The Tehran Initiative (11 page)

How amazing would it be to travel to Jerusalem and Nazareth and Bethlehem and Jericho?
Marseille thought. She knew Lexi’s itinerary and couldn’t help but be envious.

Raised Catholic, Lexi hadn’t been particularly religious growing up. But she had been a Near East studies major and had always dreamed of traveling around Israel. After she had prayed to receive Christ with Marseille as a freshman, Lexi had developed an insatiable hunger to study the Bible and visit the lands where Jesus and Paul had walked. Now, with her new husband, Chris, who had just graduated from seminary and was preparing to become a pastor, she was actually seeing her dreams come true.

Marseille wondered if she would ever get married. She wondered if she would ever get the joy of going on a honeymoon with a man she really loved, ever get to travel around the world like her parents used to do. But the very question made her feel worse.

Trying to shake off encroaching feelings of jealousy and loneliness, Marseille got up and walked over to the windows. She half expected to see another office building or an air shaft but was pleasantly surprised by the sight of the Pentagon, such a striking symbol of power and mystery along the Potomac River. Immediately, her thoughts turned to her father and the information she had uncovered upon his death that he had once actually worked for America’s spy agency.

It was a puzzle she wanted to solve. She wondered where the CIA’s headquarters was located. Was it right downtown or out here near the Pentagon? She genuinely had no idea and was too tired at the moment to look it up. But it had to be close, she figured.

That’s when the name Jack Zalinsky crossed her mind. He was the CIA operative who had engineered the rescue of her parents out of Tehran during the Iranian Revolution of 1979. David had been the first to tell her Zalinsky’s name years before, when she practically begged him to tell her more about how their parents had met and escaped Iran together. She could vividly remember saying the name to her father and seeing him wince, almost recoil. He’d refused to discuss it, any of it, but his reaction had confirmed David’s story.

Marseille wondered. It wasn’t possible, was it? Could Zalinsky still be at the CIA? It didn’t seem likely. It had been more than three decades. The guy was probably living on a beach near Miami or in a retirement home in Phoenix or Sun City. Perhaps he had passed away. But it was worth a shot, she decided. She didn’t have anything else to do for the next few days.

With a new focus, she felt a little better now. She changed into her nightgown, washed her face, and climbed into bed. She prayed for her students and for her grandmother, suffering from Alzheimer’s. She prayed for the president and all those wounded in New York. She prayed for David’s mom, that the Lord would heal her, and for Mr. Shirazi, that the Lord would comfort him in his grief.

Then she prayed for David again, and as she did, she wondered if he was the one. Yet how could he be? By his own admission, he was an agnostic Shia Muslim. She was a girl who had made a lot of mistakes, but she was a follower of Jesus and determined to go wherever He led her. How could He lead her to David? That couldn’t possibly be His will. Friends? Yes. But no more. In so many ways they were kindred spirits, she felt. But not in the way that mattered most. So she prayed again for the Lord to protect him and open his eyes to the truth of the gospel. And she wondered if she was really praying for David’s sake . . . or for her own. A little bit of both, she admitted to the Lord; a little bit of both.

Marseille lay back on her pillow and stared out at a full moon bathing Washington in its glow. She had to get her mind off David, or she’d never get to sleep. She would call the CIA first thing in the morning, she decided. In her quest to truly understand her father’s past, she would see if the name Jack Zalinsky was still in their system.

What she couldn’t know, what she could never have imagined, was that Jack Zalinsky and David Shirazi were sitting together in the same room at that very moment.

12

Beirut, Lebanon

IranAir flight 001 from Mecca was late.

But when the Airbus jumbo jet finally touched down at Beirut International Airport, it was greeted by throngs of cheering crowds, a phalanx of Lebanese soldiers and policemen, and hundreds of local and international journalists, all covering the event live. Some commentators speculated the delayed arrival was meant to build drama. Whether that was true or not, TV ratings had certainly spiked throughout the Islamic world.

Though it was not clear where the rumor had started, it was widely anticipated that the Twelfth Imam would deliver a sermon or some extended remarks on or near the airport grounds. That, however, turned out not to be true. Aided by the security detail, Javad did his best to steer the Mahdi past the crowd of reporters and cameramen waiting for them on the tarmac. Javad was a small, wiry man, nervous by nature. But his chest puffed out considerably to be the right-hand man to the Lord of the Age, at the center of the spectacle. He glanced sideways at the Mahdi and found himself impressed all over again by the man’s charisma and authority. His dark eyes were full of intensity and plans.

But then, to everyone’s surprise, the Mahdi stopped in his tracks, paused for a moment, and turned to respond to a question from a French reporter.

“Your Excellency, the Egyptian Foreign Ministry has just confirmed that President Abdel Ramzy died in the attacks in New York yesterday,” the chief diplomatic correspondent from Agence France-Presse shouted. “Do you have any comment on this development and on the attempted assassinations of the American president and Israeli prime minister?”

“Sorry, no time for questions,” Javad said.

But the Mahdi ignored him and responded anyway. “Islam is moving across the earth. A new Caliphate is rising. This is mankind’s destiny. It is the will of Allah, and no mere mortal can stop it.”

“Are you saying you are happy about the death of the Egyptian leader?” the reporter followed up.

“We have come to the end of days,” the Mahdi replied. “The presidents and prime ministers and kings of the world are ignoble relics of an ancient, passing age. They do not concern themselves with the poor or the common man. Their societies are corrupt. Their debts are crushing. Their currencies are collapsing. Their armies are emasculated. Their evil systems are dying, and so they should. Only Islam can give us hope.”

“What message do you have for the people of Egypt?” an Al Jazeera reporter asked. “Hundreds of thousands are taking to the streets of Cairo, Alexandria, Suez, and Aswân, cheering the death of President Ramzy. But now the army is moving against them, deploying tanks and armored personnel carriers.”

“Allah is our objective,” the Mahdi said. “The Prophet is our leader. Qur’an is our law. Jihad is our way. Dying in the way of Allah is our highest hope.”

“Does this mean you want to see the Egyptian people engage in jihad to join you, to join the new Caliphate you are constructing? Are you calling on the Muslim Brotherhood to rally to your cause?”

“If the Arab states and peoples had relied on Islam instead of relying on the Americans and the Zionists—if they had placed their eyes on the luminous and liberating teachings of the noble Qur’an, had memorized those teachings, embraced those teachings, and had practiced them with true conviction—they would not be slaves today. They would not be poor. They would not be beggars. They would not be shamed in the eyes of the
ummah
, the greater Islamic community. It is the great chasm between those who call themselves Muslims and the teachings of the Qur’an that has plunged so many millions of Arabs into this dark and catastrophic situation. It is time to awaken the people, to call them to a higher purpose, to show them a purer path.”

“Again, just to be clear,” the Al Jazeera reporter pressed, “are you calling the people of Egypt to join this new Caliphate?”

The Mahdi stood still for a moment and kept silent, a peaceful smile playing on his lips. He waited an extra beat, glancing at the crowds and cameras before fixing his eyes on the young reporter. “I am calling on
all
the countries of the world to join the Caliphate. This is why I have come. To liberate the oppressed peoples of the earth and lead them to a path of victory and unity. I have come to declare that Islam is the answer to all the world’s ills. Islam will bring you peace. Islam will bring you freedom from fear, freedom from want, freedom to know Allah and to submit to his will. Not simply saying you’re a Muslim. Not simply going through the motions. Submission. This is the heart of the matter. Will you truly submit to the will of Allah? Will you live for him? Will you die in his service? The time has come for nothing less. Mine, therefore, will be no ordinary government. It will be a purely Islamic government. It will be based upon Sharia law. It will give honor and dignity to all who submit. But make no mistake: opposing this government means opposing the Sharia of Islam, and this cannot be tolerated. To revolt against Allah’s government is to revolt against Allah. And to revolt against Allah has its punishment in our law. And let there be no misunderstanding; it is a heavy punishment.”

“We still don’t know the fate of the American president,” a BBC reporter said, “but were you disappointed to learn that the Israeli prime minister escaped from the attack relatively unscathed?”

“The Zionist regime is heading toward annihilation, one way or the other.”

* * *

Langley, Virginia

David had never met CIA director Roger Allen.

Not in person. Not even over the phone. But as he entered the director’s secure conference room on the seventh floor, where Tom Murray and Jack Zalinsky had arrived moments before, he immediately recognized the graying, somewhat aristocratic sixty-four-year-old former senior senator from Connecticut who had long served as chairman of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence before President Jackson had nominated him to run the Agency. Introductions were made quickly, and then David took a seat with Eva on one side and Zalinsky on the other.

“I want to begin with good news,” the director said. “The president is out of surgery and is in stable condition at George Washington University Hospital. I just talked to the First Lady and the president’s physician. They both say it looks like he’s going to be just fine.”

David breathed a sigh of relief, along with the others. He deeply disagreed with Jackson on policy matters, especially those related to the Middle East, but he just as deeply respected the office of the president and wished no personal ill toward his commander in chief. Just the opposite—he was willing to sacrifice his life, if necessary, to protect the president and the country.

“How’s he feeling?” Murray asked.

“It’s somewhat of a mixed bag,” Allen conceded. “The First Lady told me he is taking President Ramzy’s death hard, though obviously he’s very glad Prime Minister Naphtali is okay. As for himself, he suffered a combination of second- and third-degree burns. He also cracked a rib when the Secret Service agents tackled him. But on balance, he’s lucky to be alive.”

“And Agent Bruner?” Eva asked. “How is he doing?”

Allen lowered his eyes. “The White House isn’t ready to release that information to the public yet. They’re still looking for his wife, to inform her. But I’m afraid Mike passed away about thirty minutes ago. The president wants all of you to know that his number one priority is making sure another war doesn’t erupt in the Middle East,” Allen said. “He knows there will be all kinds of calls, especially from the Republicans on Capitol Hill, for retaliation, for reciprocity. But he wants us all to know our jobs are to keep cool heads, go about our work carefully and methodically, identify who was responsible, and develop options for him. But war, he stressed, is not one of them. Moreover, the president wants the Israelis to be kept on a tight leash. Naphtali is going to take this personally, and he’s going to be inclined to hit Iran. The president insisted we do everything in our power not to let that happen.”

David was stunned. Not go to war? What were they talking about? Of course they were going to war. Someone—probably the Iranians—had just tried to kill the American president and the leaders of the nation’s two key allies in the region. They needed to hit somebody, hard and relentlessly.

“Sir, with all due respect, dozens of Americans have just died in the worst terrorist attack on American soil since this president took office,” David said. “How can the Agency—and the entire US government, for that matter—not be going into war-planning mode?”

“Agent Shirazi, that’s out of line,” Murray said.

“No, no, that’s all right,” the director said. “Look, David, I understand your point. But we don’t make policy here. We follow the orders of the commander in chief. And our orders are to stop the next war.”

“Director Allen,” David replied, “if we don’t move fast and hard, the next war just might wind up with mushroom clouds over New York, Washington, and Tel Aviv. This fire is already burning. It is spreading rapidly. Everyone in this room feels terrible about the attacks that happened today in New York. But what’s coming is ten thousand times worse if we don’t use this moment to hit Iran’s nuclear weapons program with everything we have.”