“I feel terrible for Asher, and I don’t want it to look like I’m turning against the Israelis,” the president said after a long pause, “but we simply cannot have a war. It will dominate the international agenda and domestic agenda for the rest of my presidency, and that’s unacceptable.”
There was another long pause. Allen apparently wasn’t sure how to respond.
“Is there anything else I can do to stop Naphtali from going to war, without making him look like a martyr to his own people and triggering congressional backlash here in Washington?” Jackson asked.
Allen thought about that for a moment. “You have a lot of tools in your toolbox, Mr. President,” he finally replied. “But let’s let the PM chew on your proposal overnight and see what he says in the morning. In the meantime, I’ll make sure my team is watching the Israelis closely to see if they detect any signs they are moving toward a preemptive strike.”
David was blindfolded, and a rag was stuffed down his throat.
Then he was dragged down several hallways and up some steps before being thrown into the trunk of a car. He could hear voices but couldn’t make out what they were saying.
Still bound, he could hardly move. And he could still barely breathe. He was obviously being taken away from the airport, but he had no idea where. Then he felt a needle shoved into his arm. The last thing he heard was the trunk slam shut.
29
When he came to, David found himself dressed in a fresh suit.
One of his own.
He was shaven. His hair was wet and combed. He was sitting across a large conference table from Abdol Esfahani. Smart, he thought, trying to regain his bearings. The table was too far for David to easily lunge across, and even if he tried, there were two armed guards standing behind Esfahani.
David tried to shake off the sedatives. He could hear Esfahani talking, but the first few sentences made little sense. It had to be the drugs, but two things were clear: Esfahani was responsible for this whole fiasco, and he was not apologizing.
“The entire planet is about to change.”
It was the first sentence that made any sense to David. His head was beginning to clear. But he did not like what he was hearing.
“We are about to live in a world without America and without Zionism,” Esfahani continued. “Our holy hatred is about to strike like a wave against the infidels. We don’t trust anyone. We can’t trust anyone. The enemy is moving. He is among us. We must be careful.”
“That’s it?” David asked, a burst of anger and adrenaline now helping to give more clarity.
“What do you mean?” Esfahani asked.
“That’s all you’re going to say?”
“About what?”
“You had me tortured. You had me waterboarded.”
“We could not take a risk that you worked for the CIA or the Mossad. Now that we’re convinced you don’t, we can get back to work.”
“Back to work?” David shot back. “Are you out of your mind? Why would I want to do anything for you at this point? What happened today is completely unacceptable.”
“Mr. Tabrizi, you’re not leaving this country until we get all the phones.”
“How am I supposed to get the phones if you won’t let me go get them?”
“We don’t think you’ll ever come back.”
“Really? Whatever would give you that idea?”
“You said you wanted to work with us, Mr. Tabrizi. You said you wanted to serve Imam al-Mahdi. Were you lying?”
“Of course not. I’ve been doing everything you asked.”
“Not fast enough.”
“As fast as possible.”
“That’s where we disagree.”
“So your idea of how best to motivate me is to torture me?”
“You were being vetted.”
“Vetted?”
“Yes.”
“For what?”
“You wanted to be part of the Group of 313, did you not?”
David was stunned. Was he hearing this correctly? “Yes, of course,” he said cautiously. “But I—”
“How were we supposed to know if we could really trust you? We had to know for certain. Now we do.”
“So what are you saying?” David asked.
“It is simple, Reza — you get us the rest of the phones in the next seventy-two hours, and you’re on the team.”
David didn’t really know what that meant, but he knew better than to ask too many questions for now. “I’ll do my best.”
“I’m sure you will.”
“Now, you have to understand, it’s not going to be easy to get these phones shipped in. It may cost more money.”
“Then that will come out of your wallet. Not ours. We’ve already paid you handsomely.”
“I know, but I am taking great risks here, Mr. Esfahani. I mean, I don’t have to remind you that these satellite phones can’t be legally purchased by Iran under the UN sanctions.”
“Technically, we’re not buying them. You are.”
“Which just further proves my point. I’m taking enormous risks.”
“We’re all taking great risks,” Esfahani countered. “But the fact is this: we cannot build the Caliphate if the Promised One cannot communicate with his top commanders. And this cannot happen until we have all of the phones. That is the end of the matter.”
With that, Esfahani got up and left the room. His bodyguards followed him after sliding a small box across the table, leaving David in the room by himself.
Curious, he opened the box. It was one of the satphones he had just brought with him. It was clear what he had to do — and clear what the consequences were if he did not.
Najjar Malik’s heart was beating wildly.
He had never driven in the US before. He had never even been to the States before. He had no idea where he was or where he was going. He just knew that he had to get as far away from the safe house as rapidly as possible without getting caught.
He glanced at the gas gauge. There was half a tank. In a Corolla, he figured that would keep him going for quite some time. What he needed was money and a map. At a stoplight, he checked the glove compartment but found only a stack of manuals, the car’s registration, a wad of napkins, and some toy cars. He glanced in the backseat — nothing but fast-food wrappers, two car seats, and some loose change on the floor. In the compartment between the front seats, though, he found a GPS unit. It wasn’t exactly like the one he had back in Hamadan, but it was close. He quickly powered it up, scrolled through various points of interest, and chose the nearest public library, only a few miles away.
Once there, he was greeted by a helpful young librarian who happily guided him to a bank of computer terminals and even showed him how to log on to the Internet. He thanked her, waited for her to go off to help someone else, then pulled up Google and typed in “Farsi language TV stations in Washington, DC.” That didn’t work. He typed in several other variations and soon came up with three possible options for getting his message into the Middle East. The first was BBC Persian. Launched on January 14, 2009, BBC Persian struck Najjar as the best option. It wasn’t run by Muslims. It was accessible from Washington. It had a large Farsi-speaking audience, and it had strong credibility inside Iran. He had never watched the network himself for fear of being branded a traitor by his father-in-law or his colleagues in the nuclear program. But he figured he was a unique case. He knew that the Hosseini regime was constantly denouncing BBC Persian, which meant it was watched and paid attention to by not only the elites in Iran but the masses, who often loved to do the exact opposite of what their leaders told them to do.