The Twelfth Imam (39 page)

Najjar was chilled with fear. Sheyda and the baby were asleep. So was Farah. He had no friends he could call. He had no family to whom he could reach out. So he did the only thing he knew. He got down on his knees and begged the Lord for mercy.

82

David paced his tiny hotel room.

He stared out the window at the traffic beginning to build up and tried not to panic. It was Tuesday, March 1. He’d spent most of the last several days searching for Najjar Malik on the Internet, in Iranian phone directories, through real-estate transaction records, and on Iranian newspaper and magazine databases, all to no avail. He had dozens of analysts back at Langley searching every intelligence database they could and data-mining all other materials toward the same end, but with no results. He had the NSA feverishly translating and transcribing intercepted calls, whose frequency were growing exponentially and beyond the Agency’s capacity to keep up.

None of the transcripts indicated Faridzadeh or his men had found Najjar yet, but they were definitely closing in. According to the tidbits Eva had relayed, the Iranians now knew Najjar was in Tehran. They’d even gotten a momentary ping from his cell phone in the middle of the night somewhere on the west side of the city.

In desperation, David thought about calling Mina and saying he had urgent business at Iran Telecom. Could he persuade her to let him in the building this early in the morning? Even if the answer were yes, could he persuade her to let him break into the company databases and search Malik’s phone records to see whom he had called in the last twenty-four to forty-eight hours? Maybe there was someone in Tehran, someone with an address, someplace David could focus his attention? But he quickly dismissed the notion. Faridzadeh and the chief of VEVAK certainly already had that information, and there would be agents at any of those locations. David’s showing up at any one of them would only raise suspicions he couldn’t afford. And he wasn’t sure Mina would help him anyway. She was no fan of her boss, Esfahani, but she seemed loyal to the company. David believed he could eventually turn her into an asset. But he hadn’t yet, and he concluded she’d be no help now.

He considered calling the head of the MDS tech team in Tehran. Maybe he could help David break into Iran Telecom’s database and at least get Najjar Malik’s cell phone number. Without it, Langley and the NSA couldn’t listen in on Najjar’s calls in real time once he turned his phone back on. But once the man turned his phone on, how much time would he have before VEVAK triangulated his position and swooped in to take him down? Ten minutes? Fifteen, tops? Even if the NSA was listening in, there wouldn’t be enough time to find him before the Iranian authorities did.

David rubbed his eyes and stared in the mirror. He wondered if he should call Dr. Birjandi. The man had been extraordinarily helpful in so many ways. But to talk on an open line was too much of a risk. And what exactly would he ask? The old man didn’t have a crystal ball, though David desperately wished that he did.

He glanced at his watch. It was now almost quarter past six. The call of the muezzin would begin soon, and dawn prayers would start before the sun rose. He still had no desire to pray, certainly not to the god of Islam. But once again, he had no choice. He had to maintain his cover, however worthless it seemed at the moment.

Thousands of men were already on their knees, bowing toward Mecca, by the time David arrived by taxi at the Imam Khomeini Mosque. He paid the driver, ran in, performed his ritual washing, and found a spot in the back. He knelt down, bowed toward Mecca, and picked up the morning prayers in progress.

“Glory to my Lord, the Most High,”
David began, chanting in unison with the others.
“Glory to my Lord, the Most High. Glory to my Lord, the Most High. Allah is great. All good, whether rendered by speech, by prayer, by deed, or by worship, is for Allah only. Peace be unto you, O Prophet, and the mercy and blessings of Allah. Peace be unto us and the righteous servants of Allah.”

At the next line, however, he froze. He knew what was coming. But he couldn’t say it.

“I bear witness that there is no God except Allah, and Muhammad is His slave and Messenger.”

Everyone else chanted the words, but David did not. He had said them thousands of times. But this time he could not. He continued going through the motions, hoping no one would notice he had stopped speaking.

Someone did.

“What happened?” the man beside him to his right whispered as the room continued chanting.

“What do you mean?” David whispered back.

“You stopped praying,” the man said, bowing in unison with David and the others.

“I didn’t,” David lied, his heart racing. “I just had . . . to clear my throat.”

David bowed again and finished this particular prayer more loudly than usual, making certain all those around could hear him clearly.

“As you praised and venerated Abraham and the followers of Abraham, in the worlds, surely You are praised and magnified,”
he chanted.
“Amen. Peace be unto you and the mercy of Allah. Peace be unto you and the mercy of Allah.”

But the stranger on his right would not let it go. As they moved on to a different prayer, he began asking David questions.

“Are you new here? I’ve never seen you here before.”

David grew more concerned. “I’m from Dubai,” he whispered between chants. “Germany, actually, but—”

The man cut him off. “Munich?”

David was silent.

“Is your name Reza?” the man asked.

David was stunned but tried to keep his cool and continued praying. Maybe this was one of Esfahani’s men. He had met Esfahani here before. Or maybe it was one of Rashidi’s men. Maybe Javad Nouri had sent a colleague to summon him, though for what he couldn’t imagine.

“Why do you ask?”

There was a long pause while the two men continued praying in synchronization with the thousands of others in the great mosque.

“Because my name is Najjar Malik,” the stranger said. “As soon as this prayer is over, get up and follow me.”

83

The baby’s cries woke Sheyda just before dawn.

And the call to prayer from a nearby minaret wasn’t far behind.

Sheyda rubbed her eyes and forced herself to get up, surprised to find that Najjar was not at her side. Assuming he was in the bathroom, she rolled over, picked up the baby, and tried to nurse her. Only then did she see the note Najjar had left on the bedside table saying that he had gone out and would be back soon. Something about that troubled her, but she was not sure what.

Eager to find out if he was okay, Sheyda asked her mother, just waking up as well, if she would get her cell phone out of her pocketbook and bring it to her so she could call Najjar without moving the baby. Farah was still groggy, but she happily got up and found Sheyda’s cell phone and turned it on.

“Not that it’s going to do you any good, dear,” she said.

“Why not?”

“Look,” Farah replied, pointing to the counter by the kitchenette.

Najjar had forgotten to take his cell phone. Sheyda sighed with disappointment, her anxiety growing. She asked her mother to turn it on and check for new messages. There were none, Farah reported as she set the phone back on the counter and went to wash for prayer.

The baby was fussing. She didn’t want to eat, so Sheyda got up and walked her around the room, patting her lightly on the back and swinging her gently in her arms. Farah finished washing and bowed down on the carpet, but not toward Mecca. After much discussion over the past few days, the three of them had decided as a family to pray toward Jerusalem instead, and to do so in the name of Jesus. Farah prayed for a few minutes, but the baby wasn’t calming down. In fact, she seemed to be crying louder.

“I’m sorry, Mom,” Sheyda said. “Let me take her for a walk, and I’ll come back when you’re done.”

“Don’t be silly, dear,” Farah said. “I’ll go with you. We could all use a little fresh air. She’ll fall asleep, and then we can both come back, put her down for a nap, and pray together.”

David’s head was filling with questions.

But his only hope for answers was about ten paces ahead of him and moving rapidly toward the east gate.

David worked his way quickly through the thick crowd, trying not to lose sight of the man claiming to be Najjar Malik. Was this a setup? How could it not be? How could this really be Najjar Malik? If it was, why would Najjar have come to him? And why here? The mosque was crawling with undercover policemen and intelligence operatives.

An elderly man hobbled into his path, and David almost knocked the poor man over in his bid to keep up with the stranger. For a moment, he lost visual contact. He turned to the right but saw nothing. He turned to the left and noticed the man turning a corner. He made sure the old man was okay, then elbowed his way through the crowd, walking as fast as he could to catch up but not daring to run lest he draw too much attention—which meant any attention at all.

A moment later, David caught up to the stranger, who was getting into a car parked along a side street. The man motioned for David to get in quickly. David looked up one end of the street and down the other. There were plenty of people still pouring out of the mosque and walking through the surrounding neighborhoods, but no one looked particularly worrisome. Besides, even if someone had looked threatening, David was too intrigued not to get in the car and find out who this was.

The instant David closed the door, the stranger hit the accelerator and pulled out onto Panzdah e-Khordad boulevard.

“Who are you really?” David asked.

“My name is Dr. Najjar Malik,” the man said, pulling his Iranian passport from his trouser pocket and handing it over.

David carefully looked over the document. If it was a fake, it was an awfully good one, and he wondered why anyone would go through the trouble. He had never seen Najjar Malik before. He had no idea what the man would look like. Anyone could say they were Najjar and catch his attention. But why would they, and why now?

“What do you want with me?” David asked.

“I want to leave Iran.”

“What?”

“You heard me,” the man continued. “I have information your government wants. I will give it to you in exchange for political asylum.”

“You’ve got the wrong guy,” David said cautiously. “I’m just a businessman. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“No,” the man said, “you’ve been looking for me, and now here I am. I’m offering you my help, but you must also help me.”

“You’re crazy,” David said. “Pull over the car.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re a lunatic. I’m a businessman. I sell phones. Now pull over and let me out.”

David didn’t know whom he was dealing with, but if this was some test by Esfahani or Rashidi or someone else, he was determined to pass it. Yet he could see the stranger turning white. The man was perspiring and gripping the steering wheel for dear life. If he was acting, he was good. David wondered for a moment if this could be the real deal, but he quickly banished the thought from his mind. It was impossible. There was no way that—

“I have a laptop,” the stranger blurted out.

“You need to pull over now,” David insisted.

“I have a laptop you will want,” the stranger said again. “It was Dr. Saddaji’s laptop. I am sure you know who he was.”

If this was a trap, David thought, it was becoming irresistible.

“The Israelis killed him,” the man continued. “Or maybe you did. I don’t know. Either way, I don’t regret it. The man was . . . Anyway, I have his laptop.”

There was a long silence as the man kept driving through increasingly congested city streets. David said nothing. He didn’t dare say anything. What the man was offering was the crime of treason.

“I haven’t had time to review all of the material on his hard drive,” the stranger said, “but some of it I have. Your government needs to see it immediately.”

“I don’t work for the German government,” David said. “I told you, I’m a businessman. I work for Munich Digital Systems. We sell—”

“Mr. Tabrizi, please,”
the stranger said. “I’m not interested in talking to the German government. I want this laptop and the information I have to go to the Americans, to
your
government. I know you work for the Americans, and I know you want what I’m offering. So please, I don’t have time to play these games. I’m risking my life here. I’m risking my family’s life. I was told that you could help me. Can you?”

The man suddenly took a hard right on a Vahdat e-Islami Street, and then another right into Shahr Park, a quiet, wooded oasis in the middle of Tehran’s concrete jungle. When he found a parking space with no one else around, he stopped the car but kept it running.

“Let me be perfectly clear, Mr. Tabrizi,” the stranger continued, obviously trying to keep his emotions in check. “I have studied the reports on my father-in-law’s computer. Iran now has eight nuclear warheads in its possession. By the end of March, they will have fourteen. By the end of April, they will have twenty. The weapons work. Our scientists don’t yet know how to deliver them via a missile, but that’s not going to stop this regime from using them soon. Ayatollah Hosseini ordered my father-in-law, Dr. Saddaji, to write a detailed plan for how one of these warheads could be shipped to Egypt, smuggled across the Sinai desert, into Gaza through the Hamas tunnels, and then into Israel to be detonated in Tel Aviv. I have the memo. It’s on the laptop, along with dozens of e-mails to and from Hosseini’s top aides—mainly General Jazini—refining the plan and improving it significantly. But that’s not all, Mr. Tabrizi.”

David finally bit. “What else do you have?”

“I have dozens of e-mails between Jazini and my father-in-law discussing the technical challenges of transporting several of these warheads first to Venezuela, then to Cuba and Mexico, and finally into the United States. Like I said, I haven’t had time to review everything that’s on the laptop, but I can tell you there are detailed discussions on how to ship the warheads safely, how to evade international detection, how to maintain operational control over the trigger mechanisms, and so forth. I’m willing to turn it all over to your government. But my family and I want asylum and protection.”

Dubai, United Arab Emirates

Eva burst into Zalinsky’s office.

“We’ve got a problem,” she said.

“What’s wrong?”

“We’re getting all kinds of chatter on the satphones. The Iranians just found Najjar Malik. They’re sending agents to pick him up as we speak.”