The Tehran Initiative, Page 25

  They all greeted him, though David thought he detected some suspicion or at least reticence in their eyes. Then the old man led David into the kitchen, where they put away the food.

  “I’m so sorry to interrupt,” David said. “I didn’t expect you to have company. Should I come back later?”

  “Nonsense. Where would you go? Besides, we must talk. I have much to tell you.”

  “Good. I have much to tell you as well,” David said in a whisper. “But perhaps . . .”

  “You needn’t worry about these lads. They are all very trustworthy. Indeed, you should spend some time with them, get to know them.”

  “I’m not sure I’m in the mood for anyone new right now.”

  “You would like them. Really, you would. They are all sons of leading Shia mullahs from Qom or parliament members from Tehran. Their fathers are some of the most famous and powerful men in Iran. And guess what?”

  “What?”

  “They’re all secret believers!”

  “In what?” David asked.

  “What do you mean?” Birjandi replied, visibly perplexed.

  “What do they secretly believe?”

  Birjandi smiled. “They are all followers of Jesus, David. They’ve all secretly renounced Islam and become Christ followers.”

  David was stunned. “Really? Is that true?”

  “Of course it’s true. Their stories of coming to faith are absolutely amazing. Each of them is a miracle, a true miracle. I love these young men. They come to meet with me every Wednesday morning for Bible study and prayer. We’ve been gathering faithfully for the last two months. Of course, today we had to push our meeting back a bit because of my lunch with Hosseini and Darazi, which I must tell you about. How long can you stay?”

  “Not long, Dr. Birjandi. Maybe an hour. I need to get back to Tehran. Events are moving very rapidly.”

  “More rapidly than you know,” Birjandi agreed. “Okay, make us some tea. I will go talk to the lads and give them an assignment to keep them busy for a while. Then I will meet you in my study.”

  * * *

  Cairo, Egypt

  Javad looked out over the masses gathered in Tahrir Square.

  It was a raucous group, singing and dancing and celebrating the arrival of the Twelfth Imam. The Cairo police chief leaned over to Javad and said he thought the crowd numbered over one million. Javad thought the man might actually be underestimating. What he saw was a sea of humanity, radiating out in every direction, and the moment the Mahdi stepped onto the specially built platform, raised six feet off the ground and surrounded by bulletproof glass, Javad braced for the expected roar. It never came. Instead, it became unnaturally quiet, save the sound of every person dropping to his knees and bowing before the Mahdi in reverent worship. A strange sensation ran through Javad’s body; then he, too, dropped to his knees and bowed, as did the chief of police and all of the Mahdi’s security detail.

  “The formation of a New World Order is of prime importance, and I tell you today that we have taken another major step forward,” the Mahdi began. “The leaders of Egypt have requested my permission to join the Caliphate, and I was most pleased to give my assent.”

  Now the crowd roared, as if from one end of Cairo to the other.

  “This is just the beginning. The day of the oppressors is over. The age of liberation has come. Full victory is near.”

  * * *

  Hamadan, Iran

  David checked his watch again.

  He paced around the dining room that doubled as Birjandi’s study. There was so much he needed to convey and so many questions he needed to ask, and there wasn’t nearly enough time to accomplish it all. It was Birjandi who had told David to find Najjar Malik, saying that Najjar was the key to unlocking Iran’s nuclear secrets. David had never even heard of Najjar Malik before that day, but how right Birjandi had been. Yet David hadn’t even had a chance yet to tell him how he had found Najjar, much less all that had happened to get him out of Iran and back to the States. Nor had he been able to tell Birjandi of the treasure trove of information Najjar had proven to be. Still, all that seemed like ancient history now, given everything that had happened since.

  David pulled back one of the tattered curtains and stared out a window that needed to be washed. The sun was beginning to set on a gorgeous spring day, with the temperature in the midseventies, a light, warm, westerly breeze, and perfectly blue skies marred only by the contrail of a jet plane to the east. All the trees were budding, the red roses—Iran’s national flower—were in bloom, as were tulips of a dozen different shades, and the yards were all green, thanks to the generous winter rains. How sad, he thought, that this dear man spent his life cooped up in this damp, creaky house. How sad, too, that he had even more bookshelves here, lining the walls, sagging with the weight of hundreds if not thousands of dog-eared books, none of which the man would ever read.

  In one corner, Birjandi’s desk was piled high with mail that couldn’t be read, while in another corner stood a television that couldn’t be watched. In some ways, it all seemed a testament to the brilliance of the man but also his irrelevance. What hope was there for a scholar who could not read and had no one to help him study, write, or publish his ideas? What more was there for a man who had lost the wife of his youth, the love of his life, and now lived alone in utter darkness?

  Yet the more David thought about that, the more he realized just the opposite was true. Birjandi was certainly blind, but wasn’t he seeing more clearly than anyone else in the country? He was without question a widower, but he certainly wasn’t alone, was he? He had experienced devastating losses in his life, but hadn’t he found hope that was transforming his life? In fact, David couldn’t think of a single person in his life who seemed to have more joy, more insight, more wisdom or zest for life than Birjandi. Certainly not his parents or his brothers. Certainly not Zalinsky or Eva or Tom Murray. Only Marseille had that same spark in her. Why? What was it they had that he didn’t?

  * * *

  Washington, DC

  Breathless, Najjar Malik finally made it to the BBC’s studios.

  He’d had to park several blocks away and had to run for fear of being late. He was met at the door by a young production assistant and an armed security guard, who quickly whisked him directly into a studio where a cameraman, sound technician, and makeup artist were waiting to put him on the air.

  “Put this in your ear,” the sound guy said, handing Najjar a wire with a little rubber nub at the end.

  “What is it?” Najjar asked.

  “An IFB.”

  “A what?”

  “It lets you hear . . . It doesn’t really matter—just do it fast. You’re about to go live.”

  Najjar stuck in the little earpiece, and the technician showed him how he could increase or decrease the volume with a small knob by his seat.

  “Dr. Malik, can you hear me?”

  Surprised, Najjar looked up to see where the voice was coming from.

  “This is Nigel Moore, in London. We spoke earlier.”

  “Oh yes, of course. How are you?”

  “I’m fine and glad you’re with us. But more importantly, how are you?”

  “A little nervous.”

  “First time on live television?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Well, there’s nothing to worry about. I’ll be talking you through the entire process. Now I want you to look straight into camera one, that one right in front of you.”

  Najjar complied.

  “Good, now just keep looking straight into that camera. Our anchor will come on in a few minutes. You won’t see him, but you’ll be able to hear him through your IFB. Don’t look around the studio. Don’t let anything distract you. Just keep looking straight into the camera, and it will look just right, like you’re looking right at the anchor. When we break, I’ll let you know. Then you can have some water or look around or whatever. Okay?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

&nbs
p; The production assistant called out, “Sixty seconds.”

  “Now, just a few more things before you’re on. How would you like to be identified on-screen?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Can we use your name, your title? We can certainly not mention your name, or we could give you a pseudonym, but of course anyone in Iran who knows you will recognize you. You didn’t ask that we electronically disguise your voice or put your face in shadow.”

  “Thirty seconds.”

  “No, no, that’s fine. You can use my name, my title, anything—just please don’t say where I am.”

  “Agreed. Now, I know you want to talk about your faith, and we’ll get to that, but we’re going to start with your work as a nuclear scientist, why you’ve chosen to defect to the US . . .”

  “Twenty seconds.”

  “No, please say ‘to the West.’”

  “Fine, ‘to the West.’ And then the anchor will ask you why you believe war is coming soon—what you base that on, and how soon is ‘soon.’”

  “Yes. Thank you for having me on.”

  “Thanks for doing this.”

  “Ten seconds.”

  “Oh, one more thing,” Najjar blurted out.

  “Yes, what’s that?”

  The theme music for the BBC Persian special report swelled, and out of the corner of his eye, Najjar could see a monitor with the network’s distinctive graphics and video opening sequence.

  “Five seconds.”

  “Can you post my Twitter account on the screen below my name?”

  * * *

  Langley, Virginia

  “Satellite photos show increased activity at Iranian air bases.”

  Zalinsky, having just been summoned to Murray’s office, slid the latest reconnaissance photos across the desk to show his boss. “We’re also seeing increased activity at Iranian missile bases,” he added.

  Tom Murray carefully reviewed the photos with a magnifying glass. “Did I tell you Marseille Harper dropped by to see me?” he asked without looking up.

  “What? Charlie’s daughter? You’re kidding.”

  “No, she just left a half hour ago.”

  “How did that come about?”

  “It’s a long story; I’ll tell you later,” Murray said, sliding the photos back to Zalinsky. “But she asked about you, actually.”

  “Me? Really?”

  “Yep.”

  “Why? We’ve never even met.”

  “She’s heard stories.”

  “From who? Charlie always said he didn’t want her to know he’d worked for the Agency.”

  “He didn’t, but David told her a little, and she found an old commendation letter that I once wrote to—”

  Eva burst into Murray’s office.

  “Eva, what are you doing?” Murray snapped, unaccustomed to staff coming in without an appointment or his personal summons.

  “I’m sorry, but you’re not going to believe this, either of you,” she exclaimed, turning on the television, punching in the coordinates for the BBC Persian channel, and letting Najjar Malik do her explaining for her.

  “What worries me most,” Najjar was saying, “is that too many world leaders—including in the US, Great Britain, and throughout the EU—don’t seem worried enough. I am the highest-ranking Iranian nuclear scientist who is still alive. I know the program inside and out. I’ve spent all of my professional life inside it. My father-in-law, Dr. Mohammed Saddaji, ran the weapons side. I ran the civilian energy side. And I can tell you categorically that the Twelfth Imam is telling the truth when he says that the Islamic Republic of Iran has tested a nuclear weapon. I can tell you that warhead was operational. I can tell you there are eight more just like it. And I can tell you there are detailed plans to use those warheads and a dozen more that are currently in production to attack the United States and Israel in the coming days.”

  “Are you telling this to the government officials where you’ve sought political asylum?” the anchor asked.

  “Of course.”

  “And what do they say?”

  “It is like they are asleep,” Najjar said. “They hear me, but they are not listening to me. They are not taking any of this seriously. They have all the facts, but they are not taking action.”

  “Tell me this is not happening,” Murray said. “How long has he been on?”

  “Ten minutes,” Eva said. “Maybe fifteen.”

  “Why didn’t anyone tell me sooner?”

  “We weren’t monitoring the network.”

  Zalinsky picked up the phone. “Get me the FBI—counterterrorism division.”

  Murray turned to Zalinsky. “What are you doing?”

  Zalinsky held up his hand for Murray to wait.

  Najjar kept talking. “Just today we learned that the president of the United States wants to negotiate with the Mahdi. Excuse me, but this will not work. This is a dangerous mistake. The Mahdi is just trying to buy time so that he can strike first. I will explain this in more detail in my interview on the Persian Christian Satellite Network. I’m doing a full hour with them, and I will explain everything more carefully, and in Farsi.”

  “This is Jack Zalinsky at Langley. I need the director immediately.”

  “Jack, what are you doing?” Murray pressed.

  “Hello? Yeah, it’s Jack. We found him—he’s at the BBC bureau in DC. Get your men moving, now.”

  37

  Hamadan, Iran

  David was impatient, but Birjandi suggested they go for a walk.

  “Maybe we should just stay here,” David said. “We have a lot to cover and very little time.”

  “Nonsense,” the old man said. “You need a little fresh air, and so do I.”

  Birjandi led the way, and soon they were outside, slowly making their way up Birjandi’s quiet street. There were no sidewalks.

  “I need to ask you a question,” David began. “Have you ever heard the names Jalal Zandi or Tariq Khan?”

  “I have not. Who are they?”

  “Nuclear scientists. Worked for Saddaji on the warheads.”

  “High-value targets.”

  “They are.”

  Birjandi cocked his head and turned his face to the setting sun. “It smells like a beautiful day,” the old man said, one hand on his cane, the other on David’s arm.

  “Yes, it is,” David said.

  “Of course, it belies the storm that is coming.”

  “War?”

  “Yes.”

  “How soon?”

  “By Monday at the latest.”

  David stopped in his tracks, taken aback by Birjandi’s specificity. “Why do you say Monday? How do you know?”

  “You heard about the Washington Post story?”

  “The back-channel discussions between the president and the Mahdi?”

  “Yes.”

  “I heard it on the radio while driving here,” David said.

  “A very foolish mistake by your president,” Birjandi said. “The Mahdi is never going to talk to President Jackson. He has come to annihilate the United States, not make peace with her. This is the final ploy.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The Mahdi is buying time to launch a nuclear strike against Israel. I honestly thought the strike would have already come. But there must be some final technical issues causing a delay. That delay is giving the Israelis an opening. Naphtali could move first, and this would be devastating to the Mahdi’s plans. The only leverage on the Israelis is your president. And the Mahdi senses weakness in Mr. Jackson, so he’s exploiting it to the fullest. He’s offering peace. But it is a lie. It’s a smoke screen. That’s why I say if the phone call is supposed to be Tuesday, the Iranian attack against Israel will come sooner. Indeed, it could come at any moment.”

  “Are you certain?” David pressed. “Or are you just guessing? Did Hosseini or Darazi say anything specific at lunch?”

  “This is precisely what they said. That’s why I’m telling you. Yo
u must tell your president before it’s too late.”

  “They specifically said Monday?”

  “Yes. I asked, ‘How soon will the attack on the Zionists begin?’ And Hamid said, ‘Any day now. It’s up to him, of course, but I suspect everything will be ready by Monday at the latest.’ Then they told me that two of their eight nuclear warheads are on board the Iranian warships that are passing through the Suez Canal today, bound for the Mediterranean. They said the warheads are attached to missiles aimed at Tel Aviv and Haifa.”

  “Wait a minute; I thought your country didn’t have the capacity to attach the warheads to missiles.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “And?”

  “And they said, ‘Last month we didn’t. Today we do.’”

  * * *

  Jerusalem, Israel

  The rotors were whirring at full speed, and it was time to leave.

  On cue, Prime Minister Asher Naphtali stepped gingerly out of the ready room, crossed the tarmac, boarded an IDF chopper, and waved at the press corps. At his side was Defense Minister Levi Shimon, taking his boss for a quick trip north to visit the Ramat David air base, not far from Megiddo in the lush and strategic Jezreel Valley. It was a well-publicized trip, the first since the attack in New York, and a transport helicopter filled with reporters and photographers was tagging along. Yet unlike the speculation of some initial wire service reports, the prime minister was not going to review the Israeli Air Force’s ability to project long-range force. Instead, as Naphtali’s spokesman had made clear just before their departure, the PM was going to visit an American-operated Patriot surface-to-air missile battery. The message: with American support, Israel was ready to stop anything and everything Iran was preparing to launch.

  On board and in the air, however, Naphtali put on his headphones and turned to his defense minister to restate his intentions. “We need to go this weekend, Levi.”

  “I understand, sir. We’re making final preparations while trying not to let the press—or the Americans—see what we’re doing.”