The Tehran Initiative (34 page)

The whole group erupted in discussion, and David wasn’t sure how to proceed without looking too interested. He didn’t know them, and they didn’t know him. He had to tread carefully. He trusted Birjandi, and Birjandi clearly trusted these young men. But they didn’t know he was CIA. They thought he worked for a phone company. He couldn’t suddenly be asking questions that were too probing or too detailed. Ali was saying that Iran’s minister of defense and the commander of the Iranian Revolutionary Guard Corps were making final preparations to attack Israel. David assumed that to be true, but how would Ali know such things, and who was his father?

As if reading David’s mind, Birjandi leaned over and whispered, “Ali’s father is a highly decorated general in the Iranian Air Force. Flies F-4s. Last I heard, he commands Tactical Air Base number six.”

“In Bushehr?” David whispered back as the rest of the group buzzed about the new details Ali had just provided.

Birjandi nodded. “That’s the one.”

David leaned into Birjandi and asked as quietly as he could, “Is what he’s saying credible?”

“Ali has no reason to lie,” the old man said. “He’s the leader of this group. He’s the quietest among them but the most influential. He knows each one of these guys. He came to Christ before any of them. He recruited them one by one and then brought them to me and begged me to meet with them once a week. He has his father’s gift of leadership, I’d say.”

“Is his father a Christian?”

“I wish,” Birjandi said. “No, I’m afraid he is a committed Twelver.”

* * *

Cairo, Egypt

Javad had never seen a man in such a rage.

They had just taken off from Cairo International Airport en route for Amman and were barely at cruising altitude, but the Mahdi was already out of his seat. He was cursing at the top of his lungs, smashing glasses and demanding the pilots reroute the plane to Iran instead.

Javad cowered in his seat, keeping his head down, trying not to make eye contact but fearful the Mahdi was going to turn his wrath on him. The man was demanding to know how Najjar Malik could have been allowed to escape from Iran at all. How could he have been lured away by the Americans? How much did he know? Had Saddaji’s computer ever been found, the one he’d kept in his home? What information had been on that computer? How much of Iran’s nuclear program had been compromised? How much had the Americans told the Zionists? The questions kept coming one after another, and Javad didn’t have the answer to a single one.

* * *

Washington, DC

Marseille drove into the District.

It was still raining, but she didn’t care. She parked near the Washington Monument, grabbed her bright-red umbrella, stuffed some quarters into the meter, locked her car, and looked around, wondering where to go. To her right was the White House. Behind her was the Capitol building and some of the Smithsonian museums. Straight ahead, beyond the Washington Monument, was the World War II Memorial. To her left was the Bureau of Engraving and Printing and the Holocaust Memorial Museum.

Traffic was getting snarled by drivers anxious about the increasingly slick roads. An ambulance was approaching from a distance, trying to snake its way through the congestion. There were hardly any tourists out, of course. Who would be stupid enough to get soaked in such a downpour? But Marseille literally didn’t know where to turn.

For no particular reason, she started walking up the Mall toward the Capitol, but though she hadn’t seen these sites since she was about thirteen, she wasn’t really absorbing any of them now. She was still trying to process the news that David worked for the CIA and, though Murray hadn’t completely confirmed it, the likelihood that he was now in Iran. Of course David hadn’t told her when they’d met for breakfast. How could he have? He loved his country. He always had. He’d never thought of himself as an Iranian. He’d always wanted to be a red, white, and blue American. And he was nothing if not loyal. He’d been a loyal friend and a loyal son. She was certain he was loyal to the Agency, and it was no surprise that Murray had said he was very good at what he did. That’s just who David Shirazi was.

Whatever he was doing, Marseille knew, it had to be undercover. The US didn’t have an embassy in Tehran anymore, nor any consulates. So that meant he had to be caught up in all that she was reading about in the papers. Had David been responsible for trying to assassinate the Twelfth Imam? She hoped not. She harbored no doubts about how evil this so-called Islamic messiah was, but she didn’t want to think of her friend as a killer. Maybe David was the intermediary between the president and the Twelfth Imam. It was certainly possible, but wasn’t that almost as bad? It might even be worse. If the Twelfth Imam really was the Antichrist, he was possessed by Lucifer. He had the ability to deceive all whom he encountered. From her cursory reading of Bible prophecy, she didn’t see how the Antichrist could be stopped by anyone but God Himself. She prayed silently that David wasn’t anywhere near the Mahdi and wouldn’t go near him. And she prayed once again that the Lord would open David’s eyes and draw him to His heart.

The winds were picking up, and the rain was now coming in at an angle. Her tailored suit was nearly soaked, despite her umbrella. She felt cold and sad and utterly alone. It was not true, she reminded herself. The Lord had promised never to leave her, never to forsake her, but she wanted someone to talk to. She loved the Lord—loved to talk to Him in prayer and listen to Him as she read His Word—but sometimes she wanted a friend she could see, a friend who could hold her and comfort her and tell her everything in her life was going to be all right. She thought of her fellow teachers back in Portland and her principal and his wife, who had always been so kind. She pictured the darling faces of the children she had the joy of teaching every day. On some dark, hard mornings, they were the only practical reason she could think of to get out of bed. And there was Lexi, of course, whom she worried for now more than ever. Israel had seemed like such a dream place to take a honeymoon. Now every new headline threatening imminent war in the Middle East brought new worries that her best friend and her bridegroom could get caught in a disaster. She made a mental note to text Lexi as soon as she got back to her car. She wanted to make sure they were okay and that they were coming home early.

But all of that brought her back to thoughts of David. Where was he? Was he okay? And abruptly she realized she missed him so much it almost physically hurt.

* * *

Hamadan, Iran

David had heard enough for now.

He excused himself and stepped into Birjandi’s study. There, he pulled out his phone, punched in his secure code, and hit speed-dial. He had to get all this to Langley.

Zalinsky answered on the first ring. “Code in.”

David did.

“Zephyr?”

“Yes, it’s me.”

“What are you doing in Hamadan?”

David was caught off guard by the question. “How did you know?”

“We’re tracking the GPS signal in your phone.”

“Right, of course,” David said, having regretted the foolishness of the question the second it had crossed his lips. “Look, I came to see Chameleon. You’re sure we’re secure?”

“Absolutely. Why?”

“I have news.”

“I’m listening.”

“The Iranian warships that just crossed through the Suez Canal . . .”

“Yeah?”

“Two of the warheads are on board. They’re attached to missiles, and they’re programmed to hit Tel Aviv and Haifa.”

Zalinsky cursed. “I thought—”

“I know; we all did,” David said. “But apparently Saddaji wasn’t told what the missile scientists were capable of. Maybe he was just behind the curve. Maybe those above him were compartmentalizing. I don’t know. The point is, the warheads are missile ready—two of them at least—and they’re now about three hundred kilometers from Israel’s largest city.”

“You’re absolutely certain about that?”

“It comes directly from the top.”

“Hosseini?”

“And Darazi.”

“They told that to Chameleon, or is he inferring it?”

“They said it directly to him. Obviously, we need to get it verified. . . .”

“We’ll get right on it.”

“Good, and there’s more. The Mahdi is going to launch the war by Monday at the latest. I can’t say which day. It could come at any moment. But I’m told specifically it will come before President Jackson’s call with the Mahdi. I’ve also learned that the senior air force commanders are meeting at Hosseini’s private retreat center, the Qaleh, on Saturday. They’re having a ‘final strategy meeting’ for something that’s being called the Tehran Initiative.”

“What is that?”

“It seems to be the war plan to hit Israel.”

“This also comes from Chameleon?”

“No, but it comes from a source he trusts.”

“Who?”

“The oldest son of the general who commands Tactical Air Base Six.”

“Protecting Bushehr?”

“Right. Apparently, Faridzadeh and Jazini have ordered all of their senior commanders to be there. They’ve canceled all military leaves for the air force and the missile command units. They’ve also begun calling up the air combat reserves, and there is a rumor that all the families of the air force senior commanders are going to be moved to special bunkers starting tomorrow.”

“So the Mahdi could launch by Sunday, or even Saturday?” Zalinsky pressed.

“Theoretically, yes.”

“That doesn’t give us much time to find the other six warheads.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Any leads on those?”

“Not yet—this is all I’ve got so far.”

“Any progress on Zandi and Khan?”

“Nothing.”

“What’s your gut tell you?”

“That we’re going to blow this thing. That we’re going to be too late. The president isn’t even preparing to hit Iran, is he?”

“No. He thinks diplomacy still can work.”

“What do you think?”

“I think you need to find me those other six warheads before they get launched.”

“Easy for you to say.”

“What’s your next move?” Zalinsky asked.

“I honestly don’t know, Jack. I’m racking my brain, but I don’t know what to do next. By the way, are you watching this thing with Najjar?” David asked.

“It’s a disaster.”

“How did this happen?”

“We still don’t know. We’ve got a full manhunt on for him right now. But I’ve got to hand it to him. He’s pretty clever.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because he actually taped the Christian station interview first—then only did twenty minutes live on BBC. By the time the FBI stormed the BBC studios, he was gone. And when the FBI team stormed the Christian station’s studios, they learned the show was taped.”

“So you have no idea where he is at the moment?”

“Not a clue.”

“And Sheyda?”

“She and the family are fine. But they haven’t heard from him. They have no way to hear from him or get in touch with him. But Sheyda couldn’t be more proud of Najjar or excited about the reaction.”

“What reaction?”

“You haven’t heard?”

“No, what happened?”

“Ayatollah Hosseini just issued a fatwa.”

“Against Najjar?”

“Against his whole family,” Zalinsky said. “Here, I’ll read it to you verbatim. ‘I would like to inform all the intrepid Muslims in the world that Dr. Najjar Malik and his entire family are hereby sentenced to death. I call on all zealous Muslims to execute them quickly, wherever they find them, so that no one will dare to insult Imam al-Mahdi, Islamic sanctity, or the new Caliphate now emerging. Whoever is killed doing this will be regarded as a martyr and will go directly to heaven.’”

“He’s a dead man,” David said.

“If we don’t find him before they do, yes,” Zalinsky agreed. “And that’s not going to be easy. The Ayatollah just put a $100 million bounty on his head.”

40

Somewhere over Saudi Arabia

The Airbus jumbo jet would be back in Tehran in less than an hour.

But the Twelfth Imam could not wait. Still seething at the incompetence of the Iranian intelligence services for having let Najjar Malik slip through their fingers and broadcast his heresies to the world, he summoned Javad to his luxury cabin in the front of the aircraft. Javad rose from his seat in the back of the plane and made his way forward, dreading every step. After taking a deep breath and removing a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his perspiring hands, he knocked twice and was told to come in. He complied and bowed low.

“Have you heard from Firouz and Jamshad?” the Mahdi asked.

“Yes, Your Excellency,” Javad replied. “I just got a text message from Firouz a little while ago.”

“Are they safe?”

“Yes, they are.”

“They weren’t arrested?”

“No.”

“Were they watched?”

“They don’t think so.”

“Where are they now?”

“Caracas.”

“They’ve gotten to Venezuela? Good. So they are coming home now.”

“Yes, they figure they should be home by tomorrow night.”

The Mahdi nodded and stared out the window, pondering something, but his expression was inscrutable, and Javad was in no mood to ask questions.

“Get Ali Faridzadeh on the line,” the Mahdi commanded without looking back at Javad.

Javad was surprised, not so much that the Mahdi wanted to talk to the Iranian defense minister—that was to be expected given how close they were to zero hour—but that the Mahdi evidently wanted him to use one of the satellite phones not for a text message or two but for an actual conversation. Thus far, he had been suspicious of their ability to speak securely on the phones and deeply reluctant to use them except when absolutely necessary, such as the call with the Pakistani leader, Iskander Farooq. But such decisions, Javad decided, were above his pay grade. He pulled the satphone from his pocket, dialed Faridzadeh’s personal satphone number, and handed the phone to the undisputed leader of the Islamic world. He wondered if he should return to his seat, but he had not been dismissed, so for now he stood still, his stomach in knots.

“Where are you?” the Mahdi asked. “Good. I will be on the ground in about an hour and at the location we discussed in less than two. I will meet you there. Just make sure everything is in place and ready—everything—when I arrive.”