“Why yes, it is.”
“What a joy to hear your voice, my friend.”
“Uh, yes, well, thank you — that is very kind,” Birjandi stammered, trying to regain his composure.
“I’m calling first and foremost to see if you are safe and well.”
“I cannot complain,” said the old man.
“You have not been affected by the Zionists’ attacks?”
“Well, as you know, I live quite a ways from the city center and not close to anything anyone would want to bomb.”
“So you’re okay?”
“I am saddened events have come to this, but physically, yes, by the grace of God I am fine.”
“Good, good,” Hosseini said. “I am glad to hear this. For I have a request for you. It comes from the top.”
“How can I be of service, Supreme Leader?” Birjandi asked, putting his hands together as if to pray and hoping Ibrahim and Ali would see the anxiety on his face and commit themselves to intercessory prayer.
“Please, Alireza, how many times must I insist that you call me Hamid?” Hosseini asked.
“At least once more,” Birjandi replied, not wanting to be — or appear to be — too chummy with a man who was plotting to annihilate God’s chosen people.
“Very well, I insist again,” Hosseini chuckled. “Now listen, are you at home?”
“Yes, of course. Why?”
“Very good. I am sending a helicopter to fetch you.”
Birjandi tensed. “A helicopter? Whatever for?”
Birjandi knew precisely what it was for, but that was precisely the problem. The Mahdi was requesting his presence, yet it was an encounter Birjandi wanted to avoid at all costs.
“The Mahdi wants you at an emergency meeting,” Hosseini explained. “I cannot say where, of course. But needless to say, it is of the utmost importance.”
“Who else will be there?” Birjandi asked, trying to stall for time and think of a way out.
“I’m sorry, old friend. I am not at liberty to say. But don’t worry about the details. They have all been arranged. Everything will be taken care of. Just pack a bag with some clothes and personal effects and be ready in ten minutes.”
“A bag?”
“Just in case.”
“In case what?”
“You may be away for a few days.”
“Why?”
“All will be revealed in due time, Alireza.”
“No, no,” Birjandi protested, his mind racing to find a plausible excuse. “This is a mistake. I am a foolish old man, old and very tired. You are in the midst of a very serious war. There’s nothing I could say or do to help. I should not be wasting the time of any of our nation’s leaders — not at a time such as this. Let me just stay home and pray. I am about to begin a forty-day fast. For this I need to be alone and quiet and undisturbed. Believe me, Supreme Leader, this is my best service to the country.”
“Ever the humble man of God, Alireza,” Hosseini said. “This is why the president and I consider you a national treasure. And this is why the Promised One has asked for you. But relax, my friend. You have been given a great honor. You are about to be ushered into the presence of the messiah for whom we have long been waiting, the messiah for whose coming you taught us so carefully to prepare. You are about to meet your savior and be honored by the same. And while I’m not really supposed to say anything more, let me encourage you: you will want to hear what Imam al-Mahdi has to say, especially when you learn how close we are to wiping the Zionist entity off the map forever. Now get yourself ready. You have five minutes.”
“Only five?” Birjandi asked. “But Tehran is more than—”
But the line was already dead.
“Are you freaking crazy?” Zalinsky yelled as a hush settled over everyone around him. “Absolutely not! It’s out of the question!”
“Jack, listen to me; Torres is right,” David pushed back.
“No, Torres is not right,” Zalinsky fumed.
“Yes, he is,” David argued. “If we don’t force Javad to talk now — right now — anything he knows, any value he could give us, is going to evaporate. The warheads are going to be moved, if they haven’t been already. The Mahdi is going to move too, as will all the senior team. Whatever he knows, we need to get it out of him now.”
“Enough,” Zalinsky shouted, not caring that every eye in the Global Ops Center — including Murray’s — was on him and his tirade against his top NOC in Iran. “Enough. Now shut up and listen to me. That’s right; shut your mouth and just listen to me, Zephyr. I’m running this op, not you. I want this information as bad as you, maybe more so. But you need to take a deep breath and start listening to me. I recruited you into this Agency. You didn’t even want to work for the CIA. It was my idea to send you into Iran. You wanted to stay in Pakistan. You’ve done some great work, but now you’re tired, you’re stressed, and you’re about to destroy your one chance to get real intel out of Nouri and compromise our safe house in Karaj at the same time. So knock it off and start listening to me.”
David was fuming, pacing the parking lot of the motel and doing everything in his power not to hang up this phone and smash it into the pavement.
“Are you listening?” Zalinsky asked.
David took a deep breath, forced himself against all his instincts not to retaliate, and said, “Yes. What is it?”
“Javad’s phone,” said Zalinsky.
“What about it?”
“Do you have it?”
“It’s in the Hyundai.”
“Get it.”
David held his tongue and walked over to the van, opened the passenger door, and took Javad’s satphone out of the glove compartment and powered it up.
“Okay, I’ve got it.”
“Is it on?”
“Yes.”
“Go to the contact list.”
David found the contact list and opened it.
“Okay, I’m there.”
“Good. Now look up Omid Jazini.”
“Who’s that?” David asked.
“Just look him up.”
So David did. He found the man’s home address and work phone number, along with his mobile number.
“Got it,” he said after a moment.
“Good,” said Zalinsky. “That’s your new target.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Omid Jazini is the twenty-eight-year-old son of Mohsen Jazini.”
“General Mohsen Jazini?”
“The very same.”
“The commander of the Revolutionary Guard Corps?”
“Well, he was, until today.”
“And now?”
“He’s the Caliphate’s new defense minister and commander in chief.”
“What about Faridzadeh?” David asked.
“He’s out,” said Zalinsky. “And don’t ask — we don’t know why. But we do know that General Jazini wrote a strategy memo that caught the Mahdi’s eye. He called the general this morning, gave him the promotion, and told him to start putting the ‘first section’ into motion immediately.”
“What’s in the first section?” David asked.
“I don’t know, but Omid might,” Zalinsky said. “Omid is part of his father’s security detail. But he was injured on the first day of the bombing campaign, nearly crushed under a collapsing wall. Was in the hospital for two days. Got sent home this morning. And guess what?”
“What?”
“He lives in an apartment complex nine blocks from the motel you’re at right now. I want you guys to move — fast. Grab him and interrogate him and find out where his father is and what that memo says.”
“What makes you think he’ll talk any more than Javad?” David asked.
“Because I don’t think Omid is a zealot,” Zalinsky said. “A Muslim? Yes. A Shia? Yes. A Persian nationalist like his father? Yes. But a Twelver? No.”