Once they were gone, Esfahani took a deep breath and stepped out of Hamdi’s office as well. He asked Dr. Birjandi to take his arm and keep up with him. “We don’t have much time,” he explained.
“Why? Where are we going?” Birjandi asked.
“Hangar Five,” said Esfahani.
“Is that where the warhead is?” Birjandi asked.
“Not for long.”
At the end of the long hallway, they boarded an elevator and descended to ground level. There, a lone black sedan was waiting for them. The rest of the entourage, Esfahani noted, was already gone. He put Birjandi in the back, closed the door, and got into the front passenger seat.
“Move it,” he ordered. “Hangar Five.”
Birjandi was a hero of Esfahani’s, but events were moving rapidly now, and Esfahani somewhat resented being the old man’s babysitter. He didn’t want to risk the possibility, however slim, of getting left out — or shut out — of witnessing the launch.
His slight frustration at his current task notwithstanding, Esfahani was trembling with excitement. This was the day they had prayed for so long, the day they had planned and worked for so long, and it was finally here. He had been a devoted Twelver all his life, but ever since first actually meeting the Mahdi in Hamadan on the day of the massive earthquake — what turned out to be the day of Iran’s first underground nuclear test — Esfahani had been in something of a fever. He could barely sleep. He desperately wanted to be found faithful in the Mahdi’s service, and now here he was, in the inner circle, on launch day, the day the War of Annihilation of the Zionists would finally be won.
It was turning into a nasty March day, threatening clouds moving in. Esfahani expected it to burst out raining at any moment. He wondered if that would delay the launch in any way and desperately hoped not.
“Faster,” he ordered the driver. “You must move faster.”
The driver accelerated, and they sped across the air base to the far side, to a remote corner, a good six or seven minutes away from the main facilities.
“Why is it taking so long?” Birjandi asked.
“You’ll see,” Esfahani said, then realized how ridiculous that was. “I’m sorry, Dr. Birjandi. Please forgive me. There are certain things I am not permitted to say.”
“To me?” Birjandi asked. “Why?”
“Well—”
“You think a blind eschatology professor — personally summoned here by Imam al-Mahdi himself — is going to give secrets to the Zionists?” Birjandi charged.
“No, no, I’m just—”
“Then where are we going?” Birjandi asked again. “I don’t have much in my life, my young friend, but I like to have some idea where I am. It gives me a sense of peace, of clarity, that I’m not sure I can adequately explain to you.”
“You’re right, and I’m very sorry,” Esfahani replied. “I have been very rude. You are the father of the Twelver movement, Dr. Birjandi. Until Imam al-Mahdi revealed himself to mankind, no one had done more than you to explain who he was and why he mattered. My deepest apologies.”
“You’re stalling, Abdol.”
Esfahani smiled. The old man was a shrewd judge of character. The car stopped. They had arrived. He leaned over and whispered in Birjandi’s ear. “Hangar Five is a secret. It’s an underground hangar on the far edge of the base. It’s out by the leach field, near where they burn all the refuse. Come, my friend; let’s go see history be made.”
David and his team were now cruising past the ancient ruins of Palmyra.
“Do you see signs for Route 90?” Fox asked.
“The turn is just ahead,” David said.
“Good,” said Fox. “Take it, and then watch for Route 53 in about another seventy or eighty kilometers.”
“Who were you calling?” Crenshaw asked from the backseat.
“No one,” said David. “It’s not important.”
“It is important,” Crenshaw responded. “You said so yourself. That’s why you made such a big deal about making sure we had deniability.”
“It didn’t work anyway,” said David. “The call didn’t go through.”
“Who were you calling?” Crenshaw pressed again.
“Look, it doesn’t matter. Let it drop.”
“You were calling the Israelis, weren’t you?” said Fox.
David stared straight ahead and kept driving. “You guys need to rest.”
“No, we need to stop these madmen from incinerating an American ally,” said Fox. “You think we’re not with you? That’s our mission, David. That’s what we’re here to do — protect the American people and our allies from a nuclear holocaust. Isn’t it?”
David was silent.
“How did you get that number?” Crenshaw asked.
“I’d rather not say.”
“Get off it, David,” Crenshaw shot back. “This is it, man. We’re dying here. Fox and me might very well not make it. We get that. We’re okay with that. But we’re not okay with you holding back information that could save the lives of millions. Now start talking!”
David felt ashamed. Crenshaw was right. He didn’t know why he hadn’t brought them into this sooner. He’d been trying to protect them. But maybe he should have at least given them the option of rejecting his plan rather than keeping it from them. He explained the call he had made earlier at the border and why he’d made it.
“And now that number won’t work?” Fox asked.
“Right.”
“They probably cut the line,” Crenshaw said.
“Maybe,” said David. “But that’s it. I’m out of ideas.”
“You don’t have any other numbers to the Mossad?” Fox asked.
“No, do you?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
David looked at him quizzically. “How?”
“Tolik,” said Fox.
“What?”
“Call Matty,” Fox continued. “Tell him the situation. Tell him to give that Tolik guy a satphone and have him call the Mossad. They’ll listen to their own man a lot more than they’ll listen to you. They’ve got to listen to him. And Naphtali will definitely order a strike. But you’d better move fast.”
“You know we’ll all go to prison,” said David.
Fox shook his head and looked at David. “Just you, my friend,” he said. “Nick and I… it’s not going to matter. We’re not going to make it back.”
David winced. He refused to believe that. He didn’t even want to think about it. But deep down, he feared Fox might be right.
“You’re sure?” David asked. “Both of you?”
Fox and Crenshaw nodded, and David finally did as well.
“Then get Matty on the phone,” he said.
He wasn’t convinced they had time for one last ploy, but these guys were right. They had to try.
It was called a hangar, but it wasn’t really, Esfahani realized, not in the classic sense. There were no fighter jets housed here. No bombers. No refueling tankers or trainers or any other jets or planes of any kind. This was a strategic missile base — and a clandestine one at that.
As they cleared through two heavy security checkpoints and he helped Dr. Birjandi off the elevator and onto the hangar floor, Esfahani was struck by what an enormous facility it really was. In one of their brief coffee breaks, Zandi had hinted to him that it was large, but Esfahani had had no idea. It stretched at least twenty soccer fields in both directions, maybe more. At this end, it was both an R & D center and an assembly line for state-of-the-art missiles. Several hundred yards down the range, it was a subterranean launch facility. So fascinated was he that he began to whisper to Birjandi details of what he was seeing, and Birjandi seemed to indicate he was grateful for Esfahani’s play-by-play reporting and color commentary.