But this was different. This was strange. This was news, but would anyone, his editors included, actually believe him? He grabbed his digital camera and started snapping pictures, and to his shock, when he checked the result on the viewfinder, the ghostly image hovering over the Mahdi was as plain as day.
Director Allen turned to Eva.
“Now let’s get back to Dr. Najjar Malik, whom you referenced earlier. I take it your interrogations of the good doctor are bearing fruit, Agent Fischer?”
“They are, sir. Very much so.”
“He’s cooperating?”
“Absolutely.”
“What can I pass along to the president and the NSC?”
Eva got up and handed out a black folder marked EYES ONLY, containing a five-page summary of key findings from her several days’ worth of interrogations. “Dr. Malik, as we’ve already established, is the highest-ranking living Iranian nuclear scientist at the moment, and thanks to David, he is presently secured in a CIA safe house in Oakton, Virginia. We’ve covered a lot of ground in the last few days. You’ve got the highlights there. But the headline would be this: Dr. Malik has helped us identify two new high-priority targets, both of whom were the senior deputies to Dr. Saddaji in the Iranian weapons development program. The evidence we have suggests these two scientists were doing most of the actual technical work day to day on building the warheads.”
“Do you have names?” Allen asked.
“Yes, sir. The first is Jalal Zandi. He’s forty-seven. An Iranian national. Born in Tehran. Holds one PhD in physics from Tehran University and another PhD in nuclear physics from the University of Manchester in the UK.”
“And the second?”
“The second is Tariq Khan. Fifty-one, Pakistani national. We don’t have a bio on him yet, but we know he’s a nephew of A. Q. Khan and worked closely with his uncle on the Pakistani nuclear program during the nineties. These are the guys who know where the bodies are buried. Find them, and I think we find the warheads.”
“So how do we find them?” the director asked.
“I don’t think we have any choice,” Eva said. “We need to send David back into Iran immediately.”
15
Ahmed stared and couldn’t look away.
He tried to speak but couldn’t. He tried to swallow but his throat was bone dry. After a few moments, however, he realized that he was not the only one to see this angel of light. Suddenly everyone was pointing into the air and a hush fell over the crowd, and at that moment, Ahmed snapped out of the trancelike state he had just been in. He realized that the motorcade was getting ready to depart and that with everyone else focused on the angel, he had a chance.
Scrambling down from the roof of the clinic, careful not to drop the soccer ball he held in a vise grip, he began running once again as fast as he could. Zigzagging through alleyways filled with garbage and a stench he had never grown used to, Ahmed did his best to outflank the crowd and reach the northwest exit of the Shatila refugee camp. His heart pounded. His little lungs were sucking in as much air as they possibly could, but it didn’t seem to be enough. Sweat poured down his face and down his back. His bare, calloused feet ached terribly. But finally he reached the checkpoint just as the crowds reluctantly parted and the Twelfth Imam’s white SUV began to wind its way ever so carefully through the narrow streets toward Tarik Jdideh, the road that led to the sports complex.
Panting fiercely and trying desperately to catch his breath, Ahmed ran ahead of the crowd to a highway overpass just in front of the camp entrance. Standing in the shadows, listening to the cars and trucks rumbling overhead, he waited for the motorcade to pass by. He waved at the tinted windows, not knowing who — if anyone — was watching or caring. Then suddenly, one of the vehicles stopped right in front of him. One of the tinted passenger-side windows in the back rolled down, and there, staring directly into Ahmed’s eyes, was the Twelfth Imam.
“Peace be with you, my son.”
Ahmed fell to his knees and bowed low.
“Are you coming to hear my sermon?” the Mahdi asked.
“No, my Lord.”
“Why not?”
“I do not have a ticket, my Master. I waited in line all night, but when morning came, they told me there were no tickets left.”
“Come and see,” the Mahdi said.
“How, my Lord?”
“Come with me, little Ahmed, and I will show you great and mighty things you do not know.”
A rear passenger door opened. The Mahdi told an aide to get out and find a seat in the last SUV in the motorcade. Ahmed could not believe it — the Mahdi knew his name and was inviting him to join him for the most important event in the history of Lebanon, maybe in the history of the world. And yet he hesitated.
“You do not want to come?” the Mahdi asked.
“I do, my Lord, more than anything. It’s just my parents. I don’t want them to miss me. I’m not always a good boy, but I…”
Ahmed stopped in midsentence. His eyes went wide, and he turned pale as a sheet. For as he peered into the SUV, there sat his father and his mother waiting for him in the backseat, tears streaming down their faces. How was this possible? Ahmed wondered. It was simple, he figured. The Promised One could do all things. All he needed to do, Ahmed decided, was to believe and to submit, without asking questions. Questions, he feared, might mean he didn’t really believe or perhaps believe as deeply as he should.
Nodding his head without saying a word, he gratefully climbed into the vehicle, kissed his mother, and sat beside the Twelfth Imam, his hands shaking, his lips quivering.
“Do not be afraid, little one,” the Mahdi said. “I will take care of you. And once we are inside, I have a surprise for you, young man, something I think you will enjoy very much.”
“What is it?” Ahmed asked, surging with anticipation.
“Be patient, and you will see.”
Miroux saw Javad exit the Mahdi’s vehicle.
He saw the aide walk to the back of the motorcade and climb into the last SUV, already jammed with Iranian intelligence operatives. But from his vantage point, Miroux could not see why any of this was happening. The highway overpass cast such deep and dark shadows that it was virtually impossible to get a good look at what the holdup was.
Not that it really mattered. His main job at the moment was to not lose the motorcade. His editors had been explicit. They wanted wall-to-wall coverage of the Mahdi and his movements. Interest in the UK was off the charts, and it was spiking worldwide as well. Editors of newspapers and news websites around the world were seeing readership of Twelfth Imam — related articles surge beyond anything they had ever witnessed in their lifetimes. Miroux was tasked with filing three stories a day — at least.
So he laid on the horn, tried to maneuver his tiny Renault through the crowd, and prayed desperately to a God he did not believe in that he wouldn’t run anyone over.
Ahmed smiled, for he did not know the dangers just ahead.
He dutifully put on his seat belt, and someone shut the door. The motorcade started moving again. As they left the camp, they took a right and then a quick left, and he could soon see the gigantic steel-and-glass stadium rising before them. Ahmed pressed his face against the window, fascinated by the sights and sounds of helicopters hovering overhead, of police motorcycles — lights flashing and sirens wailing — leading the motorcade and bringing up the rear, of well-armed Beirut policemen and Hezbollah militia members blocking off every street and providing a secure corridor. No longer were they surrounded by regular people. No longer was the Promised One being mobbed by commoners or refugees. Now he was being treated like a president, like a prince, like royalty, Ahmed thought, and he had never been more excited.