Damascus Countdown (48 page)

“He said he was proud of you and loved you like the son he never had,” Eva said. “He said he would see you on the other side and that he hoped Jesus would let him be the first one to welcome you into heaven.”

At that David choked up. He had never had a friend in his eighties, nor had he ever imagined having—or wanting—a friend that old. But neither had he ever had a friend he’d loved and appreciated more than Dr. Birjandi, and just hearing these words made him miss the man and his gentle wisdom all the more.

“You okay?” Eva asked.

“Not really,” David replied.

“He meant that much to you, huh?”

“He still does,” said David. “He’s not dead yet.”

“What are you going to do?” Eva asked.

“For starters, I’m calling Jack.”

Zalinsky answered David’s call immediately.

“I just heard from Birjandi,” David began, abandoning all protocol. “The missile is on the launchpad. The Mahdi and Mustafa are heading
there now. They’re about to launch, Jack, and I’m not going to get there in time. You’ve got to call the president. You’ve got to tell him to order an air strike—now, before it’s too late.”

“Hey, hey, settle down, Zephyr,” Zalinsky replied. “We’ve got that air base covered—a satellite and three Predators are monitoring everything going on there. Believe me, they’re not ready to launch.”

“Just because you can’t see it doesn’t mean it isn’t true, Jack,” David insisted. “What have you always taught me?
‘To misunderstand the nature and threat of evil is to risk being blindsided by it.’
Right? I’m telling you, Birjandi is there. He’s inside, and he’s telling us the Scud is on the launchpad. The warhead is attached. They’re getting ready to launch—probably at Tel Aviv—at any moment. I’ve done my job. So has my team. We’ve done everything you’ve asked us to do. We found the warheads. We took one out, with your help. Now we’re racing to the second one because you ordered us to. Right?”

“Of course it’s true,” Zalinsky replied, clearly annoyed but also somewhat—and uncharacteristically—restrained.

“Then listen to me,” David continued. “Even if by some miracle we could get there before they launch, you don’t have a realistic plan to get us into that base, and neither do we. This is it, Jack. We’ve done everything we possibly could. Now it’s up to you. This is the moment. You need to get the president to order a strike now.”

“Zephyr, listen to me,” Zalinsky said. “The two Iranian terrorists responsible for the recent attacks at the Waldorf in New York have just arrived in Damascus. They’re heading for the Al-Mazzah base as we speak. We’ve had two operatives tracking them the whole time, and now those operatives are in Damascus, awaiting instructions. I can link you and your team up with them.”

“And then what?” David asked. “That’s still not enough men, and there’s still not enough time. You have to get the president to order a strike now.”

The debate got more heated—a lot more heated—and went on several more minutes. It was time, David knew all too painfully, they couldn’t afford. Still, he made an impassioned and nearly insubordinate case for a massive, lightning-fast attack by F/A-18s and cruise missiles
launched from Carrier Strike Group Ten and the USS
Harry S. Truman
, currently steaming through the eastern Mediterranean. When Zalinsky refused to commit, David argued that at the very least the Agency had the moral obligation to inform the Israelis that they were about to be hit, but an even greater moral obligation to proactively and aggressively defend Israel, the United States’s most faithful ally in the region, not to mention the Palestinians, who were completely defenseless and unprepared for what was coming.

David knew he was on speakerphone. He knew the entire Global Operations Center was listening in, including Tom Murray and Director Allen, and that’s precisely why he was making the case so strenuously. Because he was being listened to. Because he was being recorded, and not just in the GOC but by the NSA as well. Because if somehow he lived through this day and stood trial for illegally informing the Israelis, he wanted evidence on the record that he had made the case, that he had done everything he could to push the Agency and the White House to do the right thing . . . and had failed.

Another few minutes passed. Zalinsky wasn’t budging. It wasn’t because Zalinsky didn’t agree with him, David could tell from the conversation, but because he knew the president wouldn’t act regardless. Nevertheless, David pleaded with his mentor and handler one more time to at least make the case to the president or have Allen do it. At least try.

“Just think of it, Jack,” David concluded. “Not only could the president take out this warhead and save Israel in one shot, but it could be a decapitating strike. The president could take out the Mahdi, Hosseini, and Mustafa all at the same time. With Darazi dead too, that would effectively neutralize the threat of any of the Pakistani missiles being used by the Caliphate. Indeed, the Caliphate would likely unravel. Jackson would be a hero. With one strike, the United States might never have to go to war in the Middle East again.”

David knew the last thought was a bit of an overreach, but only a bit. And then, to his surprise, Director Allen came on the line.

“You make a compelling case, Zephyr,” Allen said calmly. “I’m convinced, and I’m calling the president right now.”

David couldn’t believe it.

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

“Thank you, son. Now keep moving toward Damascus. Get there as fast as you can. But I’ll see if I can’t get you some air support. Over and out.”

“Do you believe him?” Crenshaw whispered, in excruciating pain but still conscious and apparently still paying attention.

“Who? Allen?” David clarified.

“Yeah.”

“Do I believe he’s going to make my case to the president?”

“Right.”

“Yes, I do,” David said.

“Will it matter?” Fox asked.

“You mean do I think the president will order an air strike to defend Israel?”

“Exactly.”

“Do you?” David asked them both.

He glanced in the rearview mirror. Crenshaw shook his head. Then he looked at Fox, who also shook his head. Well, he thought, at least they were all on the same page.

“So what are we going to do?” Fox asked.

“There’s nothing we can do, not together,” David conceded. “But there’s something I can do.”

“What do you mean?” Crenshaw asked.

“I’m going to make a call,” David said. “You’re not part of it. You didn’t support it. I’m doing it on my own, and I’m ready to pay the consequences. But as for me, I don’t have a choice. This is something I have to do.”

Fox and Crenshaw looked as bewildered as they must have felt, but David didn’t have time to explain. He dialed the number to the Mossad
from memory. It didn’t go through. He dialed again. It still didn’t go through. Speed-dialing Eva, he asked her to repeat the phone number to him, lest he’d dropped or added a digit. But he hadn’t. The number she gave him was the number he’d just dialed not once but twice.
Had the Mossad shut it down, even with Mordecai still out there?
he wondered. It was an awfully big risk, one that might prove fatal.

DAMASCUS, SYRIA

The door of General Hamdi’s office swung open. Esfahani watched as General Jazini led the way out of the office and down the hall with the Mahdi right behind him, followed by the Ayatollah, President Mustafa, and Rashidi, who was carrying the “nuclear football” of communications gear and Pakistani launch codes. They were surrounded by Iranian and Syrian bodyguards and they were moving quickly.

Once they were gone, Esfahani took a deep breath and stepped out of Hamdi’s office as well. He asked Dr. Birjandi to take his arm and keep up with him. “We don’t have much time,” he explained.

“Why? Where are we going?” Birjandi asked.

“Hangar Five,” said Esfahani.

“Is that where the warhead is?” Birjandi asked.

“Not for long.”

At the end of the long hallway, they boarded an elevator and descended to ground level. There, a lone black sedan was waiting for them. The rest of the entourage, Esfahani noted, was already gone. He put Birjandi in the back, closed the door, and got into the front passenger seat.

“Move it,” he ordered. “Hangar Five.”

Birjandi was a hero of Esfahani’s, but events were moving rapidly now, and Esfahani somewhat resented being the old man’s babysitter. He didn’t want to risk the possibility, however slim, of getting left out—or shut out—of witnessing the launch.

His slight frustration at his current task notwithstanding, Esfahani was trembling with excitement. This was the day they had prayed for
so long, the day they had planned and worked for so long, and it was finally here. He had been a devoted Twelver all his life, but ever since first actually meeting the Mahdi in Hamadan on the day of the massive earthquake—what turned out to be the day of Iran’s first underground nuclear test—Esfahani had been in something of a fever. He could barely sleep. He desperately wanted to be found faithful in the Mahdi’s service, and now here he was, in the inner circle, on launch day, the day the War of Annihilation of the Zionists would finally be won.

It was turning into a nasty March day, threatening clouds moving in. Esfahani expected it to burst out raining at any moment. He wondered if that would delay the launch in any way and desperately hoped not.

“Faster,” he ordered the driver. “You must move faster.”

The driver accelerated, and they sped across the air base to the far side, to a remote corner, a good six or seven minutes away from the main facilities.

“Why is it taking so long?” Birjandi asked.

“You’ll see,” Esfahani said, then realized how ridiculous that was. “I’m sorry, Dr. Birjandi. Please forgive me. There are certain things I am not permitted to say.”

“To me?” Birjandi asked. “Why?”

“Well—”

“You think a blind eschatology professor—personally summoned here by Imam al-Mahdi himself—is going to give secrets to the Zionists?” Birjandi charged.

“No, no, I’m just—”

“Then where are we going?” Birjandi asked again. “I don’t have much in my life, my young friend, but I like to have some idea where I am. It gives me a sense of peace, of clarity, that I’m not sure I can adequately explain to you.”

“You’re right, and I’m very sorry,” Esfahani replied. “I have been very rude. You are the father of the Twelver movement, Dr. Birjandi. Until Imam al-Mahdi revealed himself to mankind, no one had done more than you to explain who he was and why he mattered. My deepest apologies.”

“You’re stalling, Abdol.”

Esfahani smiled. The old man was a shrewd judge of character.
The car stopped. They had arrived. He leaned over and whispered in Birjandi’s ear. “Hangar Five is a secret. It’s an underground hangar on the far edge of the base. It’s out by the leach field, near where they burn all the refuse. Come, my friend; let’s go see history be made.”

PALMYRA, SYRIA

David and his team were now cruising past the ancient ruins of Palmyra.

“Do you see signs for Route 90?” Fox asked.

“The turn is just ahead,” David said.

“Good,” said Fox. “Take it, and then watch for Route 53 in about another seventy or eighty kilometers.”

“Who were you calling?” Crenshaw asked from the backseat.

“No one,” said David. “It’s not important.”

“It
is
important,” Crenshaw responded. “You said so yourself. That’s why you made such a big deal about making sure we had deniability.”

“It didn’t work anyway,” said David. “The call didn’t go through.”

“Who were you calling?” Crenshaw pressed again.

“Look, it doesn’t matter. Let it drop.”

“You were calling the Israelis, weren’t you?” said Fox.

David stared straight ahead and kept driving. “You guys need to rest.”

“No, we need to stop these madmen from incinerating an American ally,” said Fox. “You think we’re not with you? That’s our mission, David. That’s what we’re here to do—protect the American people and our allies from a nuclear holocaust. Isn’t it?”

David was silent.

“How did you get that number?” Crenshaw asked.

“I’d rather not say.”

“Get off it, David,” Crenshaw shot back. “This is it, man. We’re dying here. Fox and me might very well not make it. We get that. We’re okay with that. But we’re not okay with you holding back information that could save the lives of millions. Now start talking!”

David felt ashamed. Crenshaw was right. He didn’t know why he hadn’t brought them into this sooner. He’d been trying to protect them.
But maybe he should have at least given them the option of rejecting his plan rather than keeping it from them. He explained the call he had made earlier at the border and why he’d made it.

“And now that number won’t work?” Fox asked.

“Right.”

“They probably cut the line,” Crenshaw said.

“Maybe,” said David. “But that’s it. I’m out of ideas.”

“You don’t have any other numbers to the Mossad?” Fox asked.

“No, do you?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

David looked at him quizzically. “How?”

“Tolik,” said Fox.

“What?”

“Call Matty,” Fox continued. “Tell him the situation. Tell him to give that Tolik guy a satphone and have him call the Mossad. They’ll listen to their own man a lot more than they’ll listen to you. They’ve got to listen to him. And Naphtali will definitely order a strike. But you’d better move fast.”

“You know we’ll all go to prison,” said David.

Fox shook his head and looked at David. “Just you, my friend,” he said. “Nick and I . . . it’s not going to matter. We’re not going to make it back.”

David winced. He refused to believe that. He didn’t even want to think about it. But deep down, he feared Fox might be right.

“You’re sure?” David asked. “Both of you?”

Fox and Crenshaw nodded, and David finally did as well.

“Then get Matty on the phone,” he said.

He wasn’t convinced they had time for one last ploy, but these guys were right. They had to try.

DAMASCUS, SYRIA

It was called a hangar, but it wasn’t really, Esfahani realized, not in the classic sense. There were no fighter jets housed here. No bombers. No
refueling tankers or trainers or any other jets or planes of any kind. This was a strategic missile base—and a clandestine one at that.

As they cleared through two heavy security checkpoints and he helped Dr. Birjandi off the elevator and onto the hangar floor, Esfahani was struck by what an enormous facility it really was. In one of their brief coffee breaks, Zandi had hinted to him that it was large, but Esfahani had had no idea. It stretched at least twenty soccer fields in both directions, maybe more. At this end, it was both an R & D center and an assembly line for state-of-the-art missiles. Several hundred yards down the range, it was a subterranean launch facility. So fascinated was he that he began to whisper to Birjandi details of what he was seeing, and Birjandi seemed to indicate he was grateful for Esfahani’s play-by-play reporting and color commentary.

“What are you seeing now?” Birjandi asked.

“There’s a group of technicians scurrying around,” Esfahani replied. “They’re all wearing white lab coats, and they seem to be making last-minute preparations.”

“On the missile?”

“Actually, on six.”

“Six what?” Birjandi asked.

“Six missiles,” said Esfahani. “They all look like Scuds, but they seem to be an advanced model. I’ve never seen any quite like this.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning they’re taller and wider, and their rocket engines look larger,” Esfahani said.

“But only one has the warhead, right?”

“Apparently, but they all look the same to me,” Esfahani observed.

“Clever,” Birjandi said. “I’m guessing they’ll fire them all at once, and the Israelis won’t know which one to shoot down.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” said Esfahani. “That
would
be clever.”

He then began describing other elements of the building, beginning with the six launchpads themselves. He described the enormous metal blast shields that were now being hydraulically raised from the floor, presumably to prevent the Mahdi and his guests from being incinerated upon launch. He also noted the unique ceiling of the facility, which
had some kind of gigantic levers and pulleys and other devices he didn’t quite know how to describe, all of which would evidently open on cue to allow the missiles to be fired into the afternoon sky.

Esfahani was marveling at it all when they heard General Jazini call for quiet and for all the guests to come forward to the missiles.

“Imam al-Mahdi is going to say a few words; then we have some business to attend to, and then the historic moment will commence.”