Epilogue

Ahmed Darazi brought tea to his colleagues in the command center.

The lighting was dim, the air was thick with cigarette smoke, and the atmosphere was solemn. This wasn’t going as planned, and Darazi was at a loss to know why. How many times had the Twelfth Imam promised that the Zionists would be annihilated? How many times had he said the destruction of the Jews and Christians was imminent? How many times had Darazi himself repeated those words? Why wasn’t it happening? What had gone wrong? What was more, why weren’t all the prophecies coming true? What about all the questions that Alireza Birjandi had raised? Who had the answers?

Part of Darazi felt terrified even to think such thoughts in the presence of the Mahdi, yet he couldn’t help it. His doubts were rising, though he dared not voice them. He wanted to live. It was as simple as that. Perhaps the answers would come in due course. For now, he decided, it was best to remain silent and play the servant.

That said, Hosseini was as angry as Darazi had ever seen him. The man wasn’t going off in tirades or even raising his voice at all. But he paced the room constantly, demanding more information from Defense Minister Faridzadeh and the generals around him, all of whom sat behind a bank of computers and video monitors, working the phones and gathering intelligence from the field.

The Zionists’ attack had caught them all completely by surprise, Darazi chief among them. He had been absolutely convinced that the Americans would be able to keep the Israelis in check. He had fully bought the lie on Thursday morning about Naphtali preparing to leave for the US on Friday. So had Hosseini, and Darazi guessed this largely fueled his anger.

The counterstrike was in motion, at least. They were pushing the enemy back on its heels. The Iranian Revolutionary Guard Corps was firing four to six ballistic missiles at Israel every hour. The Zionists’ Arrow and Patriot systems were downing 75 to 80 percent of them, but those that were getting through were causing heavy damage in Tel Aviv, Haifa, and Ashkelon, though none had hit Jerusalem—at least not yet.

Hezbollah, meanwhile, was launching twenty to thirty rockets out of Lebanon every hour. A half dozen had hit the northern suburbs of Tel Aviv. Most were hitting Haifa, Tiberias, Nazareth, Karmiel, and Kiryat Shmona. Fires were raging in each of those cities and towns, but with so many rockets raining down on Israel’s northern tier, it was extremely difficult for fire trucks and ambulances to respond quickly, if at all.

At the same time, Hamas terrorists in Gaza were launching forty to fifty rocket and mortar attacks an hour against the Jews living along the southern tier in places like Ashdod, Ashkelon, Beersheva, and Sderot. Even the community of Rehovot, south of Tel Aviv, had been hit by several Iranian-made Grad missiles.

But Darazi could see it was not nearly enough for the Twelfth Imam, meditating alone in the corner, quiet and contemplative. The Mahdi had not said anything for several hours. Nor had Darazi seen him eat or drink anything in more than two days. It was fitting, Darazi guessed, for the Promised One to be consumed in prayer and fasting, but the silence was unnerving.

Suddenly, without warning, the Mahdi opened his eyes. “Jazini. Where is he?”

“He went to check on the status of the Intelligence Ministry,” Faridzadeh said. “He should be back in about an hour.”

“Call him now,” the Mahdi ordered. “He has news.”

“How can we, my Lord?” Faridzadeh asked. “We’re only using landlines right now, and as I said, he’s out in the city.”

“Get him by satellite phone,” the Mahdi insisted. “Just get him now.”

“My Lord, please do not be angry, but we’re concerned that those phones might be compromised after what happened when Javad met Reza Tabrizi.”

“Nonsense,” the Mahdi said. “I talked to Javad myself yesterday. He said Tabrizi saved his life. Now get me Jazini, and put him on speakerphone.”

Darazi watched as one of the defense minister’s aides connected Faridzadeh’s satphone to a line running up through the bunker to a satellite dish on the roof. A moment later, General Jazini was on the line for everyone in the command center to hear.

“I was praying, and your face came before me, Mohsen,” the Mahdi said. “Allah is with you, and you have news.”

“I do, my Lord,” Jazini said breathlessly. “I was going to wait and bring you the news in person, but is it okay to speak on this line?”

“Of course. Now speak, my son.”

“Yes, my Lord. I have good news—we have two more warheads.”

“Nuclear?”

“Yes, two have survived the attacks.”

“How?” the Mahdi asked. “Which ones?”

“The ones Tariq Khan was working on. The ones in Khorramabad.”

“What happened?”

“The moment Khan went missing, the head of security at the Khorramabad facility feared for the safety of the warheads,” Jazini said. “He feared Khan might be working for the Zionists. Since the warheads weren’t yet attached to the missiles, he decided to move them out of his facility and hide them elsewhere. I just spoke to him. He’s safe. The warheads are safe.”

The Mahdi stood and closed his eyes. “I thank you, Allah, for you have given us another chance to strike.”