Damascus Countdown (18 page)

“Yes?”

“He even came to . . .”

“To what?”

“. . . to visit me.”

The man’s discomfort was palpable, and David could see he wasn’t going to be able to ask Nouri anything of substance. For now all he wanted to do was get off this call and keep working through his list. He didn’t have time to chitchat.

“That is wonderful,” David said. “I’m glad you’re in good hands, and I have no doubt you will recover quickly and be back to full health soon. And again, I’m very sorry about the condition of those satellite phones, how damaged they were. I should have gone back to Germany or to Dubai and picked them up myself. But I—”

“It’s not . . . your fault, Reza,” Nouri said, interrupting him. “You did the best you could. . . . Some things are out of our hands.”

“Well, I still feel terrible,” David said. “All I wanted to do was help.”

“I know,” Nouri said. “And you have. Listen . . . my nurse is telling me I must go.”

“Of course, I understand,” said David, glad to be moving on.

In another context, he would have to laugh. After days of trying, the one person he’d managed to reach was a senior aide to the Twelfth Imam who was lying in a hospital in the center of a city raining with bombs and missiles, a city that might very well soon be annihilated by the Israelis. He hung up even more discouraged and slumped to his knees, bowing his forehead to the ground.

“Lord, please help me,” he pleaded. “I don’t know what to do. Nothing I’m doing is working. This can’t be your will for me. Help me, Father. People are counting on me. Millions of lives are in the balance. But I can’t do this on my own. I need your wisdom. Show me what to do. Please, Father, in Jesus’ name. Amen.”

David remained kneeling for several minutes. Waiting. Listening. Hoping. But nothing happened. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but the room was silent save the low hum of the fluorescent ceiling lamp.

He thought of Najjar Malik. The man had been a Twelver, and then Jesus had appeared to him in the mountains of Hamadan. Jesus had appeared to his wife, Sheyda, and to his mother-in-law. David had heard the man share his story on several television interviews. He knew God was speaking clearly and directly to Najjar Malik. Why wasn’t Jesus speaking clearly and directly to him, in this room, right now?

Come to think of it, Dr. Birjandi had heard from Christ clearly and directly as well. So had his young disciples, some of whom had been radical Shia mullahs and sons of mullahs just a few months earlier. They’d all had dreams and visions of Christ. Why not David? He couldn’t think of a better time than now.

But it didn’t happen. What did that mean? Was God mad at him? What should he be doing differently? He remained on his knees for another few minutes, but still nothing happened.

David knew he didn’t have the luxury of hesitation. Too much was on the line. He wasn’t mad at God, and he hoped God wasn’t mad at him. But he was lost. He was confused. And then he remembered something Dr. Birjandi had once told him: “When you aren’t sure what to do, do what you are sure of.” It hadn’t made much sense at the time, but it actually seemed to make sense now.
Don’t look for a new strategy. Don’t get creative. Don’t lean on your own understanding, but trust in the Lord with all your heart. Do what you’ve been taught. Be true to your training.
Which meant what? In this particular circumstance, what did that mean?

David sat up and looked at his phone, and he suddenly knew. He needed to talk to Dr. Birjandi. If he couldn’t reach him on the phone, then he’d have to take the team to the man’s home in Hamadan. One way or another, he had to connect with Birjandi—and fast.

HAMADAN, IRAN

Birjandi was moved by the intensity of his students’ questions. These young men were so hungry to understand the future of their country and the world. They were so eager to study the prophecies and be ready for the second coming of Jesus Christ. But they had so much to learn.

“Gentlemen, Ezekiel 36 and 37 are among the least likely prophecies in all of Scripture to have actually been fulfilled,” he said, sitting up in his chair and wishing he could look them in the eye. “These chapters indicate that in the last days, Israel will be reborn as a country, the Jews will return to the Holy Land after centuries in exile, the ancient ruins in Israel will be rebuilt, the deserts will bloom again, Israel will experience a spiritual awakening, and the renewed nation will develop an ‘exceedingly great army.’ Against all expectation, this began to happen in the early 1900s. It came to fruition on May 14, 1948, and it continues to come true to this day. Your parents and grandparents were furious about this. Ayatollah Khomeini was enraged by the prophetic rebirth of Israel, as have been his successors. They cannot even bring themselves to say the word
Israelis
. They call the Jews
Zionists
. The Arabs are not happy either, of course, and they’ve fought war after war since ’48 to throw the Jews into the sea or annihilate them forever. But as difficult and as painful as it has been for many in this region, the fact is the rebirth of Israel is an act of God. It is the fulfillment of ancient biblical prophecies given to us by Ezekiel himself. It is ironclad proof that we are living in the last days. And given the fact that the prophecies of Ezekiel 36 and 37 have come to pass in our own time, isn’t it remotely possible that
the prophecies of Ezekiel 38 and 39 could come true in our lifetime as well?”

Just then, Birjandi heard a buzzing. He sensed Ali fishing in his pocket for his phone, and then the young man said, “It’s another Twitter message in Farsi from Najjar Malik. ‘Breaking: Iranian missile just hit Israeli nuke reactor. Rumors growing of possible Israeli nuclear strike on Iran. Pray and turn to Christ.’”

The men’s tones grew far more sober. They began to discuss what this news could mean for their country and their families, none of whom were yet followers of Christ. What should they do? Where should they go? How could they reach them? Were Israeli jets—or Jericho missiles—already on their way?

Birjandi’s phone rang, but he didn’t get up. It rang several times more, but still he ignored it. He had no interest in answering anyone’s call at the moment. There were serious things to discuss, he told himself, but he had not factored in the curiosity of his guests.

“Shouldn’t you get that?” Ali asked.

“Not right now,” Birjandi replied. “It’s not important.”

“But how do you know unless you answer? Maybe it’s about this possible Israeli nuclear strike.”

“Let your hearts not be troubled,” Birjandi assured them.

But the men weren’t buying it. “How are you even getting a phone call? Most of the phones—except for Ali’s—aren’t getting any reception. How come yours does?”

The phone rang again.

“Come now, let’s not be distracted,” Birjandi said.

But the men wouldn’t let it go. They desperately wanted contact with the outside world. Birjandi desperately did not.

“It’s not a mobile phone,” the old man finally explained.

“What is it, then?”

“It’s a satellite phone.”

That seemed to intrigue them. “I’ve heard that the Mahdi’s inner circle all have new satphones,” Ali said. “Rumor has it they’re German.”

“Don’t believe everything you hear,” Birjandi warned them.

The phone continued ringing. The young men became quiet,
waiting to see if he was going to answer this time or not. Birjandi didn’t want to. He feared it was going to be Hosseini or Darazi, and he didn’t have any interest in talking to either of them. But then he remembered it could be David and wondered why he hadn’t thought of that before.

“Okay, hand it to me, Ibrahim,” he said finally. “It’s on the kitchen table.”

SYRACUSE, NEW YORK

Marseille returned from the powder room to the family room and took her place again on the couch beside Mrs. Walsh. She handed the grieving woman a fresh box of tissues and put her arm around her, but Mrs. Walsh would not be consoled.

There was still no hard news, despite all the calls Lexi’s father was making. Officials at the U.S. Embassy in Tel Aviv said they did not yet have confirmation of any Americans injured or killed in the collapse of the hotel in Tiberias, though they promised to call or text back if they received any news about the Walshes’ daughter and new son-in-law. The State Department in Washington was no help. It was, of course, the middle of the night on the East Coast; the international crisis hotline was supposed to be working, but all the lines were jammed because of the war in the Middle East. None of the hospitals in Tiberias or the Galilee region seemed to have any information yet. And unfortunately, the cable news networks were giving little attention to the attack in Tiberias since the Iranian strike on the Israeli nuclear reactor in Dimona was dominating all the coverage.

Marseille had suggested they turn off the television and try to get some sleep until more information was available, but neither of the Walshes would even consider the notion. She had made a pot of tea, but Mrs. Walsh wouldn’t drink anything. And then it dawned on Marseille that she had an inside source. She gently patted Mrs. Walsh on the back, excused herself, and stepped away from the television into the dining room, which was a little quieter. There she pulled out her cell phone and dialed.

“Hello. You have reached the headquarters of the Central Intelligence Agency. Our working hours are 8 a.m. to 5 p.m., Monday through Friday. If you know the extension of the person you’re trying to reach, press 1. If you know the name of the person you’re trying to reach, press 2, then type in the last name, followed by the first name. If—”

Marseille pressed 2, then entered
Murray, Thomas
. A moment later, to her surprise, she was talking to the executive assistant to the deputy director for operations.

“Hi, Ellen, this is Marseille Harper. I’m sorry to call so late at night, but I have an urgent favor I need to ask of Mr. Murray.”

KARAJ, IRAN

“Hello?”

“Oh, thank God!” David said at the sound of the old man’s voice, stunned that he had actually, finally gotten through to him. “How are you? Are you okay?”

“I’m sorry; who’s this?” Birjandi asked, his voice tinged with suspicion.

“Dr. Birjandi, it’s me, Reza Tabrizi—David Shirazi—who do you think?”

“Oh, yes—how good to hear your voice, my friend!”

“And yours as well. How are you? Are you okay?”

“Yes, yes, of course.”

“The war hasn’t affected you?”

“It’s affected all of us, I’m afraid,” Birjandi replied. “But I’m fine. Thank you for asking.”

“Do you have enough food?”

“Oh yes.”

“What about power?”

“From the Lord, yes. From the electric company, no. But I have gas to cook with, so we’re making tea.”

David tensed. “
We
who?”

“Two from my little discipleship group,” Birjandi explained. “You recall, you met them the last time you were here.”

“Right,” David said. “But I’m surprised you’re meeting now, under these circumstances.”

“Me too,” Birjandi said. “They just showed up a short while ago. They wanted to study the Scriptures, so we’re having a Bible study. There’s not much else to do, but what could be more important? Indeed, I wish you were with us.”

“So do I,” David said. “So you’re really safe? You’re okay? You have everything you need?”

“The Lord is my Shepherd, David. I shall not want.”

“I’m so glad. I’ve been trying to reach you for days. Why haven’t you been answering your phone?”

Birjandi apologized for not answering, though he didn’t really offer an explanation. Rather, he asked about David and how he was doing.

“I’m safe,” David replied. “I’m well. How does the song go? ‘I get by with a little help from my friends.’”

Birjandi didn’t say a word, and David figured he probably wasn’t much of a Beatles fan anyway.

“Anyway, listen,” he continued, “there’s so much I want to talk to you about. I have a lot of questions. But there’s a specific reason I’ve been trying so hard to get ahold of you, Dr. Birjandi. Can I start with that?”

“Yes, certainly, my son. Whatever you need.”

“Dr. Birjandi, we have a serious problem, and we need your help.”

“Yes, I’ve heard.”

“Really? What do you know?”

“That the Iranians have hit the Dimona reactor, and that the prime minister is considering nuclear retaliatory strikes.”

David’s heart raced. “I thought you had no electricity.”

“I don’t,” Birjandi said.

“Then you don’t have radio or television?”

“No.”

“Did you hear this from Hosseini or Darazi? What else did they say?”

“No, no,” Birjandi said. “I haven’t spoken to either of them. Nor do
I want to. One of the young men here has a mobile phone that works. He’s getting Twitter messages from the West. From Najjar Malik, actually. That’s how we heard. But from your reaction, apparently it’s true.”

“Dimona was hit, yes.”

“And are the Israelis going to fire nuclear weapons at us?”

“I don’t know, Dr. Birjandi. I really don’t.”

“But it’s possible.”

“Yes, I’m afraid it is.”

“Just possible? Or probable?”

David hesitated. He didn’t want to worry his friend or the man’s students. But Birjandi had always shot straight with him. David figured the man deserved the same. “Honestly, I think it depends in large part on how much damage was done to the reactor at Dimona. If the reactor was severely damaged and a radioactive cloud begins to spread across the State of Israel, that would put thousands of lives at risk, maybe millions. There are a lot of variables. But if I were a betting man . . .”

David paused, but Birjandi got it.

“It’s that bad?” the old man asked.

“Yeah, it is.”

“If the Israelis fired nuclear missiles, they would certainly hit Tehran, right?”

“That I don’t know.”

“Bushehr?”

“Probably.”

“Natanz?”

“Probably.”

“Qom?”

“Maybe.”

“Hamadan?”

“Almost certainly,” David conceded.

There was a long silence at the other end of the line. Finally David had to shift gears. “Listen, Dr. Birjandi, that’s not all. There’s another problem too. And it’s on this that I really need your help.”

“Yes, of course. What is it? How can I help?”

LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

Murray was on the line with the CIA station chief in Islamabad when his office intercom buzzed three times. That was his secretary’s signal that he had an important incoming call.

“Yes?”

“Mr. Murray, I’m sorry to bother you, but I thought you’d want to know Miss Harper has just called. She’s on line three. What do you want me to tell her?”

“Marseille Harper?” Murray asked, incredulous.

“Yes, sir.”

“It’s 3 a.m. Is she crazy?”

“Her best friend is in Israel and is staying at the hotel in Tiberias that collapsed. Her friend’s parents can’t get through to the embassy or the State Department to get any confirmation on whether their daughter and son-in-law are alive or dead. She said she took a chance that you were not only up but in the office, and she wondered if you could take a moment and talk to her.”