David couldn’t wait to get on the ground in Tehran.
Having been cooped up on one flight after another for nearly twenty-four hours, he was eager to get to his hotel, take a shower, and get an early start on the day. In the meantime, he made a mental checklist of his next moves.
His top priority was hunting down Jalal Zandi and Tariq Khan. His best shot, he figured, was to reconnect with Dr. Alireza Birjandi, code-named Chameleon. Thus far his most useful asset, Chameleon was essentially a mole inside the upper echelons of the Iranian regime. It was from Birjandi he had learned that Iran now had eight operational warheads, and it was Birjandi who had pointed him to Najjar Malik, an absolute treasure trove of intel for Langley. Perhaps the eighty-three-year-old professor, scholar, author, and leading expert on Shia eschatology — widely described in the Iranian media as a spiritual mentor or advisor to several of the top leaders in the Iranian regime, including Ayatollah Hosseini and President Darazi — could help him track down Zandi and Khan as well.
Birjandi regularly met with both Hosseini and Darazi, and he’d been willing to share with David information from these meetings — information that had proven invaluable. If David remembered correctly, Birjandi was scheduled to have lunch with one of the leaders the following day. He was determined to be the last person Birjandi talked to before going into that lunch and the first person Birjandi spoke to when it was over. At the very least, he hoped he could gain critical insight on the regime’s latest thinking, especially after the assassination attempt on the Twelfth Imam. Whom did they hold responsible — the US, Israel, or someone else? How were they planning to respond? How quickly were the Iranians — or the Mahdi — planning to use the eight warheads in their possession? Was Israel the first target? Had they truly been unable to attach the warheads to ballistic missiles yet? Would the Iranian missile boats heading through the Suez Canal in the next few days be carrying nuclear warheads? The list of questions David needed answers to was growing by the hour.
25
It was 8:12 p.m. Jerusalem time.
Roger Allen was finally ushered into the prime minister’s spacious, wood-paneled office. He was in a foul mood and more than ready to have a very candid conversation about the importance of maintaining good professional relations between two allies. But the moment he saw Naphtali, a man he had known personally for more than four decades, Allen’s tone changed completely. He suddenly realized that not a single photograph of the PM had been released since the attack, and now he knew why. The official government spokesman had told the international press corps that Naphtali had “miraculously” received only “minor wounds.” Nothing, it was now clear, could have been further from the truth. The man’s entire face was bandaged, as were his hands. He was wearing not a suit but light-blue scrubs, like a surgeon would wear. Hovering in the background was Naphtali’s personal physician, and a bed specially designed for burn victims was set up in the corner, alongside an array of monitors, medical trays, and various other types of equipment.
“Asher, I heard you’d suffered more than publicly known,” Allen blurted out, dispensing with formalities, “but I had no idea how serious it was. Why didn’t you tell us?”
“You know exactly why,” Naphtali said, clearly unable to shake hands but gesturing to the couch for Allen to sit down.
“The Iranians.”
“They would think we were coming for them tonight.”
“Didn’t you just do that?” Allen said, choosing to stand instead when he realized Naphtali was unable to sit.
“The hit on the Twelfth Imam?”
“That was a mistake, Asher.”
“It wasn’t. He killed Abdel. He tried to take out your president. He tried to kill me. We didn’t have a choice.”
“You nearly killed an eleven-year-old boy.”
“We didn’t know he was in there.”
“You killed his parents.”
“We didn’t know they were in the car either.”
“Then you shouldn’t have ordered the shot.”
“We didn’t start this war, Roger. Look at me.”
“I know, but it was a foolish move. You’ve made a hero out of him.”
“Roger, the Muslims think he’s the messiah. He was a hero the moment he stepped out onstage in Mecca and King Jeddawi bowed down before him.”
“Now you’ve made him look invincible.”
“I was promised he wouldn’t survive. No Mahdi, no Caliphate. The IDF told me it was going to be a surgical strike.”
“They never are.”
“No, not always,” Naphtali said, asking his physician to give them the room for a few minutes before continuing. “I’m sorry to make you wait.”
Allen held his tongue.
“I’m sure you think it was personal,” the prime minister said.
“Not at all,” Allen said.
“Don’t lie to me, Roger. We’ve known each other for forty years. You think I’m mad at you. But I’m not. Well, okay, I am, but that’s not why I kept you waiting out there so long.”
“Why, then?”
“We just had an emergency meeting with the Security Cabinet. The Mossad says the Iranians are moving five warships into the Med. They’re heading north up the Red Sea right now and are set to pass through the Suez Canal tomorrow. We think two are heading for Turkey, while the other three will go to Syria. They’re destroyers and missile boats, and I don’t have to tell you what a provocative act this is right now.”
“I haven’t heard definitive intel on that.”
“Given the last twenty-four hours, you’re not exactly instilling me with confidence that the US is on top of things.”
“I’ll look into it,” Allen said.
“You’ll do better than that,” Naphtali said. “I want the president to block the Suez Canal and refuse the Iranian warships entry into the Med.”
“Asher, please, we can’t do that. It’s tantamount to an act of war.”
“And Iranian missile boats off the coast of Tel Aviv and Haifa aren’t?”
“This isn’t the first time the Iranians have sent warships into the Med.”
“This is the first time those ships could have nuclear warheads on board.”
“You don’t know they do.”
“I can’t take the risk, Roger. This is a red line for me and my government.”
Allen felt like he was being backed into a corner, and he didn’t like it. “You’re preparing for war, Asher.”
“I don’t want war. That’s not my intention.”
“But you see one coming.”
“You don’t?”
“It doesn’t have to come to that. We’re actually opening a back channel with the Mahdi. We have reason to believe he wants to contact the president directly and talk peace and find a way to de-escalate the situation.”
“Assassination and warships don’t signal de-escalation.”
“Look, Asher, we don’t know for certain who is responsible for the attacks in New York. We certainly don’t know it was Iran.”
Allen knew full well that wasn’t true. He’d gotten off the phone with Tom Murray less than an hour ago. He knew all about the Yazidi brothers and their connection to the Nouri family. But he was under strict orders from the president to keep the Israelis from launching a preemptive strike. He hadn’t had time to discuss the latest intel with the president, but he had no doubt Jackson would not permit him to disclose such information to the Israelis, for fear that such proof would provide the casus belli for an Israeli attack.