly the same as the one from which he had just come. And there, to his relief, on the nightstand by the bed he found a spare set of keys—along with a cell phone. He grabbed both, found a pad of paper and a pen on the dresser, and scribbled out a short message—a thank-you—and his name. He was ready to go to jail for this if need be. He wasn’t going to hide what he had done. He just hoped he could stay ahead of the CIA and the police long enough to do what he had to.

Najjar raced downstairs, through the laundry room, and back to the garage. He unlocked the driver’s-side door of the red Toyota Corolla, got in, and quickly acclimated himself to the dashboard. Then he adjusted the mirrors, turned on the engine, hit the garage door opener clipped to the visor, and backed out as carefully as he could, half-expecting the house to be fully surrounded by American agents by that point. But it wasn’t. He could hear a siren in the distance, making his heart beat even faster. Then he put the garage door down again and pulled out of the neighborhood, not exactly sure where he was headed but determined not to look back.

* * *

En Route to Tehran

David couldn’t wait to get on the ground in Tehran.

Having been cooped up on one flight after another for nearly twenty-four hours, he was eager to get to his hotel, take a shower, and get an early start on the day. In the meantime, he made a mental checklist of his next moves.

His top priority was hunting down Jalal Zandi and Tariq Khan. His best shot, he figured, was to reconnect with Dr. Alireza Birjandi, code-named Chameleon. Thus far his most useful asset, Chameleon was essentially a mole inside the upper echelons of the Iranian regime. It was from Birjandi he had learned that Iran now had eight operational warheads, and it was Birjandi who had pointed him to Najjar Malik, an absolute treasure trove of intel for Langley. Perhaps the eighty-three-year-old professor, scholar, author, and leading expert on Shia eschatology—widely described in the Iranian media as a spiritual mentor or advisor to several of the top leaders in the Iranian regime, including Ayatollah Hosseini and President Darazi—could help him track down Zandi and Khan as well.

Birjandi regularly met with both Hosseini and Darazi, and he’d been willing to share with David information from these meetings—information that had proven invaluable. If David remembered correctly, Birjandi was scheduled to have lunch with one of the leaders the following day. He was determined to be the last person Birjandi talked to before going into that lunch and the first person Birjandi spoke to when it was over. At the very least, he hoped he could gain critical insight on the regime’s latest thinking, especially after the assassination attempt on the Twelfth Imam. Whom did they hold responsible—the US, Israel, or someone else? How were they planning to respond? How quickly were the Iranians—or the Mahdi—planning to use the eight warheads in their possession? Was Israel the first target? Had they truly been unable to attach the warheads to ballistic missiles yet? Would the Iranian missile boats heading through the Suez Canal in the next few days be carrying nuclear warheads? The list of questions David needed answers to was growing by the hour.

25

Jerusalem, Israel

It was 8:12 p.m. Jerusalem time.

Roger Allen was finally ushered into the prime minister’s spacious, wood-paneled office. He was in a foul mood and more than ready to have a very candid conversation about the importance of maintaining good professional relations between two allies. But the moment he saw Naphtali, a man he had known personally for more than four decades, Allen’s tone changed completely. He suddenly realized that not a single photograph of the PM had been released since the attack, and now he knew why. The official government spokesman had told the international press corps that Naphtali had “miraculously” received only “minor wounds.” Nothing, it was now clear, could have been further from the truth. The man’s entire face was bandaged, as were his hands. He was wearing not a suit but light-blue scrubs, like a surgeon would wear. Hovering in the background was Naphtali’s personal physician, and a bed specially designed for burn victims was set up in the corner, alongside an array of monitors, medical trays, and various other types of equipment.

“Asher, I heard you’d suffered more than publicly known,” Allen blurted out, dispensing with formalities, “but I had no idea how serious it was. Why didn’t you tell us?”

“You know exactly why,” Naphtali said, clearly unable to shake hands but gesturing to the couch for Allen to sit down.

“The Iranians.”

“They would think we were coming for them tonight.”

“Didn’t you just do that?” Allen said, choosing to stand instead when he realized Naphtali was unable to sit.

“The hit on the Twelfth Imam?”

“That was a mistake, Asher.”

“It wasn’t. He killed Abdel. He tried to take out your president. He tried to kill me. We didn’t have a choice.”

“You nearly killed an eleven-year-old boy.”

“We didn’t know he was in there.”

“You killed his parents.”

“We didn’t know they were in the car either.”

“Then you shouldn’t have ordered the shot.”

“We didn’t start this war, Roger. Look at me.”

“I know, but it was a foolish move. You’ve made a hero out of him.”

“Roger, the Muslims think he’s the messiah. He was a hero the moment he stepped out onstage in Mecca and King Jeddawi bowed down before him.”

“Now you’ve made him look invincible.”

“I was promised he wouldn’t survive. No Mahdi, no Caliphate. The IDF told me it was going to be a surgical strike.”

“They never are.”

“No, not always,” Naphtali said, asking his physician to give them the room for a few minutes before continuing. “I’m sorry to make you wait.”

Allen held his tongue.

“I’m sure you think it was personal,” the prime minister said.

“Not at all,” Allen said.

“Don’t lie to me, Roger. We’ve known each other for forty years. You think I’m mad at you. But I’m not. Well, okay, I am, but that’s not why I kept you waiting out there so long.”

“Why, then?”

“We just had an emergency meeting with the Security Cabinet. The Mossad says the Iranians are moving five warships into the Med. They’re heading north up the Red Sea right now and are set to pass through the Suez Canal tomorrow. We think two are heading for Turkey, while the other three will go to Syria. They’re destroyers and missile boats, and I don’t have to tell you what a provocative act this is right now.”

“I haven’t heard definitive intel on that.”

“Given the last twenty-four hours, you’re not exactly instilling me with confidence that the US is on top of things.”

“I’ll look into it,” Allen said.

“You’ll do better than that,” Naphtali said. “I want the president to block the Suez Canal and refuse the Iranian warships entry into the Med.”

“Asher, please, we can’t do that. It’s tantamount to an act of war.”

“And Iranian missile boats off the coast of Tel Aviv and Haifa aren’t?”

“This isn’t the first time the Iranians have sent warships into the Med.”

“This is the first time those ships could have nuclear warheads on board.”

“You don’t know they do.”

“I can’t take the risk, Roger. This is a red line for me and my government.”

Allen felt like he was being backed into a corner, and he didn’t like it. “You’re preparing for war, Asher.”

“I don’t want war. That’s not my intention.”

“But you see one coming.”

“You don’t?”

“It doesn’t have to come to that. We’re actually opening a back channel with the Mahdi. We have reason to believe he wants to contact the president directly and talk peace and find a way to de-escalate the situation.”

“Assassination and warships don’t signal de-escalation.”

“Look, Asher, we don’t know for certain who is responsible for the attacks in New York. We certainly don’t know it was Iran.”

Allen knew full well that wasn’t true. He’d gotten off the phone with Tom Murray less than an hour ago. He knew all about the Yazidi brothers and their connection to the Nouri family. But he was under strict orders from the president to keep the Israelis from launching a preemptive strike. He hadn’t had time to discuss the latest intel with the president, but he had no doubt Jackson would not permit him to disclose such information to the Israelis, for fear that such proof would provide the
casus belli
for an Israeli attack.

* * *

Langley, Virginia

“What do you mean you can’t find him?”

The more Eva Fischer heard from the watch commander at the safe house, the more furious she became. “How do you lose the most important defector in a generation?”

There was nothing the commander could say that could possibly calm her down. So she cut him off and told him exactly what to do. “Call Fairfax County police. Get them his name and photo and tell them he’s wanted by federal authorities. Don’t tell them he’s a defector or that he’s an Iranian national. Got that?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Get the neighborhood sealed off. No one goes in or out without a full search. He can’t have gotten far. He’s never been to the US. He’s obviously not familiar with the area, he’s on foot, and he’s not dangerous. He’s not a threat to the neighbors. But he is smart, and he has had at least a forty-five-minute head start. So have the cops put checkpoints up at every major intersection for ten miles in every direction. And you’d better catch him fast, Commander, or your career is finished.”

* * *

Jerusalem, Israel

Allen continued his case to the prime minister.

“We’re doing everything we can to investigate what happened in Manhattan, Asher. But at this moment we don’t know exactly who was responsible, and the stakes are too high for guessing. We can’t slide or drift or lurch our way into war with Iran or with the Twelfth Imam based on guesses and hunches, and neither can you.”