Damascus Countdown Page 15

  HAMADAN, IRAN

  Dr. Birjandi suggested they break for a while to prepare a meal. But his young students were by no means finished with their questions.

  “You’re absolutely certain this War of Gog and Magog has never happened before?” they pressed.

  “Yes,” he replied directly.

  “So you’re certain these are End Times prophecies?”

  “What does the text say?” he asked. “It says this will happen in the ‘last days.’”

  “Do you think this will come to pass soon?”

  “I don’t know,” Birjandi conceded. “But what’s intriguing to me is that as you examine the text carefully, you’ll see at least three prerequisites before the prophecy may fully come to pass.”

  “What are they?” Ali asked.

  “First,” Birjandi explained, “Israel must be reborn as a country. Second, Israel must be ‘living securely’ in the land. And third, Israel must be prosperous. Let’s consider these in reverse order.” He paused for a moment, then inquired, “Do you feel Israel is prosperous?”

  “Yes, of course,” Ibrahim said.

  “Why?”

  “Well, it’s certainly better off economically than any of its immediate neighbors.”

  “That’s true,” Birjandi said. “Israel as a nation is wealthier than Jordan, Syria, or Lebanon, and its economic growth rate is far better than Egypt’s. In fact, the Israeli economy is consistently growing at 4 or 5 percent a year—faster than any of the major industrialized countries of the West, including the United States. And did you know that the Israelis have in recent years discovered massive amounts of natural gas offshore? There is even growing speculation that there may be enough to make Israel not only energy independent but a net exporter of natural gas, mostly to Europe. And which European country would be harmed most if Israel began selling massive amounts of natural gas?”

  “Russia,” Ali said.

  “Exactly, but why?” Birjandi pressed.

  “Because right now they’re the major supplier of gas to Europe, and the Kremlin is getting filthy rich as a result.”

  “Correct again. Now let us consider Israel’s security. Obviously at the moment, the Israelis cannot be described as living securely in the land. But what if they win this war? What if they destroy all of Iran’s nuclear warheads and decimate most of our offensive military capabilities and shame the Twelfth Imam? What if they pulverize Hamas and Hezbollah, too? Wouldn’t that suddenly make them more secure than at any time since 1948?”

  They agreed that it would.

  “But you know what’s most remarkable of all?” Birjandi asked them. “So many skeptics say that the events of Ezekiel 38 and 39 will never take place, but the fact is that Ezekiel 36 and 37 have already come to pass.”

  JERUSALEM, ISRAEL

  “Mr. Prime Minister, I have an update on Dimona,” the defense minister told Naphtali over a secure line.

  “Go ahead. I’m listening.”

  “First, the missile that hit the reactor was not carrying a nuclear warhead.”

  “Thank God,” Naphtali said as he paced the floor of his communications center.

  “Agreed,” Shimon said. “Second, we are picking up significant amounts of radioactivity—but less than we had initially expected or feared.”

  “Good,” said the prime minister. “Then I want to go to Dimona.”

  “What?”

  “I want to see it for myself.”

  “Absolutely not,” the defense minister retorted. “The situation is far too volatile.”

  “But you just told me the radioactivity is far less than expected.”

  “You didn’t let me finish,” Shimon said. “Yes, it’s less than expected, but that’s because we knew the facility was a high-priority target. I ordered the reactor shut down ten days ago. We quietly removed as much of the nuclear fuel and waste as we possibly could.”

  Naphtali was stunned. “Why wasn’t I informed of this?”

  “Because I was afraid someone in the Cabinet—or one of your aides—might leak the story. That would have indicated we were getting ready to strike.”

  “And you were right,” Naphtali said. “And now I want to go and assess the damage.”

  “Mr. Prime Minister, this is . . . No, it’s not possible. The reactor building has been severely damaged. It’s completely ablaze at the moment. We can’t send in fire crews because we don’t want to expose them to the radioactivity that has been released—which, yes, is less than we feared, but it’s still incredibly dangerous. Several of the other facilities nearby are on fire as well. We’ve cordoned off the entire area. We’re in the process of evacuating the residents we hadn’t already resettled over the past few weeks. We’re going to air-drop fire-retardant chemicals on the whole complex like it’s a forest fire. That’s the safest bet at this point. But there are still missiles and rockets in the air. And the last thing the Shin Bet or the IDF wants is for you to be outside, in a chopper or on the ground.”

  “The Israeli people need to see me in command.”

  “Then go back on television,” Shimon insisted. “Give them an update. Reassure them. But don’t put yourself at risk. Can you imagine the propaganda coup Tehran would have if they killed you, even accidentally?”

  “I don’t like being cooped up in my office,” Naphtali said, suddenly craving a cigarette though he hadn’t smoked in nearly two years. “Talk to me about Damascus. Why hasn’t Gamal launched his rocket force against us?”

  “Who says he still won’t?”

  “I’m just wondering why he hasn’t.”

  “I still don’t have any answers, sir. It’s gnawing at me as well. It doesn’t make sense. But thank God the Syrians haven’t engaged yet. I think it would push our missile defense systems beyond their limits.”

  “Do you think Tehran is holding Mustafa back?” Naphtali asked.

  “They must be. There’s no other explanation. But as for why, I don’t know yet. But listen, we’ve got a new development. Something’s cooking.”

  “Good or bad?”

  “I can’t say. Not yet. I need another fifteen minutes or so and then I’ll be ready to brief you.”

  “Is it good or bad, Shimon?” the wearied prime minister pressed.

  “Fifteen minutes, sir. I’ll let you know then.”

  KARAJ, IRAN

  David decided against trying Birjandi again. Something didn’t feel quite right, though he wasn’t sure what. He made a few more calls to others on his list but still got nothing. He scrolled through his contacts one more time, looking for any other source to try. He was about to give up and find some ointment for the minor burns he’d suffered in Qom when he came back across the name Javad Nouri. He had the man’s private mobile number. He’d ignored it for the last few days. Was it worth trying now? Or was it too risky? He still feared Javad—or those around him—suspected him of being involved in some way in his attempted assassination. But maybe that was a mistake. Maybe the plan had actually worked like it was supposed to. Was that possible? Had David’s moves to save Javad’s life actually had the effect of clearing him of any suspicion? Had their gamble worked, or had it set him up for arrest and certain execution? David knew he had put the call off too long. There was only one way to find out. He took a deep breath and dialed Javad’s number. To his shock, the call connected.

  “Hello?” said a weak and scratchy voice at the other end.

  “Is this Javad?” David asked, stunned that he had actually gotten through.

  “Yes?”

  “Javad Nouri?” David confirmed.

  “Yes, yes. Who is this?”

  “Hey, Javad, it’s Reza Tabrizi. I’m just calling to check in and see if you’re okay. I still feel terrible about what happened on Thursday.”

  “Oh, Reza, hello,” Nouri replied, clearly in some pain and out of breath. “How kind . . . of you to call, my friend.”

  “I’m sorry I haven’t been able to call sooner, Javad. How are you
feeling? Are they taking good care of you?”

  “Yes, well, I’m . . . I’m not good. But then again, I’m not dead . . . and for that I have you to thank. You saved my life. May Allah reward you many times over.”

  “No, no, it was my honor. But really, are they giving you proper treatment?”

  “Yes, of course,” Nouri said. “I’m at Tehran University Medical Center.”

  “One of the best,” said David.

  “Yes . . . the best,” Nouri agreed, still struggling to finish full sentences without wheezing. “The Mahdi gave them strict orders to . . . take good care . . . of me. He even . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “He even came to . . .”

  “To what?”

  “. . . to visit me.”

  The man’s discomfort was palpable, and David could see he wasn’t going to be able to ask Nouri anything of substance. For now all he wanted to do was get off this call and keep working through his list. He didn’t have time to chitchat.

  “That is wonderful,” David said. “I’m glad you’re in good hands, and I have no doubt you will recover quickly and be back to full health soon. And again, I’m very sorry about the condition of those satellite phones, how damaged they were. I should have gone back to Germany or to Dubai and picked them up myself. But I—”

  “It’s not . . . your fault, Reza,” Nouri said, interrupting him. “You did the best you could. . . . Some things are out of our hands.”

  “Well, I still feel terrible,” David said. “All I wanted to do was help.”

  “I know,” Nouri said. “And you have. Listen . . . my nurse is telling me I must go.”

  “Of course, I understand,” said David, glad to be moving on.

  In another context, he would have to laugh. After days of trying, the one person he’d managed to reach was a senior aide to the Twelfth Imam who was lying in a hospital in the center of a city raining with bombs and missiles, a city that might very well soon be annihilated by the Israelis. He hung up even more discouraged and slumped to his knees, bowing his forehead to the ground.

  “Lord, please help me,” he pleaded. “I don’t know what to do. Nothing I’m doing is working. This can’t be your will for me. Help me, Father. People are counting on me. Millions of lives are in the balance. But I can’t do this on my own. I need your wisdom. Show me what to do. Please, Father, in Jesus’ name. Amen.”

  David remained kneeling for several minutes. Waiting. Listening. Hoping. But nothing happened. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but the room was silent save the low hum of the fluorescent ceiling lamp.

  He thought of Najjar Malik. The man had been a Twelver, and then Jesus had appeared to him in the mountains of Hamadan. Jesus had appeared to his wife, Sheyda, and to his mother-in-law. David had heard the man share his story on several television interviews. He knew God was speaking clearly and directly to Najjar Malik. Why wasn’t Jesus speaking clearly and directly to him, in this room, right now?

  Come to think of it, Dr. Birjandi had heard from Christ clearly and directly as well. So had his young disciples, some of whom had been radical Shia mullahs and sons of mullahs just a few months earlier. They’d all had dreams and visions of Christ. Why not David? He couldn’t think of a better time than now.

  But it didn’t happen. What did that mean? Was God mad at him? What should he be doing differently? He remained on his knees for another few minutes, but still nothing happened.

  David knew he didn’t have the luxury of hesitation. Too much was on the line. He wasn’t mad at God, and he hoped God wasn’t mad at him. But he was lost. He was confused. And then he remembered something Dr. Birjandi had once told him: “When you aren’t sure what to do, do what you are sure of.” It hadn’t made much sense at the time, but it actually seemed to make sense now. Don’t look for a new strategy. Don’t get creative. Don’t lean on your own understanding, but trust in the Lord with all your heart. Do what you’ve been taught. Be true to your training. Which meant what? In this particular circumstance, what did that mean?

  David sat up and looked at his phone, and he suddenly knew. He needed to talk to Dr. Birjandi. If he couldn’t reach him on the phone, then he’d have to take the team to the man’s home in Hamadan. One way or another, he had to connect with Birjandi—and fast.

  19

  HAMADAN, IRAN

  Birjandi was moved by the intensity of his students’ questions. These young men were so hungry to understand the future of their country and the world. They were so eager to study the prophecies and be ready for the second coming of Jesus Christ. But they had so much to learn.

  “Gentlemen, Ezekiel 36 and 37 are among the least likely prophecies in all of Scripture to have actually been fulfilled,” he said, sitting up in his chair and wishing he could look them in the eye. “These chapters indicate that in the last days, Israel will be reborn as a country, the Jews will return to the Holy Land after centuries in exile, the ancient ruins in Israel will be rebuilt, the deserts will bloom again, Israel will experience a spiritual awakening, and the renewed nation will develop an ‘exceedingly great army.’ Against all expectation, this began to happen in the early 1900s. It came to fruition on May 14, 1948, and it continues to come true to this day. Your parents and grandparents were furious about this. Ayatollah Khomeini was enraged by the prophetic rebirth of Israel, as have been his successors. They cannot even bring themselves to say the word Israelis. They call the Jews Zionists. The Arabs are not happy either, of course, and they’ve fought war after war since ’48 to throw the Jews into the sea or annihilate them forever. But as difficult and as painful as it has been for many in this region, the fact is the rebirth of Israel is an act of God. It is the fulfillment of ancient biblical prophecies given to us by Ezekiel himself. It is ironclad proof that we are living in the last days. And given the fact that the prophecies of Ezekiel 36 and 37 have come to pass in our own time, isn’t it remotely possible that the prophecies of Ezekiel 38 and 39 could come true in our lifetime as well?”

  Just then, Birjandi heard a buzzing. He sensed Ali fishing in his pocket for his phone, and then the young man said, “It’s another Twitter message in Farsi from Najjar Malik. ‘Breaking: Iranian missile just hit Israeli nuke reactor. Rumors growing of possible Israeli nuclear strike on Iran. Pray and turn to Christ.’”

  The men’s tones grew far more sober. They began to discuss what this news could mean for their country and their families, none of whom were yet followers of Christ. What should they do? Where should they go? How could they reach them? Were Israeli jets—or Jericho missiles—already on their way?

  Birjandi’s phone rang, but he didn’t get up. It rang several times more, but still he ignored it. He had no interest in answering anyone’s call at the moment. There were serious things to discuss, he told himself, but he had not factored in the curiosity of his guests.

  “Shouldn’t you get that?” Ali asked.

  “Not right now,” Birjandi replied. “It’s not important.”

  “But how do you know unless you answer? Maybe it’s about this possible Israeli nuclear strike.”

  “Let your hearts not be troubled,” Birjandi assured them.

  But the men weren’t buying it. “How are you even getting a phone call? Most of the phones—except for Ali’s—aren’t getting any reception. How come yours does?”

  The phone rang again.

  “Come now, let’s not be distracted,” Birjandi said.

  But the men wouldn’t let it go. They desperately wanted contact with the outside world. Birjandi desperately did not.

  “It’s not a mobile phone,” the old man finally explained.

  “What is it, then?”

  “It’s a satellite phone.”

  That seemed to intrigue them. “I’ve heard that the Mahdi’s inner circle all have new satphones,” Ali said. “Rumor has it they’re German.”

  “Don’t believe everything you hear,” Birjandi warned them.

  The phone continued ring
ing. The young men became quiet, waiting to see if he was going to answer this time or not. Birjandi didn’t want to. He feared it was going to be Hosseini or Darazi, and he didn’t have any interest in talking to either of them. But then he remembered it could be David and wondered why he hadn’t thought of that before.

  “Okay, hand it to me, Ibrahim,” he said finally. “It’s on the kitchen table.”

  SYRACUSE, NEW YORK

  Marseille returned from the powder room to the family room and took her place again on the couch beside Mrs. Walsh. She handed the grieving woman a fresh box of tissues and put her arm around her, but Mrs. Walsh would not be consoled.

  There was still no hard news, despite all the calls Lexi’s father was making. Officials at the U.S. Embassy in Tel Aviv said they did not yet have confirmation of any Americans injured or killed in the collapse of the hotel in Tiberias, though they promised to call or text back if they received any news about the Walshes’ daughter and new son-in-law. The State Department in Washington was no help. It was, of course, the middle of the night on the East Coast; the international crisis hotline was supposed to be working, but all the lines were jammed because of the war in the Middle East. None of the hospitals in Tiberias or the Galilee region seemed to have any information yet. And unfortunately, the cable news networks were giving little attention to the attack in Tiberias since the Iranian strike on the Israeli nuclear reactor in Dimona was dominating all the coverage.

  Marseille had suggested they turn off the television and try to get some sleep until more information was available, but neither of the Walshes would even consider the notion. She had made a pot of tea, but Mrs. Walsh wouldn’t drink anything. And then it dawned on Marseille that she had an inside source. She gently patted Mrs. Walsh on the back, excused herself, and stepped away from the television into the dining room, which was a little quieter. There she pulled out her cell phone and dialed.

  “Hello. You have reached the headquarters of the Central Intelligence Agency. Our working hours are 8 a.m. to 5 p.m., Monday through Friday. If you know the extension of the person you’re trying to reach, press 1. If you know the name of the person you’re trying to reach, press 2, then type in the last name, followed by the first name. If—”