Damascus Countdown (14 page)

Dr. Shirazi slowly shook his head.

“He is now the CIA deputy director for operations,” Marseille explained. “I even found a letter of commendation from the CIA, praising my father for his work inside Iran during the Revolution. And part of that work was helping get you and Nasreen out of the country and saving my mother’s life when she was having a miscarriage.”

“She told you about that?”

“No,” Marseille said. “Neither of them did. I didn’t find out until my father died. I found all the medical records and a bunch of journal entries. I’ve learned a lot about my family in the last few months, things I never imagined before.” She paused for a moment, then added, “In the last few days, I’ve learned a lot about David, too, things I never knew either. Maybe that’s why I’ve come to love David so much, Dr. Shirazi. Because I loved my father so much. I couldn’t have been more proud of my dad, and I miss him so much it hurts. And, well . . . maybe that’s why it hurts so much to think about David. It turns out they were an awful lot alike.”

Dr. Shirazi was too stunned to speak. But she was right. She knew. And she not only knew about David; she knew things he didn’t know about his own dearest friend. His eyes began to fill with tears. He reached for her hand, and she came over and gave him a hug as they both started to cry.

“It’s nice to be able to share a secret with an old friend,” she whispered.

He held her closer and nodded. “It is indeed.”

QOM, IRAN

Torres and Crenshaw saw the roof collapse. They saw flames licking out of every second-floor window. They had seen Esfahani run out the back door with his mother, and now, from their vantage point in a neighbor’s backyard, several houses south of the plane crash, they could see Esfahani giving his mother mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. But they did not see David emerging from the inferno.

Glancing nervously at his watch, Torres could see that it had already been more than three and a half minutes—almost four—since David had gone into the house. He couldn’t wait any longer. This was not the mission. They were here to stop nuclear warheads, not rescue elderly Iranians from burning buildings. He sprinted for the back door, shouting for Crenshaw to follow but radioing the other men to head back to the car and get it running.

The entire bathroom ceiling had collapsed on top of them.

Everything that could burn was burning. Ironically, though, with Mr. Esfahani on his back so David could save his life, the elderly man had actually saved David’s by protecting him from the immediate impact of the falling timbers and the flames. Even so, he had to move fast, or they were both going to die.

Still holding his breath, his lungs screaming and about to burst, David pushed up with his forearms and got to his knees. Though he
couldn’t see through the smoke, he cleared away some of the debris in front of him and was able to pull himself to his feet. Then, knowing he was mere moments away from blacking out, David again heaved the old man onto his back and pushed his way into the hall. He bolted down the stairs and got to the living room just as Torres and Crenshaw reached him. He couldn’t have been more stunned to see their faces, and he had never felt more grateful. They moved to take Mr. Esfahani, but David shook his head. Gasping for air, he hoisted the old man again and ran out the back door, with Torres and Crenshaw close on his heels as the entire building began to rock and sway. They were no more than ten or twelve yards away when the second floor collapsed into the first and the entire home was consumed by flames.

David didn’t look back. He kept running until he reached Esfahani, then gently set the man’s father down on the grass, not far from a fire engine that had just pulled up. Emergency crews raced to their side, dousing the old man with water and then giving him CPR. Another crew worked on the man’s wife.

Five minutes went by. Then ten minutes, fifteen. After twenty minutes, the EMT chief stopped his work and told his colleagues to stop as well. He looked up, then rose and walked over to Abdol Esfahani, who stood covered in soot and drenched with sweat but emotionless.

“These were your parents?” the man asked.

Esfahani nodded.

“I’m so sorry. We did the best we could.”

Esfahani nodded again but still showed little emotion. He didn’t cry. He didn’t tear up. He stood stone-faced until the medic and his team stepped away.

“I need to go,” he said, glancing at his watch.

“No, it’s okay,” David said. “We’ll stay with you. I’m so sorry, Abdol. I only wish we’d gotten here sooner.”

“I have to be in Damascus,” Esfahani replied as though he hadn’t heard a word David said.

“Damascus? Why?” David asked.

“It’s for the Mahdi,” he said. “I can’t say more. I’m just supposed to go there. But I don’t have any . . . I guess I can . . . well . . .”

He was becoming incoherent.

“Look, Abdol, you can’t go anywhere right now,” David said. “You need to stay here. You need to finish this.”

“No. They’re dead,” Esfahani shot back. “I can’t bring them back. I’m alone now, and I must do what I can to serve Imam al-Mahdi. This is my calling. I cannot disappoint him.”

“What does he want you to do?” David asked.

Esfahani looked into his eyes, then around at David’s men. “Who are they?”

“Part of my technical team.”

Esfahani shook his head. “I’ve never seen these men.”

“You never met my entire team.”

“I thought I had.”

“You hadn’t, but never mind,” David said, trying to change the subject. “I trust them. You can too.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Esfahani, still shaking his head. “Rashidi swore me to secrecy.”

“Even from me?”

“Well, I don’t know, but I . . . I have to go.”

“Can I go with you?” David asked, determined not to let this man out of his sight without extracting actionable intelligence from him. “I can help you. What do you need?”

“No, I sent a crew ahead this morning,” Esfahani said, patting his pockets as if in search of his car keys. “I have to join them. It’s very important. I’m sorry.”

David grabbed him by the arm and pulled him close. “But, Abdol, my friend, I came here to help you,” he said. “This is my war too, you know. I want to help. That’s why I haven’t fled the country. I have Persian blood. You know me. I want to serve the Mahdi. I want to know what he knows and make a difference in this country. Tell me—how can I help? What can I do?”

Esfahani looked into David’s eyes for a moment. His were dull, lifeless, drained of all color and emotion. He pulled away and started walking toward the street. “I cannot help you, Reza. Call Mina. Have her find Mr. Rashidi. Maybe he can help you. But I cannot.”

And then he broke into a sprint, disappeared around a corner, and was gone.

David stood there for a moment, looking at the burning homes before him, looking at the two dead bodies at his feet, and not believing that Esfahani had just left.

“What just happened there?” he asked, as much to himself as to his team.

“I have no idea, boss,” Torres replied. “Do you want us to stop him?”

“And do what?”

“I don’t know,” Torres said. “Maybe we grab him, take him back to Karaj, interrogate him, and find out what the Mahdi has him doing.”

“No, no, we can’t do that,” David said.

“Why not?” Crenshaw asked. “You said it yourself—he’s our only lead.”

“Then we have to find another one, and fast,” said David. “Come on. This was a complete waste of time.”

“Where are we going?” asked Torres.

“Back to the safe house,” David replied, “before we get caught.”

HAMADAN, IRAN

Ali was a desperate man. Well, perhaps
desperate
was not the right word, but he was a young man in a hurry. He wanted to save his country. He wanted to make a difference. He wanted to know everything Dr. Birjandi knew and how to articulate it with the same power and authority and clarity so that it would have the same impact. But how could he ever catch up?

He never ceased to be amazed by how many books Dr. Birjandi had. Every room of the house—except the kitchen—was lined with bookshelves, and every shelf was jam-packed with the most interesting books on theology and eschatology and history and poetry, and it went on and on and on. There were stacks of books in piles everywhere—on the couches and on chairs and in the corners of every room. And it wasn’t just books. There were magazines and journals and more things
to read than any human being could possibly handle, even if he could see. And Birjandi could not.

It was Birjandi’s late wife, Souri, who had read it all to him, Ali had recently learned from Ibrahim, who’d had the temerity to actually ask the old man why he had so many books he couldn’t read. According to Ibrahim, Souri had been fluent in five languages. She had memorized the entire Qur’an. And when they got married fresh out of high school, Souri had helped her husband memorize the entire Qur’an as well. When he went to seminary, Souri had helped him every step of the way. She had read his textbooks to him. He had dictated his homework to her. She had typed all his papers. She had even walked him to class. And apparently, so the story went, when he graduated from seminary, he was actually first in his class. And then they started writing books together, including his doctoral thesis, which was eventually published in 1978 as his first book,
The Imams of History and the Coming of the Messiah
.

Ali wanted to put a memory stick in the man’s head and download everything he knew. But how?

Dr. Birjandi stirred a bit of honey into yet another cup of hot tea Ali had just placed in his hands. Then he returned the spoon to Ali and carefully took a sip.

“Ah, excellent, my son—just like Souri used to make it.”

Ali laughed. The man said the same thing every single time Ali made him a cup of tea, and he had already said it three times today. Nevertheless, Ali thanked his mentor and poured a cup each for Ibrahim and himself. Then he checked his phone and noticed a new Twitter message from Dr. Najjar Malik. “Dr. Malik just sent another tweet—actually two.”

“What do they say?” Ibrahim asked.

“The first reads, ‘Anyone notice spike in Syria killings? Not normal brutality. Something new. Pray 4 God 2 remove Mustafa from power b4 more innocents die.’”

“He seems really worked up about Syria in the last few days, doesn’t he?” Ibrahim asked.

“Yeah, he does,” Ali agreed. “He’s always been so focused on Iran. It’s out of character.”

“Maybe God is speaking through him,” Dr. Birjandi said.

“To tell us what?” Ibrahim asked.

“I don’t know yet, but we should ask the Lord to show us great and mighty things we do not know,” Birjandi replied.

Ali and Ibrahim agreed and made a note in their journals to start really praying for the people of Syria. Then Ali read them Najjar’s second tweet.

“He writes, ‘More Muslims turning 2 Christ today than any other time in history. I did, and he’s changing my life. R U ready? Call on Jesus!’”

“He’s so bold,” Ibrahim said. “I can’t believe they haven’t caught him yet. Is it because he’s in America that he speaks so bravely?”

“No,” Ali quickly disagreed. “He’s bold because he has given up everything he has for Jesus. He doesn’t have any more fear. He used to be trapped in a prison of lies. Now he knows the truth.”

“I agree,” Birjandi said. “And look how much impact you can make when you speak the truth in love and from your heart.”

“Almost nine hundred thousand people are following Dr. Malik on Twitter,” Ibrahim said. “It’s too bad most people don’t have any electricity and can’t watch TV right now. I hear the satellite networks keep replaying Najjar’s interviews explaining how he became a follower of Jesus. Until my phone stopped working, I was getting text messages from people all over Iran who saw part or all of the interviews before the Israelis shut down the power.”

“Do you think it was really the Israelis?” asked Ali. “How do we know Hosseini and Darazi didn’t order the power shut down so people couldn’t see Najjar’s interviews?”

“Well, either way, his message is getting out. People all over the country are openly debating what he’s done and what he’s saying. Some are furious at him. Some are intrigued. But they all seem to be retweeting, don’t they?”

Now the two young men took their places on floor cushions as Birjandi prepared to teach them. Ali couldn’t wait to hear what his mentor had to say.

“Each of us was raised not simply as a good and faithful Muslim
but as a devout and fervent Shiite,” Birjandi began. “What’s more, we were raised as Twelvers. We believed we were living in the last days. We believed the messiah was coming soon. We believed there were signs all around us indicating that the end of human history as we had known it was at hand, that a new kingdom was coming, and with it was coming judgment for the infidels and peace and prosperity for the believers. And we were right—correct?”

“Absolutely,” Ali said.

“Now, of course, when we were lost, we believed that the Twelfth Imam was our messiah. We believed the Mahdi was not only coming to save us and redeem us and rule over us and the whole world but that Jesus would be coming too, as the Mahdi’s lieutenant, as his deputy. But, my sons, we were deceived. We believed a lie. In our ignorance, we did not even think for a moment—for a single second—that what we had been taught might be false, that it might have been fed to us to corrupt us, to beguile us, to lure us away from the true path. Yet God took pity on us. In his loving-kindness and mercy, God chose us, reached out to us, decided to open our eyes and enlighten us and reveal to us the truth—that Jesus is King of kings and Lord of lords and that the Mahdi is a thief and a liar. Amazingly, we’re not alone. Najjar is right. God is waking up Muslims all over Iran and all over the Middle East and North Africa and across Central Asia and even in Indonesia. There is a great spiritual awakening under way right now. Millions of Muslims are renouncing Islam and choosing to follow the true King, Jesus Christ!”