Damascus Countdown (28 page)

David checked his watch. It was 5:44 p.m. He was stunned that Mays and Crenshaw were back so soon—unless, of course, there was a problem. Leaving Fox in charge of the prisoner, David uncocked the pistol, reengaged the safety, and tucked the weapon in the back of his trousers, hidden under his shirt. Then he and Torres slipped out the door to huddle with their men.

“That was fast,” David said, looking at a black 2005 Mercedes ML350 SUV and a silver 2009 Hyundai Entourage. “Any trouble?”

“Piece of cake, boss,” said Mays.

“And you’re positive you weren’t followed?” Torres asked.

“We’re good,” said Crenshaw. “How’s it going here?”

“Not good,” David admitted. “He’s confirmed the Mahdi has two warheads, and he’s saying both are going to target Israel, not the U.S., but honestly he might just be saying what he thinks we want to hear.”

“So what’s the plan?” Mays asked.

“We can’t stay here,” Torres said. “Not for long. We need to keep moving. And first, boss, you need to decide whether you can break him.
If so, we can go a little longer. No more than an hour. If not, I say we send Matty here back to the safe house with Javad, ship Javad out of the country, and then have Matt hook up with us again ASAP. So, can you break him?”

“I honestly don’t know,” David said. “There’s nothing I’d like more than to extract actionable intelligence out of this guy. We’ve already risked so much to get him; it can’t be for nothing. But the fact is, Javad is too devout to be conned or bluffed into giving us anything real, anything valuable.”

The room, obviously, wasn’t really a CIA safe house. They didn’t really have with them the computers and files here to make it look like one. That had all been a bluff, and while it had rattled Nouri, it hadn’t broken him. The photos of Nouri in Dubai were real, the result of a brilliant sting operation Zalinsky had put together without even hinting about it to David or Torres. Indeed, until David had woken up in Karaj that morning and seen some of the photos in e-mails Zalinsky had sent, he hadn’t even known about the op. But little good it did them here in Tehran. The notion of the Mahdi seeing the pictures and the video had scared Nouri—seriously scared the man in this case—but it hadn’t broken him either.

That said, there was the safe house in Karaj. It was the real deal, and it had everything they needed—the computers, the files, the audio, the maps, the passcodes, the weapons. Maybe all they needed was for Mays to take Nouri there for a few hours and get Nouri’s fingerprints all over everything. David smiled at the genius of it. If he really wanted to spread panic inside the Mahdi’s operation, that was how to do it. First he had to persuade Zalinsky to let him tip off the local police about Safe House Six. Once the place was raided and the Iranians figured out what it was, the panic virus would spread up the chain of command with breakneck speed. As soon as the Mahdi found out that Reza Tabrizi was a CIA spy and came to believe that Javad Nouri was a CIA mole and that the satphones were a CIA operation from the beginning, the phones would become toxic. No one would be allowed to use them, virtually shutting down the Mahdi’s ability to communicate with his high command in these critical days of the war. It was high risk, but what else did they have?

David turned to Crenshaw. “Any luck with Javad’s phone?” he asked.

“I looked it over, but there’s not much there, at least that I could see. I uploaded everything to Langley to have them cross-check it against their computers and see if anything popped, but I haven’t heard back yet.”

“Where is it now?”

“In the glove compartment.”

“Which one?”

“The Hyundai.”

“Well, it was worth a shot,” David said.

Crenshaw nodded.

“So what’s the plan?” Torres pressed. “We still have one more shot to make Javad talk, right?”

“You want me to really take his kneecap off?”

“That definitely got him thinking, boss,” Torres noted. “I really thought he was going to give us everything. But when you shifted to talking about the Mahdi, I think he decided you were bluffing. That’s when he got all self-righteous and defiant.”

“Most people don’t talk when they’re missing half their leg,” David reminded him. “Most people can’t talk at that point.”

“Javad Nouri isn’t most people.”

“You really think he’ll talk if I do it?” David asked, skeptical of the notion but respectful of Torres’s years in the field.

“I do.”

“If I weren’t here, would you do it?”

“If you weren’t here, I’d have done it already,” said Torres. “Look—this is it. We’ve got two nukes in the field. We don’t know where they are. We’ve got the one person we’re likely to bag who probably knows. And if he doesn’t know where the nukes are, he sure as I’m standing here knows where the Mahdi is. Make him talk. Do it now. And then get Langley to use a Predator to blow the Twelfth Imam and his cronies to kingdom come. That’s the deal, boss. You want to stop a nuclear war? You do it right here, right now. Simple as that.”

Torres made a compelling case, David had to admit. He didn’t believe in torture per se. The information extracted from a torture
victim wasn’t always reliable. Often the victim told you whatever he thought you wanted to hear. But this was clearly a moment that called for extreme measures. They were on the brink of nuclear war, and they did, after all, have a presidential directive to use all means necessary to hunt down these two warheads and destroy them.

That said, the risk was enormous. Was there another way to break Nouri? Any other way? He probably didn’t actually know the current location of the warheads, David decided. Even if he had known twenty-four hours ago, or twelve or six or even two hours ago, the warheads had to have been moved by now. Especially now that the Iranian high command knew that Nouri had been captured.

But Torres was also probably right that Nouri knew where the Mahdi was, and if that was the case, the Mahdi and his entire team would soon be packing up and moving somewhere else. Indeed, they could already be on the move. But if they weren’t, this was the CIA’s best chance to take out the Mahdi and destroy the Caliphate once and for all. To hold Nouri and not to inflict any bodily harm against him certainly seemed the humane thing to do, and it meant they would be able to interrogate him over days and weeks and extract precious information about the Mahdi, about the Ayatollah, about the president, and about other high-ranking officials that was perhaps unknowable any other way. But ultimately that wasn’t the mission, was it? The mission was finding and destroying the warheads or finding and destroying the man who controlled them. The humane thing, therefore, meant using all means necessary to protect millions of innocent souls from nuclear genocide.

“All right, you sold me,” David said. “You guys go back inside. I’ll be right in.”

HAMADAN, IRAN

Dr. Birjandi, Ali, and Ibrahim were preparing to take a break from their intensive studies of the prophecies about the future of Iran when the phone rang. Eager to talk to David again, Birjandi didn’t hesitate to take the call this time. But he was stunned by the voice he heard on the other end. It was not David Shirazi.

“Dr. Birjandi, please hold for the Grand Ayatollah.”

Birjandi instinctively rose to his feet as he simultaneously snapped his fingers and signaled the men to remain quiet. There was a short pause, and then Hamid Hosseini picked up.

“Alireza,” he said, “is that you?”

“Why yes, it is.”

“What a joy to hear your voice, my friend.”

“Uh, yes, well, thank you—that is very kind,” Birjandi stammered, trying to regain his composure.

“I’m calling first and foremost to see if you are safe and well.”

“I cannot complain,” said the old man.

“You have not been affected by the Zionists’ attacks?”

“Well, as you know, I live quite a ways from the city center and not close to anything anyone would want to bomb.”

“So you’re okay?”

“I am saddened events have come to this, but physically, yes, by the grace of God I am fine.”

“Good, good,” Hosseini said. “I am glad to hear this. For I have a request for you. It comes from the top.”

“How can I be of service, Supreme Leader?” Birjandi asked, putting his hands together as if to pray and hoping Ibrahim and Ali would see the anxiety on his face and commit themselves to intercessory prayer.

“Please, Alireza, how many times must I insist that you call me Hamid?” Hosseini asked.

“At least once more,” Birjandi replied, not wanting to be—or appear to be—too chummy with a man who was plotting to annihilate God’s chosen people.

“Very well, I insist again,” Hosseini chuckled. “Now listen, are you at home?”

“Yes, of course. Why?”

“Very good. I am sending a helicopter to fetch you.”

Birjandi tensed. “A helicopter? Whatever for?”

Birjandi knew precisely what it was for, but that was precisely the problem. The Mahdi was requesting his presence, yet it was an encounter Birjandi wanted to avoid at all costs.

“The Mahdi wants you at an emergency meeting,” Hosseini explained. “I cannot say where, of course. But needless to say, it is of the utmost importance.”

“Who else will be there?” Birjandi asked, trying to stall for time and think of a way out.

“I’m sorry, old friend. I am not at liberty to say. But don’t worry about the details. They have all been arranged. Everything will be taken care of. Just pack a bag with some clothes and personal effects and be ready in ten minutes.”

“A bag?”

“Just in case.”

“In case what?”

“You may be away for a few days.”

“Why?”

“All will be revealed in due time, Alireza.”

“No, no,” Birjandi protested, his mind racing to find a plausible excuse. “This is a mistake. I am a foolish old man, old and very tired. You are in the midst of a very serious war. There’s nothing I could say or do to help. I should not be wasting the time of any of our nation’s leaders—not
at a time such as this. Let me just stay home and pray. I am about to begin a forty-day fast. For this I need to be alone and quiet and undisturbed. Believe me, Supreme Leader, this is my best service to the country.”

“Ever the humble man of God, Alireza,” Hosseini said. “This is why the president and I consider you a national treasure. And this is why the Promised One has asked for you. But relax, my friend. You have been given a great honor. You are about to be ushered into the presence of the messiah for whom we have long been waiting, the messiah for whose coming you taught us so carefully to prepare. You are about to meet your savior and be honored by the same. And while I’m not really supposed to say anything more, let me encourage you: you will want to hear what Imam al-Mahdi has to say, especially when you learn how close we are to wiping the Zionist entity off the map forever. Now get yourself ready. You have five minutes.”

“Only five?” Birjandi asked. “But Tehran is more than—”

But the line was already dead.

LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

“Are you freaking crazy?”
Zalinsky yelled as a hush settled over everyone around him.
“Absolutely not! It’s out of the question!”

“Jack, listen to me; Torres is right,” David pushed back.

“No, Torres is
not
right,” Zalinsky fumed.

“Yes, he is,” David argued. “If we don’t force Javad to talk now—right now—anything he knows, any value he could give us, is going to evaporate. The warheads are going to be moved, if they haven’t been already. The Mahdi is going to move too, as will all the senior team. Whatever he knows, we need to get it out of him now.”

“Enough,”
Zalinsky shouted, not caring that every eye in the Global Ops Center—including Murray’s—was on him and his tirade against his top NOC in Iran. “Enough. Now shut up and listen to me. That’s right; shut your mouth and just listen to me, Zephyr. I’m running this op, not you. I want this information as bad as you, maybe more so. But you need to take a deep breath and start listening to me. I recruited
you into this Agency. You didn’t even want to work for the CIA. It was my idea to send you into Iran. You wanted to stay in Pakistan. You’ve done some great work, but now you’re tired, you’re stressed, and you’re about to destroy your one chance to get real intel out of Nouri and compromise our safe house in Karaj at the same time. So knock it off and start listening to me.”

TEHRAN, IRAN

David was fuming, pacing the parking lot of the motel and doing everything in his power not to hang up this phone and smash it into the pavement.

“Are you listening?” Zalinsky asked.

David took a deep breath, forced himself against all his instincts not to retaliate, and said, “Yes. What is it?”

“Javad’s phone,” said Zalinsky.

“What about it?”

“Do you have it?”

“It’s in the Hyundai.”

“Get it.”

David held his tongue and walked over to the van, opened the passenger door, and took Javad’s satphone out of the glove compartment and powered it up.

“Okay, I’ve got it.”

“Is it on?”

“Yes.”

“Go to the contact list.”

David found the contact list and opened it.

“Okay, I’m there.”

“Good. Now look up Omid Jazini.”

“Who’s that?” David asked.

“Just look him up.”

So David did. He found the man’s home address and work phone number, along with his mobile number.

“Got it,” he said after a moment.

“Good,” said Zalinsky. “That’s your new target.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Omid Jazini is the twenty-eight-year-old son of Mohsen Jazini.”

“General Mohsen Jazini?”

“The very same.”

“The commander of the Revolutionary Guard Corps?”

“Well, he was, until today.”

“And now?”

“He’s the Caliphate’s new defense minister and commander in chief.”

“What about Faridzadeh?” David asked.

“He’s out,” said Zalinsky. “And don’t ask—we don’t know why. But we do know that General Jazini wrote a strategy memo that caught the Mahdi’s eye. He called the general this morning, gave him the promotion, and told him to start putting the ‘first section’ into motion immediately.”

“What’s in the first section?” David asked.

“I don’t know, but Omid might,” Zalinsky said. “Omid is part of his father’s security detail. But he was injured on the first day of the bombing campaign, nearly crushed under a collapsing wall. Was in the hospital for two days. Got sent home this morning. And guess what?”

“What?”

“He lives in an apartment complex nine blocks from the motel you’re at right now. I want you guys to move—fast. Grab him and interrogate him and find out where his father is and what that memo says.”

“What makes you think he’ll talk any more than Javad?” David asked.

“Because I don’t think Omid is a zealot,” Zalinsky said. “A Muslim? Yes. A Shia? Yes. A Persian nationalist like his father? Yes. But a Twelver? No.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“I’m not,” Zalinsky admitted. “It’s a hunch. Call it a gut instinct. But Omid’s mother, Shirin, isn’t a Muslim. She’s Zoroastrian. Eva actually met her at an embassy party in Berlin a few years ago when General Jazini was assigned as the defense attaché to Germany. In fact,
she tracked her for several months, and there was a point at which Eva thought she might actually be able to recruit Shirin, but suddenly they moved back to Tehran when Mohsen was promoted to commander of the IRGC. But Eva says Shirin wasn’t religious and certainly not an ideologue. She never went to a mosque, even though her husband did. She didn’t like to talk about religion. She preferred shopping and socializing.”

“So how do we know Omid isn’t more like his father?”

“We don’t,” said Zalinsky. “But that’s the plan. And it’s an order.”

“What am I supposed to do with Javad Nouri?”

“Have Mays drop him at the safe house and secure him. We’ll have someone pick him up, probably even before Mays rejoins the rest of you at Omid’s apartment. Now get moving.”

President Ahmed Darazi stood at the conference room door for a moment, making certain he was in full control of his composure. He reminded himself that at least the Mahdi had agreed to come down into the blastproof underground bunker. Then he knocked twice.

“Come,” said the Mahdi.

Darazi opened the door, entered quickly, closed it behind him, and bowed low.

“Yes?” the Mahdi asked, an edge of exasperation in his voice.

“My Lord, I’m not sure why, but Daryush Rashidi, the head of Iran Telecom, is upstairs in the lobby and says he is here to see you,” Darazi began. “He says you summoned him and that everything you asked for is ready. The security team told him there must be a mistake, that we would certainly have known if you requested any nonmilitary or nonpolitical personnel to come to the command center to meet with you. But he absolutely insisted, and eventually they requested that I intervene because Daryush and I have known each other such a long time. Anyway, I went up to see him, and—”

“Yes, yes, I know all this,” the Mahdi said. “I did summon him here, and he is right on time. Did he give you a password?”

“Well, uh, he—”

“Did he or did he not give you a password?” the Mahdi repeated.

“He did have something he wanted me to say to you, but I—”

“Then don’t stand there blabbering like a fool, Ahmed. Say it.”

“Yes, Your Excellency, of course. He . . . uh . . . he told me to say, ‘The fire has begun.’”

At that the Twelfth Imam arose instantly. “Excellent. Did he bring a trunk?”

“Uh, well, yes—several, actually.”

“Good. Bring him—and them—down here immediately,” said the Mahdi. “We don’t have a moment to spare.”

“But I don’t understand,” Darazi said. “What is this all—?”

“Just do what I have commanded you, Ahmed,” the Mahdi bellowed, his countenance darkening. “And do it well and quickly.”

“Yes, my Lord,” Darazi sputtered, bowing again. “As you wish.”