“Of course.”
“And what do they say?”
“It is like they are asleep,” Najjar said. “They hear me, but they are not listening to me. They are not taking any of this seriously. They have all the facts, but they are not taking action.”
“Tell me this is not happening,” Murray said. “How long has he been on?”
“Ten minutes,” Eva said. “Maybe fifteen.”
“Why didn’t anyone tell me sooner?”
“We weren’t monitoring the network.”
Zalinsky picked up the phone. “Get me the FBI — counterterrorism division.”
Murray turned to Zalinsky. “What are you doing?”
Zalinsky held up his hand for Murray to wait.
Najjar kept talking. “Just today we learned that the president of the United States wants to negotiate with the Mahdi. Excuse me, but this will not work. This is a dangerous mistake. The Mahdi is just trying to buy time so that he can strike first. I will explain this in more detail in my interview on the Persian Christian Satellite Network. I’m doing a full hour with them, and I will explain everything more carefully, and in Farsi.”
“This is Jack Zalinsky at Langley. I need the director immediately.”
“Jack, what are you doing?” Murray pressed.
“Hello? Yeah, it’s Jack. We found him — he’s at the BBC bureau in DC. Get your men moving, now.”
37
David was impatient, but Birjandi suggested they go for a walk.
“Maybe we should just stay here,” David said. “We have a lot to cover and very little time.”
“Nonsense,” the old man said. “You need a little fresh air, and so do I.”
Birjandi led the way, and soon they were outside, slowly making their way up Birjandi’s quiet street. There were no sidewalks.
“I need to ask you a question,” David began. “Have you ever heard the names Jalal Zandi or Tariq Khan?”
“I have not. Who are they?”
“Nuclear scientists. Worked for Saddaji on the warheads.”
“High-value targets.”
“They are.”
Birjandi cocked his head and turned his face to the setting sun. “It smells like a beautiful day,” the old man said, one hand on his cane, the other on David’s arm.
“Yes, it is,” David said.
“Of course, it belies the storm that is coming.”
“War?”
“Yes.”
“How soon?”
“By Monday at the latest.”
David stopped in his tracks, taken aback by Birjandi’s specificity. “Why do you say Monday? How do you know?”
“You heard about the Washington Post story?”
“The back-channel discussions between the president and the Mahdi?”
“Yes.”
“I heard it on the radio while driving here,” David said.
“A very foolish mistake by your president,” Birjandi said. “The Mahdi is never going to talk to President Jackson. He has come to annihilate the United States, not make peace with her. This is the final ploy.”
“What do you mean?”
“The Mahdi is buying time to launch a nuclear strike against Israel. I honestly thought the strike would have already come. But there must be some final technical issues causing a delay. That delay is giving the Israelis an opening. Naphtali could move first, and this would be devastating to the Mahdi’s plans. The only leverage on the Israelis is your president. And the Mahdi senses weakness in Mr. Jackson, so he’s exploiting it to the fullest. He’s offering peace. But it is a lie. It’s a smoke screen. That’s why I say if the phone call is supposed to be Tuesday, the Iranian attack against Israel will come sooner. Indeed, it could come at any moment.”
“Are you certain?” David pressed. “Or are you just guessing? Did Hosseini or Darazi say anything specific at lunch?”
“This is precisely what they said. That’s why I’m telling you. You must tell your president before it’s too late.”
“They specifically said Monday?”
“Yes. I asked, ‘How soon will the attack on the Zionists begin?’ And Hamid said, ‘Any day now. It’s up to him, of course, but I suspect everything will be ready by Monday at the latest.’ Then they told me that two of their eight nuclear warheads are on board the Iranian warships that are passing through the Suez Canal today, bound for the Mediterranean. They said the warheads are attached to missiles aimed at Tel Aviv and Haifa.”
“Wait a minute; I thought your country didn’t have the capacity to attach the warheads to missiles.”
“That’s what I said.”
“And?”
“And they said, ‘Last month we didn’t. Today we do.’”
The rotors were whirring at full speed, and it was time to leave.
On cue, Prime Minister Asher Naphtali stepped gingerly out of the ready room, crossed the tarmac, boarded an IDF chopper, and waved at the press corps. At his side was Defense Minister Levi Shimon, taking his boss for a quick trip north to visit the Ramat David air base, not far from Megiddo in the lush and strategic Jezreel Valley. It was a well-publicized trip, the first since the attack in New York, and a transport helicopter filled with reporters and photographers was tagging along. Yet unlike the speculation of some initial wire service reports, the prime minister was not going to review the Israeli Air Force’s ability to project long-range force. Instead, as Naphtali’s spokesman had made clear just before their departure, the PM was going to visit an American-operated Patriot surface-to-air missile battery. The message: with American support, Israel was ready to stop anything and everything Iran was preparing to launch.
On board and in the air, however, Naphtali put on his headphones and turned to his defense minister to restate his intentions. “We need to go this weekend, Levi.”
“I understand, sir. We’re making final preparations while trying not to let the press — or the Americans — see what we’re doing.”
“So far, so good.”
“Yes, it would appear that way.”
“You had a final meeting with Roger.”
“I did. I said you were seriously reviewing the president’s offer but you could not make a final decision until you had clarifications. He said he had conveyed that to the president, and then he left about an hour ago for Jordan to meet with the king.”
“Do you expect any answers quickly?”
“Honestly? No. Not before the president’s phone call with the Mahdi next Tuesday.”
“Which should give us justification, shouldn’t it?”
“You haven’t accepted his request. But you haven’t rejected it either. And you’ve made it clear we’re running out of time.”
“Good,” Naphtali said. “Now, have we heard from our man in Tehran?”
“No, not yet.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“So we don’t have a final fix on the warheads?”
“No, I’m afraid we don’t.”
“Can we go if we don’t hear from him?”
“I’m not sure that would be wise, but yes, we can. We’ve been running additional satellite passes over all the known targets on our high-priority list. We’re finalizing the target packages now. I’m ready to do a full briefing for you in the morning, if you’re ready.”
“I will be,” the prime minister said, shifting in his seat.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, it’s just that…”
“What?”
“I need to know who our source is in Tehran.”
“You already know his code name, Mordecai — our eyes inside the Persian palace.”
“No, not his code name,” Naphtali said. “Who is he? What’s his real name? What does he actually do? What’s his rank? Does he have a family? Why do we trust him?”