“What is that?”
“It seems to be the war plan to hit Israel.”
“This also comes from Chameleon?”
“No, but it comes from a source he trusts.”
“Who?”
“The oldest son of the general who commands Tactical Air Base Six.”
“Protecting Bushehr?”
“Right. Apparently, Faridzadeh and Jazini have ordered all of their senior commanders to be there. They’ve canceled all military leaves for the air force and the missile command units. They’ve also begun calling up the air combat reserves, and there is a rumor that all the families of the air force senior commanders are going to be moved to special bunkers starting tomorrow.”
“So the Mahdi could launch by Sunday, or even Saturday?” Zalinsky pressed.
“Theoretically, yes.”
“That doesn’t give us much time to find the other six warheads.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“Any leads on those?”
“Not yet — this is all I’ve got so far.”
“Any progress on Zandi and Khan?”
“Nothing.”
“What’s your gut tell you?”
“That we’re going to blow this thing. That we’re going to be too late. The president isn’t even preparing to hit Iran, is he?”
“No. He thinks diplomacy still can work.”
“What do you think?”
“I think you need to find me those other six warheads before they get launched.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“What’s your next move?” Zalinsky asked.
“I honestly don’t know, Jack. I’m racking my brain, but I don’t know what to do next. By the way, are you watching this thing with Najjar?” David asked.
“It’s a disaster.”
“How did this happen?”
“We still don’t know. We’ve got a full manhunt on for him right now. But I’ve got to hand it to him. He’s pretty clever.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because he actually taped the Christian station interview first — then only did twenty minutes live on BBC. By the time the FBI stormed the BBC studios, he was gone. And when the FBI team stormed the Christian station’s studios, they learned the show was taped.”
“So you have no idea where he is at the moment?”
“Not a clue.”
“And Sheyda?”
“She and the family are fine. But they haven’t heard from him. They have no way to hear from him or get in touch with him. But Sheyda couldn’t be more proud of Najjar or excited about the reaction.”
“What reaction?”
“You haven’t heard?”
“No, what happened?”
“Ayatollah Hosseini just issued a fatwa.”
“Against Najjar?”
“Against his whole family,” Zalinsky said. “Here, I’ll read it to you verbatim. ‘I would like to inform all the intrepid Muslims in the world that Dr. Najjar Malik and his entire family are hereby sentenced to death. I call on all zealous Muslims to execute them quickly, wherever they find them, so that no one will dare to insult Imam al-Mahdi, Islamic sanctity, or the new Caliphate now emerging. Whoever is killed doing this will be regarded as a martyr and will go directly to heaven.’”
“He’s a dead man,” David said.
“If we don’t find him before they do, yes,” Zalinsky agreed. “And that’s not going to be easy. The Ayatollah just put a $100 million bounty on his head.”
40
The Airbus jumbo jet would be back in Tehran in less than an hour.
But the Twelfth Imam could not wait. Still seething at the incompetence of the Iranian intelligence services for having let Najjar Malik slip through their fingers and broadcast his heresies to the world, he summoned Javad to his luxury cabin in the front of the aircraft. Javad rose from his seat in the back of the plane and made his way forward, dreading every step. After taking a deep breath and removing a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his perspiring hands, he knocked twice and was told to come in. He complied and bowed low.
“Have you heard from Firouz and Jamshad?” the Mahdi asked.
“Yes, Your Excellency,” Javad replied. “I just got a text message from Firouz a little while ago.”
“Are they safe?”
“Yes, they are.”
“They weren’t arrested?”
“No.”
“Were they watched?”
“They don’t think so.”
“Where are they now?”
“Caracas.”
“They’ve gotten to Venezuela? Good. So they are coming home now.”
“Yes, they figure they should be home by tomorrow night.”
The Mahdi nodded and stared out the window, pondering something, but his expression was inscrutable, and Javad was in no mood to ask questions.
“Get Ali Faridzadeh on the line,” the Mahdi commanded without looking back at Javad.
Javad was surprised, not so much that the Mahdi wanted to talk to the Iranian defense minister — that was to be expected given how close they were to zero hour — but that the Mahdi evidently wanted him to use one of the satellite phones not for a text message or two but for an actual conversation. Thus far, he had been suspicious of their ability to speak securely on the phones and deeply reluctant to use them except when absolutely necessary, such as the call with the Pakistani leader, Iskander Farooq. But such decisions, Javad decided, were above his pay grade. He pulled the satphone from his pocket, dialed Faridzadeh’s personal satphone number, and handed the phone to the undisputed leader of the Islamic world. He wondered if he should return to his seat, but he had not been dismissed, so for now he stood still, his stomach in knots.
“Where are you?” the Mahdi asked. “Good. I will be on the ground in about an hour and at the location we discussed in less than two. I will meet you there. Just make sure everything is in place and ready — everything — when I arrive.”
David needed to get to Qom.
He was exhausted and wanted to ask Dr. Birjandi if he could crash there overnight, get up early, and make the three-hour drive to the holy city at sunrise the following morning. Yet something in him felt uneasy about that plan. He sensed he needed to be in Qom, fresh and ready, when the day began. He had no idea why, but he had learned to trust his instincts.
Pulling out his laptop, he looked up hotel options and found a website called AsiaRooms.com, which gave him a selection of higher-end facilities.
“The Qom International is one of the best hotels in Iran,” one entry read. “The building has a lovely glass frontage with attractive lights. There is a marbled reception area and a cozy lounge with elegant Persian carpets. The Qom International in the historic city of Qom offers complete privacy, security, and comfort to its guests.” The lavish description went on from there.
It was a little pricey for David Shirazi, but it was exactly the type of place Reza Tabrizi would stay. He booked a single room with a king-size bed for one night, then closed the laptop, packed up his car, and took Dr. Birjandi into the kitchen, away from the others. There he gave the old cleric his own satellite phone, the gift he had promised him, and quickly explained how to use it and how to charge it.
“Please don’t hesitate to call me,” David said. “If you learn something, anything — even if you’re not sure if it’s useful or you think maybe I already know it — please call me, no matter when. Okay?”
“That’s very kind, my friend,” Birjandi replied. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” David said. “But really, it’s no good to me if I don’t hear from you. So promise you’ll use it.”
“You have my word.”
“That’s good enough for me. Thank you for everything, Dr. Birjandi. I don’t know what the future holds, but I’m very glad to have met you and deeply grateful for all you’ve taught me and all you’ve shared with me so far.”