“And third?” he asked impatiently.
“He said he was proud of you and loved you like the son he never had,” Eva said. “He said he would see you on the other side and that he hoped Jesus would let him be the first one to welcome you into heaven.”
At that David choked up. He had never had a friend in his eighties, nor had he ever imagined having — or wanting — a friend that old. But neither had he ever had a friend he’d loved and appreciated more than Dr. Birjandi, and just hearing these words made him miss the man and his gentle wisdom all the more.
“You okay?” Eva asked.
“Not really,” David replied.
“He meant that much to you, huh?”
“He still does,” said David. “He’s not dead yet.”
“What are you going to do?” Eva asked.
“For starters, I’m calling Jack.”
Zalinsky answered David’s call immediately.
“I just heard from Birjandi,” David began, abandoning all protocol. “The missile is on the launchpad. The Mahdi and Mustafa are heading there now. They’re about to launch, Jack, and I’m not going to get there in time. You’ve got to call the president. You’ve got to tell him to order an air strike — now, before it’s too late.”
“Hey, hey, settle down, Zephyr,” Zalinsky replied. “We’ve got that air base covered — a satellite and three Predators are monitoring everything going on there. Believe me, they’re not ready to launch.”
“Just because you can’t see it doesn’t mean it isn’t true, Jack,” David insisted. “What have you always taught me? ‘To misunderstand the nature and threat of evil is to risk being blindsided by it.’ Right? I’m telling you, Birjandi is there. He’s inside, and he’s telling us the Scud is on the launchpad. The warhead is attached. They’re getting ready to launch — probably at Tel Aviv — at any moment. I’ve done my job. So has my team. We’ve done everything you’ve asked us to do. We found the warheads. We took one out, with your help. Now we’re racing to the second one because you ordered us to. Right?”
“Of course it’s true,” Zalinsky replied, clearly annoyed but also somewhat — and uncharacteristically — restrained.
“Then listen to me,” David continued. “Even if by some miracle we could get there before they launch, you don’t have a realistic plan to get us into that base, and neither do we. This is it, Jack. We’ve done everything we possibly could. Now it’s up to you. This is the moment. You need to get the president to order a strike now.”
“Zephyr, listen to me,” Zalinsky said. “The two Iranian terrorists responsible for the recent attacks at the Waldorf in New York have just arrived in Damascus. They’re heading for the Al-Mazzah base as we speak. We’ve had two operatives tracking them the whole time, and now those operatives are in Damascus, awaiting instructions. I can link you and your team up with them.”
“And then what?” David asked. “That’s still not enough men, and there’s still not enough time. You have to get the president to order a strike now.”
The debate got more heated — a lot more heated — and went on several more minutes. It was time, David knew all too painfully, they couldn’t afford. Still, he made an impassioned and nearly insubordinate case for a massive, lightning-fast attack by F/A-18s and cruise missiles launched from Carrier Strike Group Ten and the USS Harry S. Truman, currently steaming through the eastern Mediterranean. When Zalinsky refused to commit, David argued that at the very least the Agency had the moral obligation to inform the Israelis that they were about to be hit, but an even greater moral obligation to proactively and aggressively defend Israel, the United States’s most faithful ally in the region, not to mention the Palestinians, who were completely defenseless and unprepared for what was coming.
David knew he was on speakerphone. He knew the entire Global Operations Center was listening in, including Tom Murray and Director Allen, and that’s precisely why he was making the case so strenuously. Because he was being listened to. Because he was being recorded, and not just in the GOC but by the NSA as well. Because if somehow he lived through this day and stood trial for illegally informing the Israelis, he wanted evidence on the record that he had made the case, that he had done everything he could to push the Agency and the White House to do the right thing… and had failed.
Another few minutes passed. Zalinsky wasn’t budging. It wasn’t because Zalinsky didn’t agree with him, David could tell from the conversation, but because he knew the president wouldn’t act regardless. Nevertheless, David pleaded with his mentor and handler one more time to at least make the case to the president or have Allen do it. At least try.
“Just think of it, Jack,” David concluded. “Not only could the president take out this warhead and save Israel in one shot, but it could be a decapitating strike. The president could take out the Mahdi, Hosseini, and Mustafa all at the same time. With Darazi dead too, that would effectively neutralize the threat of any of the Pakistani missiles being used by the Caliphate. Indeed, the Caliphate would likely unravel. Jackson would be a hero. With one strike, the United States might never have to go to war in the Middle East again.”
David knew the last thought was a bit of an overreach, but only a bit. And then, to his surprise, Director Allen came on the line.
“You make a compelling case, Zephyr,” Allen said calmly. “I’m convinced, and I’m calling the president right now.”
David couldn’t believe it.
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
“Thank you, son. Now keep moving toward Damascus. Get there as fast as you can. But I’ll see if I can’t get you some air support. Over and out.”
49
“Do you believe him?” Crenshaw whispered, in excruciating pain but still conscious and apparently still paying attention.
“Who? Allen?” David clarified.
“Yeah.”
“Do I believe he’s going to make my case to the president?”
“Right.”
“Yes, I do,” David said.
“Will it matter?” Fox asked.
“You mean do I think the president will order an air strike to defend Israel?”
“Exactly.”
“Do you?” David asked them both.
He glanced in the rearview mirror. Crenshaw shook his head. Then he looked at Fox, who also shook his head. Well, he thought, at least they were all on the same page.
“So what are we going to do?” Fox asked.
“There’s nothing we can do, not together,” David conceded. “But there’s something I can do.”
“What do you mean?” Crenshaw asked.
“I’m going to make a call,” David said. “You’re not part of it. You didn’t support it. I’m doing it on my own, and I’m ready to pay the consequences. But as for me, I don’t have a choice. This is something I have to do.”
Fox and Crenshaw looked as bewildered as they must have felt, but David didn’t have time to explain. He dialed the number to the Mossad from memory. It didn’t go through. He dialed again. It still didn’t go through. Speed-dialing Eva, he asked her to repeat the phone number to him, lest he’d dropped or added a digit. But he hadn’t. The number she gave him was the number he’d just dialed not once but twice. Had the Mossad shut it down, even with Mordecai still out there? he wondered. It was an awfully big risk, one that might prove fatal.
The door of General Hamdi’s office swung open. Esfahani watched as General Jazini led the way out of the office and down the hall with the Mahdi right behind him, followed by the Ayatollah, President Mustafa, and Rashidi, who was carrying the “nuclear football” of communications gear and Pakistani launch codes. They were surrounded by Iranian and Syrian bodyguards and they were moving quickly.