Damascus Countdown (47 page)

“Thanks,” said David.

He cut the line to Langley, shoved the satphone in his pocket, crawled out of the ambulance, and raced up the street. Sure enough, the car was right where Zalinsky said it would be. It wasn’t running, but the driver had fled too quickly to remember to take his keys. David jumped in, gunned the engine, and raced to the ambulance. He carefully
loaded Fox into the front passenger seat and lowered it to about a forty-five-degree angle. Next, he picked up Crenshaw and laid him on the backseat. Then he gathered their weapons, made sure he wasn’t leaving behind any ammo, and jumped in the driver’s seat. Seconds later, as he sped along Highway 7 heading southwest, he both heard and felt the Hellfires obliterating the Red Crescent ambulance and what was left of the Iranian nuclear warhead.

“Now what, boss?” Fox asked as David pushed the pedal to the metal.

“Next stop, Damascus, gentlemen.”

For David, there were just two questions remaining: Could they neutralize the second warhead? And could they rescue Birjandi? He knew the odds. He also knew his men desperately needed medical attention, but the brutal truth was there was no place to get it. Not yet. Not now. They had to press forward. They had to see this mission through to the bitter end.

DAMASCUS, SYRIA

General Youssef Hamdi raced down the hallway toward his large, plush corner office overlooking the flight line where two dozen MiG-29 fighter jets were parked, gleaming in the midday sunshine. Standing in the hallway were ten heavily armed Revolutionary Guards, along with two bodyguards from the Syrian presidential detail. Sitting there on a chair in the hallway was Dr. Birjandi, still waiting for his meeting with the Twelfth Imam. But the Mahdi was behind closed doors with Ayatollah Hosseini, Syrian president Gamal Mustafa, and General Jazini, along with the Mahdi’s most senior aides, Daryush Rashidi and Abdol Esfahani.

“General Hamdi, is that you?” Birjandi asked. “Are you okay?”

“It is me, Dr. Birjandi, but I’m sorry; I cannot speak now,” Hamdi replied, his voice agitated, almost panicky. “I must see the Mahdi.”

“I’m afraid he is busy,” Birjandi said calmly. “He summoned me, as you know, but I keep being told I must wait a little while longer. It’s okay, of course; I’m not in a hurry.”

“But I am,” said Hamdi. “This cannot wait.”

It felt strange to Hamdi, knocking on the door to his own office, but he had to remind himself that he was not in charge any longer. He took a deep breath, tried in vain to calm himself, to steady his nerves, then knocked twice.

“Who is it?” Jazini asked.

“Your humble servant,” Hamdi replied.

“Come,” said the Mahdi.

Cautiously the Syrian commander entered, knelt, and bowed to the ground.

“Is everything all right, General Hamdi?” Jazini asked. “You’re breathless.”

“I have terrible news, Your Excellency,” Hamdi replied, his forehead still touching the Persian carpet.

“The convoy has been attacked by the Zionists outside of Dayr az-Zawr,” said the Mahdi.

The general looked up, startled. He had no idea whether the attack had come from Israelis or Americans or some other force, but he was still reeling from the fact that the attack had happened at all. Who could possibly have known they were sending the warhead to the north? They hadn’t told anyone. Jazini hadn’t even allowed Hamdi to alert the commander of the air base in Dayr az-Zawr, a close personal friend for more than a quarter of a century. Strict operational security had been maintained.

“How did you know, Your Excellency?” Hamdi asked. “I just got the news from the commander of the air base there myself.”

“My men called me from the scene a few minutes ago,” Jazini explained.

“How could this have happened?” Daryush Rashidi now asked, taking the words out of Hamdi’s own mouth.

“Ye of little faith,” the Mahdi said. “The ruse worked just as I had suspected.”

Perplexed, Hamdi asked, “How so, my Lord?”

“We have a mole,” the Mahdi explained. “Someone on this base—indeed, likely someone in this very room—is working for the Zionists.”

The room went deathly silent.

“And since I know and trust everyone in this room except you, General Hamdi,” the Mahdi continued, “I’m going to have to conclude it is you.”

Hamdi began shaking. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He had been a loyal servant of the Syrian Arab Republic since he had been drafted into the air force at the age of eighteen. He was a devout Muslim, an Alawi, and a distantly related cousin of President Mustafa. He had numerous medals for bravery and was known, above all else, for his
loyalty to the regime. In fact, he had personally overseen many of the massacres in recent weeks against Syrian Christians and Jews and even the stepped-up, targeted murders of high-ranking pastors and priests in just the past two days, a command that had come directly from the Mahdi. What’s more, he had created the very infrastructure of ballistic-missile development and deployment that was making possible the Mahdi’s goal of attacking the Zionists with a nuclear warhead from Syrian soil. How could anyone believe he had sold out his country or the Caliphate?

Both terrified and angry, Hamdi wanted to defend himself. He wanted to prove his faithfulness, but a deep chill suddenly descended upon the room or at least upon him. He felt paralyzed by a force that had come over him. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t move. Though he could not turn his head, he sensed a dark spirit moving close by, and then he sensed several. They were swirling about his feet and his chest and now his head, and then it was as though they had entered through his nostrils and his mouth, and he felt himself being choked to death, but it was as though he were being choked from within.

“Take him out,” the Mahdi ordered. “Gather the senior staff in Hangar Five, where Dr. Zandi is making his final preparations for launch. We will execute him there.”

Hamdi wanted to scream, wanted to cry, but he was immobilized, frozen solid inside his own body. He looked at Mustafa as if to appeal for his honor and for his life, but the Syrian president’s eyes were cold and cruel and showed not the slightest bit of mercy. How was that possible? How had Hamdi’s career of dedicated service come to this? And what would happen to his beloved wife and his three beautiful daughters? If he were executed, they would all be slaughtered by sundown. He wasn’t sure of much at the moment, but of that he had not a shred of doubt.

Several Revolutionary Guards rushed in, handcuffed him, and dragged him away. No one spoke for him. No one came to rescue him, not even his own men whom he had trained, whom he had commanded. The last thing he saw and heard as he was being whisked away was Abdol Esfahani stepping out into the hallway and telling Dr. Birjandi, “I’m sorry, my friend; much is happening. It’s still going to be a few more minutes.”

Birjandi heard the door to General Hamdi’s office fly open and then slam closed. Then it opened again, and he could hear a commotion as someone was being dragged away, but of course he had no idea what was happening. He asked Esfahani, but the man wouldn’t answer directly. Indeed, Esfahani seemed quite scared. He would only say that the Mahdi was not yet ready to see him. But just before the door to Hamdi’s office slammed shut yet again, Birjandi heard the Mahdi say something to the effect that they needed to “launch the warhead immediately” and they could “not wait any longer” because it was now getting “too dangerous.”

Men with heavy boots were coming down the hallway toward him. Birjandi sensed these were more Revolutionary Guards, come to beef up protection around the Mahdi. Something serious had happened. Birjandi wondered if David and his men were involved in whatever it was.

“Abdol, are you still there?” he asked.

“Yes, but I must go back in,” Esfahani replied.

Birjandi reached out and found Esfahani’s arm and took hold of it.

“May I use the restroom before this meeting starts?” he asked.

“Of course, but I cannot take you,” said Esfahani. “The Mahdi needs me.”

Esfahani directed one of the guards to escort Birjandi, and soon they were shuffling down the hallway to a men’s room. When they got to the door, Birjandi asked the guard to check and make sure no one else was in there. The guard complied, and when Birjandi heard him open the door and click on the light, he knew immediately the facility was unoccupied. Still, the guard stepped back out a moment later to assure him that everything was safe and that Birjandi would be alone.

The old man thanked the young guard, stepped into the restroom, and locked the door. He felt around the walls to get the dimensions of the room, then stood still in the center of the room and listened carefully. It was quiet, save the buzz of the fluorescent lights above, none of which Birjandi needed, but he did notice a cool breeze coming from somewhere. He raised his right hand and felt a slight current of air moving along the top of the room. That meant there had to be a window.

Birjandi unlocked the door and stepped out for a moment.

“Young man,” he said to the guard.

“Yes, sir?”

“I will need to wash my hands and face, but my legs are a bit shaky today,” Birjandi said. “Would you mind bringing me a sturdy chair that I may sit on at the sink?”

“Why, of course, Dr. Birjandi,” the soldier replied in a Farsi that belied a slight accent from southern Iran. Birjandi wondered if the young man might be from the city of Shiraz. There was no point in asking. There wasn’t time to get personal at the moment. But it made him think again of David Shirazi and how urgently he needed to talk to his friend. Events were unfolding so rapidly now. This would, in fact, likely be the last time they could speak.

A moment later, the guard was back with the chair, and he set it in front of one of the bathroom sinks. Birjandi thanked the man, then closed the door behind him and locked it. He went over to the chair, picked it up, and set it against the far wall. Then slowly, carefully, he climbed up on the chair and felt along the wall until he found that, sure enough, there was a small window there. It was open slightly, but he cranked it all the way open. Then he reached under his robes, pulled out his satphone, powered it up, and stuck it out the window, praying for a connection. Birjandi felt along the keypad until he found the Redial key David had shown him, and he pressed it. Would it go through? If it did, would David answer? And if he did, could Birjandi tell him what he needed to tell him without being overheard by the guard?

M20 HIGHWAY, CENTRAL SYRIA

How was this ever going to work? How was he ever going to get there in time?

David was racing through the wastelands of central Syria at nearly a hundred miles an hour. Unfortunately the car wouldn’t go any faster, and David berated himself for not stealing a Mercedes rather than this Iranian family sedan.

At this point, he was off Highway 7 and was flying down the M20 expressway. He had already blown through the town of As Sukhnah and would soon be passing the ancient ruins of Palmyra, known in Arabic as Tadmur. At that point, according to Fox, who was in charge of the map, they would exit onto Route 90 and later onto Route 53. Eventually they would shift onto Highway 2, which would take them directly into Damascus.

David glanced at his watch. It was 12:17 p.m. local time. The problem was, Damascus was over 200 kilometers from Palmyra. At this rate, it would take them more than an hour to get there, and David was certain they didn’t have that much time.

Fox’s satphone rang. David answered it immediately. He was sure it wasn’t going to be Zalinsky. David had already talked to his handler for much of the past half hour, briefing him on Fox’s and Crenshaw’s conditions and war-gaming their next moves. And he was right. It was Eva.

“Hey, it’s me—why aren’t you answering your own phone?” she asked.

“I lost it in the gun battle,” David replied.

Eva gasped. “What gun battle?”

“It’s a long story, but I can’t talk about it now,” David said.

“Where are you?”

“Near Palmyra.”

“And you’re heading for Al-Mazzah?”

“Exactly.”

“Well, you’ve got a friend looking for you,” Eva said.

David immediately thought of Marseille, then his father. But how could it be either? Neither had his satphone number.

“Who?”

“Dr. Birjandi.”

“Really?” David asked. “He called me?”

“Yes, about ten minutes ago.”

“Why? What did he say?”

“He had three things to tell you,” Eva replied. “First, he told you not to call him. He said it’s too dangerous and that this would likely be his last communication with you ‘in this life.’”

David swallowed hard. He tried to press harder on the accelerator, but it was already on the floor. The car simply wouldn’t go any faster than it was, and David harbored doubts the vehicle could really make it all the way to Damascus at this speed. He couldn’t imagine this engine ever having been pushed so hard, especially not in the dust and heat of the Syrian desert.

“Second, he said the warhead is attached to the Scud and on the launchpad, and he believes the Mahdi and President Mustafa are heading there any moment to watch it be launched.”

David pounded his fist on the dashboard. He wasn’t going to make it. He pleaded with the Lord to do something, to help him, to give him wisdom, but he couldn’t find any possible way to stop this launch from happening.

“And third?” he asked impatiently.