At this, all the assembled VIPs and staff erupted in sustained applause. Esfahani was touched by how humble Birjandi was, how he shook his head and seemed genuinely uncomfortable with all the attention.
“Dr. Birjandi, we have only moments,” the Mahdi added. “But would you say a few words before we begin?”
There was more applause that echoed through the cavernous facility, and Esfahani helped Birjandi walk over to the missile and step up on the small podium, while the Mahdi stepped aside several paces. The old man stood there for a moment, cleared his throat, but seemed to hesitate.
“Please, Dr. Birjandi, share what is on your heart,” the Mahdi prompted.
Birjandi cleared his throat again and nodded. “Very well,” he said, “I will share what is on my heart. I must say that I agree that God has taken away my physical sight to give me spiritual eyes, and for this I am most grateful. Sometimes the truth is right in front of us, and most men cannot see it. But God rewards those who walk by faith and not by sight. God rewards those who seek the truth with all their heart and soul and mind and strength. When we know the truth, that truth will set us free. And I am here to declare to all of you today that in all my years of studying the end of days, I finally found the One who is the Way, the Truth, and the Life, and his name is Jesus Christ. I have given my life wholly and completely to him, and I implore each of you today to do so as well.”
Esfahani was aghast. What was Birjandi doing — and why now of all moments? The Twelfth Imam was not offended, however; he was enraged.
“Alireza, what are you saying?” the Mahdi demanded. “Do you dare renounce Islam and speak such blasphemies in my presence? Do you dare—?”
But Birjandi cut in and insisted that he was not speaking blasphemies, that he was not speaking lies but only speaking of each man’s desperate need to receive Jesus Christ as Savior and Lord and renounce all others.
“Do not dare interrupt me, Alireza!” the Mahdi bellowed. “You are here at my invitation, and I am grateful for your contributions to the Revolution. But you will bow before me and beg me for my pardon. No one interrupts me and certainly not today.”
“I will not bow to you, Ali,” Birjandi retorted, using the Mahdi’s never-used name. “I will bow only to the one true God, and that is not you. Ali, you are not the true Messiah. You are a false messiah, and today you and all who follow you will face the judgment of the living God, the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, the God of Israel, the God and Father of the Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, the one true Messiah.”
Esfahani gasped. Horrified and perplexed all at once, he instinctively took several steps back, away from Birjandi, as did the others.
“General Hamdi is not guilty of betraying you, Ali,” Birjandi continued. “You are guilty of betraying us all, of leading millions into evil with false teaching, witchcraft, and sorcery.” Then Birjandi raised his blind gaze and seemed to address all those gathered in the hangar. “I am not a follower of the Mahdi. I am a follower of the Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, and in the name of Christ I bring the word of the Lord to you: Repent. Turn away from this wickedness. Judgment is coming. Damascus is about to be destroyed, as is your false kingdom built upon lies. You do not have much time. You must repent and turn to Christ for salvation. He will forgive you. He will save you from this devil. But you must repent now, before it is too late.”
Esfahani was shifting from shock to rage. He couldn’t believe what this beloved mentor was saying. Birjandi had gone crazy. He didn’t know how or when, but all Esfahani could see was red. This was the mole. This was the betrayer. It was clear to him. It must be clear to all of them. But just as he decided to attack the old man and shut his mouth and beat him to death for daring to blaspheme here in the presence of the Mahdi, he saw General Jazini — eyes wild with rage — draw his pistol, lunge for the old man, and put a bullet between his eyes.
Birjandi snapped backward. The back of his head exploded. His body collapsed to the floor. Blood pooled. The old man was clearly dead, but Esfahani couldn’t help himself. He, too, lunged forward and began beating the body like a man possessed.
50
David silently prayed for Birjandi. At least the old man was at Al-Mazzah. He was on the inside. He knew what was happening. Maybe there was some way he could stop the launch or at least stall it. It wasn’t much to count on at this late hour, but it increasingly seemed all they had.
David and his team were fast approaching the junction with Route 53. That meant the outskirts of Damascus were less than an hour away. There was nothing more to do, David told himself, but wait and pray that the Israelis got the message and launched their attack. He also prayed for Marseille and his father and then for Torres’s wife and two little daughters. He couldn’t imagine the pain that would hit them when they heard the news of Marco’s death. But he was so grateful to the Lord that at least he’d had the opportunity to share the gospel with Torres and that Torres’s heart had been so open and that he’d said yes to Christ.
And then it dawned on David that not only was there more he could do, but there was something he had to do and thus far had failed to. He had to share the gospel with Fox and Crenshaw, too, and quickly. He realized he had no idea what their spiritual backgrounds were, but how could he forgive himself if he did not do all he could in the next few moments to share with them the Good News of forgiveness and eternal life through faith in Jesus Christ? God had given David a great gift, a great treasure, and David had offered it to Torres. Now he urgently needed to offer it to these two dear men as well.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “it has been a great honor to go into battle with you. I couldn’t have asked for a better team. And I need to say something to you both that I told Marco before he died….”
Zvi Dayan burst into Levi Shimon’s office. The defense minister was on a call and put up his hand, motioning for Dayan to wait.
Shimon covered the phone’s mouthpiece. “I’m on with London — MI6. I’ll be with you in a moment.”
“It can’t wait,” Dayan said.
“It’ll have to.”
Dayan reached over and depressed the disconnect button on the desktop console, severing the connection.
Shimon cursed and jumped to his feet. “What the—?”
“Levi, listen to me — I just heard from one of my men inside Iran.”
“Mordecai?”
“No, Cyrus.”
“This had better be good.”
“It is — he confirmed both warheads are in Syria,” Dayan breathlessly explained. “He says a CIA team took out a convoy carrying one nuke in northern Syria, not far from the Iraqi border. The other, Cyrus says, is at Al-Mazzah Air Force Base in Damascus. What’s more, he says the Mahdi is there at the base, along with Ayatollah Hosseini, President Mustafa, and, presumably, all the Pakistani launch codes the Mahdi just got from Farooq in Kabul.”
“Can he prove it?” the defense minister asked.
“Not in the time we have,” Dayan said.
“Do you trust him?”
“Absolutely,” said Dayan. “He’s one of my best men.”
“A mole?”
“No, an Israeli, a sabra — one of us.”
Shimon closed his eyes for a moment. Launching a preemptive strike on Iran was one thing. Launching a preemptive strike on Syria was still another. But this did appear to be confirmation from a second source. The prime minister was likely to order the attack any moment regardless. Now all signs were pointing to Al-Mazzah as the best target.