The Tehran Initiative (27 page)

“Yes.”

“So they’re actually cousins.”

“Apparently.”

“What’s the code he uses?”

“It’s a few lines from a Persian poem.”

“Which one?”

“
The Epic of Shahnameh
by Ferdowsi.”

“What’s the significance?”

“I don’t know yet.”

Zalinsky kept reading. “They’re in Queens?”

“So it seems.”

“Who’s Shirin?”

“Firouz’s sister. We’re working on all the connections. The point is, I just got this to the FBI, and I’m having them intensify their manhunt in Queens.”

“Okay, good work. And, Eva, make it crystal clear to the Bureau—we need this guy and Jamshad fast, and we need them alive.”

* * *

Tehran, Iran

David slept for a few hours and awoke early Wednesday morning.

He showered, dressed, grabbed his phone, and headed down to the lobby, half-expecting to see an intelligence goon waiting for him. But the lobby was empty. The restaurant was still closed. All was quiet.

Heading out to the street, he hailed a cab to the Iran Telecom operations center on the south side. Given the typical but unbearable Tehran rush-hour traffic, the six-mile ride took him nearly an hour. Once there, he spent the next several hours catching up with his MDS technical team, finding out how their work was going, and answering their many questions. By no means was it what he wanted to be doing, and he didn’t feel it was the best use of his time. But he had no choice. He knew he was being watched. He had to maintain his cover. What’s more, the senior executives back in Munich, the ones who paid him a salary and generous benefits each month, had no idea he worked for the CIA. They had hired him to help them rebuild Iran’s antiquated mobile phone network, and they were expecting him to deliver.

32

Hamadan, Iran

The military helicopter touched down at noon.

It landed in an open field across the street from the home of Dr. Alireza Birjandi as it did once a month. The neighbors didn’t like the noise or the sight of armed men taking up positions on their street, but they certainly didn’t complain. They lived in the Islamic Republic of Iran, and they knew better.

Two soldiers knocked on Birjandi’s door. The old man was ready and waiting as always with his white cane in hand. They helped the blind, eighty-three-year-old cleric down his steps, across the street, and into the still-running chopper, without saying a word. It was routine now. Each man knew his place and did what he had to do, and soon they were airborne again, gaining altitude and airspeed en route to the Qaleh.

For Birjandi, it did not really matter where he met the Supreme Leader and the president. Their monthly luncheons had not begun in the Supreme Leader’s private mountain retreat center in the early years. They had originally occurred in Hosseini’s residence on Pasteur Street, not far from the German and British Embassies. However, six months earlier, Hosseini had invited Birjandi up to his compound in the mountains, and they’d been gathering there ever since. From what Birjandi heard, Hosseini was spending less and less time engaged in official functions in Tehran and more and more time in the mountains. Was it for security reasons? Or health reasons? Or just the peace and quiet that Mount Tochal afforded? Birjandi wasn’t entirely sure, but he had his suspicions.

Hosseini was now seventy-six years old. He was alone in the world, having murdered his wife in 2002, and having sent all three of his sons to minefields to become martyrs during the Iran–Iraq War in the eighties. He had been a loyal disciple and deputy to Ayatollah Khomeini and had been at his side when the leader of the Islamic Revolution had passed away. Though he was not the first choice of the Assembly of Experts to replace Khomeini, Hosseini had eventually gained their favor and had now been the nation’s Supreme Leader for over a decade. During that time, he had worked diligently to shore up his power base and solidify his control of the military, the Revolutionary Guard Corps, the Basij militia, and most of the ruling class, including the religious leaders in Qom and the business elite in Tehran. Now he was firmly convinced that both the end of his own days and the end of all days were rapidly drawing near. He did not seem to want to be bothered with the trivial pursuits of the mere mortals living down below. His eyes had been firmly fixed on the coming of the Twelfth Imam, and now that he was here, the Supreme Leader was consumed with pleasing the so-called Promised One. Hosseini seemed to think it was more spiritual to stay in the mountains and beneath him to attend to the needs of his people.

As the helicopter made its final approach to the landing pad at the Qaleh and finally touched down, a sadness settled on Birjandi’s heart. He genuinely loved Hamid Hosseini. He abhorred the man’s choices. He abhorred the man’s religion. But the man was lost, utterly lost, and it grieved Birjandi.
Imagine,
he thought,
if a man like this became a follower of Jesus Christ. Imagine what joy and forgiveness he would experience. Imagine how much influence he would have on Muslims worldwide.
On his knees for hours at a time, Birjandi had begged the Lord to open the man’s eyes to the truth of Christ’s unfailing love and free gift of salvation. Birjandi chose to meet with Hosseini, as well as with President Darazi, because he was not sure there was a single other person in their lives who was a follower of Jesus Christ, who knew that the Twelfth Imam was a false messiah, and who was willing to risk his life to bear witness to those truths.

When he heard the chopper’s engine shut down and the rotors slow, Birjandi asked the Lord the same question he asked before every meeting:
Is today the day I should tell them I follow the true King of kings?
He had felt the Spirit’s undeniable restraint each time they met. He wasn’t sure why. He always listened to the men carefully and sincerely. He always answered their questions honestly. But they believed that they and he were kindred spirits, equally excited about the Twelfth Imam and equally devoted to serving him as the Lord of the Age. That had been true when they had first begun meeting, but it had not been true for some time now, and Birjandi prayed that today the Lord would give him an open door and a green light to tell these men the truth, for he had no idea how many more opportunities he would have to meet them face-to-face.

* * *

Tehran, Iran

After a productive morning, David took the MDS team out to lunch.

At their strenuous request, he reluctantly agreed to meet several of them at one of Iran Telecom’s switching stations near the city of Qom the following day to troubleshoot some software problems they couldn’t seem to solve. He had never been to Qom before, and it was not in his game plan for the Agency. But at the moment he couldn’t see a way around going, so he agreed and then said good-bye.

Promising to check in with them in the morning to finalize the arrangements, he left the upscale restaurant where he had splurged on them and walked for a few blocks, stopping occasionally to window-shop in various storefronts, really to see if anyone was following him. Unsure, he walked for another two blocks, then ducked into a crowded coffee shop, ordered a cup to go, and waited to see who came in behind him. No one looked suspicious, but he was taking no chances. After another ten minutes, he made his way to the back of the shop toward the restrooms, then ducked out the back exit into an alley, walked quickly around the corner, and bent down to tie his shoe. He glanced down the street to the north, then back to the south. No one appeared to be trailing him. Finally convinced, he hailed a cab.

“I need to get to the airport as fast as possible,” he told the driver. “How long will that take?”

* * *

The Qaleh, Iran

The three men gathered in the dining room.

Hosseini and Darazi were buoyant, explaining that the Caliphate was rising, oil prices were soaring—up another nine dollars a barrel overnight—and the annihilation of the Zionist entity was imminent. It wasn’t the first time they had said such things, of course, but Birjandi privately noted the way they said them. They spoke with such conviction, such certainty, that the hair on Birjandi’s neck stood on end and his entire body felt chilled.

“As we speak, Imam al-Mahdi is headed to Cairo,” Hosseini said. “He should land at any moment. He’s going to meet with the vice president and the supreme council of military leaders. By this time tomorrow, Egypt will be part of the Caliphate.”

“That means we will have the Zionists almost completely surrounded,” Darazi added. “We already have Lebanon and Syria, the Saudis, and several of the Gulf states. We have Sudan, Libya, and Algeria. With Egypt, the encirclement is almost complete. We still need Jordan, and we’ll get it. The king is digging in his heels, siding with the Americans. Director Allen of the CIA will undoubtedly head to Amman at some point. But Jordan will soon be ours. If the king opposes the Mahdi, he will regret it.”

Birjandi hadn’t heard anything about the Cairo trip. He wondered if David Shirazi knew, though he had no way to contact him. “Is the Mahdi going to Amman?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Darazi said. “Once the king sees what happens to the Jews, I think he will come begging us for mercy.”

“How I will love that day,” Hosseini said.

“How soon will the attack on the Zionists begin?” Birjandi asked.

“Any day now,” Hosseini said. “It’s up to him, of course, but I suspect everything will be ready by Monday at the latest.”

“That is so soon. Is there anything I can do while we wait?”

“Imam al-Mahdi wants to meet you when he gets back from Cairo. Ahmed and I have been telling him about you and how helpful you have been, how devoted you are.”

Inside, Birjandi cringed. He had no interest in being in the same country with the Twelfth Imam, much less the same room. He did not feel at liberty to say as much, though, so he nodded graciously and said he served “at the pleasure of my Lord.” He meant the Lord Jesus, but he could accept, for the moment, being misunderstood. “There is much talk that the Israelis will launch a massive air strike before you can launch your attacks,” he said.

“It’s just talk,” Darazi said. “The Americans won’t let them do it. The Mahdi has sent the president a private message within the last few days. It requests a phone call with Jackson next Tuesday.”

“And the president has accepted?”

“Not yet, but we believe it is just a matter of time. He has sent the director of the CIA to Jerusalem to meet with Naphtali. From what we can gather, the president is making the prime minister an offer he can’t refuse.”

Birjandi wasn’t convinced. He turned to Hosseini, wishing he could make eye contact but hoping at least to make him pause. “Hamid, my friend, do not underestimate Asher Naphtali. He may be a friend of the president, but he is not his lackey. He saw your test. He hears your rhetoric. He hears what the Mahdi is saying. He is not stupid. He knows he’s running out of time. He’s going to strike soon, and millions of our people will suffer.”

“That’s why we confuse them, delay them, until we can strike first with the warheads we’ve just built,” Hosseini replied.

“But what if the Israelis do launch first?” Birjandi pressed. “What if they destroy all our warheads before we can use a single one of them?”

“There is no need to worry, Alireza. Really. We are fine. The Mahdi has everything under control. All is going according to his plan.”

“What does that mean?” Birjandi asked. “We dare not underestimate the reach of the Zionists. They have spies everywhere. They killed Saddaji. They kidnapped Malik, for all we know. They nearly killed the Mahdi. How do you know they’re not coming after you?”

“Ali, my friend, we have taken care of everything,” Hosseini said. “First of all, we are safe up here. No one even knows we are here. Second of all, the warheads are all spread out. Not even Ahmed or I know exactly where all of them are. We know generally, but frankly we don’t want the scientists who built them or the generals who control them to share every detail with us, for the very reason you cite. We don’t want the Zionists—or the Americans, Allah forbid—to learn what we learn. But this I can tell you. You know that five of our warships will be passing through the Suez Canal later today, just about the time the Mahdi lands in Cairo?”

“Yes, I’ve heard this on the news,” Birjandi said.

“I have not even told my closest advisors such things, but I will tell you, my friend—two of our eight warheads are aboard those ships as they head to the Mediterranean. They are attached to missiles, aimed at Tel Aviv and Haifa.”

Birjandi prayed his face did not express his horror. “I thought we did not have the capacity to attach the warheads to missiles,” he said. “That’s what you told me last month.”

“Last month we didn’t,” Hosseini replied. “Today we do.”

33

Tehran, Iran

David reached the airport and paid his cab driver in cash.

Inside the main terminal, he withdrew the maximum daily amount allowed from his Eurocard account and exchanged it for Iranian rials. Then he picked one of the rental car agencies and filled out the paperwork for a maroon, four-door Peugeot 407 sedan.

* * *

Langley, Virginia

Zalinsky’s cell phone rang.

Disoriented, he sat up in bed, checked his watch, and groaned. It was only four thirty Wednesday morning, Washington time. Three decades of experience told him this couldn’t be good. He groped for the phone on his nightstand and answered on the sixth ring.

“Jack, it’s Eva. Sorry to call you so early.”

“Who’s dead?”

“Nobody.”

“Then what’s wrong?”

“I just got a call from my guy at NSA.”

“Where are you?”

“At my desk.”

“Didn’t you ever go home?”

“No.”

“You’re sleeping on your floor?”

“I’m not doing much sleeping. But, Jack, listen. The NSA just sent me the transcript of a very interesting call.”

“Go on.”

“They intercepted a call from Javad to Firouz. It happened about an hour ago.”

“That’s fast. What happened?”

“Javad described a safe-deposit box at a Citibank branch in Queens. He said it contained two fake passports, one with a false identity for Firouz and another for Jamshad. He said there were passports for the other two terrorists, too. It had all been pre-positioned, just in case. He said there were also credit cards, cash, forged birth certificates, and whatnot. There’s also four automatic pistols and plenty of ammunition. He gave Firouz the address of the bank and told him to be there precisely at ten o’clock, when the branch opens. They’re supposed to retrieve everything, use the documents to get out of New York, then get to Toronto and back to Tehran as soon as possible. He suggested they route through Venezuela, if necessary, and that Firouz would know why. We’ve got them, Jack. I really think we’ve got them. I’m about to call the guys at the Bureau so they can set up a stakeout on the bank, but I wanted you to be the first to know—or rather, the third.”