Damascus Countdown (26 page)

The driver quickly handed the phone to Jazini, who recognized immediately that it was the Mahdi and braced himself for whatever was coming next.

“General?”

“Yes, my Lord?”

“Are you in motion?”

“We are.”

“Any problems?”

“None,” Jazini said. “Everything is going very smoothly.”

“Good,” said the Mahdi. “Now, you wrote about another matter in your proposal. Do you remember?”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“Your idea is an excellent one, but we must move up the timetable. Tomorrow midday will be too late. It must be tonight.”

Jazini was stunned. “Tonight, Your Excellency? With all due respect, my Lord, I don’t know if we can arrange matters so quickly.”

“You must,” the Mahdi said. “Set it for midnight, and set into motion all the plans you laid out in the memo.”

“Yes, Your Excellency, I will—”

But before Jazini could finish his answer or ask another question—as was characteristic of a call with the Twelfth Imam—the signal went dead.

TEHRAN, IRAN

David pulled Marco Torres aside and complimented the paramilitary commander on his choice of their temporary safe house. The Tooska Park Inn, located in the southeast quadrant of Tehran, just off the Tehran South Highway, was a seedy-looking joint typically used by pimps and prostitutes. But now, with the war in full swing, the parking lot was empty. The place was completely deserted.

Not surprisingly, the owner was a “don’t ask, don’t tell” kind of guy who desperately needed the cash Torres had given him. And it wasn’t like he could have called the police anyway. The landlines connected to the motel weren’t working any more than the owner’s mobile phone was, a fact Torres had double-checked before directing Mays at the very last moment to take them there. The police had not been on regular patrols since the beginning of the war, so there should be no interruptions.

David instructed Mays and Crenshaw to ditch their bullet-ridden van and steal two alternate vehicles, quickly. They couldn’t afford to be stranded. “Also, ask Nick to look at Javad’s phone,” David said to Torres. “See if he’s got a contact list. Who’s in it? Who is he calling? Who is he getting calls from? You know the drill.”

“Will do, boss.”

“And one more thing,” David added.

“An extraction plan,” Torres said, seeming to read his mind.

“Right,” David said. “Make one. Fast.”

David had to get started, and he really didn’t know how to break Javad Nouri, how to get a zealot like him to talk. On the entire drive from the gun battle at the hospital, the question had been foremost on his mind. He didn’t have a lot of time to warm Nouri up, and the normal inducements of money and freedom and a new life in the United States weren’t likely to work on a top personal aide to the Twelfth Imam. What would work? Fear, perhaps, but fear of what? David had no answers.

Pondering all that, and saying a silent prayer for wisdom, David opened the door to room 9 and stepped inside, Torres right behind him. As Torres closed and locked the door, David surveyed the room. It stank of stale cigarettes. A queen-size bed with a lumpy mattress and a thin blue quilt took up the center of the room. Along the right wall was a beat-up wooden dresser, on top of which sat an old television set covered in dust and looking like it hadn’t been used in twenty or thirty years, if that. He doubted it even worked. If it did, it looked like it might actually be black-and-white. Along the far wall was a small closet and a door, presumably leading to a bathroom. On the left side of the room was a battered wooden desk and a crooked lamp. The walls were painted a light blue but were dingy and smudged.

Fox had taken up a position by the desk, occasionally peering through the threadbare plaid curtains, looking for signs of trouble, his weapon at the ready.

As David had instructed, Javad Nouri was blindfolded and gagged, strapped to a wooden chair, his hands and feet tightly bound. Fox nodded when David glanced at him, letting him know Fox had, as directed, given Nouri an injection to wake him up but leave him in a somewhat foggy state of mind. David’s voice would be the first Nouri would hear in captivity, and a plan began to come to him. It wasn’t foolproof by any means, but it just might work, and in the absence of an alternative, David decided to go with his gut.

He walked behind Nouri’s chair and motioned for Fox to hand him a pistol. Fox gave him a black Sig Sauer P226 Navy, a 9mm handgun
built specifically for the SEALs. David stared at it for a moment, weighing it in his hand. It felt colder than he’d expected and heavier. He walked over to Nouri, pulled back and released the slide, chambering a round, and held the 9mm to the man’s temple.

“Javad, I know you can hear me, so I’m going to make this very simple,” David began. “I’m going to ask you questions. You’re going to give me answers—truthful answers. Got that?”

Nouri didn’t move, didn’t nod, didn’t say a word, so David pressed the pistol harder against his temple. Nouri nodded ever so slightly.

“You recognize my voice, don’t you, Javad?” David continued.

Nouri nodded again.

“That’s right, Javad. My name is Reza Tabrizi, and I work for the Central Intelligence Agency.”

LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

“The Twelfth Imam has cut a deal with the Pakistanis,” Eva told Murray.

“What kind of deal?” Murray asked.

“Tom, he’s going to get full operational control of 170-plus nuclear missiles by midnight on Monday.”

Murray said nothing for a moment. Then, “He’ll be unstoppable. Are you sure it’s all finalized?”

“As you can see from the transcripts I sent you, everything’s done but the handshake,” Eva said. “It looks like the Iranian ambassador in Islamabad has been the middleman. He’s been doing most of the negotiating, and I’m guessing he’s been communicating with the Mahdi and with General Jazini mostly by secure e-mail. So the calls—at least the ones I’ve seen so far—don’t give chapter and verse. But one thing is clear: the Paks are going to publicly announce they are joining the Caliphate in the next twenty-four hours. The Mahdi and his team are trying to arrange a face-to-face meeting with Iskander Farooq. The logistics, as you can imagine, are challenging, to say the least. The Mahdi doesn’t have the time or interest to go to Islamabad, and he doesn’t have a lot of working airports left from which to depart, either. By the same token, it’s really not feasible for Farooq to get to Tehran. But Farooq won’t hand over the launch codes to the Pak nuclear missiles unless he gets an in-person meeting.”

“So it’s not entirely a done deal,” Murray said.

“Seems like a formality at this point. Farooq is a Sunni. He rules a predominantly Sunni country. Yet he’s about to give the Twelfth Imam the keys to the kingdom.”

“But he hasn’t yet, right?” Murray pressed.

“Not technically, but it’s just a matter of hours,” Eva said.

“Don’t we have intel that the Mahdi was supposed to meet with Farooq in Dubai last Thursday?”

“We did, and we know that the Mahdi even sent his aide . . .”

“Javad Nouri?”

“Right, right—Nouri—to Dubai for a quick trip to scout out a location.”

“It was only a few hours, right?”

“I think so, but then again, I’m just catching up on that by reading the intercepts,” Eva said. “You’ll recall I was locked up at the time.”

“I know, and I’m sorry, but listen—my point is, the meeting between the Mahdi and Farooq was scrubbed, right?”

“Yes. The war started Thursday, and everything changed,” Eva confirmed. “Why? What are you saying?”

“I don’t know,” said Murray. “I’m just thinking.”

“What are you going to do, suggest the president order U.S. special forces invade Pakistan and secure every missile?” Eva asked, incredulous. “For crying out loud, Tom, the man didn’t even want to hit Iran.”

“Careful, Eva,” Murray cautioned. “That’s the president of the United States—your commander in chief—you’re talking about.”

“I’m just saying that—”

“I know what you’re saying,” Murray said, cutting her off. “And you might be right. But
I’m
saying this deal could have been done Thursday, and it wasn’t. So it’s not done until it’s done. But don’t you worry about that. You just keep translating. Let me worry about whether we can stop this or not. You’re doing good work, Eva. Thank you. Really. Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me yet.”

“Why not?”

“Because there’s more.”

TEHRAN, IRAN

Nouri’s entire body stiffened involuntarily as if David had just nailed him with a high-voltage cattle prod. But Torres’s eyes widened as well.
Even Fox turned his head away from the window as if to see what in the world David was doing.

Admitting to being a spy for the CIA on enemy soil during a hot war in the enemy’s capital while interrogating a top advisor to the enemy himself was an unconventional strategy, to say the least. They certainly didn’t teach it in the Agency training program at the Farm, nor had David ever seen or heard of Murray or Zalinsky using it. If Eva were here, David knew she’d go ballistic. But this was the course he’d chosen, and he was determined to see it through.

“That’s right, Javad. Every single phone I gave you, every single phone you gave the Mahdi and his army, each and every one of them was supplied by the American government, by the CIA and the NSA, and all of them are being carefully monitored.”

David paused for a moment to let his words sink in and let Javad’s mind—foggy though it was—contemplate the full import of what he had just heard. He noticed Torres nervously tapping his fingers on his weapon and Fox forcing himself to look away and keep his eyes peeled out the window.

“The CIA is listening to every phone conversation the Mahdi is having, Javad. We’re listening to every call the Ayatollah is having. We’re listening to every call President Darazi is having, and all the rest of them,” David continued. “But we also know there are things you’re saying to each other that you’re not saying on the phone. So here’s the deal. You’re going to talk to me. You’re going to answer my questions, and as a reward I’m not only going to let you live, I’m going to get you out of this country, get you to a safe place where the Mahdi can’t torture you once he learns that you work for me.”

Nouri’s body language made it clear David had his full attention now.

“It’s a simple proposition, Javad. Cooperate, and live. Don’t cooperate, and die. But let’s be clear: just between you and me, I’m not going to put a bullet through your temple. That would be the easy way out for you. If you don’t help me, I’m going to make certain the Mahdi kills you, but only after he makes you suffer in ways that are too terrible for me to even want to think about.”

David pulled the Sig Sauer away from Nouri’s head and pressed it into the top of his knee.

“But I’ll tell you one thing: if you don’t talk, I am going to blow your kneecap off. Now, I’ve never experienced that level of pain myself, but I’ve seen people go through it. You might be interested to know that I shot Tariq Khan in the knee just three days ago. He didn’t die, but he sure wanted to. The crazy thing is, Javad, the human body can actually endure an enormous amount of suffering. I’m not sure how. I’m not a doctor. I’m not a mullah. I’m not Allah. All I know is I’ve seen people suffer for days in wrenching, mind-blowing amounts of pain, begging for someone—anyone—to kill them once and for all and put them out of their misery. Khan did. But even blowing your kneecap off would actually be the least of your troubles. Because I’m going to make you the same deal I made Khan. He made the right choice—he talked. And you’d better do the same. Because if you don’t talk, after I shoot you, my team and I are going to leave you in this room for the Mahdi and his men to find you. They’ll find you right here in this CIA safe house. I know you can’t see it right now. But I’m assuming you can imagine how it looks. Computers and satellite phones and maps and the like. And on your laptop, which will be open when the secret police arrive, there are all kinds of interesting files. Transcripts of the Mahdi’s phone calls. Transcripts of Hosseni’s calls and Darazi’s. Files with code names for Najjar Malik and for Khan. Detailed plans to assassinate Dr. Saddaji in Hamadan. Lists of dead drops. Locations of other safe houses. Bank account numbers in Switzerland with millions of American dollars parked in your name. And the crazy thing is, it won’t be fake. It’s all real. Your fingerprints will be all over this operation. You know how angry the Mahdi is that this war isn’t going like he’d hoped, like he’d planned, like he’d predicted? Imagine how he’ll feel when he learns that you’ve been selling him out—his own personal Judas, betraying him with a kiss.”

Nouri was perspiring profusely now, but David was not yet done.

“But I suspect that won’t be the worst of it,” he continued. “My guess—and it’s just a hunch, I admit—is that what will really enrage the Mahdi is the pictures of you at the Buddha-Bar in Dubai.”

Nouri’s knuckles went white as he gripped the arms of the chair.

“You were being followed, Javad. We watched you arrive in Dubai last Wednesday. We know the Mahdi sent you to prep for the meeting with President Farooq. We have copies of all your receipts. We have pictures of every place you went. We have pictures of every person you met with, including the—how shall I put it?—scantily clad women. We have pictures of you holding those Smirnoff and Absolut bottles and video of you pouring those young ladies drink after expensive drink. And it will all be here, on your hard drive. Then VEVAK will get a discreet call with an anonymous tip about your whereabouts, and thugs from the secret police will descend upon this place and report everything they find to Imam al-Mahdi. Oh, you’ll deny everything, of course. You’ll profess your loyalty to the Mahdi and to Allah. And all these files I’m talking about won’t be obvious at first. Asgari’s men will have to do some digging into your computer. But they’ll find it. I guarantee you they will find it all. And given all the evidence, do you really think they’re going to believe you? Especially when they find an e-mail from you to me, warning me that the Mahdi has two more nuclear warheads that he’s preparing to use?”

At that, Nouri’s grip on the armrests actually began to loosen. The more David said, the more the life seemed to drain out of the young man.

“Now, listen carefully,” said David, careful to stay behind and to the right of Nouri. “I’m going to take this gag off your mouth. You scream, you call for help, you make any sudden moves, and I blow your kneecap off. Got it?”

Nouri took a deep breath, then exhaled and nodded.

“And yes, the pistol is equipped with a silencer, just in case you were wondering.”

LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

“What else?” Murray asked Eva, not sure he really wanted to know but having no other choice.

“A few more things,” she replied. “First, Mohsen Jazini is now the acting defense minister and commander in chief of all Caliphate armed forces.”

“Says who?”

“The Mahdi personally, in a phone call to Jazini,” Eva said. “I’m forwarding you the transcript.”

“What about Faridzadeh?” Murray asked.

“He’s out.”

“Why?”

“The Mahdi didn’t say. Just told Jazini he was, quote, ‘impressed by your memo and want you to start executing the first section immediately.’”

“That’s odd.”

“It is, but there’s more.”

“What?”

“Okay, second, I’ve got a strange set of intercepts here that I don’t quite know what to make of, but they’re . . . I don’t know exactly. They’re giving me the willies.”

“What do they say?”

“One is of the Twelfth Imam talking to President Mustafa in Syria,” Eva said. “He tells Mustafa to start killing all the Jews and Christians in the country.”

“Why?” Murray asked. “The man has already slaughtered more than thirty-two thousand people over the past eighteen months.”

“I know, but that’s what he said,” Eva replied. “And when Mustafa said Syria wanted to join the Caliphate, the Mahdi told him Syria could join the Islamic empire but couldn’t yet join the war against Israel.”

“Why not?”

“He didn’t say exactly, but he did say he was sending Mustafa some special guests and that they should be well cared for.”

“Who?”

“Again, he didn’t say. Not on that call. But there were several other calls that didn’t seem so important at first but might be. It seems the Mahdi is in touch—indirectly, mind you, but in touch nonetheless—with the IRGC hit team that took out President Ramzy in New York. He told Darazi to order the hit team to travel from Venezuela through Cyprus and Beirut to Damascus and await instructions there.”

“You think the Mahdi is planning to assassinate Mustafa?” Murray asked.

“No.”

“But you think this hit team are the ones the Mahdi told Mustafa to prepare for?”

“Mmm, no, I don’t think so,” Eva replied.

“Then what?”

“I don’t know,” Eva admitted. “I really don’t. The ‘special friends’ the Mahdi referred to seemed like people at a higher level, at least to me, but I can’t tell you why. It’s just . . . it was the adjective he used in Farsi for the word
special
. It means, you know, very special, like a VIP or a high-ranking official or someone very close to you, someone in the family. I’m not sure. I’m going on instinct here, Tom, but something’s going on in Syria. I wish I could tell you what, but I can’t. But I think we should start putting more attention on trying to figure it out.”