The Twelfth Imam (29 page)

63

For more than an hour, Najjar had been suffering dry heaves.

Now, physically and emotionally spent, he exited the building, cleared security, got in his car, and began the forty-five-minute drive home.

Hamadan is a city of concentric circles. At the center is a one-way street running counterclockwise that encircles Imam Khomeini Square. Connecting to this street are six boulevards radiating outward like spokes of a wheel. Each connects to a road that rings the heart of the business and cultural district. Eventually, they connect to a highway that surrounds the entire city, much like the
Boulevard Périphérique
that encircles Paris or the Beltway around Washington, D.C.

Hamadan’s airport lies just beyond this outer highway, along the plains to the northeast. To the west lie the foothills of the Zagros mountain range, the largest and most rugged peaks in all of Iran.

Facility 278, the purposefully bland and unassuming name of the nuclear research center that Dr. Saddaji had run for so many years, was located about forty kilometers west of the city center. It was not in the foothills but rather deep in the mountains. Constructed in the early 1990s, the facility was built into the side of an 11,000-foot mountain known as Alvand Peak.

Najjar had always loved the remote location. He loved the long drive to and from work every day. It gave him time to himself, time to think, time to pray, time to enjoy the gorgeous views of the mountains and the valley below. Now, however, as he came down the snowy, ice-clogged service road and felt the winds picking up and a new snow squall beginning to descend on the mountain, he felt trapped. He had no friends, no family to whom he could turn and talk about the situation in which he now found himself. He needed wisdom. He needed someone to tell him what to do and how to do it.

Suddenly, as he came around a hairpin turn, he was practically blinded. It was as if a large truck with its high beams on were coming straight for him, yet something about the light did not seem normal. Najjar slammed on the brakes. His rear wheels began fishtailing. Turning the steering wheel furiously and pumping the brakes rather than locking them down, he tried desperately to regain control. Instead, his car slammed into the mountainside, then skidded toward the embankment and finally came to a halt by thudding hard into the guardrail.

Najjar’s heart pounded. He could barely breathe. The light was intense. He squinted behind him and then ahead, hoping there were no other vehicles coming or going. Cautiously, he stepped out of the car to assess the damage and gain his balance.

But just as his feet hit the icy pavement, he saw him. Someone was standing on the road ahead.

As his eyes began to adjust, Najjar saw the man more clearly.

Rather than winter clothes, the man was wearing a robe reaching to his feet. Across his chest was a gold sash. His hair was as white as the snow that surrounded them. His eyes were fiery. His face shone.

Najjar fell at his feet like a dead man, but the figure said, “Do not be afraid.”

“Who are you?” Najjar asked shakily.

But the reply shook Najjar even more.

“I am Jesus the Nazarene.”

Munich, Germany

David was startled by the knock on the door.

He rubbed his eyes and checked his watch. It was almost 9 p.m. He wasn’t expecting anyone. He hardly even knew anyone in the city. Grabbing his Beretta from the drawer of the nightstand by his bed, he disengaged the slide-mounted safety with his thumb and moved cautiously and quietly down the hallway, through the dining room, and to the front door.

Aside from cleaning it, weeks had passed since he had held the pistol in his hands, and his palms were perspiring. He pressed himself against the wall by the door and quickly looked out the peephole. A moment later, he reengaged the safety, though more confused than relieved.

What in the world is Eva doing in Munich?

He opened the door a crack.

“Delivery girl.” She smiled.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you,” he replied.

“I couldn’t resist,” she said. “May I come in?”

“Of course.”

She was toting several large boxes. He hoped they were satellite phones. The first box she handed him upon entering, however, was already open. It was from Amazon and contained Dr. Birjandi’s book. Fully awake now, he flipped through it quickly and noticed it was already heavily marked up with yellow highlighter and notes in pen in the margins.

“I stole your book for a few hours,” Eva confessed. “It’s fascinating. You should read it.”

David laughed. “I was hoping to.”

“I’m doing some research on Birjandi, working up a profile on him,” Eva said. “He’s an interesting guy. Noted professor, scholar, and author. He’s widely described in the Iranian media as a spiritual mentor or advisor to several of the top leaders in the Iranian regime, including Ayatollah Hosseini. They have dinner once a month. But at eighty-three, the guy is pretty reclusive; he’s rarely heard from in public anymore. Until that conference a couple weeks ago, he hadn’t given a sermon or speech in years.”

“Why the reemergence?” David asked.

“Turn to page 237,” Eva replied.

David did and began to read aloud the underlined passage.

“The Mahdi will return when the last pages of history are being written in blood and fire. It will be a time of chaos, carnage, and confusion, a time when Muslims need to have faith and courage like never before. Some say all the infidels—especially the Christians and the Jews—must be converted or destroyed before he is revealed and ushers in a reign characterized by righteousness, justice, and peace. Others say Muslims must prepare the conditions for the destruction of the Christians and the Jews but that the Mahdi will finish the job himself.”

David looked up, his heart pounding. “Birjandi thinks he’s here.”

“That’s my guess.”

“We need to get this to Zalinsky.”

“It’s not enough,” Eva said. “We need more.”

“You said it yourself—Birjandi is Hosseini’s advisor. If this is what Birjandi believes, it’s got to be what Hosseini believes. Darazi, too.”

“I agree,” Eva said. “This is what’s driving them to get the Bomb. But that’s just us guessing. We need proof.”

“What kind of proof?”

“I don’t know,” she conceded. “But more than this.”

David sighed. She was right. He looked at the boxes.

“Tell me those are satellite phones,” he said.

“They are. Twenty. Government-issue. Military-grade.”

“And our friends back at Langley have toyed with them all a bit?”

“Actually, no. Jack was worried the Iranians would find any chip we put into the phones. These particular satphones are the product of a joint venture between Nokia and Thuraya.”

“Thuraya—the Arab consortium?”

“Based in Abu Dhabi, right. Long story short, I have people on the inside at Thuraya. They gave me the encryption codes and all the satellite data. I gave them a boatload of money.”

“And you’re sure the phones all work?”

“My team and I personally tested them this afternoon,” she said. “Langley heard everything, loud and clear. We’re good to go.”

“You’re amazing.”

“That’s true,” Eva said, smiling, “but that’s not all. I have another gift for you.”

“What’s that?”

“I booked you on the next flight back to Tehran,” she said. “I just e-mailed the itinerary to your phone. It’s time to pack, my friend. You’re going back in.”

64

Hamadan, Iran

“I am Jesus the Nazarene,” came the man’s deep voice.

Najjar felt the sound of it rattle in his chest, as though the words went through him.

“You have come?” Najjar cried. “The lieutenant to the Twelfth Imam has actually revealed himself to me?”

But at these words, the ground below Najjar shook so violently that he feared it would open and swallow him. Rocks skittered across the road from ledges above. The wind picked up strength. Najjar flattened himself on the ground, covering his head with his hands.

“
I AM
first and last and the living One,” Jesus said. “I am the Alpha and the Omega, who is and who was and who is to come, the Almighty. I was dead, and see, I am alive forever after, and I have the keys of death and of hades. Come and follow me.”

The first sentences were uttered with authority such as Najjar had never heard before, not from any mullah or cleric or political leader in his entire life. Yet the last four words were spoken with such gentleness, such tenderness, that he could not imagine refusing the request.

Shaking, Najjar cautiously looked up. Though he was wrapped in a thick parka over his blue jeans and sweater, he felt completely naked, as if all of his private sins were exposed to the light and the elements. For as long as he could remember, he’d had a deep reverence for Jesus. Like his father and his grandfather and his great-grandfather before him, going back fourteen centuries, Najjar believed Jesus was born of a virgin. He believed Jesus was a doer of miracles and a speaker of great wisdom and thus a prophet. But not God Himself. Never. And yet . . .

Jesus stretched out His hands and motioned for Najjar to come closer. Part of him wanted to run and hide, but before he knew it, he was taking several steps forward.

As he drew closer, Najjar was astonished to see holes where spikes had been driven through Jesus’ hands. He looked away for a moment, but then, unable to keep his head turned, he looked back and stared at those hands. As a devout Muslim, Najjar had never for a moment in his life even considered the possibility that Jesus had been crucified at all, much less to pay the penalty for all human sins, as the Christians taught. He had never believed that Jesus had actually died on a cross. No Muslim believed that. It was sacrilege. To the contrary, Najjar (and everyone he had ever known) believed that at the very last moment, Allah had supernaturally replaced Jesus with Judas Iscariot, and Judas had been hung on the cross and crucified instead.

Questions flooded his mind.

How could Jesus be appearing to him as a crucified Messiah?

If the Qur’an were true, wouldn’t it be impossible for Jesus to have nail-scarred hands?

If the ancient Islamic writings about the Twelfth Imam were true, then how could Jesus, who was supposed to be the Mahdi’s lieutenant, have hands scarred by the nails of crucifixion?

Najjar kept staring at those hands. It didn’t make sense. Then he looked into Jesus’ eyes. They were not filled with anger and condemnation. They spoke of love in a way Najjar couldn’t even comprehend, much less express. And Jesus’ words echoed in his heart. He wasn’t claiming to be the second-in-command to the Mahdi. He claimed to be God Almighty.

“Forgive me; please forgive me,” Najjar said, bowing low. “But how can I know the difference between Muhammad and You?”

“You have been told, ‘Love your neighbor and hate your enemy,’” Jesus replied. “But I tell you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.”

The words cut into Najjar’s heart like a knife. This was an enormous difference between the two.

“Don’t be angry with me, O Lord,” Najjar stammered, “but I am so confused. All my life I was raised a Muslim. How can I know which way to go?”

“I am the Way. And the Truth and the Life,” Jesus said. “No one can come to the Father except through Me.”

“But my heart is full of sin,” Najjar said. “My eyes are full of darkness. How could I ever follow You?”

“I am the Light of the World,” Jesus replied. “Whoever follows Me will not walk in darkness. That person will have the light of life.”

Najjar knew he was experiencing something extraordinary. At the same time, he was genuinely in agony. Was Jesus telling him that everything he had ever been taught was wrong? that his life had been on the wrong path up to this very moment? that it had been completely worthless? It was too much to bear. He began to formulate sentences but could not find a way to finish them.

Yet as Najjar looked into the eyes of Jesus, he sensed deep in his spirit that Jesus knew every thought he had, every fear, every question, and loved him anyway. He wanted to move toward Jesus but could not. Yet at that moment, Jesus walked toward him.

“God loved the world so much that He gave His only begotten Son,” Jesus said. “Whoever believes in Him will never die but instead have eternal life. For God did not send His Son into the world to judge it, but that the world might be saved through Him. Whoever believes in Him is not judged; but whoever doesn’t believe has been judged already, because he has not believed in the name of the only begotten Son of God.”

Najjar just stood there in the snow. He had never read any of this in the Qur’an. But he knew it was true. And suddenly, irresistibly, Najjar fell to the ground and kissed the scarred feet of Jesus.

“O Lord, open my eyes!”
Najjar sobbed.
“Help me! I am a wicked and sinful man, and I am undone—lost in the darkness, lost and alone. Open my eyes that I may see.”

“Do you believe I am able to do this?” Jesus asked.

“Yes, Lord.”

“Then follow Me,” Jesus said.

At that, something inside Najjar broke. He wept with remorse for all the sins he had committed. He wept with indescribable relief that came from knowing beyond the shadow of a doubt that God really did love him and had sent Jesus to die on the cross and rise from the dead, thus proving that He really was the truth and the life and the only way to the Father in heaven. He wept with gratitude that because of Jesus’ promise, he could
know
that he was going to spend eternity with Jesus.

He bowed before his Savior and Lord, weeping and rejoicing all at once for what seemed to be hours. How long it really was, he had no idea. But then he heard Jesus speaking to him again.

“If you love Me, you will keep My commandments. I have many more things to say to you, but you cannot bear them now. Remember, I am coming quickly!”

And with that, He was gone.

Suddenly, all was as it had been before—dark and windy and cold. Yet not all was the same. In that moment, Najjar Malik realized that he was not the same man he had been when he woke up that morning. Mysteriously, miraculously, something inside him had changed. How he would explain it to Sheyda or to his mother-in-law, he had no idea. But he felt a peace emanating from so deep within him it made no logical sense.

Najjar got back in his car, turned on the engine, and carefully headed down the mountain in the snow and ice. Only then did he realize that his fever was gone.

His mobile phone rang. It was Sheyda. She was up to feed the baby. She was asking him if he was okay, asking if he could stop by her parents’ apartment to pick up some things for her mother. Najjar was so happy to hear Sheyda’s voice, he would have said yes to almost anything she asked him.

But then a thought occurred to him. He wondered if Dr. Saddaji’s laptop was still in his home office and if it contained any of the information he was hoping to find. What’s more, he wondered if the authorities had been to his father-in-law’s home yet.

Najjar hit the accelerator and prayed for the first time in his life to a nail-scarred Messiah.