30

Tehran, Iran

The Mahdi was calling.

It was the wee hours of the morning, Iran time, but Javad Nouri dutifully rushed to his master’s quarters.

“Yes, my Lord?” Javad said, bowing low.

“Call your cousin.”

“Now?”

“Of course. Tell him to go to the bank. Call him home.”

It was their exit strategy, a safe-deposit box at a Citibank in Queens. Javad knew where to get the key. Inside were new passports, credit cards, and cash.

“Yes, my Lord.”

“Tell him to take Jamshad and get out of New York, get to Canada, get back here as soon as possible. Tell him to route through Venezuela, if he needs to. He’ll know why.”

“My Lord, I will do whatever you ask, of course, but . . .”

“But what?”

“Well, I . . . You have all wisdom, of course, my Lord . . . but I’m just curious—isn’t that too risky, at least right now? Why don’t we have him just hunker down where he is until the storm passes? After all, we don’t really need him here right now, do we?”

“You’re missing the point,” the Mahdi said. “I want you to call on your satellite phone. I want to see if these phones are really clean. If they are, Jamshad and your cousin should have no problems. You’ll see them back in Tehran in a few days, before the war begins. But if the phones are bugged, then we’ll know for certain before we launch.”

* * *

David asked for a cab to take him to a nearby hotel.

Instead, Esfahani sent word that he would provide him a car and driver. David gathered the satphone, his briefcase, and his luggage, stepped out of the conference room, and was escorted from the building. Only then did he realize where he was. He stopped for a moment and marveled at the buildings and the campus, illuminated with floodlights in the middle of the night. Architecturally, they had no value or attraction, but he had seen them before. Indeed, he knew every inch of their layout and much of their history. He was now standing outside the headquarters of the Quds Force, one of the most-feared intelligence and special forces units of the Iranian Revolutionary Guard Corps. He was, therefore, standing outside the former US Embassy in Tehran, which the Quds Force had made its own after the Islamic Revolution.

David looked around at the former chancery, at the home where the American ambassador once lived, at the house where the deputy chief of mission used to live, along with the old consulate and the warehouse that had been dubbed “Mushroom Inn.” He tried to imagine what it all would have looked like on that fateful day—November 4, 1979—when Marseille’s father, Charlie Harper, had been standing right there in that very spot. What had it been like to be there, watching thousands of enraged, armed, militant students rushing the embassy’s gates, scaling her walls, storming her grounds, seizing her people? What would it have been like to be working undercover for the Central Intelligence Agency inside Iran during those chaotic, historic days?

It was all so quiet now.

David’s escorts put him in a black sedan that pulled up in front of the gates, most certainly driven by a Quds Force operative. Yet at that moment, all David could do was stare back at the facilities of “Henderson High,” as the former embassy had once been called, and think about how the fate of his family and the Harpers had become forever intertwined in that very place. If the embassy hadn’t been taken over and the American diplomats had never been taken hostage, David realized, then Charlie and Claire Harper would never have been in such danger. They never would have had to flee Iran or ask David’s parents for help, a request that eventually set into motion the CIA’s operation to rescue not only the Harpers from Iran but the Shirazis as well. And who had masterminded the rescue plan? None other than Jack Zalinsky.

What were the chances, he wondered, that Mohammad and Nasreen Shirazi’s youngest son would now be back in Tehran, working undercover for the CIA, working for Jack Zalinsky, and in love with the Harpers’ only daughter, even if the possibility of ever seeing her again was shrinking rapidly? What were the odds? A million to one? A billion to one? It couldn’t be random. It didn’t feel like coincidence or happenstance. It felt like fate. It seemed like destiny. Was it possible that there really was a God, a loving God, a God who had a plan for him? For the first time in his life, he began to think the answer might be yes.

* * *

Washington, DC

It had finally arrived.

After being alerted to the phone intercept, the president had been expecting it since Sunday. And it was finally here, a personal message from the Mahdi sent via the French defense minister and the US defense secretary to the White House.

Alone in the Oval Office, Jackson couldn’t help but wonder why the Mahdi had bypassed the secretary of state and the entire American diplomatic system. Was that to ensure the message’s secure delivery or to be able to deny its existence if publicly exposed?

He opened the sealed envelope and found the message as brief as the CIA had described. Sure enough, the Mahdi expressed his personal condolences to the president for this “terrible tragedy.” He promised a thorough investigation to determine who was responsible. But his main message was that he wanted the president to know that “now is the time for peace, not more bloodshed.” As anticipated, he asked for a phone meeting with the president the following Tuesday, after he finished his initial tour of the Middle East.

“I do not see the wisdom in resuming formal relations between the Islamic Republic of Iran and your country for the foreseeable future, under the current conditions,” the Mahdi wrote bluntly. “You have not spoken favorably about the new Caliphate I am building. You do not demonstrate an understanding of Islam’s power or emerging role in the world, nor has your government expressed the requisite repentance for past offenses. Still, we have crossed a threshold. We have entered a new age, and it seems the better part of wisdom to speak soon. Perhaps our representatives should meet to discuss issues of mutual concern, including a matter you keep proposing, a regional peace accord. It remains to be seen whether such an accord is possible, given your policies toward the oppressed peoples of our region and your financial, military, and political support for those who oppress them most. But since you have requested a meeting, I will not oppose one. I have come to bring peace. That is my mission. If you truly seek peace, then let us move quickly, before the moment passes forever. As the ancient Persian proverb says, ‘A promise is a cloud; fulfillment is the rain.’”

Was it a threat or a true open door? Jackson wondered. It certainly wasn’t the most warmly worded communiqué he had received since taking office, but it was, after all, coming from an enemy, not a friend. The Mahdi had taken a clear shot at America’s relationship with Israel (aka the oppressors) and made a clear allusion to the nuclear weapons he now controlled (“we have crossed a threshold”). Still, the Mahdi seemed to want a back channel. He was reaching out. He wanted to talk, if only by phone.

Jackson reached into the top right drawer of the Resolute desk, pulled out a fountain pen and a piece of thick White House stationery, and began drafting his reply.

* * *

Najjar wiped the perspiration from his hands and forehead.

He was relieved to have finally made it to the Washington bureau of the Persian Christian Satellite Network. He hadn’t gotten lost. He’d found parking quickly. The staff had welcomed him warmly. He sensed the Lord was with him and that he was doing the right thing. Yet between the heat of the TV lights and the cramps in his stomach, he was struggling to stay focused.

A young man clipped a microphone to his shirt while a young woman put some makeup on his face, and then it was time.

“Now, remember, this isn’t live,” the producer said. “It’s too early in Iran right now to go live. So we’re going to tape this for now. That way, if you feel like you’ve messed up, you can always start an answer over again, and we can take care of that in editing. Okay?”

Najjar nodded. He had never been on TV. He had never wanted to be on TV. He had never even imagined being on TV. But there he was, wondering exactly what he was going to say and wondering what Sheyda would say if she could see him right now.

“At this point,” the producer added, “we’re planning to run this tomorrow evening as a full hour-long special at prime time, probably in the seven o’clock hour, Tehran time, or 10:30 a.m. Eastern. Is that okay?”

Najjar nodded and asked for a glass of water.

“Excellent,” the producer said. “Now, do you have a website you want to direct people to?”

“No, of course not. Why do you ask?”

“People are going to be absolutely fascinated with your story, Dr. Malik. Believe me. This is what I do. I help Iranian believers tell their stories to Farsi speakers all over the world—in Iran, of course, but all through Europe, North America, wherever. Our network has a very high viewership. And I always encourage our guests to have a website where people can go to learn more.”

Najjar didn’t know how to respond. “It’s all happened so quickly. I don’t have anything like that.”

“How about a Facebook page?”

“Sorry, no.”

“Myspace?”

Najjar shook his head.

“Okay, wait here,” the producer said. “I have an idea.”

He ran to his office and came back a minute later with his laptop. “Have you ever used Twitter before?”

Najjar stared at the young man. “I’ve been building nuclear reactors and weapons all my life. I haven’t even learned how to use a mobile phone for more than calls and e-mail,” Najjar answered.

“So no tweeting?” the producer asked.

“I’m sorry,” Najjar said. “I don’t even know what that means.”

“It’s okay. I’m setting up an account for you right now, and we’re going to tell people throughout the show to sign up to follow you. Don’t worry. I’ll explain it all after we’re done.”

A production assistant brought Najjar a bottle of water while the crew made final adjustments. Soon they were all ready, and the red light of the lead camera came on. Najjar tried to relax, tried to look calm, but he was holding the arms of his chair so tightly his knuckles were white.

“Let’s start at the beginning,” the producer said. “Please tell us your name, your background in Iran as a high-ranking nuclear scientist, and why you were once a follower of the Twelfth Imam but have now become a follower of Jesus Christ.”