Damascus Countdown (42 page)

The voice was that of Abdol Esfahani. It was stern and dark, and Birjandi’s stomach tightened. Esfahani was in charge of all the on-site communications for Jazini, the Mahdi, and the rest of the Iranian team. Was he also assisting the Revolutionary Guards with counterintelligence? Had he intercepted Birjandi’s call to David? Birjandi knew the risks and was prepared to suffer the consequences, but he was praying that at the very least he would have the opportunity to speak the Word of God directly to the Twelfth Imam before they executed him.

Esfahani took Birjandi by the arm and began moving him swiftly down a long corridor. In the wake of the news of Darazi’s assassination,
the entire dynamic on the base had changed. The tenor of every conversation was anxious and edgy now in a way that had not been the case only minutes earlier. Birjandi, constrained by the need for his cane, could barely keep up with Esfahani’s pace, but eventually, after numerous twists and turns, various corridors, elevators, and stairs, they entered a room that Birjandi sensed immediately was a power center. He had no idea how many people were in the room or who they were, but he wondered if the Mahdi had arrived early, and if so, whether that meant the launch against Israel was being sped up, as was his own death sentence.

“Alireza, it is good to see a friend amid such sorrow.”

To Birjandi’s surprise, it was an old and very familiar voice, that of the Grand Ayatollah of Iran, Hamid Hosseini.

“Hamid, is that you?” Birjandi replied, using the Supreme Leader’s first name—a rare occurrence since Hosseini had been elevated by the Assembly of Experts to such a lofty position.

“It is, indeed,” Hosseini replied, coming across the room, embracing Birjandi, and giving him a Persian kiss on each cheek.

“This is a surprise,” said Birjandi. “I understood I was summoned by Imam al-Mahdi, but I had no idea that you would be here as well.”

“Forgive me for the secrecy, but obviously we cannot be too careful about broadcasting our movements these days, even to friends.”

“Obviously.”

“You must be horrified by this news about our friend Ahmed,” Hosseini said.

“It is a very dark day,” Birjandi said, choosing his words ever so carefully.

“But not for long,” said Hosseini. “The Zionists will pay dearly for stooping so low. May Allah rain fire from heaven on these descendants of apes and pigs before the sun goes down.”

“Surely divine judgment is coming,” Birjandi replied.

“Indeed,” the Ayatollah agreed. “I trust you have met Dr. Zandi and are familiar with all he is doing to prepare these two warheads for delivery.”

“He and his entire team have been in my prayers all night.”

“Mine as well. In fact, I have asked him to take a five-minute break
to come up and sit with us and have some Turkish coffee and allow us to pray for him.”

“An excellent idea, Hamid, though with your permission I will forgo the coffee, as I am fasting today.”

“Of course,” Hosseini said. “You have always been the pious one among us, Alireza. Forgive me for not having thought of that myself. I will fast today as well.”

“Please, Hamid,” Birjandi replied, “do not let my actions influence you. I am not a pious man. I am a sinner in desperate need of God’s forgiveness. Today is no day for me to be proud, but humble. Indeed, I seek only to be a humble servant, not a leader of men and certainly not of you. I would never presume such a role.”

“All the more reason I should listen to you and heed your example,” Hosseini responded.

Just then a military aide announced the arrival of Dr. Jalal Zandi. The Ayatollah helped Birjandi into a large, comfortable, overstuffed chair that Birjandi sensed was in the middle of the large hall. Then Hosseini greeted Zandi and offered him coffee and baklava. Zandi begged the Ayatollah’s indulgence and said he was fasting and would prefer not to drink, if this was acceptable to the Supreme Leader.

“We have a room full of men devoted to submitting to Allah and Imam al-Mahdi,” Hosseini said with great excitement and even a trace of pride in his voice. “How can the Zionists possibly stand against such servants of the Lord of the Age?”

Hosseini bid Zandi take a seat on the floor in front of him, and Zandi submitted. Then the Supreme Leader asked for an update on Zandi’s work. “Is the first warhead attached?”

“Not yet, Your Excellency, but my team and I have found some ways to accelerate the work.”

“Will you be done by 2 p.m. as expected?”

“Sooner, I think. I believe we will be finished by noon, when the Mahdi arrives.”

“Excellent, and the second warhead?”

“Well, Your Excellency, as you know, it has been loaded into an ambulance and is being driven to that base in the north.”

“Yes, I have been briefed on all that.”

“Of course, yes, I’m sorry. I just mean to say that it is about 10:20 now, and the warhead should reach the base within the hour. And as soon as my team and I finish our work on this first warhead and present it to the Mahdi, we will race up to the base in the north and start work on that one. I suspect we could have that one attached to a Scud no later than midnight, hopefully much sooner.”

“That’s the best that you can do?” the Ayatollah pressed.

“Yes, sir, I’m afraid it is. If my colleague Tariq Khan were still with us—or Dr. Saddaji, of course—we could have been finished much sooner. Their deaths have really slowed down this effort, but what can be done?”

“Yes, most unfortunate have been these deaths. But today is the day of reckoning, is it not?”

“Yes, Your Excellency, I believe it will be,” Zandi said, his voice quivering somewhat, at least in Birjandi’s judgment.

“One more question, Dr. Zandi,” said the Supreme Leader.

“Yes, of course, whatever you want to ask. I am here to serve you.”

“How powerful are these warheads?” Hosseini asked.

“I beg your pardon?”

“How powerful are they really, Dr. Zandi?” Hosseini repeated. “Will they really kill everyone in Tel Aviv and everyone in Jerusalem as Dr. Saddaji used to promise us?”

“They are among the most powerful weapons man has ever created,” Zandi replied. “And yes, each is capable of taking out an entire city.”

Birjandi felt a shiver run down his spine. Inwardly he implored the Lord not to allow this madness to go on. He silently pleaded for the peace of Jerusalem, as the Holy Scriptures commanded, and he pleaded for the souls of the men in this room. He continuously asked the Lord to command him what to say and when, where, and how to say it. Time was running dangerously short. Didn’t he have to speak out soon?

Just then, General Hamdi came and summoned the Supreme Leader to an emergency meeting with General Jazini. Birjandi and the scientist, however, were told to remain here for the next few minutes until they were notified it was safe for them to return to what they had previously
been doing. At that point, dozens of others seemed to clear out of the room; Birjandi presumed they were Revolutionary Guards assigned to protect Hosseini.

“Dr. Zandi?” he asked quietly.

“Yes, sir.”

“Who is left with us?”

“No one,” Zandi replied. “There are two guards posted in the hallway, outside the doors. But other than that, we seem to be alone.”

IRAQI-SYRIAN BORDER

“We’re never going to intercept that warhead if we don’t get through this line in the next few minutes,” Torres said.

David knew Torres was right. The commander of the CIA paramilitary unit had become a good friend and a trusted ally in recent days. But the fact was that getting through this checkpoint, as urgent and important as it was, wasn’t David’s only objective at the moment.

“Marco, switch spots with me,” David ordered, rapidly deciding his course of action.

“What?”

“Get out of the car and come over to this side and get in the driver’s seat,” David explained. “I’ll be right back.”

Torres began to comply but asked, “Where are you going?”

“To clear a path for us,” David replied. “Just be ready to bolt around these guys when I wave you forward.”

David grabbed his satphone and one of Omid’s handheld two-way radios, jumped out of the driver’s seat, and ran toward the checkpoint. When he had passed twelve or fifteen semis and was out of view of Torres and his team, he ducked between two of the 18-wheelers in line and made the most dangerous call of his life.

To call the Israeli Mossad in a situation like this meant breaking multiple American laws. He knew that—and the risks that came with it—all too well. He knew the call was going to be intercepted by the NSA, recorded, and archived. Eventually Zalinsky, Murray, and Allen were going to know what he had done. So, too, would the president of
the United States, the director of the FBI, and the attorney general. In the near term, his best hope was that Eva would be able to run interference for him and bury the call in the mass of so many other intercepted calls from Iran that were neither transcribed nor analyzed. He knew in the long term, however—if there was a “long term” for him—he would likely be arrested, tried, convicted, and sent to prison. But he had made his peace with this. He knew he was doing the right thing. Since he wasn’t likely to live through this day anyway, why not let his final acts be in defense of the Jewish people, those so beloved by the Messiah he now worshiped?

David carefully dialed the number Eva had given him. The call went through. It rang once, twice, three times, and then a fourth. On the fifth ring, someone picked up the line and breathlessly said, “Code in.” With his heart racing and pulse pounding, David meticulously followed the protocol the Israeli mole code-named Mordecai had used. And then, to his shock, an Israeli accent at the other end said, “Mordecai, thank God you’re all right. We thought we’d never hear from you again.”

This was it. David had someone from the Mossad on the line. He knew the call was being recorded. He knew it would be analyzed at the highest level of the Israeli government, up to and most likely including Zvi Dayan, the Mossad chief, and Prime Minister Naphtali himself. He had only a moment. He had one shot. He had to get this right, clear, and concise.

“One nuclear warhead is at Al-Mazzah Air Force Base in Damascus. Stop,” David began. “The other is being transported in a Red Crescent ambulance to the air base at Dayr az-Zawr. Stop. Both will be fired at Israel within hours. Stop. Urge immediate air strikes on—”

But David never got to finish the sentence. Suddenly he heard a computerized voice say, “Voice match—negative,” and the line was cut.

David was stunned. Had the Israelis really hung up on him? Or had the call been intercepted somehow by Iranian intelligence? The former seemed more logical than the latter, but why wouldn’t the Israelis have wanted to hear him out? Why wouldn’t they have wanted to find out who he was and how he’d gotten all of Mordecai’s information?

Frustrated and confused, wondering if he had broken U.S.
national-security laws for nothing, David knew he had to shake it off and stay focused. It didn’t matter now. All that mattered was getting across the border. He shoved the satphone in his back pocket, tried to smooth the wrinkles out of his IRGC uniform, then ran to the border, yelling at the top of his lungs.

“I demand to know who is in charge here!”
David bellowed.
“What kind of moron is running this operation? He should be shot! This is treasonous!”

Six heavily armed Syrian border guards stepped out of the shadows and surrounded him, their AK-47s pointed at his head.

“Who is in charge here?”
David shouted again, then pointed at a twenty-three- or twenty-four-year-old who appeared to be the unit commander.
“You? Is it you? Come here. I demand to talk to you.”

The commander cursed at him and told him to get down on his face, spread-eagle, and prepare to be searched. David ignored him and kept shouting, his face beet-red and veins bulging from his forehead.

“Search me? Do you have any idea who you’re talking to? General Hamdi and General Jazini are waiting for me and my men. They’re waiting for us at Al-Mazzah right now. But where am I? Stuck in a traffic jam nearly a kilometer long. In case you didn’t notice, we’re in the middle of a war here. Now clear out this traffic, and get me and my men across this border, or heads are going to roll, soldier, starting with yours.”

Out of the corner of his eye, David could see another half-dozen heavily armed border guards emerging from a nearby but previously unnoticed bunker and taking up positions around him. He was not exactly following Omid Jazini’s script. But there was hardly time for business as usual.

The commander began screaming back at him to get down on the ground and prepare to be searched. But David marched toward him, telling him to pull out his daily operations sheet and verify this number—941996656. David stopped only when a soldier to his left looked like he was getting a little twitchy in his trigger finger. But David didn’t stop shouting.

“That’s right! That’s the number. Now you want the authorization code? You want me to answer the challenge questions? Then put the guns down and start showing some respect to agents of Imam al-Mahdi.”

Suddenly everything grew quiet. Those last words seemed to defuse the hostility in a way that stunned all of them, including David. The commander stopped screaming at him and put up his hand, telling his men to remain silent.

“You are servants of Imam al-Mahdi?” the commander asked quietly and with respect, even reverence for the name.

“Of course,” David insisted, maintaining his arrogant swagger. “We work directly for General Jazini, and we are on a mission for Imam al-Mahdi. That is what I’ve been trying to tell you fools. Now clear out this traffic, and let us get moving.”

The commander told his men to lower their weapons, then walked over to David and asked if he had a letter of directive from General Jazini. David pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it over in disgust. In this case, it wasn’t a replica. It was an actual letter that had been sitting on Omid’s desk, bearing the authentic signature of Omid’s father. Not surprisingly, then, the letter was convincing. The commander asked David a few more questions, which David answered from memory according to the protocol in Omid’s memo, and then the commander got down on his knees and bowed his head to the ground.

“Forgive me, sir,” he pleaded. “My men and I meant no disrespect to you, your father, or Imam al-Mahdi.”

“Make your men clear a path for my car,” David ordered, seizing control of the moment.

“Yes, of course,” the young commander replied, furiously motioning his men to comply.

Was it a trap?
David wondered. How could things go this smoothly? Had the Mahdi’s forces really not yet discovered Omid’s body and realized what had happened?

David didn’t have time to mull such imponderables. If they died, they died, but he couldn’t afford to delay. He pulled out Omid’s walkie-talkie and radioed Torres to move quickly and come to the head of the line. Less than a minute later, Torres pulled up to the front. David was pleased to see that Fox was now sitting in the front passenger seat and that his men had made a seat available in the rear of the SUV for David. That was certainly the proper protocol for any VIP clearing an
international border, and David was grateful for his men’s careful attention to detail.

With the commander and his men still in the dust groveling for forgiveness, David got into the backseat and was about to order Torres to get them out of there as quickly as possible when he had an idea. He turned back to the commander and ordered him to make available a van and a tractor trailer truck to “assist with a mission related to the Mahdi.” Not surprisingly, the young commander looked startled, but he didn’t question the order and ran off to get the necessary vehicles.

“Now, which one of you is best at driving a semi?” David asked his men.

“I am,” Crenshaw said.

“Fine,” said David. “Go get in the one they give you and follow us.” Then he turned to Fox. “Steve, you get in the van and follow Nick,” David explained. “Marco and I will hash out a plan of attack, and we’ll let you know. Now let’s move it. We’re pushing our luck as it is.”

DAMASCUS, SYRIA

“You’re certain that we’re alone?”

It was a risk, Birjandi knew, but he felt oddly compelled to take it anyway.

“Yes,” Zandi said. “It doesn’t happen often in my line of work. But yes, we’re actually alone for a moment.”

“Good,” said Birjandi. “Then I have a question for you.”

“Of course, Dr. Birjandi. It is a great honor to speak with you.”

“I am not the man you think I am,” Birjandi replied.

“What do you mean?” Zandi asked.

Birjandi had no idea how long they would be alone, so he wasted no time getting to his point.

“I have renounced Islam,” he told the young nuclear scientist. “I was enslaved by it for many years, but I am free now. Jesus Christ set me free. Christ opened my eyes to the truth that he, not the Mahdi, is the Messiah. Jesus said, ‘I am the way, and the truth, and the life; no
one comes to the Father but through Me.’ Jesus said, ‘I am the resurrection and the life; he who believes in Me will live even if he dies.’ It was Jesus who said, ‘For God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that whoever believes in Him shall not perish, but have eternal life.’”

“Why are you telling me this?” Zandi asked nervously. “You’re going to get us both killed.”

“I realize I’m taking a great risk to tell you this, Jalal, but Christ told me to speak to you,” Birjandi replied. “Jesus told me to tell you that he loves you. He wants to forgive you of all your sins. He wants you to spend eternity with him in heaven, not burning in the lake of fire forever with no way of escape. You don’t realize this, my young friend. But your life and mine are measured in hours, not days or years. God is going to bring a terrible judgment upon this city, Damascus, and upon these leaders. None of us will survive. And the minute we breathe our last breath on this earth, each of us will go either to heaven or to hell, forever. And Jesus wants me to tell you that he wants you to come to heaven. But you can only do so if you cry out to him and repent of your sins.”

“You’re a crazy, blind old fool,” Zandi answered, backing his chair away. “Don’t say anything else. I’m warning you.”

“Actually, it is I who warn you,” Birjandi replied in a calm and gentle manner that surprised even him, given the peril he was putting them both in. “The prophets of the Bible spoke of a day when Damascus would be utterly destroyed. They wrote of a day when Damascus would be judged by the God of Israel. That day is today. I can’t tell you exactly how or when this judgment will come, but personally I suspect the Israelis know what we are doing here and are going to attack us with everything they have. We shall see, but one thing I know for certain: every minute judgment draws closer. And I can tell you with absolute assurance that neither of us will make it through the day. So please, my young friend, I am pleading with you, imploring you—give your life to Christ before it is too late. The Scriptures promise that ‘if you declare with your mouth, “Jesus is Lord,” and believe in your heart that God raised him from the dead, you will be saved. For it is with your heart
that you believe and are justified, and it is with your mouth that you profess your faith and are saved. . . . “Everyone who calls on the name of the Lord will be saved.”’”

Yet Zandi would not listen. He got up, bolted out the door, and demanded to be taken back to the production line. He had a nuclear missile to finish building, he insisted to the guards, and he was running out of time.