“He’s stalling.”
“Who?”
“The Mahdi.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s going to launch the warheads, probably this weekend, but no later than Monday,” Najjar said.
“How can you say that?” Moore asked. “Based on what?”
“Mr. Moore, the Mahdi has control of eight nuclear warheads. Someone just tried to assassinate him. Maybe it was the Americans. Maybe it was the Israelis. But it doesn’t really matter. He wants revenge. He wants to destroy Judeo-Christian society once and for all. And he’s about to try.”
“He keeps saying he wants peace.”
“If he were really interested in peace, he’d be on the phone with the president right now. Why wait six days? There’s only one reason. To stall until he can launch.”
“Come onto our network and say that,” Moore said. “The world needs to hear your perspective. We’ll tape an hour-long special. Maybe even a two-part series, if you’d like. This is an incredible moment, Dr. Malik. Remember, you came to us first. We did our due diligence. Now we’re ready. What do you say?”
This was the moment of truth. He had to decide. He’d already shared with the Christian network his story of seeing the vision of Jesus Christ and renouncing Islam. BBC Persian was a huge opportunity. Plus, Moore was right; he had come to them. Najjar glanced in the rearview mirror. He looked horrible — unshowered, unshaven, bloodshot eyes. But he felt the Holy Spirit prompting him to say yes. He had asked for an opportunity to share the gospel with his people and to warn them war was coming. This was another open door, and a significant one at that.
“Okay, Mr. Moore, I will do it,” he finally replied. “But only on one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m not going to do it taped. It has to be live, and it has to be now.”
“The BBC doesn’t take well to conditions,” Moore replied.
“Fair enough; then I pass.”
“No, wait.”
“Yes?”
One of the BBC’s most senior producers was calculating the payoff on a huge risk. “I can’t get you on before ten Eastern. But if you can get to our DC studio by nine thirty, we’ll get you into makeup, walk you through a few logistics, and do a full-hour live interview from ten to eleven.”
“No,” Najjar said. “The interview must be no longer than twenty minutes. That’s all the time I can afford. I can’t allow the authorities to track me down.”
“Twenty minutes, fine. Starting at ten, okay?”
“That’s six thirty in the evening in Tehran, right?”
“Right,” Moore said. “And we’ll put together a promo and start running it right away.”
“No,” Najjar said. “You can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“People are looking for me, Mr. Moore. A lot of people. I’m taking a big enough risk as it is. I can’t give the Iranian intelligence services or the Americans a head start on finding me.”
“I understand, but we’d really like to promote this thing, and—”
“No, I’m sorry. That’s nonnegotiable.”
There was a long pause. “Okay, fine. Anything else?”
“Yes, one more thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Promise me you won’t identify where I’m being interviewed from — nothing that would indicate that I’m in DC or even in the US.”
There was another long silence, so long, in fact, that Najjar began to wonder if they had been disconnected.
“And that’s it — that’s all your requests?” Moore asked.
“Yes, that’s all,” Najjar said.
“Deal,” Moore said, then gave Najjar directions to the BBC’s studios in Washington, not far from the White House.
A storm was rolling in over northern Virginia and the District.
Thunder rumbled in the distance as a light rain began to come down. Traffic on the George Washington Memorial Parkway was slow, but Marseille Harper had left in plenty of time, and she pulled onto the grounds of the George H. W. Bush Center for Central Intelligence ahead of schedule. Dressed in a conservative gray suit and equipped with a golf umbrella she’d bought in the hotel gift shop, she cleared the guard station, parked in the visitor lot, entered the main building, and went through security, receiving a temporary badge.
While she waited to be escorted up to Deputy Director Tom Murray’s office, she tried to soak in all the atmospherics. The enormous seal of the CIA embedded in the gray-and-white marble floor in the Agency’s main lobby. The wall of stars, one for each employee ever killed while in the Agency’s employ. The large American flags and the various works of art. What surprised her most, however, was the Bible verse prominently displayed on one of the lobby walls, defining the mission of the entire Agency.
“And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.”
John 8:32
A lump formed in her throat. That was all she wanted — the truth about her father.
“Mr. President, you have the CIA director on line two.”
Jackson nodded and excused himself from a meeting with his chief economic advisors. He stepped out of the Roosevelt Room and back into the Oval Office, where he took the call in privacy.
“Roger, how did this leak?” he bellowed, a copy of the Washington Post in his hands.
“I have no idea, Mr. President,” Allen began. “We’re doing everything we can to find out, but honestly, sir, I’m not optimistic.”
“I want someone’s head on a platter. We’re on the verge of war here, Roger. This is a very sensitive moment. I’m engaged in extremely delicate diplomatic maneuvers with the Mahdi, with Israel, with the Egyptians, and with the rest of our allies. And this is a huge blow.”
“I know, sir. And believe me, it hasn’t helped the situation here.”
“Please tell me you’ve made progress.”
“A little, sir. But I’ve spent most of the last two hours on the phone with one of my oldest friends, listening to a rant on why you shouldn’t be engaging in back-channel discussions with the Twelfth Imam, of all people.”
“Let me guess the number of times the words Hitler and Chamberlain and appeasement have been used.”
“A few.”
“And you’re telling me the prime minister of Israel doesn’t want my government to pursue every possible road to peace, to exhaust every option short of war?”
“I’m telling you the Israelis think we don’t have the foggiest idea who the Twelfth Imam is, what he really wants, or how far he will go to get it. I’m telling you they think we’re about to get sucker punched because we don’t truly understand what kind of enemy we’re facing.”
Jackson rubbed his eyes and changed the topic. “What about my offer?”
“I’ve discussed it with him.”
“And?”
“I’ve discussed it some more.”
“What’s there to discuss?” the president snapped. “I said it wasn’t open for negotiation. It’s take it or leave it. Period.”
“I reiterated that,” Allen said, “and he says he needs clarifications on several issues.”
“Like what?”
“The top concern is what happens if Iran — or one of its proxies or allies or a combination — launches a first strike against Israel. What precisely will the US do for Israel in such a case?”
“What did you say?”