The Tehran Initiative (46 page)

The head of the Mossad simply shook his head.

* * *

Cape May, New Jersey

The waves of the Atlantic lapped rhythmically upon the shore.

But Najjar Malik paid them no attention. He was riveted to the Twelfth Imam’s speech, and he burned with anger. He needed to write. He needed to send a new message to his Twitter followers—more than 647,000 of them, nearly all Farsi speakers—in Iran and around the world. But first he had to calm down, get his mind focused back on the Lord, and ask the Lord what He wanted him to say. For if it were up to Najjar, he would have unleashed a thousand bitter rants against the Mahdi, 140 characters at a time.

He needed to walk. He needed to clear his head. So despite the late hour, he got up, put on his jacket, and stepped out the back door of the gorgeous, two-level, five-bedroom beach house. As he walked past the pool and down to the beach, he was overwhelmed by God’s gracious provision. When the producer of the Persian Christian Satellite Network said he had a friend who loved to make his home available for missionaries on furlough, pastors on sabbatical, and secret believers escaping from persecution, Najjar hadn’t even really understood the first two categories. But he recognized that he fit into the last category and accepted the offer without hesitation.

He had been thinking of a couch in someone’s basement or a cot in someone’s attic, not a multimillion-dollar beach house all to himself on the Jersey Shore. It was off-season, to be sure, and Cape May was freezing cold and largely depopulated—though he heard it was a madhouse in the summer—but it was honestly more than Najjar could have hoped for or even imagined. But of course, he felt guilty for being there without Sheyda and Farah and his sweet little daughter.

Najjar walked for a while, staring out at the dark and endless ocean and asking the Lord for guidance. He listened to the waves and felt the bitter-cold winds on his face.

Then the words came to him, as they always did. He ran back to the house, powered up the laptop the producer had lent him, logged on to his Twitter account, and wrote the following:
Don’t be deceived, dear friends. The Mahdi is a false messiah. He wants not peace, but war. Turn to Jesus Christ while there is time.

54

Lashkardar Protected Area, Iran

David’s heart was racing.

Two large vans pulled up and stopped abruptly. The back doors of both burst open, and heavily armed men jumped out and took up positions around the cabins, forming a perimeter. At first he counted six, but soon he had revised his count upward to eight, plus the two drivers, who were now turning the vans around and backing them into position, clearly preparing to make an escape. None of the men wore fatigues—they had on street clothes instead—but each carried an AK-47 and a backpack David had no doubt contained grenades, tear gas, and plenty more ammunition. They didn’t look like typical Revolutionary Guard Corps members. They had to be al-Quds commandos. How had they found him? Then again, what did it matter? They had. They were coming for Khan and for him.

He had a choice to make and only seconds to make it.

* * *

The Qaleh, Iran

Javad Nouri made certain the Mahdi was not in need of anything.

Then he moved quickly down the hall to find a quiet place. He stepped out onto the large stone porch overlooking the mountains and the city of Tehran in the valley below. He pulled out his satellite phone and speed-dialed the defense minister, trying in vain to stay calm. “It’s Javad,” he said when the man answered. “What do you mean he’s missing?”

“I just talked to Zandi,” Faridzadeh said. “There’s been some kind of ambush.”

“Where?”

“The hotel in Khorramabad. Details are still sketchy. But there are dead bodies and one missing bodyguard, and Khan is missing too. There’s a report of a large explosion east of Khorramabad too. The local police have some leads. They’re moving on them now. But that’s all I know.”

“And the . . . ?”

“They’re safe.”

“All of them?”

“Yes.”

“You’re sure?”

“Believe me, we are taking precautions.”

“Because I cannot go in there and tell the—”

“I know. I know. Don’t worry. The cakes are safe.”

“What about Zandi?” Javad asked. “Is he safe?”

“He is for now. But he’s scared.”

“Wouldn’t you be?”

“Of course.”

“We should move him,” Javad said. “Bring him here. He’ll be safer.”

“No, that is not wise,” the minister countered. “Not right now.”

“Why not?”

“The Zionists are here. Or the Americans. Or both. We’re doing everything we can to hunt them down. We’ll know more soon. But right now we’re not entirely sure whom we can trust. And we cannot proceed without Zandi. We need to keep him locked down.”

“I want to talk to him.”

“Javad . . .”

“I will ask Imam al-Mahdi how he wants to proceed, but I need to talk to Zandi immediately. The base commander there has one of the satellite phones, doesn’t he?”

“Yes, but—”

“Then get it to Zandi and have him call me within the hour.”

* * *

Cape May, New Jersey

Najjar followed his first message with a second.

Jesus said, “I am the door; if anyone enters through Me, he will be saved . . . I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly.”

What kind of eternal impact were his messages having? He had no idea. He could only keep praying and fasting and trusting the Lord to move in His might and His sovereignty, as He had done in Najjar’s own life. But Najjar couldn’t help but be amazed by how many people around the world were tracking every word he said and by how many were passing them along to others, especially inside Iran.

* * *

Lashkardar Protected Area, Iran

The choice was not easy, but it was simple.

Under no circumstances could he allow himself to be taken alive, David told himself. He was not scared of dying. Not anymore. For the first time in his life, he knew he was a forgiven man, that when his life was over, he was headed to heaven to be with the Lord Jesus forever. Of this he had absolutely no doubt, and that assurance gave him new reserves of courage.

It wasn’t dying that scared him. It was torture. The Iranians knew how to inflict pain in ways that made a man want to die but never quite make it there. They would do everything in their power to squeeze information out of him, to get him to turn against his friends, against the Agency, against his country, and they would have no mercy. How long would he last? He honestly had no idea, and he did not want to find out. That said, however, he would not turn his gun upon himself. He would not commit suicide. That was his redline, David decided.

He scrambled to the back of the cabin and peered out the window. He could see two men in the bushes to the right. Two more were in position off to the left. When he saw one of them had a sniper’s rifle, he quickly hit the deck and rolled to the front windows. They were moving. They were closing in. He had a clear shot at one of them and a decent shot at another. But then what?

David’s phone rang. It was Abdol Esfahani, finally returning his call. David ignored it and looked at Khan. The man was sweating profusely. But he also seemed to have a glimmer in his eye, as if he sensed the tables were about to be turned. The captor was about to become the captive. A week ago, David would have had no qualms about killing the man right now. He was the architect and one of the chief engineers of eight remaining weapons of mass death and more to come. How could David let him go back into the service of the Twelfth Imam? He looked down at the pistol, then back at Khan. He wasn’t sure he could do it. But why not? He hadn’t hesitated back at the hotel. How dare he hesitate now? Millions of innocent lives were on the line.

“David Shirazi!”
a man with a distinct Tehran accent shouted from the front yard.
“We know you’re not alone. We know you’re armed. Throw your weapons out and walk out slowly with your hands on top of your head. You’ve got three seconds.”

This was it, the moment of truth. He wasn’t going out there. They were going to have to come in to get him. He moved over to Khan and put the pistol to the man’s temple.

“No,” Khan whispered. “You promised me. You said I would be safe. You said you’d protect my family.”

“I did,” David said. “And I meant it. But I was wrong. It’s too late.”

* * *

The Qaleh, Iran

Javad expected a tirade.

It did not come.

“Khan was expendable,” the Twelfth Imam said when Javad briefed him on the missing-and-presumed-dead status of the Pakistani scientist. “So was Saddaji. But nothing has happened to the warheads, right?”

“Right.”

“And six will be ready by Saturday to fire at the Zionists?”

“Two are ready now. A third by nightfall.”

“Perhaps we should keep these other two—the two Khan was working on—in reserve.”

“We could,” Javad said. “Whatever you wish, my Lord.”

“More warheads are being built?”

“Well, my Lord, the uranium is being enriched, and we’ll begin building the next set of warheads next week,
inshallah
.”

“And Zandi will oversee all that?”

“Yes.”

“Who would oversee that if Zandi were killed or captured?”

“It would be a very serious setback, my Lord,” Javad said. “That’s why I believe we should bring Zandi to us, but Minister Faridzadeh strongly disagrees.”

“You are correct. Bring Jalal Zandi to me. Besides, I would like to meet this brave hero of the Revolution.”

“Yes, my Lord. I shall take care of it at once.”

“Very well. Now summon Hosseini and Darazi to me. Have them meet me on the porch. I have a topic of great importance for them.”

* * *

Arak, Iran

There was a knock on the office door.

“Come in,” Zandi said, looking up from his computer.

It was the base commander. “You are instructed to call Mr. Nouri,” he said, handing Zandi a satellite phone and a slip of paper. “Here is the number. Return them both the moment you finish.”

“But I have never spoken to Mr. Nouri by phone,” Zandi said. “Only by secure e-mail.”

“It’s okay,” the commander said. “These phones are new and secure. No one will be able to listen to what you say—not even me.” The man smiled, shut the door, and left.

Jalal Zandi stared at the phone in one hand and the slip of paper in the other. He could practically hear his heart beating in his chest. He was surprised the base commander hadn’t heard it too.

Zandi glanced at his watch, then at the clock on the wall. There was so little time. He logged back on to his laptop, which timed out every five minutes. He entered four completely different passcodes and pulled up the most highly classified document in the Iranian government, bearing the precise specifications and work history details of each of the nine warheads. Beside the two warheads in Khorramabad he added a notation with the date, the time, and the words “Khan missing. Project status: Unknown.”

He hit Save. Then he powered up the phone and dialed the number the commander had given him.

“Hello?”

“Yes, I’m, uh . . . I’m looking for Mr. . . . um . . . Mr. Nouri,” Zandi stammered.

“This is he.”

“Yes, hello, uh . . . this is, um . . . Jalal Zandi. . . . I . . .”

“Oh yes, Jalal, thank you for calling.”

“My pleasure,” Zandi lied, his voice quivering. “How, uh . . . how can I help you?”

“I’m sending a chopper to pick you up and bring you to us. The Mahdi would like to meet you and hear a briefing on your work and next steps.”

“That . . . that would be . . . a great honor . . . yes.”

“Excellent. See you soon.”

The line went dead. Zandi shuddered with fear. Why was the Twelfth Imam summoning him? Nouri made it sound like an honor.

He set down the paper and dialed another number from memory. It began to ring. Once. Twice. Three times. Four. And then the line connected. Zandi swallowed hard.

“Code in,” the voice said in perfect Farsi.

“Zero, five, zero, six, six, alpha, two, delta, zero.”

“Password?”

“Mercury.”

“Authentication?”

“Yes, uh, this is Mordecai. I have very important information to pass on, and I have only a few minutes.”

* * *

Lashkardar Protected Area, Iran

David pressed the pistol into Khan’s temple.

The man was shaking, begging him not to.

He switched off the safety and took a deep breath. He steadied himself. He was out of time. But just as he was about to pull the trigger, his phone rang. Startled, David clicked on his Bluetooth and took the call.

“David, it’s me, Jack. Don’t do it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m watching a thermal image of you from the Predator. Don’t kill Khan. We need him.”

“It’s too late, Jack.”

“No, it’s not.”

“What are you talking about?” David asked.

“The men outside,” Zalinsky said. “They’re not Iranians. They’re ours.”

55

Washington, DC

Tom Murray had never been to the White House so late.

In fact, he rarely went to the White House at all. Typically, it was Roger Allen who briefed the president, especially on such sensitive matters, but Allen was still en route from Amman and had told Murray by secure phone that he had to wake up the president and brief him immediately.

The Secret Service took his sidearm and phone, then had him empty his pockets and walk through the magnetometer. A uniformed agent then walked him from the West Executive Avenue guard post into the West Wing. There he signed in and waited until two plainclothes agents took him up to the residence. To his surprise, he was ushered into the solarium and was told the president would meet him there in a few moments.

Murray adjusted his tie and picked lint off his blazer. He checked his breath for a third time, then opened his black binder and reviewed his notes several more times. A few moments later, the president entered. Murray stood at attention. Jackson made no small talk and didn’t shake his hand. He looked tired and annoyed, and Murray was certain from his slightly disheveled appearance that he had awoken and dressed hurriedly only moments before.