19
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 ringing. 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.”
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—”
Marseille pressed 2, then entered Murray, Thomas. A moment later, to her surprise, she was talking to the executive assistant to the deputy director for operations.
“Hi, Ellen, this is Marseille Harper. I’m sorry to call so late at night, but I have an urgent favor I need to ask of Mr. Murray.”
“Hello?”
“Oh, thank God!” David said at the sound of the old man’s voice, stunned that he had actually, finally gotten through to him. “How are you? Are you okay?”
“I’m sorry; who’s this?” Birjandi asked, his voice tinged with suspicion.
“Dr. Birjandi, it’s me, Reza Tabrizi — David Shirazi — who do you think?”
“Oh, yes — how good to hear your voice, my friend!”
“And yours as well. How are you? Are you okay?”
“Yes, yes, of course.”
“The war hasn’t affected you?”
“It’s affected all of us, I’m afraid,” Birjandi replied. “But I’m fine. Thank you for asking.”
“Do you have enough food?”
“Oh yes.”
“What about power?”
“From the Lord, yes. From the electric company, no. But I have gas to cook with, so we’re making tea.”
David tensed. “We who?”
“Two from my little discipleship group,” Birjandi explained. “You recall, you met them the last time you were here.”
“Right,” David said. “But I’m surprised you’re meeting now, under these circumstances.”
“Me too,” Birjandi said. “They just showed up a short while ago. They wanted to study the Scriptures, so we’re having a Bible study. There’s not much else to do, but what could be more important? Indeed, I wish you were with us.”