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
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.”
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 the 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?”