The Tehran Initiative (26 page)

He opened the sealed envelope and found the message as brief as the CIA had described. Sure enough, the Mahdi expressed his personal condolences to the president for this “terrible tragedy.” He promised a thorough investigation to determine who was responsible. But his main message was that he wanted the president to know that “now is the time for peace, not more bloodshed.” As anticipated, he asked for a phone meeting with the president the following Tuesday, after he finished his initial tour of the Middle East.

“I do not see the wisdom in resuming formal relations between the Islamic Republic of Iran and your country for the foreseeable future, under the current conditions,” the Mahdi wrote bluntly. “You have not spoken favorably about the new Caliphate I am building. You do not demonstrate an understanding of Islam’s power or emerging role in the world, nor has your government expressed the requisite repentance for past offenses. Still, we have crossed a threshold. We have entered a new age, and it seems the better part of wisdom to speak soon. Perhaps our representatives should meet to discuss issues of mutual concern, including a matter you keep proposing, a regional peace accord. It remains to be seen whether such an accord is possible, given your policies toward the oppressed peoples of our region and your financial, military, and political support for those who oppress them most. But since you have requested a meeting, I will not oppose one. I have come to bring peace. That is my mission. If you truly seek peace, then let us move quickly, before the moment passes forever. As the ancient Persian proverb says, ‘A promise is a cloud; fulfillment is the rain.’”

Was it a threat or a true open door? Jackson wondered. It certainly wasn’t the most warmly worded communiqué he had received since taking office, but it was, after all, coming from an enemy, not a friend. The Mahdi had taken a clear shot at America’s relationship with Israel (aka the oppressors) and made a clear allusion to the nuclear weapons he now controlled (“we have crossed a threshold”). Still, the Mahdi seemed to want a back channel. He was reaching out. He wanted to talk, if only by phone.

Jackson reached into the top right drawer of the
Resolute
desk, pulled out a fountain pen and a piece of thick White House stationery, and began drafting his reply.

* * *

Najjar wiped the perspiration from his hands and forehead.

He was relieved to have finally made it to the Washington bureau of the Persian Christian Satellite Network. He hadn’t gotten lost. He’d found parking quickly. The staff had welcomed him warmly. He sensed the Lord was with him and that he was doing the right thing. Yet between the heat of the TV lights and the cramps in his stomach, he was struggling to stay focused.

A young man clipped a microphone to his shirt while a young woman put some makeup on his face, and then it was time.

“Now, remember, this isn’t live,” the producer said. “It’s too early in Iran right now to go live. So we’re going to tape this for now. That way, if you feel like you’ve messed up, you can always start an answer over again, and we can take care of that in editing. Okay?”

Najjar nodded. He had never been on TV. He had never wanted to be on TV. He had never even imagined being on TV. But there he was, wondering exactly what he was going to say and wondering what Sheyda would say if she could see him right now.

“At this point,” the producer added, “we’re planning to run this tomorrow evening as a full hour-long special at prime time, probably in the seven o’clock hour, Tehran time, or 10:30 a.m. Eastern. Is that okay?”

Najjar nodded and asked for a glass of water.

“Excellent,” the producer said. “Now, do you have a website you want to direct people to?”

“No, of course not. Why do you ask?”

“People are going to be absolutely fascinated with your story, Dr. Malik. Believe me. This is what I do. I help Iranian believers tell their stories to Farsi speakers all over the world—in Iran, of course, but all through Europe, North America, wherever. Our network has a very high viewership. And I always encourage our guests to have a website where people can go to learn more.”

Najjar didn’t know how to respond. “It’s all happened so quickly. I don’t have anything like that.”

“How about a Facebook page?”

“Sorry, no.”

“Myspace?”

Najjar shook his head.

“Okay, wait here,” the producer said. “I have an idea.”

He ran to his office and came back a minute later with his laptop. “Have you ever used Twitter before?”

Najjar stared at the young man. “I’ve been building nuclear reactors and weapons all my life. I haven’t even learned how to use a mobile phone for more than calls and e-mail,” Najjar answered.

“So no tweeting?” the producer asked.

“I’m sorry,” Najjar said. “I don’t even know what that means.”

“It’s okay. I’m setting up an account for you right now, and we’re going to tell people throughout the show to sign up to follow you. Don’t worry. I’ll explain it all after we’re done.”

A production assistant brought Najjar a bottle of water while the crew made final adjustments. Soon they were all ready, and the red light of the lead camera came on. Najjar tried to relax, tried to look calm, but he was holding the arms of his chair so tightly his knuckles were white.

“Let’s start at the beginning,” the producer said. “Please tell us your name, your background in Iran as a high-ranking nuclear scientist, and why you were once a follower of the Twelfth Imam but have now become a follower of Jesus Christ.”

31

Tehran, Iran

David found a hotel and checked in.

Once his “minder” had driven off, he went up to his room, locked the door behind him, closed the curtains, and sat down on the bed. He opened the box that held the satellite phone and took the phone apart piece by piece. He could not take a chance that it was bugged.

When he was convinced it was clean, he put the phone back together and dialed the Munich Digital Systems branch office in Dubai. No one answered, so he left a message with his manager, letting him know he was safe in Tehran and would be checking in with the technical team the following morning. Next, he called the MDS headquarters in Munich and left a cryptic message on Eva’s line, saying he needed to “accelerate” the arrival of the “shipment we discussed” and see if it could be rerouted to his office in Tehran. His goal was to be doing what Abdol Esfahani had asked him to do, on the satphone Esfahani had given him to use for that very purpose. If somehow someone was listening, David needed them to hear what they expected to hear. Nothing more. Nothing less.

That done, however, David pulled out his own Agency-modified Nokia N95, the company’s top-of-the-line smartphone, which worked more like an iPhone than a BlackBerry. He took that one apart as well, since from the moment he’d been subjected to interrogation, it had been out of his hands. Had it been tampered with in any way? The process of pulling it apart and reviewing every microchip and wire took nearly an hour, and he was grateful for the first time for all the training Langley’s techies had given him—and that he was remembering it all.

Convinced everything was fine, he now had to put it all back together without messing up any of the special improvements the technical division had made. The phone had a special GPS function that allowed Zalinsky and the Agency to track his location in real time without anyone being able to detect that such tracking was going on. It had also been preloaded with the names and contact information of people David would be expected to know in his job as a technical consultant for MDS. What’s more, special software securely uploaded any new names, phone numbers, and e-mail addresses he added to his contact directory to Langley’s and NSA’s mainframe computers and alerted both agencies to hack in and begin monitoring those phone numbers and e-mail addresses as new high-priority targets. Most important, while his phone typically operated on standard frequencies, allowing foreign intelligence agencies to listen in on his calls and thus be fed disinformation if needed, a proprietary encryption system could be activated to enable him to make secure satellite calls to Langley or to other field agents. This was only for rare cases and extreme emergencies, because whenever the software was activated, those monitoring David’s calls would know immediately that he had gone secure, potentially risking his cover as a consultant for Munich Digital Systems.

This, however, was one of the rare cases. He had to talk to Zalinsky and tell him what had happened so far—the waterboarding, the invitation to join the Group of 313, and the urgent request for the rest of the phones. But he didn’t feel comfortable making the call from his room. He still hadn’t gone through everything in his briefcase and his luggage to make sure no bugs had been planted. Esfahani had said he was clean, but they were clearly concerned enough that he might be a spy that they were applying extraordinary measures. At this point, he couldn’t be too careful.

He ducked out into the hallway. Then he found the stairwell, headed up to the roof, and made the call.

“I don’t know,” Zalinsky replied after hearing Esfahani’s demand for the rest of the phones. “I’m not sure I’m comfortable giving the Mahdi and his team a full communications network right now. We’re too close to war, and we don’t have the manpower to track all those calls in real time.”

“What if you send a hundred or so for now,” David suggested, “but have most of them be ‘damaged in shipping’? That would make it look like I was trying hard, but it would also buy us time.”

“It’s a good idea,” Zalinsky said, “but it’s risky. What if Esfahani explodes?”

“I’ll tell him it’s his own fault,” David replied. “He should have let me go get them in person.”

Zalinsky agreed, then asked if David was still okay, all things considered.

“I’m in some pain,” David replied, “but that’s not what worries me.”

“What does?”

“I don’t have a single lead on these warheads, and events are moving too fast. Jack, I don’t know how I’m going to find the warheads in time, and even if I do, the president won’t take action to destroy them.”

“Don’t worry about the president,” Zalinsky countered. “You just find those warheads, and when you do, believe me, I’ll find a way to take them out. On that you have my word.”

“Thanks, Jack.”

“What you’re doing isn’t in vain. Now listen—do you remember a guy named Javad Nouri?”

“Of course. He’s the guy I delivered a bunch of phones to. Works for the Supreme Leader, I think.”

“Actually, we’ve determined he’s the personal aide to the Twelfth Imam.”

“Wow, that’s huge.”

“He keeps popping up on the call intercepts, and we now have video of him traveling with the Mahdi in Mecca and Beirut. Now here’s the thing: do you know anything about his family?”

“No, why?”

“We believe he has a cousin, Firouz, who was the cell leader for the attack on the president at the Waldorf on Sunday night. We think he’s still in the States, probably still in New York. We have a huge manhunt under way right now. The problem is we don’t have a picture. If you can get one, we need it.”

David had to shake his head. “So I was right.”

“You were.”

“The cell was Iranian, not al Qaeda or the Brotherhood.”

“That’s true,” Zalinsky confirmed. “The guy the Secret Service shot and killed is Rahim Yazidi. He’s a member of the Revolutionary Guard Corps. The guy we have in custody is Navid Yazidi, Rahim’s kid brother, also part of the Guard. Eva got Navid to give up Firouz Nouri. His father is Mohammed Nouri. He’s a mullah in Qom, big in the Twelver community, apparently. He’s written several books on the Twelfth Imam. Anyway, see what your friend Birjandi can tell you about the family. We need everything we can get. I don’t have to tell you how much pressure the Agency is under to get this guy, Firouz. The president is off the charts about us not seeing the Manhattan attack coming. We need a success, and we need it fast.”

* * *

Langley, Virginia

Eva Fischer popped her head into Zalinsky’s office.

“Got something you need to see.”

Zalinsky was typing furiously on his laptop. “Close the door,” he replied without looking up.

Eva complied and took a seat.

“Is it Malik?”

“No, but we’re doing everything we can to find him.”

“Then why haven’t we?” Zalinsky asked. “Murray’s handling this reasonably well, under the circumstances. But the director—who’s still in Israel—is furious. They haven’t told the White House yet, but they’re going to have to soon. But that’s not the worst of it.”

“What is?”

“The director is asking if there’s any chance Malik is a double.”

“Absolutely not,” Eva said categorically.

“You’re sure about that?”

“You’ve read the transcript,” Eva replied. “Does he come off as a double agent to you? I mean, the guy renounces Islam and claims he saw a vision of Jesus Christ, for crying out loud. Not exactly typical behavior of an Iranian mole.”

“Wouldn’t that throw us off all the more?”

“He’s not a double, Jack. He’s scared. He’s lonely. He misses his wife. He misses his daughter. And we had him confined to a house all alone, but for the armed guards.”

“Some good it did us.”

“Look, Jack, everything he’s told us has checked out. Everything. And we’re doing everything we can to find him. What else can we do? In the meantime, I’ve got a new intercept for you.”

Zalinsky sighed and put on his reading glasses as Eva handed him the translation of a recent call.

VOICE 1: Code in.

VOICE 2: “This ill cannot be healed, neither can the serpents be uprooted. Prepare food for them, therefore, that they may be fed, and give unto them for nourishment the brains of men, for perchance this may destroy them.”

VOICE 1: Cousin, is that really you?

VOICE 2: It’s me, Javad.

VOICE 1: Are you all right?

VOICE 2: Yes, yes, thanks to Allah, I’m safe—for now, at least.

VOICE 1: Are you alone?

VOICE 2: No, Jamshad is with me.

VOICE 1: What about Rahim and Navid? Are they safe too?

Zalinsky looked up from the transcript. “Is that really Firouz Nouri?”