Damascus Countdown Page 10

  Marseille sat as still as a stone for several minutes, then hit 2 to replay the message and listened to David’s voice again. It was coming from so far away. She was flooded with a sudden longing to see David again, to sit next to him and get to know the man he had become. But as she listened to the message a second time, she heard something that puzzled her. David was grieved, yet he seemed to have a confidence that he hadn’t hurt his father and that indeed his father somehow understood his need to be away. He talked about being safe. That was a relief to her, but why would David’s father think he was in danger? And why did David say what he did about his father understanding? Did David’s father know what she knew? Did he know David worked for the CIA and was at that very moment inside Iran? How could he? Had David told him? Marseille’s heart raced. She hoped that was the case. She wanted Dr. Shirazi to know the truth and to be as proud of David as she was. She would love to be able to talk openly to Dr. Shirazi about his son. Maybe he knew more than she did. Maybe she could learn more about what David was doing and when he might be coming home.

  Marseille was careful to save David’s message, but even though she had forty-three more messages to listen to, she knew she had to get this one to Dr. Shirazi right away. But how? It didn’t seem quite appropriate to go upstairs and knock on the man’s bedroom door. But she so wanted to tell him the good news.

  And then, before she could make a decision of how best to proceed, Marseille began to weep. She did her best to stay quiet. She didn’t want to wake up Saeed or draw any attention to herself. She wasn’t even entirely sure why she was crying, but she couldn’t stop. It wasn’t sorrow, she told herself. It was mostly relief. But there was more to it, she knew.

  She couldn’t think clearly. Something inside her had just broken loose, a dam of sorts bottling up complicated emotions long suppressed. She was embarrassed, crying here in the Shirazis’ kitchen. She was mortified by the possibility that Azad might find her like this. She didn’t want to have to explain herself. She didn’t even really know what she was feeling or why.

  She reached for some paper napkins lying on the center of the table, wiped her eyes, and tried to take a few deep breaths and regain control. Then she bowed her head and said a prayer, sniffling a bit as she went, thanking the Lord for protecting David and asking for his continued safety. She also thanked her Father in heaven for giving her this gift of hearing David’s voice and hearing his heart. It meant more to her than she could possibly express.

  12

  DAMASCUS, SYRIA

  Gamal Mustafa took the call without hesitation.

  It was the fifth time he had spoken to his chief of military intelligence in the last six hours, but Mustafa wasn’t angry or impatient. He had made it crystal clear to the Mukhabarat that he wanted every scrap, every update, every morsel of news he could get his hands on—even rumors—and his men were delivering.

  “What do you have for me?” the Syrian president asked, stepping out onto the veranda of his third-floor office and surveying the sprawling capital city before him.

  The intel chief didn’t bury the lead. “The Iranians have hit Dimona,” he said as professionally as he could, but Mustafa immediately picked up the barely concealed excitement in his tone.

  “You’re sure about this?”

  “Yes, Your Excellency.”

  “How do you know?”

  “All the Arab TV networks are reporting it—and the Western networks too. But we have other confirmation as well.”

  “You’ve heard from our man?”

  “Yes, Your Excellency. He is hesitant—and rightly so—to transmit too much, lest the Zionists intercept the transmissions. But we received two short bursts, minutes apart, just moments ago. I am calling you first with the news.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He can see the reactor from his apartment—there’s a huge fire, lots of smoke. It can be seen for miles.”

  “Is there a mushroom cloud?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  “Radiation?”

  “He’s picking up some, yes, but no details yet. The moment I have more, I will let you know.”

  “You know what this means, don’t you?”

  “Is it time?”

  “I don’t see how we can wait any longer. Are your men ready?”

  “They are.”

  “And the missile forces?”

  “Everyone and everything is in place.”

  “All the targeting information is uploaded?”

  “Yes, Your Excellency—the Zionists won’t know what hit them. Just give us the word.”

  “Very good,” Mustafa said as the call of the muezzin began to ring out across the ancient city from every minaret he could see. “Put everyone on standby. I’ll be back to you soon. But there is someone I must talk to first.”

  TEHRAN, IRAN

  Ahmed Darazi was in shock. He hadn’t suspected for a second that the Mahdi was angry with Faridzadeh. Nor had it ever crossed his mind that the Mahdi would kill the man without warning. How were they supposed to prosecute the war now? How exactly were they supposed to win the war against the Little Satan, much less the larger battle—the more important battle—against the Great Satan, without Faridzadeh at the helm? General Mohsen Jazini was a fine and able man, to be sure, but he wasn’t ready to be the defense minister of the entire Caliphate. He didn’t possess the strategic foresight and genius of Faridzadeh.

  And why was the Mahdi sending Jazini to Damascus? That made no sense. Syria wasn’t even engaged in the war, at least not yet. Then another terrifying idea entered Darazi’s heart. Could the Mahdi read his thoughts? If so, Darazi realized, he was a dead man.

  Trying desperately to wipe such heretical notions away, Darazi began quietly reciting several suras from the Qur’an, hoping to keep his thoughts occupied and to jam any ability the Mahdi might have to replay the last few moments. The Twelfth Imam brushed by him without a word. Hosseini followed, so Darazi did as well.

  Darazi noticed that even two and a half hours after the murder—he didn’t know what else to call it—blood was still splattered over the Mahdi’s robes and face, but the Mahdi himself didn’t seem to notice or care. Rather, he walked into a meeting room to take the call with the Syrian president, which had just come in, and motioned Hosseini and Darazi to take their seats nearby and listen in on extension lines.

  “Gamal, is that you?”

  “Yes, my Lord. Thank you so very much for taking time out of your busy and glorious day to speak with your humble servant.”

  “You know what I’m going to ask, then?”

  “I suspect I do,” said Mustafa, his voice trembling ever so slightly.

  “You have an answer for me?”

  “Yes, my Lord. Please forgive the delay. Not all of our Cabinet members were in the country, and it has taken us several days to get everyone back to Damascus, where we could meet and discuss this very important matter.”

  “And?”

  “And we are unanimous in our decision. We humbly request that you allow the Syrian Arab Republic to join the Caliphate, to make you our Supreme Leader, and to transfer all control of our weapons and our resources—human and financial—to your care and good stewardship.”

  “It is about time, Gamal,” said the Mahdi. “I will be honest with you: I was losing patience with your foot-dragging and pathetic incompetence.”

  “Again, my Lord, please forgive me and my Cabinet. I take full responsibility. But I wanted the decision to be unanimous.”

  “Nonsense, Gamal,” the Mahdi snorted, blood rising through his neck and face. “You wanted evidence that we were going to win, that we were really going to annihilate the Zionists as I have promised. And only now, minutes after hearing that we successfully hit and destroyed the Zionists’ nuclear facilities in Dimona, do you want to join the winning side.”

  “We have never questioned your destiny or your power, my Lord,” Mustafa protested. “As you know full well, Your Excellency, when th
e war started, I immediately ordered our missiles to be fired at the Zionists, until you personally called and asked me to stop—an order I immediately obeyed.”

  “I didn’t want you involved in my War of Annihilation unless or until you had joined the Caliphate.”

  “We are ready to do so, my Lord. And we have all our missiles fueled and targeted and ready to fire at the enemy. Give me the command, and we will join the war this very hour, even if a few days late.”

  “No,” said the Mahdi.

  It was quiet for a moment.

  “I beg your pardon, my Lord,” said Mustafa. “I’m not sure that I heard you correctly.”

  “You did, and I said no. Of course I will accept you into the Caliphate. But I don’t want you firing your weapons at the Zionists. Not yet.”

  “But we are ready, my Lord—and more importantly, we are eager to join the fight. I have been eager for days. It’s just that—”

  “Yes, yes, I know—you wanted it to be unanimous.”

  “Well, you see, I—”

  “Silence, Gamal,” said the Mahdi. “You have already tested my patience beyond its healthy limits. Now you will be patient and do what I say or suffer the judgment of the damned. You are not to fire upon the Zionists until I say so. Instead, you are to continue slaughtering the infidels among your people. Indeed, I want you to accelerate your operations. Kill the Christians, the Jews, and any so-called Muslims you find who won’t bow to me. Find them all. In every city. In every province. Show them no mercy. I know you have begun because you heard I had given similar orders here in Iran and throughout the Caliphate. And because you have already begun the slaughter, you have bought yourself precious time you would not otherwise have. But now I want to hear reports that the blood of the infidels is flowing thick and fast through every Syrian street. And not just rebels. I’m not simply talking about you killing your political enemies. You’ve killed enough of those—and turned the world against you in the process. No, I want you to unleash your fury on the real infidels, the ones who will defy me as Lord of the Age. Do you understand what I am saying to you?”

  “Yes, my Lord, I believe I do.”

  “You had better. And if you do this and do this well—if you are faithful in this small thing—I may put you in charge of something more. But not until then. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, my Lord; you can count on me.”

  “Perhaps,” said the Mahdi. “We shall see. Now, there is one other thing.”

  “Yes, of course—whatever you want.”

  “Some special friends of mine are on the way. You will receive more details later. Treat them as you would treat me. Make sure they have everything they need. Everything. And remember this—I am watching you, Gamal, and your very soul hangs in the balance.”

  QOM, IRAN

  Torres drove. David sat in the front passenger seat with his window down and the wind whipping through his hair as they raced south along Route 7, winding through the mountains, headed for Iran’s most religious city. The rest of the team sat in the back of the stolen van, cleaning their weapons and readying themselves for whatever was to come. For the most part the roads were clear of civilian traffic, but there were a lot of military convoys about, especially those moving fuel and food.

  As they exited Route 7—the Tehran-Qom Freeway—onto Highway 71 and approached the outer suburbs of Qom near Behesht-e-Masomeh, they could actually begin to smell the war. David winced. It was an odor he would never get used to—the smell of burning flesh and burning jet fuel.

  A moment later, they came around a large mountain peak and over a ridge, and they could see the enormous columns of smoke and the fires raging. They were still about ten kilometers from the city center, but they suddenly felt the ground shaking and heard a massive explosion off to their right. A split second later the ground shook again, though another mountain blocked their ability to see exactly what was happening. As they kept racing forward, however, they soon broke out into a valley, and that’s when they saw a group of Israeli F-16s roar overhead. David counted four jets—no, six—and soon the Israelis began dropping their ordnance. But now the sky erupted with the sound of antiaircraft artilleries as well. The Iranians were shooting back.

  “Step on it, Torres,” David ordered, “and everyone stay sharp.”

  It was tempting to watch the battle in the skies. The planes and ordnance were mesmerizing, to be sure. But David didn’t want Torres and his men distracted. There was little chance of getting hit by an Israeli air-to-ground missile or a bunker-buster bomb. Those were being fired at the Fordow uranium enrichment plant located on the northern edge of Qom. What really worried David was the possibility of running into a military checkpoint and having to explain who they were and why they wanted to enter the war zone. David had his official papers identifying him as Reza Tabrizi, a subcontractor for Iran Telecom. Torres and his men all had false papers identifying them as members of Reza’s technical team. But David prayed they wouldn’t have to use any of them. No Iran Telecom employee in his right mind would be working today, certainly not without a hazmat suit and portable oxygen supply. David and his team had neither, but they were going in anyway.

  “Look there,” Crenshaw shouted from the backseat. “Two o’clock high.”

  David couldn’t help but turn his eyes to the right, and as he did, he felt his stomach tighten. An Israeli fighter jet was trailing smoke and rapidly losing altitude.

  “He’s hit,” Torres said.

  “Say a prayer, gentlemen,” David agreed. “Looks like one of the good guys is about to go down.”

  It was painful to watch but impossible to look away. The Israeli pilot was valiantly trying to regain control of his plane, but even to the untrained eye it was obvious what was going to happen next. Less than a minute later, they lost sight of the F-16 behind another ridge, but they could feel and hear it hit the ground in a massive explosion, and soon they could smell it as well.

  CAPE MAY, NEW JERSEY

  Najjar Malik couldn’t sleep—again.

  He missed Sheyda, his beloved wife. He missed his daughter. He even missed his mother-in-law. He wondered where they were. Was the CIA taking good care of them? Were they safe?

  Najjar rolled out of bed and went down to the kitchen of the enormous and gorgeous beachfront home in which he’d been staying nearly since he’d escaped from CIA custody the week before. It was owned by a friend of one of the producers at the Persian television network that had broadcast Najjar’s now-world-famous interview explaining to his fellow Iranians why he had converted to Christianity and defected to the United States. He’d been given use of the home free of charge, for as long as he needed, on two conditions: that he not use the telephone in the house (only the untraceable cell phone the producer had given him), and that he not do anything that would alert the authorities to his presence in that particular house. Najjar had promised not to implicate the producer or his friend, and he was a man of his word. But there were moments like this when he wondered whether it was time to go to the Cape May police station and turn himself in. He wasn’t a criminal, and he didn’t want to be a fugitive. He had told the CIA everything he knew. He had turned over all his computer files and answered all their questions, a hundred times over. Now he just wanted to be with his family and to study the Bible with them, pray with them, and continue to communicate with the people of Iran—and Muslims around the world—telling them the good news of the one true Savior.

  He went to pour himself a glass of milk but realized he had used up the last of it at dinner. He would have to go out when the sun came up and get some more. Indeed, a shopping run would do him good, as there were a number of staples he was running low on. Najjar grabbed an icy-cold Coke out of the fridge instead and went into the study, where he sat at the computer and caught up on the news.

  He clicked on the BBC Persian website and was stunned by the headline: “Israeli Nuclear Reactor at Dimona Hit by Missiles.” He quickly scanned the coverage, but i
t was sketchy at best. No specifics yet on the death toll and no official reaction from the Israeli government, but a widespread evacuation of the area around Dimona was under way, and Najjar feared Prime Minister Naphtali might now be seriously contemplating going nuclear against Tehran. He grabbed his mobile phone and tweeted a quick note about the attack along with a link to the BBC article, but he decided against adding any of his own commentary.

  Sifting through other websites, he was in search of more details about Dimona and the rest of the war between Israel and Iran when to his surprise he found himself diverted by news out of Damascus. One headline in particular caught his eye: “Massacre in Syria: Hundreds Killed.” He clicked on the link. The article, written by a Time magazine reporter in a dispatch filed in English, described the latest “horrific massacre” in a string of attacks carried out by Syrian security forces. More than three hundred people had been killed, and over a thousand more were injured.

  Najjar shuddered as he continued reading about how the Syrian president appeared to be specifically targeting Christians, Jews, and other minority groups in the Islamic nation. Meanwhile, the United Nations seemed obsessed with passing resolutions condemning the Israelis for responding to the attacks of madmen instead of doing anything to condemn—much less stop—Gamal Mustafa from systematically slaughtering thousands upon thousands of innocent men, women, and children.

  There was nothing he could do about it, Najjar knew, besides informing the world and staying in prayer. But for some reason the story made him miss Sheyda and their child all the more, and he got down on his knees and pleaded with God to reunite them soon.