72
David pulled into an Iran Telecom switching station on the edge of the city.
The facility itself and the equipment inside had been heavily damaged by the earthquake, and the parking lot was filled with the trucks of Iran Telecom staff and contractors who had come to get the place back in working condition.
David found Esfahani on the second floor, wearing a hard hat and assessing the extent of the damage with a group of repairmen. He caught the executive’s eye and held up his right hand, indicating he had the five remaining satellite phones with him. Esfahani excused himself from his colleagues and took David aside.
“Where are they?” Esfahani asked.
“They’re in my trunk.”
“How quickly can you get all the rest of them here?”
“All 313?”
“Exactly.”
“I really don’t know if that’s possible.”
“Look, Reza, we don’t have a lot of time,” Esfahani said. “Things are moving very rapidly now. I will go to the Chinese if I have to, but I want to work with you, so long as you understand we have to move fast.”
“I completely understand,” David said. “I know you’re under a huge time constraint. I’m just saying we have to be careful. Do you know how hard it was to get these twenty without drawing suspicion from within my company, much less from all the international intelligence agencies who are watching everything that comes in and out of this country like hawks?”
“The Chinese couldn’t care less about international intelligence agencies,” Esfahani said.
“But you have to,” David said, taking a risk. “Look, these phones aren’t for just anyone. They’re for the Lord of the Age, correct? Shouldn’t he have the very best?”
“Of course.”
“Then I’ll be blunt. The Chinese phones stink. I mean, they’ll do if you’re a business guy trying to sell steel or cars or toys or whatever. But you told me you needed state-of-the-art, top-of-the-line, didn’t you?”
“I did.”
“Then you need me, not the Chinese,” David assured him. “We just have to make sure we do it the right way so you don’t invite scrutiny that you don’t need and I don’t get caught by my company. We have to do it in a way that provides Imam al-Mahdi and his team with exactly what they need so they can talk without Beijing or the Russians or, Allah forbid, the Americans or the Zionists listening in.”
“You’re right,” Esfahani said. “We need to be careful.”
“You’re trying to help the Mahdi—peace be upon him—build an army,” David continued. “I want to help you. I want to be part of changing history. Just tell me what I need to do, and I’ll get you whatever you need. You have my word.”
“I appreciate that. Now let me see what you brought me,” Esfahani said.
David took him to the car, opened the trunk, and gave him the five boxes.
Esfahani opened one and smiled. “These are nice.”
“Best in the world.”
“My people back in Tehran scrubbed the ones you gave them this morning,” Esfahani said, leafing through one of the instruction manuals. “They said they’re all clean.”
“They are. I checked them all myself before I brought them from Munich. This is the very same phone the chancellor of Germany uses, and the president of France, and the prime minister of Italy, and all of their top staff. And believe me, the Europeans don’t want the Americans or Israelis intercepting their calls either.”
“You’ve done well, Reza. I am very grateful.”
“It’s an honor to help my country,” David said. “I want only the best for my people.”
“I believe that’s true,” Esfahani said, taking the five boxes to his own car and locking them in the trunk. “Which is why I want to tell you something.”
Then Esfahani quietly explained what the Group of 313 was and why he and Rashidi were searching for devout Shia Muslims who possessed strong administrative and technical skills and would be completely loyal to the Mahdi.
“We are recruiting an army of ten thousand
mujahideen
ready to give their lives to annihilate Tel Aviv, Washington, New York, and Los Angeles and usher in the reign of the Promised One.”
David didn’t dare say anything that might get Esfahani suspicious. “How can I join?” he asked after a few moments.
“No one joins,” Esfahani said. “You must be chosen.”
“But you could recommend me.”
“We are considering you. Mr. Rashidi will decide. But if you can deliver all these phones quickly, I think you will win his confidence and his recommendation.”
David couldn’t believe what he was hearing, and he wondered what Zalinsky would say.
“I will do my best to earn that honor.”
“I know you will. In the meantime, I want you to learn from a master. He is one of our greatest scholars and he lives close to here. You will spend the evening there; there are no hotels available anyway. Tomorrow, I expect you to start working on the rest of the phones we require. But for tonight, you will sit at a master’s feet and learn about our beloved Imam.”
“Who is he?”
“He is a great teacher. He also happens to be related to Daryush.”
David immediately knew whom he meant, but he said nothing.
“Have you ever heard of Dr. Alireza Birjandi?” Esfahani asked.
“Of course,” David said. “I recently read one of his books. But isn’t he living in seclusion?”
“I think he would like to meet you. He is a professor at heart, and he loves bright, young, eager minds.”
“I couldn’t impose on him.”
“It is all arranged. You should bring the man some food. It is never acceptable to visit empty-handed.”
“That is very gracious,” David said. “May Allah bless you and your family. May I ask one more question before I leave?”
“Of course,” Esfahani said. “What is it?”
“Did Imam al-Mahdi actually reveal himself here in Hamadan?”
“Yes, he did,” Esfahani said. “It was astounding!”
“Did he really heal a woman who had her legs crushed in the earthquake?”
“Yes, he did. Everyone has been talking about it.”
“But how do you know it’s really true?” David asked. “I’m always a little skeptical about what I hear on the news.”
“You are a very wise and thoughtful young man,” Esfahani answered. “But I didn’t hear it on the news.”
“How then?”
“I was there.”
73
An hour later, David arrived at Alireza Birjandi’s house.
It was a modest, single-story, two-bedroom home that might be called a bungalow back in the States. Built of concrete and wood on the outskirts of the city, it appeared to David as if it dated back to the 1940s or 50s and hadn’t seen many updates since.
Carrying a bag of bread and cheese, a sack of potatoes, and a case of bottled water that Esfahani had given him from the Iran Telecom regional substation’s supplies, David went up to the front door and knocked several times. It took a few minutes, but the elderly cleric finally came to the door carrying a white cane and wearing dark glasses.
Esfahani had failed to mention that the man was blind.
“Is that you, Mr. Tabrizi?” the old man said, his voice sad, his body frail and gaunt. “I’ve been expecting you.”
“It is, but please, call me Reza.”
“Is that what they’re calling you these days? Very well; please come in.”
David was a bit startled by that response and was glad Birjandi couldn’t see his reaction. What did the man mean by that? What else would people be calling him?
“Forgive me for being late,” David said. “I got a bit lost.”
“That is quite all right,” Birjandi said. “I can’t imagine driving out there at all right now. Of course, I’ve never driven, but still . . .”
His voice trailed off, and David felt sorry for the old man. “Mr. Esfahani speaks very highly of you,” he said. “It is a great honor to meet you. Thank you for making time to see me on such short notice.”
“It is nothing,” Birjandi sighed. “Daryush and Abdol speak very highly of you, as well. You seem to have made quite an impression.”
“Well, they have been very kind to me. Oh, and Mr. Esfahani asked me to bring you these groceries and said he would send more supplies over soon.”
“He’s a good boy,” Birjandi said. “I’ve known him since he was eight years old. He and Daryush were the best of friends growing up. Did he tell you that?”
“No, sir,” David said, noting this new clue. “He never mentioned it.”
“Well, they were very competitive boys,” Birjandi said with a touch more animation in his voice. “I’m sure Abdol can’t stand the fact that Daryush is the boss. It was always the reverse when they were kids. Abdol was smarter, faster, stronger—learned the entire Qur’an by the time he was ten. Not Daryush. I don’t think he ever memorized it. But Daryush . . . Well, let’s just say he was more diplomatic, had more savvy than Abdol. It’s made all the difference. Now come, let’s put the food away; then we’ll go into my study and talk.”
As they entered Birjandi’s home, David was immediately struck by the sheer number of books that were in the living room alone. Every wall was lined with bookshelves, and every shelf was stacked with so many tomes the shelves themselves were sagging and looked like they might collapse at any moment. Books were piled on the floors and on chairs, together with boxes of scholarly journals and other publications, and David couldn’t help but wonder what a blind man living alone did with them all. Nothing looked dusty or filthy, so he wondered if someone came and cleaned on a regular basis. He certainly couldn’t imagine this poor old man taking care of this home himself. Fortunately, aside from a cracked front window and some noticeable cracks in his walls and ceiling, the house had sustained remarkably little damage from the earthquake.
David took the supplies into the kitchen, which was cramped but clean. There were no dirty dishes in the sink. No garbage in the trash bin. Nor was there any food in the pantry or much of any in the refrigerator. It was no wonder the old man was so thin.
After instructing David where to put the groceries, Birjandi padded down the hall, and David followed. They ended up in the old man’s study—actually a retrofitted dining room. It, too, had bookshelves lining the walls, sagging with the weight of books, many of which looked fifty or a hundred years old or more. In one corner was a desk stacked with books on tape, along with a large tape player from the 1980s, a set of giant headphones, and an assortment of unopened mail. In another corner stood a television that was on but whose screen was full of snow and static that hissed so loudly it actually hurt David’s ears. Seemingly not bothered by the noise, Birjandi found a well-worn armchair that was clearly his favorite and plopped down in it. Then, much to David’s relief, the old man found the remote on an end table and turned off the TV.
“Please have a seat.”
“Thank you, sir,” David said, carefully removing a stack of yellowed newspapers from the 1990s from another armchair. “I have many questions, and Mr. Esfahani said you would be the best man to ask.”
There was a long, uncomfortable silence, so long that David wasn’t sure the old man had heard him.
“We are living in extraordinary times, wouldn’t you say?” David finally offered, searching for a way to begin the conversation.
“I see days of great mourning,” Birjandi said with a heavy sigh.
“But at least Imam al-Mahdi has come, right?” David said, his voice upbeat and hopeful. “I’m sure you’ve heard all the reports.”
“I have no joy in my heart,” Birjandi said.
“None?”
“Young man, a very dark day has dawned upon the earth.”
David was taken aback. Wasn’t this man’s life’s work studying and teaching about the coming of the Twelfth Imam? Why wouldn’t he allow himself a bit of joy? Yes, the day had come with death and destruction. But hadn’t all that been prophesied anyway? Didn’t the old man believe all this suffering was Allah’s will?
“He who knows not, and knows not that he knows not, is a fool; shun him,” Birjandi said, seemingly out of the blue. “He who knows not, and knows that he knows not, is a child; teach him. He who knows, and knows not that he knows, is asleep; wake him. He who knows, and knows that he knows, is wise; follow him.”
“Is that from the Qur’an?” David asked.
Birjandi smiled a little and shook his head.
“From the hadiths?”
Again the old man shook his head.
“Something Zoroaster said?”
“No, it is an ancient Persian proverb.”
“Well, it sounds very wise.”
“Which one are you?”
“Me?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know.”
“Think.”
David pondered that for a moment, silently reciting the proverb several times to understand its meaning.
“I suppose I am the child,” he said finally.
“Why?”
“Because I know not, and I know that I know not. That’s why I am here, because I believe you know.”
“Very good,” Birjandi said. “Then start with this. What Hamadan just experienced was not a natural earthquake.”
“What do you mean?” David asked.
“The size. The scope. The timing. Think, Mr. Tabrizi. What triggered all this? Do you really think it was the arrival of Imam al-Mahdi?”
What was the man talking about? David’s confusion grew still more when Birjandi suddenly rose, excused himself, and said it was time for him to pray.
“We can talk some more in six hours,” Birjandi explained simply, without apology.
Six hours?
David looked at his watch. It was only three in the afternoon. What was he going to do for the next six hours?
“Thank you for the groceries,” Birjandi said before he left for his room. “Feel free to have anything you would like. I am not hungry. I don’t have a guest room, but I hope you are comfortable on the couch. There are more blankets in the closet. Take a nap, Mr. Tabrizi. You need the rest. You seem tired. And, I suspect, you could use some prayer time as well.”
Then he turned and walked away. His bedroom door closed softly behind him. David was startled and a little annoyed. He didn’t want to nap. He didn’t want to pray. He had questions. He had come for answers. But he wasn’t getting any. At least not for the next six hours.