The Tehran Initiative (31 page)

“You can ask. I can’t promise that I’m allowed to answer it.”

“Fair enough. It’s just that . . .”

“What?”

“I don’t know. It’s just . . . well, a moment ago you said that I was the reason David was doing all this. And you said you guessed he couldn’t help himself from telling me. But the thing is, Mr. Murray, when we were growing up, I didn’t know my dad worked for the CIA, so I never could have discussed it with David. And he certainly hasn’t told me about it since, nor has he even hinted about it. So I’m just wondering what you meant by that. How could I possibly be the reason for him to work for you? It doesn’t make any sense to me.”

Murray sighed. “I’ve said too much already, Marseille. You want my recommendation? Ask David next time you see him.”

“But that’s what scares me most, Mr. Murray,” she said, her eyes filling with tears. “I’m afraid I’m never going to see him again.”

36

Hamadan, Iran

David finally arrived.

He pulled up in front of Dr. Birjandi’s little bungalow on the outskirts of Hamadan but was surprised to see several other cars parked out front. He debated going in, but the truth was he had nowhere else to go and no time to come back. Deciding he had nothing to fear—it was Abdol Esfahani, after all, who had first connected the two men and encouraged David to learn everything he could about the Twelfth Imam from the nation’s foremost expert on the subject—he scooped up the two bags of groceries he had brought as a gift, strode up the steps, and knocked. Moments later, the octogenarian sage came hobbling around the corner with his dark sunglasses and white cane and opened the door.

“Dr. Birjandi, it’s me, Reza Tabrizi,” he said, using his alias mostly for the benefit of whoever else was in the house, since the old man knew his real name.

“Reza, is that really you?”

“Yes, it is. And I’ve brought you some fresh bread and rice and vegetables.”

“Thank God. I have been thinking about you all day and praying for the Lord to reconnect our paths. Please, please, my friend, come in.”

Birjandi headed into the living room, and there David found himself struck once again, as he was the other time he visited, by what a voracious scholar Birjandi was. The walls were lined with shelves so packed with books that they appeared bound to collapse at any moment. Books were stacked up on the floor and piled on chairs, together with boxes of scholarly journals and other publications. Birjandi had once told David that his late wife, Souri, had read all of these books to him, marked them up, and taken copious notes on all of them, as they discussed them for “hour after blessed hour.” Now Souri was gone, but the books remained.

Sitting on the floor of the living room were a half-dozen young, robed clerics—all apparently in their late twenties and early thirties—surrounded by still more piles of open books, talking animatedly and scribbling furiously in their notebooks.

Birjandi cleared his throat and got the young men’s attention. “Gentlemen, allow me to introduce a surprise visitor but a wonderful young friend, Reza Tabrizi.”

They all greeted him, though David thought he detected some suspicion or at least reticence in their eyes. Then the old man led David into the kitchen, where they put away the food.

“I’m so sorry to interrupt,” David said. “I didn’t expect you to have company. Should I come back later?”

“Nonsense. Where would you go? Besides, we must talk. I have much to tell you.”

“Good. I have much to tell you as well,” David said in a whisper. “But perhaps . . .”

“You needn’t worry about these lads. They are all very trustworthy. Indeed, you should spend some time with them, get to know them.”

“I’m not sure I’m in the mood for anyone new right now.”

“You would like them. Really, you would. They are all sons of leading Shia mullahs from Qom or parliament members from Tehran. Their fathers are some of the most famous and powerful men in Iran. And guess what?”

“What?”

“They’re all secret believers!”

“In what?” David asked.

“What do you mean?” Birjandi replied, visibly perplexed.

“What do they secretly believe?”

Birjandi smiled. “They are all followers of Jesus, David. They’ve all secretly renounced Islam and become Christ followers.”

David was stunned. “Really? Is that true?”

“Of course it’s true. Their stories of coming to faith are absolutely amazing. Each of them is a miracle, a true miracle. I love these young men. They come to meet with me every Wednesday morning for Bible study and prayer. We’ve been gathering faithfully for the last two months. Of course, today we had to push our meeting back a bit because of my lunch with Hosseini and Darazi, which I must tell you about. How long can you stay?”

“Not long, Dr. Birjandi. Maybe an hour. I need to get back to Tehran. Events are moving very rapidly.”

“More rapidly than you know,” Birjandi agreed. “Okay, make us some tea. I will go talk to the lads and give them an assignment to keep them busy for a while. Then I will meet you in my study.”

* * *

Cairo, Egypt

Javad looked out over the masses gathered in Tahrir Square.

It was a raucous group, singing and dancing and celebrating the arrival of the Twelfth Imam. The Cairo police chief leaned over to Javad and said he thought the crowd numbered over one million. Javad thought the man might actually be underestimating. What he saw was a sea of humanity, radiating out in every direction, and the moment the Mahdi stepped onto the specially built platform, raised six feet off the ground and surrounded by bulletproof glass, Javad braced for the expected roar. It never came. Instead, it became unnaturally quiet, save the sound of every person dropping to his knees and bowing before the Mahdi in reverent worship. A strange sensation ran through Javad’s body; then he, too, dropped to his knees and bowed, as did the chief of police and all of the Mahdi’s security detail.

“The formation of a New World Order is of prime importance, and I tell you today that we have taken another major step forward,” the Mahdi began. “The leaders of Egypt have requested my permission to join the Caliphate, and I was most pleased to give my assent.”

Now the crowd roared, as if from one end of Cairo to the other.

“This is just the beginning. The day of the oppressors is over. The age of liberation has come. Full victory is near.”

* * *

Hamadan, Iran

David checked his watch again.

He paced around the dining room that doubled as Birjandi’s study. There was so much he needed to convey and so many questions he needed to ask, and there wasn’t nearly enough time to accomplish it all. It was Birjandi who had told David to find Najjar Malik, saying that Najjar was the key to unlocking Iran’s nuclear secrets. David had never even heard of Najjar Malik before that day, but how right Birjandi had been. Yet David hadn’t even had a chance yet to tell him how he had found Najjar, much less all that had happened to get him out of Iran and back to the States. Nor had he been able to tell Birjandi of the treasure trove of information Najjar had proven to be. Still, all that seemed like ancient history now, given everything that had happened since.

David pulled back one of the tattered curtains and stared out a window that needed to be washed. The sun was beginning to set on a gorgeous spring day, with the temperature in the midseventies, a light, warm, westerly breeze, and perfectly blue skies marred only by the contrail of a jet plane to the east. All the trees were budding, the red roses—Iran’s national flower—were in bloom, as were tulips of a dozen different shades, and the yards were all green, thanks to the generous winter rains. How sad, he thought, that this dear man spent his life cooped up in this damp, creaky house. How sad, too, that he had even more bookshelves here, lining the walls, sagging with the weight of hundreds if not thousands of dog-eared books, none of which the man would ever read.

In one corner, Birjandi’s desk was piled high with mail that couldn’t be read, while in another corner stood a television that couldn’t be watched. In some ways, it all seemed a testament to the brilliance of the man but also his irrelevance. What hope was there for a scholar who could not read and had no one to help him study, write, or publish his ideas? What more was there for a man who had lost the wife of his youth, the love of his life, and now lived alone in utter darkness?

Yet the more David thought about that, the more he realized just the opposite was true. Birjandi was certainly blind, but wasn’t he seeing more clearly than anyone else in the country? He was without question a widower, but he certainly wasn’t alone, was he? He had experienced devastating losses in his life, but hadn’t he found hope that was transforming his life? In fact, David couldn’t think of a single person in his life who seemed to have more joy, more insight, more wisdom or zest for life than Birjandi. Certainly not his parents or his brothers. Certainly not Zalinsky or Eva or Tom Murray. Only Marseille had that same spark in her. Why? What was it they had that he didn’t?

* * *

Washington, DC

Breathless, Najjar Malik finally made it to the BBC’s studios.

He’d had to park several blocks away and had to run for fear of being late. He was met at the door by a young production assistant and an armed security guard, who quickly whisked him directly into a studio where a cameraman, sound technician, and makeup artist were waiting to put him on the air.

“Put this in your ear,” the sound guy said, handing Najjar a wire with a little rubber nub at the end.

“What is it?” Najjar asked.

“An IFB.”

“A what?”

“It lets you hear . . . It doesn’t really matter—just do it fast. You’re about to go live.”

Najjar stuck in the little earpiece, and the technician showed him how he could increase or decrease the volume with a small knob by his seat.

“Dr. Malik, can you hear me?”

Surprised, Najjar looked up to see where the voice was coming from.

“This is Nigel Moore, in London. We spoke earlier.”

“Oh yes, of course. How are you?”

“I’m fine and glad you’re with us. But more importantly, how are you?”

“A little nervous.”

“First time on live television?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Well, there’s nothing to worry about. I’ll be talking you through the entire process. Now I want you to look straight into camera one, that one right in front of you.”

Najjar complied.

“Good, now just keep looking straight into that camera. Our anchor will come on in a few minutes. You won’t see him, but you’ll be able to hear him through your IFB. Don’t look around the studio. Don’t let anything distract you. Just keep looking straight into the camera, and it will look just right, like you’re looking right at the anchor. When we break, I’ll let you know. Then you can have some water or look around or whatever. Okay?”

“Yes, thank you.”

The production assistant called out,
“Sixty seconds.”

“Now, just a few more things before you’re on. How would you like to be identified on-screen?”

“What do you mean?”

“Can we use your name, your title? We can certainly not mention your name, or we could give you a pseudonym, but of course anyone in Iran who knows you will recognize you. You didn’t ask that we electronically disguise your voice or put your face in shadow.”

“Thirty seconds.”

“No, no, that’s fine. You can use my name, my title, anything—just please don’t say where I am.”

“Agreed. Now, I know you want to talk about your faith, and we’ll get to that, but we’re going to start with your work as a nuclear scientist, why you’ve chosen to defect to the US . . .”

“Twenty seconds.”

“No, please say ‘to the West.’”

“Fine, ‘to the West.’ And then the anchor will ask you why you believe war is coming soon—what you base that on, and how soon is ‘soon.’”

“Yes. Thank you for having me on.”

“Thanks for doing this.”

“Ten seconds.”

“Oh, one more thing,” Najjar blurted out.

“Yes, what’s that?”

The theme music for the BBC Persian special report swelled, and out of the corner of his eye, Najjar could see a monitor with the network’s distinctive graphics and video opening sequence.

“Five seconds.”

“Can you post my Twitter account on the screen below my name?”

* * *

Langley, Virginia

“Satellite photos show increased activity at Iranian air bases.”

Zalinsky, having just been summoned to Murray’s office, slid the latest reconnaissance photos across the desk to show his boss. “We’re also seeing increased activity at Iranian missile bases,” he added.

Tom Murray carefully reviewed the photos with a magnifying glass. “Did I tell you Marseille Harper dropped by to see me?” he asked without looking up.

“What? Charlie’s daughter? You’re kidding.”

“No, she just left a half hour ago.”

“How did that come about?”

“It’s a long story; I’ll tell you later,” Murray said, sliding the photos back to Zalinsky. “But she asked about you, actually.”

“Me? Really?”

“Yep.”

“Why? We’ve never even met.”

“She’s heard stories.”

“From who? Charlie always said he didn’t want her to know he’d worked for the Agency.”

“He didn’t, but David told her a little, and she found an old commendation letter that I once wrote to—”

Eva burst into Murray’s office.

“Eva, what are you doing?” Murray snapped, unaccustomed to staff coming in without an appointment or his personal summons.

“I’m sorry, but you’re not going to believe this, either of you,” she exclaimed, turning on the television, punching in the coordinates for the BBC Persian channel, and letting Najjar Malik do her explaining for her.

“What worries me most,” Najjar was saying, “is that too many world leaders—including in the US, Great Britain, and throughout the EU—don’t seem worried enough. I am the highest-ranking Iranian nuclear scientist who is still alive. I know the program inside and out. I’ve spent all of my professional life inside it. My father-in-law, Dr. Mohammed Saddaji, ran the weapons side. I ran the civilian energy side. And I can tell you categorically that the Twelfth Imam is telling the truth when he says that the Islamic Republic of Iran has tested a nuclear weapon. I can tell you that warhead was operational. I can tell you there are eight more just like it. And I can tell you there are detailed plans to use those warheads and a dozen more that are currently in production to attack the United States and Israel in the coming days.”