Transfixed by the unfolding developments, Rashidi looked to the Mahdi, who suddenly seemed more surprised than pleased.
“273?” he asked. “Why was I under the impression there were only 173?”
“Well, it would not do for our enemies to know the full scope of our offensive capabilities,” Farooq noted. “Perhaps we have allowed the misperception to develop that there are fewer missiles in our arsenal than there actually are.”
“Perhaps,” the Mahdi said with a slight smile. “Continue.”
“May I?” Farooq asked, signaling his desire to come closer.
The Mahdi waved him forward, so Farooq got up from his seat and walked across the dining room, pulling up a chair beside the Twelfth Imam. Then he lowered his voice, though Rashidi wasn’t sure why. Was it so all the security men couldn’t hear him? Rashidi discreetly leaned in and tried to catch as much of the conversation as he could.
“Your Excellency, in the twentieth century, the main threat to Pakistan was, of course, from India,” Farooq began. “But we now live in a new age, do we not? Your arrival on the international stage has been a game changer. Your ability to persuade the Saudis to join the Caliphate, along with the Egyptians and the Lebanese and so many others, is rapidly changing the geopolitical equation. The Islamic kingdom is rising fast, and the world is doing nothing serious or decisive to stop you. I believe you now have the opportunity not only to annihilate the Jews — a goal that my government and I fully support — but also to humble the arrogant Americans and the feckless Europeans, along with all the world’s powers. You have the opportunity to build not just an Islamic empire but a global empire, something no other Islamic leader has ever been able to accomplish before. I have come to tell you that the government of Pakistan stands ready to serve you. We believe with all our hearts that Islam is the answer. Jihad is the way. The Qur’an is our guide. The Prophet is our model. But now you are our caliph and king. And so you must know the full extent of the arsenal — the power — now at your fingertips.”
“You have all the documentation, the authorization codes, and launch instructions?”
“I do,” said Farooq. “Let us begin.”
The FBI had moved quickly to assume custody of Najjar Malik from the Cape May Police Department and had put Najjar on a Bureau jet back to the nation’s capital. The CIA and the White House were immediately notified of the arrest, and the president insisted the story not be leaked to the press under any circumstances. Rather, he wanted Najjar to be interrogated thoroughly and then given an hour with his family before being placed in solitary confinement at the FBI building in Washington until further notice.
All this was explained to Najjar before he was handcuffed, shackled around the feet, blindfolded, and gagged for the thirty-seven-minute flight to Andrews Air Force Base, where he arrived under secure conditions with no possibility of the media catching wind of it. The cuffs were terribly uncomfortable as they dug into his wrists, but Najjar didn’t mind. He wasn’t anxious at all but felt very much at peace with himself and what he had accomplished.
He was willing to pay the price for his escape, and though as of yet he had not expressed remorse for breaking into the house in Oakton, Virginia, and “borrowing” the owners’ cell phone and their red Toyota Corolla, he did feel terrible about it. Indeed, he silently vowed to repay the owners for all the trouble he had caused them, including the broken window in their basement.
But now, he concluded, was not the time to say such things. Rather, he told himself, now was the time to rest, the time to sleep, perchance to dream about reuniting with Sheyda and sharing with her all the adventures he had had.
“Dr. Birjandi, wake up,” said the young Iranian officer. “We’re here.”
Birjandi rubbed his eyes more out of habit than necessity as he sat up in the backseat of the luxury sedan.
“What time is it?” he asked, emerging from a very deep slumber.
“It’s getting late. Come, we need to get you into your quarters, and then I must return to Iran.”
“But I don’t understand,” Birjandi said, trying to get his bearings. “Where are we now? What is this place?”
“Damascus.”
“Yes, yes, of course, but where?”
“An air base.”
“Which one?” Birjandi asked.
There was a long pause.
“Which one?” he pressed.
There was another long pause, and Birjandi could hear some whispering.
“We have just entered the Al-Mazzah Air Force Base,” the young officer finally replied. “They have a private room ready for you in the officers’ quarters. I’ll lead you up there and bring your personal effects. I will explain to you the facilities and help you get acclimated to the room, and then I must go.”
“Perhaps you should stay,” said Birjandi, yawning. “I could use your help.”
“I have my orders,” the officer said.
“So do I,” Birjandi replied.
“Please, Dr. Birjandi, you’ll be fine,” the officer assured him. “You need a good night’s rest. You have a big day ahead of you. And I’ve been told that when the higher-ups are ready for you, they will send someone to your room to summon you.”
“And breakfast?”
“It will be at 8 a.m. sharp. I’ve already informed them how you like your tea and toast. Don’t worry about anything.”
Birjandi turned away. The last line would have been laugh-out-loud funny if the situation weren’t so dangerous. Don’t worry about anything? Did this young man have any idea how close the Middle East was to full-scale, all-out nuclear war? Yet somehow the import of the moment appeared to be lost on the young Iranian soldier, and Birjandi saw no point in trying to educate him at this late hour.
“Very well,” the old man said at last. “Let’s get on with it.”
As he was helped out of the Mercedes and up to the guest room, Birjandi couldn’t care less when breakfast was or what they were serving. He wasn’t listening as the young officer talked him through where the light switches and the toilet and shower were. He paid little attention as the man explained what drawers he was putting Birjandi’s clothes into or any of the other myriad details pouring from his mouth. Rather, Birjandi was playing catch-up, desperately trying to analyze what was happening and why. He hadn’t intended to fall asleep on the long journey. To the contrary, he had intended on praying without ceasing, urgently seeking the Lord’s wisdom at this fateful hour. But he was old, and he was increasingly frail, and the rigors of the trip had overwhelmed him. He had slept, and slept soundly, and in so doing he had lost precious time.
While the young officer droned on, Birjandi tried to clear the fog from his thoughts and make sense of what few facts he knew. Apparently he was now at Al-Mazzah, one of the most important military bases in all of Syria, though not the largest. The base previously had been the home of the Damascus International Airport until a new, more modern facility was built in another part of town. Now Al-Mazzah was the home of the Syrian strategic air command.
Over the years, Birjandi had heard from sources as reliable as Hosseini and Darazi that the Syrians kept the bulk of their chemical weapons nearby, in deep underground caverns. And the entire base, allegedly, was ringed by the world’s most sophisticated air defense system, the S-300, designed and built by the Russians. If that was true, and he had little doubt it was, that meant Al-Mazzah was among the most effectively guarded bases in the entire Arab Republic. It would, therefore, be a reasonably safe place to quietly bring the Mahdi.