The Tehran Initiative (7 page)

David stepped into the hallway and around the corner. It felt good to stretch his legs, he thought as he reached for the phone, and good too to take his mind off his parents’ troubles, if only for a moment. He hoped it was Azad, telling him he was on the road, that he’d rescheduled the surgeries and was heading north up 81 toward Syracuse, coming to give his younger brother some relief. Even more, he hoped it was Marseille, saying she’d gotten back to Portland safe and sound and wanted to catch up or just check in on his mom. Hers was the voice he needed to hear just then.

It wasn’t to be.

7

“David, it’s Jack—we need to talk.”

Hearing the voice of his mentor and handler caught David off guard.

“
Jack?
What’s the matter? You sound terrible.”

“Not on this open line. Call me back secure. You know the number. And get somewhere private.”

“Will do—I’ll get right back to you.”

David handed the phone to the nurse and headed quickly for the stairwell, powering up his Agency-issued phone on his way. Never had he heard Jack Zalinsky sound as rattled. Angry, frustrated, ticked off? More times than David cared to remember. But rattled? Not in all the years since Zalinsky first recruited him. You didn’t spend four decades in the Central Intelligence Agency, much less climb the ladder from lowly field operative fresh out of training at the Farm to become clandestine operations manager of the Near East Division, without a cool head and ice in your veins.

David burst out an exit door to the roof and headed toward one of the large air-conditioning units, where he would be unlikely to be seen by anyone on the ground. He punched in a ten-digit clearance code to make his call secure, then speed-dialed Zalinsky’s office number on the sixth floor at Langley.

“Jack, what’s going on?”

“Are you alone?”

“I am.”

“Are you watching the news?”

“No, I’ve been with my mom. Why? What’s happening?”

“You need to get back to Washington immediately.”

“I’m on the first flight out in the morning.”

“No, tonight; something’s happened.”

“What?”

“There’s been an attack.”

“Where?”

“Manhattan.”

David knew immediately it was the fund-raiser.

“The president—is he okay?”

“I don’t know,” Zalinsky said. “Not yet. But President Ramzy is dead.”

David could feel his anger rising. “How? What happened?”

“We’re still piecing it together,” Zalinsky said. He explained the attack and the sequence of events leading up to it as best he understood it at the moment.

“What about Naphtali?” David asked. “Did he survive?”

“Miraculously, the prime minister escaped relatively unharmed—minor burns but nothing serious,” Zalinsky replied.

“Thank God.”

“I know. It’s strange, actually. The president got out of the limo first and was followed by Ramzy. But as it happened, the terrorists fired the RPGs before Naphtali ever got out of the car. One of his Shin Bet guys was standing in front of the open door to the limo. When the first RPG hit, the agent was immediately engulfed in flames, but his body blocked most of the blast and he somehow managed to get the door closed, probably saving Naphtali’s life. The driver immediately pulled away and got out of the kill zone.”

“Where’s the PM now?”

“On a flight back to Tel Aviv.”

“And the Shin Bet agent?”

“Pronounced dead at the scene—one of forty-six, with another twenty-two wounded, most of them severely burned and unlikely to make it through the night.”

David could barely comprehend what Zalinsky was telling him. The casualty count was horrifying enough, but so was the fact that the CIA had just failed the nation again. Another terrorist attack had just been unleashed on American soil—in the heart of New York City, no less—and the Agency not only hadn’t done anything to stop it but hadn’t even known it was coming. What else was coming? Who else was in the country, ready to strike?

These were the first thoughts running through his head, but more followed. David shuddered at the implications of Egypt’s aging, ailing, authoritarian leader assassinated. The government of the world’s largest and historically most stable Arab country had suddenly been decapitated. Who would take over? Would it be a peaceful transition of power? Having spent nearly a year working in Cairo, reporting first to the economic attaché and later directly to the CIA station chief in the Egyptian capital, he knew full well that President Ramzy had never developed a clear or orderly or legal transition plan. The old man had always wanted one of his sons to assume power when he was gone. But few others in the country wanted that—not the majority of the legislature, not the leaders of the Muslim Brotherhood, and certainly not most of the rank-and-file Egyptians. This raised the chilling prospect of a chaotic, even violent transition that risked igniting into a full-blown revolution in a country of eighty million, 90 percent of whom were Muslims, the vast majority of whom were deeply discontent. Such a revolution could be massively destabilizing. It could unravel the three-decade-plus-long peace treaty with the Israelis. It could theoretically bring leaders of the Muslim Brotherhood, or others sympathetic to the Radicals, to power. Such forces would almost certainly be willing, even eager, to build stronger alliances with Hamas, Hezbollah, and Iran to confront Israel. What’s more, a takeover by the Radicals could provide an opening for the Twelfth Imam to try to lure the country—or even force it—to join his emerging new Islamic Caliphate.

The implosion of Egypt after the sudden death of the man they called the Pharaoh on the Nile had long been one of the Agency’s greatest fears. Now they were about to discover how it would all play out, and the timing could not have been worse.

“Any suspects at this point?” David asked, forcing himself to concentrate on gathering the facts rather than letting his mind run away with what-if scenarios.

Zalinsky said that Roger Allen, the Agency’s director, was privately speculating that the attack was most likely payback from al Qaeda after the killing of so many high-level figures in recent months. Dr. Ayman al-Zawahiri, for years the number two man in the al Qaeda organization, was Egyptian and had long vowed to topple the Ramzy regime and replace it with an Islamic Republic. However, Zalinsky noted, his immediate boss, Tom Murray, deputy director for operations, suspected the Muslim Brotherhood, the radical Islamic group founded in Egypt in 1928. The Brotherhood, which operated in the shadows because it was legally banned in Egypt, had hated Ramzy for years, in part because he kept imprisoning their top operatives and in part because he understood their true mission—the establishment of Egypt as the epicenter of a revived Islamic kingdom, the imposition of Sharia law, and the exporting of their Sunni brand of jihad throughout the region and eventually the world. Their motto: “Allah is our objective. The Prophet is our leader. Qur’an is our law. Jihad is our way. Dying in the way of Allah is our highest hope.” Al-Zawahiri, David knew, was not only Egyptian born but had been a member of the Brotherhood before he’d formed the even more radical group Egyptian Islamic Jihad, which had then merged with al Qaeda. “Murray thinks it’s possible that this was a joint operation between the Brotherhood and al Qaeda and could even have a Hezbollah angle, although you’d think we would have picked up on the plot if there was that much coordination between groups.”

“What do you think?” David asked.

“I don’t know,” Zalinsky replied. “It’s too early.”

“But you don’t think it’s actually al Qaeda or the Brotherhood, at least not by themselves, do you?” David pressed.

“We don’t have enough data yet.”

“Jack, come on; this is Iran. This is being directed by the Twelfth Imam. It’s got their fingerprints all over it. The timing? The targets? The weapons? The fact that the attack happened so soon after the assassination of Iran’s top nuclear scientist in Hamadan?”

“Why would Iran pick a fight with us now?” Zalinsky countered. “With Israel, sure. But why hit us, our city, our leader? Why take such a risk when doing so could push the White House into going to war with Iran? It doesn’t make sense. It’s not rational.”

“Based on whose perspective?” David asked. “Look, Jack, do you really believe the president is ever going to go to war with Iran? You hear what he’s telling the director behind the scenes. You know he doesn’t have the Pentagon developing a serious plan. You saw the advance text of the speech for the Sadat Center. He’s dreaming of peace. He still thinks he can negotiate with Iran. Now he thinks he might be able to talk with the Twelfth Imam. He barely mentioned Iran in the State of the Union address. He’s not signaling to the country that he’s about to get tough with Iran. Meanwhile, he’s cutting the defense budget in the name of deficit reduction. He’s pulling forces out of Iraq and Afghanistan. Nobody believes he’s going to launch a war with Iran, least of all the Iranians.”

“But don’t you think an assassination attempt by Iran could change the calculus, push a reluctant warrior onto a war footing after all?”

“Not if the hit worked,” David said. “Or even if it was close.”

“Look, David, the whole reason you’re in this thing is because the president gets it. He’s listening to the director. He’s listening to us. He signed the directive authorizing the use of ‘all means necessary’ to stop Iran’s weapons program. He’s giving us everything we asked for. Your job isn’t to make policy. Your job is executing it. Don’t forget that.”

The line was silent for a few moments.

“Now, you need to get back here tonight,” Zalinsky said.

“I can’t,” David replied.

“You have to.”

“Jack, my mom is dying.”

“I know, and I’m very sorry. You know how far back I go with your parents. But—”

“No, Jack, you don’t understand,” David interrupted. “My mom slipped into a coma less than an hour ago. The doctors say she hasn’t got much time left. They don’t think she’s going to make it through the week. And my dad’s a mess. I can’t leave them. Not now.”

“What about Azad?”

“He’s AWOL.”

“Then what about Saeed?”

“Tell me you’re kidding.”

“Look, David, your president was nearly assassinated in the last hour, and the Middle East is about to explode.”

“I get it, Jack; I do. But I need more time.”

“There is no more time.”

“You said the president wanted to meet with us tomorrow at noon. Why can’t I fly down there tomorrow morning? I already have the ticket. That’s what my father’s expecting. Please, Jack. I need this favor.”

“I’m sorry, David. I understand your situation, but your country is under attack. The meeting with the president is off. Honestly, I can’t even tell you at the moment if the president is alive, much less capable of a briefing. But Director Allen is ordering all of the Near East Division to be here tonight—no exceptions. He’s pushing for us to go hard after al Qaeda, and we’ve got a team drafting new options on that front. But he’s also terrified that the Israelis are going to use this assassination attempt against Naphtali to order a first strike against Iran. He wants options. He said he wants to ‘take the gloves off.’”

David could see there was no point arguing any longer, but the pressure on him was excruciating. He was tempted to offer his resignation right then and there, but with his country under attack, that felt like a betrayal.

“Look, David,” Zalinsky continued when David didn’t respond, “you’ve been doing amazing work. You’ve given us a new set of targets in Iran. You’ve given us a bunch of new leads. But we don’t have much time. Eva and I have some ideas, but there are gaps only you can fill.”

Zalinsky paused for a moment, and David wondered how their colleague, Eva Fischer, was faring with her in-depth interrogations of Dr. Najjar Malik, the senior Iranian nuclear scientist whom David had helped smuggle out of Iran and into the United States along with his family. Malik was critical to the Agency’s ability to truly understand Tehran’s capabilities and intentions.

Zalinsky cleared his throat. “Believe me, if there was another way, any other way, I wouldn’t ask you to do this. But this is why I recruited you in the first place. I think your parents would understand.”

David wasn’t buying it. “You’re wrong, Jack. There’s nothing about this my father will understand. He’s watching the love of his life slip away from him forever. He won’t eat. He’s not taking his own medication. I’m worried he might harm himself. My brothers aren’t here. Besides, I can’t possibly get a flight to DC tonight. It’s Syracuse, not Munich.”

“There’s already an Agency plane en route,” Zalinsky said. “It will touch down in less than an hour. There’ll be a car waiting for you when you arrive. Come to my office the moment you get in. I’ve got to go. I’ve got the director calling on the other line.”

With that, the call went dead.

8

Thick, dark clouds were rolling in.

Thunder rumbled in the distance, and lightning strikes were getting closer. The winds were picking up, and David could feel the temperature dropping steadily. Another storm was approaching, and it wasn’t safe to stay on the roof. But David couldn’t bear the thought of going back inside and telling his father he was leaving.

He knew the Agency had invested heavily in his training. He knew that Zalinsky and Murray and Director Allen were counting on him to do everything possible to protect the people and interests of the United States from all threats, foreign and domestic, and particularly from the regime in Iran. What’s more, he had taken an oath. He had given his word to his country.

But now his parents needed him to stay. He didn’t want to disappoint them—particularly his father—yet again. They deserved better.

And then there was Marseille. It already felt like a lifetime ago, but he had eaten breakfast with her that very morning, after so many years, after so much history, and he still couldn’t quite believe it. Just seeing her come into the restaurant all bundled up against the late-winter chill with her red scarf and turtleneck sweater had stirred up emotions he had long tried to suppress. When he closed his eyes, he could vividly picture her, looking more like a graduate student than the elementary school teacher she had become. She had endured so much pain in the years since he had seen her last. Yet with those large green eyes and that dark brown hair pulled back in a loose braid, Marseille was more beautiful than he’d remembered or imagined, and he missed her already. It embarrassed him to admit such a thing, if only to himself, but he couldn’t help it. He wanted to talk to her again. He wanted to hear her voice. She’d invited him out to Portland, and he wanted to go. To see her again. To spend some real time with her. To see if something was possible between them. There had been a warmth in her eyes and a tenderness in her embrace that had surprised him. He would never forgive himself if he didn’t find out for certain who she really was now and what she really wanted.