Damascus Countdown (17 page)

She shook off the thought and put the keys in her purse. It was too late for such thoughts, and she had other matters to be concerned with. She pulled out her iPhone. She had been texting and e-mailing Lexi for days but hadn’t heard anything back yet. The last e-mail she had was from several days before the war had actually begun.

Marseille wondered where her friend was and prayed for her and Chris’s safety. She wiped moisture from her eyes, then checked the rearview mirror to make sure she wasn’t too much of a wreck. She needed a shower and a cup of tea, but that would have to wait. For now, she just needed to close her eyes and let all the cares of the world melt away, at least for the next few hours.

She made herself get out of the car and quietly closed and locked the doors behind her. Lexi’s parents—Richard and Sharon Walsh—had been through enough the past few days, and the last thing she wanted to do was wake them up. Still, as she walked up the driveway to the front door, she found herself glad that she had opted to stay with the Walshes rather than go back to the Sheraton on the university campus. Lexi’s parents had strongly discouraged their daughter and new son-in-law from taking their honeymoon in Israel. Now they were beside themselves with fear. They were watching cable news nonstop as the hailstorm of rockets and missiles kept hitting the Holy Land hour after hour. Whenever she’d been able to spend time with them, Marseille had done her best to comfort Lexi’s parents, though her efforts hadn’t seemed to do much good. She had prayed with them and for them, but they were not believers and didn’t care much for Lexi’s interest in spiritual things. Marseille just hoped they were getting a decent night’s sleep, at least.

She carefully opened the front door and let herself in. But to her shock the house wasn’t dark and quiet. Lexi’s parents weren’t asleep. Her father was pacing the kitchen with a phone to his ear. Her mother was weeping, crouched in front of the television in the family room, while images of a roaring fire filled the screen.

“Have you heard the news?” Mr. Walsh asked as Marseille entered the kitchen.

“No, why? What’s happening?” Marseille said.

Lexi’s father pointed to the television set, and Marseille gasped as she read the text scrolling across the bottom of the screen: “CNN BREAKING NEWS—Israeli hotel in Tiberias destroyed by missile strike. . . . 46 confirmed dead, say local police. . . . 93 injured . . . Frantic search under way to find more survivors.”

KARAJ, IRAN

David and the team arrived back at the safe house exhausted and discouraged, David most of all. He had led his team into some extreme risks, and what had they gotten for it? Nothing. They were no closer to finding out where the warheads were, and time was running out.

He badly needed a shower, but the apartment had only two, and both were already being used. Pacing his tiny room in the safe house—a room with one small window looking out into an alley and covered with rusty metal bars that obscured what little view there was anyway—he pulled out his satphone and began dialing again, trying to reach someone, anyone who might give him a lead.

When Daryush Rashidi’s line picked up, David’s pulse quickened, but almost immediately his call was transferred to voice mail. He left a message, using his Iranian alias.

“Mr. Rashidi, hi again; it’s Reza Tabrizi,” he began. “Just trying again to reach you and make sure you’re okay. Please call me as soon as you get this. I’m guessing you heard about Abdol’s parents. We did everything we could. I’m so sorry. But look, I’d really love to help in any way I can. I don’t know what I can do, but I’ll do anything I can to help build the Holy One’s kingdom on earth. I offered to go with Abdol, but he said he had all the help he needed. Is there something I can do for you? Anything? Thanks. Talk to you soon.”

Frustrated but determined not to give up, David called the leader of the Munich Digital Systems technical team to see how they were
doing. He knew the team was holed up in the basement of the German Embassy in Tehran, but again he got voice mail.

“Dietrich, hey, it’s Reza again,” he began. “Are you guys okay? I can’t seem to reach anybody. Please call me back.”

David continued working his way through his list of Iranian contacts. He was still not connecting with anyone, and his growing anger was palpable. When he came across Dr. Birjandi’s name again, however, he hesitated. Few people had been more helpful to him personally or professionally. But was he pushing his luck? Maybe the old man wasn’t answering for a reason. Maybe there was a problem. Maybe Birjandi was compromised or in danger. Was it a mistake to call him again?

Still, it was Rashidi and Esfahani—men close to the Iranian high command and the Twelfth Imam—who had introduced him to Birjandi in the first place. It was they who had encouraged him to meet the aging scholar. Indeed, it was Esfahani who had personally given David Birjandi’s home phone number and address. Esfahani had urged the two to meet, and why? To encourage David’s professed interest in the Mahdi. To deepen David’s interest in building the Caliphate. To recruit David to join the Twelfth Imam’s army. David’s cover, therefore, was solid. On the face of it, he didn’t have anything to fear from calling or visiting or meeting with Dr. Birjandi. And the old man himself could not have been more warm or encouraging every time the two had spoken. Why then was he not answering David’s calls?

HAMADAN, IRAN

Dr. Birjandi suggested they break for a while to prepare a meal. But his young students were by no means finished with their questions.

“You’re absolutely certain this War of Gog and Magog has never happened before?” they pressed.

“Yes,” he replied directly.

“So you’re certain these are End Times prophecies?”

“What does the text say?” he asked. “It says this will happen in the ‘last days.’”

“Do you think this will come to pass soon?”

“I don’t know,” Birjandi conceded. “But what’s intriguing to me is that as you examine the text carefully, you’ll see at least three prerequisites before the prophecy may fully come to pass.”

“What are they?” Ali asked.

“First,” Birjandi explained, “Israel must be reborn as a country. Second, Israel must be ‘living securely’ in the land. And third, Israel must be prosperous. Let’s consider these in reverse order.” He paused for a moment, then inquired, “Do you feel Israel is prosperous?”

“Yes, of course,” Ibrahim said.

“Why?”

“Well, it’s certainly better off economically than any of its immediate neighbors.”

“That’s true,” Birjandi said. “Israel as a nation is wealthier than Jordan, Syria, or Lebanon, and its economic growth rate is far better than Egypt’s. In fact, the Israeli economy is consistently growing at 4 or 5 percent a year—faster than any of the major industrialized countries of the West, including the United States. And did you know that the Israelis have in recent years discovered massive amounts of natural gas offshore? There is even growing speculation that there may be enough to make Israel not only energy independent but a net exporter of natural gas, mostly to Europe. And which European country would be harmed most if Israel began selling massive amounts of natural gas?”

“Russia,” Ali said.

“Exactly, but why?” Birjandi pressed.

“Because right now they’re the major supplier of gas to Europe, and the Kremlin is getting filthy rich as a result.”

“Correct again. Now let us consider Israel’s security. Obviously at the moment, the Israelis cannot be described as living securely in the land. But what if they win this war? What if they destroy all of Iran’s nuclear warheads and decimate most of our offensive military capabilities and shame the Twelfth Imam? What if they pulverize Hamas and Hezbollah, too? Wouldn’t that suddenly make them more secure than at any time since 1948?”

They agreed that it would.

“But you know what’s most remarkable of all?” Birjandi asked them. “So many skeptics say that the events of Ezekiel 38 and 39 will never take place, but the fact is that Ezekiel 36 and 37 have already come to pass.”

JERUSALEM, ISRAEL

“Mr. Prime Minister, I have an update on Dimona,” the defense minister told Naphtali over a secure line.

“Go ahead. I’m listening.”

“First, the missile that hit the reactor was not carrying a nuclear warhead.”

“Thank God,” Naphtali said as he paced the floor of his communications center.

“Agreed,” Shimon said. “Second, we are picking up significant amounts of radioactivity—but less than we had initially expected or feared.”

“Good,” said the prime minister. “Then I want to go to Dimona.”

“What?”

“I want to see it for myself.”

“Absolutely not,” the defense minister retorted. “The situation is far too volatile.”

“But you just told me the radioactivity is far less than expected.”

“You didn’t let me finish,” Shimon said. “Yes, it’s less than expected, but that’s because we knew the facility was a high-priority target. I ordered the reactor shut down ten days ago. We quietly removed as much of the nuclear fuel and waste as we possibly could.”

Naphtali was stunned. “Why wasn’t I informed of this?”

“Because I was afraid someone in the Cabinet—or one of your aides—might leak the story. That would have indicated we were getting ready to strike.”

“And you were right,” Naphtali said. “And now I want to go and assess the damage.”

“Mr. Prime Minister, this is . . . No, it’s not possible. The reactor building has been severely damaged. It’s completely ablaze at the moment. We can’t send in fire crews because we don’t want to expose them to the
radioactivity that has been released—which, yes, is less than we feared, but it’s still incredibly dangerous. Several of the other facilities nearby are on fire as well. We’ve cordoned off the entire area. We’re in the process of evacuating the residents we hadn’t already resettled over the past few weeks. We’re going to air-drop fire-retardant chemicals on the whole complex like it’s a forest fire. That’s the safest bet at this point. But there are still missiles and rockets in the air. And the last thing the Shin Bet or the IDF wants is for you to be outside, in a chopper or on the ground.”

“The Israeli people need to see me in command.”

“Then go back on television,” Shimon insisted. “Give them an update. Reassure them. But don’t put yourself at risk. Can you imagine the propaganda coup Tehran would have if they killed you, even accidentally?”

“I don’t like being cooped up in my office,” Naphtali said, suddenly craving a cigarette though he hadn’t smoked in nearly two years. “Talk to me about Damascus. Why hasn’t Gamal launched his rocket force against us?”

“Who says he still won’t?”

“I’m just wondering why he hasn’t.”

“I still don’t have any answers, sir. It’s gnawing at me as well. It doesn’t make sense. But thank God the Syrians haven’t engaged yet. I think it would push our missile defense systems beyond their limits.”

“Do you think Tehran is holding Mustafa back?” Naphtali asked.

“They must be. There’s no other explanation. But as for why, I don’t know yet. But listen, we’ve got a new development. Something’s cooking.”

“Good or bad?”

“I can’t say. Not yet. I need another fifteen minutes or so and then I’ll be ready to brief you.”

“Is it good or bad, Shimon?” the wearied prime minister pressed.

“Fifteen minutes, sir. I’ll let you know then.”

KARAJ, IRAN

David decided against trying Birjandi again. Something didn’t feel quite right, though he wasn’t sure what. He made a few more calls to others
on his list but still got nothing. He scrolled through his contacts one more time, looking for any other source to try. He was about to give up and find some ointment for the minor burns he’d suffered in Qom when he came back across the name Javad Nouri. He had the man’s private mobile number. He’d ignored it for the last few days. Was it worth trying now? Or was it too risky? He still feared Javad—or those around him—suspected him of being involved in some way in his attempted assassination. But maybe that was a mistake. Maybe the plan had actually worked like it was supposed to. Was that possible? Had David’s moves to save Javad’s life actually had the effect of clearing him of any suspicion? Had their gamble worked, or had it set him up for arrest and certain execution? David knew he had put the call off too long. There was only one way to find out. He took a deep breath and dialed Javad’s number. To his shock, the call connected.

“Hello?” said a weak and scratchy voice at the other end.

“Is this Javad?” David asked, stunned that he had actually gotten through.

“Yes?”

“Javad Nouri?” David confirmed.

“Yes, yes. Who is this?”

“Hey, Javad, it’s Reza Tabrizi. I’m just calling to check in and see if you’re okay. I still feel terrible about what happened on Thursday.”

“Oh, Reza, hello,” Nouri replied, clearly in some pain and out of breath. “How kind . . . of you to call, my friend.”

“I’m sorry I haven’t been able to call sooner, Javad. How are you feeling? Are they taking good care of you?”

“Yes, well, I’m . . . I’m not good. But then again, I’m not dead . . . and for that I have you to thank. You saved my life. May Allah reward you many times over.”

“No, no, it was my honor. But really, are they giving you proper treatment?”

“Yes, of course,” Nouri said. “I’m at Tehran University Medical Center.”

“One of the best,” said David.

“Yes . . . the best,” Nouri agreed, still struggling to finish full sentences
without wheezing. “The Mahdi gave them strict orders to . . . take good care . . . of me. He even . . .”