Damascus Countdown (11 page)

Marseille felt bad for these folks. She didn’t know them, but the woman sounded sincere and obviously cared for the Shirazi family a great deal. Now Marseille wished Azad had given her this job sooner so she could have called these people back and made sure they got to the memorial service.

Beep . . .

“Dr. Shirazi? Hi, this is Linda—Linda Petrillo—the secretary at your old practice. Marge was just telling me that Nasreen is sick. Is that true? I can’t believe I hadn’t heard. Is she going to be okay? Are you okay? Do you need anything? I’d love to cook you a meal and bring it by. Please let me know if that would be okay. And have Nasreen call me. Here’s my number . . .”

Ouch. The poor woman didn’t even know Mrs. Shirazi had passed.

Beep . . .

“I can’t believe I didn’t get to say good-bye to Nasreen. This is Farah—her cousin Farah, you know, in Houston. I got an e-mail from Iryana in San Jose. She just heard the news too. Please call me back. It’s Friday morning. I hear the memorial service is going to be tomorrow. I so wish I could get there, but I don’t think I can make arrangements so quickly for my kids. But, oh, Mohammad, I am so, so sorry. I knew she was sick, but I had no idea she was so close to the end. Please get back to me as soon as you can. Best way to get me is probably on my cell. The number is . . .”

Marseille carefully wrote down the number and then, as she did with all the others, hit 9 to save the message and went on to the next. But when the next person began to speak, she heard a voice that gave her chills. It was David.

“Dad . . . oh, Lord . . . Dad, I just heard the news about Mom. I just got your e-mails and Nora’s. I can’t . . . I can’t believe Mom is really gone, and I’m so sorry that I’m not there. I can’t believe I’m so far away, and where I am and doing what I’m doing. . . . I just want to be there with you, you know, to give you a hug and cry with you. I just . . . I don’t know what to say, and I don’t want to say it to a machine. You can’t call me back, of course, but I’ll try you again as soon as I possibly can. I don’t know when that will be yet. I’m not really supposed to make personal calls, but I’m sure they’ll make an exception. Of course they will. But anyway . . . Look, I’m safe. . . . It’s hard, but I’m safe, so hopefully you’ll get this and know that I’m thinking about you and praying so much for you and Azad and Saeed. I’m so sorry, Dad, that I won’t be able to be there for the funeral. Please forgive me, and know that if there was any way I could be there, I absolutely would. And I hope you’ll be able to withstand all the people who think I’m a terrible son for not being there. I’m sure you’ll hear some awful comments about me. Just knowing that you understand and that you want me to do my job makes me feel a little better, but I still feel sick not being there. . . . Guess I’d better go, but . . . I can’t believe she’s really gone. I pray that you’re okay and that you know I love you and that I loved Mom. Like I said, I’ll call again if I can. I love you, Dad. Bye.”

Marseille sat as still as a stone for several minutes, then hit 2 to replay the message and listened to David’s voice again. It was coming from so far away. She was flooded with a sudden longing to see David again, to sit next to him and get to know the man he had become. But as she listened to the message a second time, she heard something that puzzled her. David was grieved, yet he seemed to have a confidence that he hadn’t hurt his father and that indeed his father somehow understood his need to be away. He talked about being safe. That was a relief to her, but why would David’s father think he was in danger? And why did David say what he did about his father understanding? Did David’s father know what she knew? Did he know David worked for the CIA and was at that very moment inside Iran? How could he? Had David told him? Marseille’s heart raced. She hoped that was the case. She wanted Dr. Shirazi to know the truth and to be as proud of David as she was. She would love to be able to talk openly to Dr. Shirazi about his son. Maybe he knew more than she did. Maybe she could learn more about what David was doing and when he might be coming home.

Marseille was careful to save David’s message, but even though she had forty-three more messages to listen to, she knew she had to get this one to Dr. Shirazi right away. But how? It didn’t seem quite appropriate to go upstairs and knock on the man’s bedroom door. But she so wanted to tell him the good news.

And then, before she could make a decision of how best to proceed, Marseille began to weep. She did her best to stay quiet. She didn’t want to wake up Saeed or draw any attention to herself. She wasn’t even entirely sure why she was crying, but she couldn’t stop. It wasn’t sorrow, she told herself. It was mostly relief. But there was more to it, she knew.

She couldn’t think clearly. Something inside her had just broken loose, a dam of sorts bottling up complicated emotions long suppressed. She was embarrassed, crying here in the Shirazis’ kitchen. She was mortified by the possibility that Azad might find her like this. She didn’t want to have to explain herself. She didn’t even really know what she was feeling or why.

She reached for some paper napkins lying on the center of the table, wiped her eyes, and tried to take a few deep breaths and regain control.
Then she bowed her head and said a prayer, sniffling a bit as she went, thanking the Lord for protecting David and asking for his continued safety. She also thanked her Father in heaven for giving her this gift of hearing David’s voice and hearing his heart. It meant more to her than she could possibly express.

DAMASCUS, SYRIA

Gamal Mustafa took the call without hesitation.

It was the fifth time he had spoken to his chief of military intelligence in the last six hours, but Mustafa wasn’t angry or impatient. He had made it crystal clear to the Mukhabarat that he wanted every scrap, every update, every morsel of news he could get his hands on—even rumors—and his men were delivering.

“What do you have for me?” the Syrian president asked, stepping out onto the veranda of his third-floor office and surveying the sprawling capital city before him.

The intel chief didn’t bury the lead. “The Iranians have hit Dimona,” he said as professionally as he could, but Mustafa immediately picked up the barely concealed excitement in his tone.

“You’re sure about this?”

“Yes, Your Excellency.”

“How do you know?”

“All the Arab TV networks are reporting it—and the Western networks too. But we have other confirmation as well.”

“You’ve heard from our man?”

“Yes, Your Excellency. He is hesitant—and rightly so—to transmit too much, lest the Zionists intercept the transmissions. But we received two short bursts, minutes apart, just moments ago. I am calling you first with the news.”

“What did he say?”

“He can see the reactor from his apartment—there’s a huge fire, lots of smoke. It can be seen for miles.”

“Is there a mushroom cloud?”

“He didn’t say.”

“Radiation?”

“He’s picking up some, yes, but no details yet. The moment I have more, I will let you know.”

“You know what this means, don’t you?”

“Is it time?”

“I don’t see how we can wait any longer. Are your men ready?”

“They are.”

“And the missile forces?”

“Everyone and everything is in place.”

“All the targeting information is uploaded?”

“Yes, Your Excellency—the Zionists won’t know what hit them. Just give us the word.”

“Very good,” Mustafa said as the call of the muezzin began to ring out across the ancient city from every minaret he could see. “Put everyone on standby. I’ll be back to you soon. But there is someone I must talk to first.”

TEHRAN, IRAN

Ahmed Darazi was in shock. He hadn’t suspected for a second that the Mahdi was angry with Faridzadeh. Nor had it ever crossed his mind that the Mahdi would kill the man without warning. How were they supposed to prosecute the war now? How exactly were they supposed to win the war against the Little Satan, much less the larger battle—the more important battle—against the Great Satan, without Faridzadeh at the helm? General Mohsen Jazini was a fine and able man, to be sure, but he wasn’t ready to be the defense minister of the entire Caliphate. He didn’t possess the strategic foresight and genius of Faridzadeh.

And why was the Mahdi sending Jazini to Damascus? That made no sense. Syria wasn’t even engaged in the war, at least not yet. Then
another terrifying idea entered Darazi’s heart. Could the Mahdi read his thoughts? If so, Darazi realized, he was a dead man.

Trying desperately to wipe such heretical notions away, Darazi began quietly reciting several suras from the Qur’an, hoping to keep his thoughts occupied and to jam any ability the Mahdi might have to replay the last few moments. The Twelfth Imam brushed by him without a word. Hosseini followed, so Darazi did as well.

Darazi noticed that even two and a half hours after the murder—he didn’t know what else to call it—blood was still splattered over the Mahdi’s robes and face, but the Mahdi himself didn’t seem to notice or care. Rather, he walked into a meeting room to take the call with the Syrian president, which had just come in, and motioned Hosseini and Darazi to take their seats nearby and listen in on extension lines.

“Gamal, is that you?”

“Yes, my Lord. Thank you so very much for taking time out of your busy and glorious day to speak with your humble servant.”

“You know what I’m going to ask, then?”

“I suspect I do,” said Mustafa, his voice trembling ever so slightly.

“You have an answer for me?”

“Yes, my Lord. Please forgive the delay. Not all of our Cabinet members were in the country, and it has taken us several days to get everyone back to Damascus, where we could meet and discuss this very important matter.”

“And?”

“And we are unanimous in our decision. We humbly request that you allow the Syrian Arab Republic to join the Caliphate, to make you our Supreme Leader, and to transfer all control of our weapons and our resources—human and financial—to your care and good stewardship.”

“It is about time, Gamal,” said the Mahdi. “I will be honest with you: I was losing patience with your foot-dragging and pathetic incompetence.”

“Again, my Lord, please forgive me and my Cabinet. I take full responsibility. But I wanted the decision to be unanimous.”

“Nonsense, Gamal,” the Mahdi snorted, blood rising through his neck and face. “You wanted evidence that we were going to win, that
we were really going to annihilate the Zionists as I have promised. And only now, minutes after hearing that we successfully hit and destroyed the Zionists’ nuclear facilities in Dimona, do you want to join the winning side.”

“We have never questioned your destiny or your power, my Lord,” Mustafa protested. “As you know full well, Your Excellency, when the war started, I immediately ordered our missiles to be fired at the Zionists, until you personally called and asked me to stop—an order I immediately obeyed.”

“I didn’t want you involved in my War of Annihilation unless or until you had joined the Caliphate.”

“We are ready to do so, my Lord. And we have all our missiles fueled and targeted and ready to fire at the enemy. Give me the command, and we will join the war this very hour, even if a few days late.”

“No,” said the Mahdi.

It was quiet for a moment.

“I beg your pardon, my Lord,” said Mustafa. “I’m not sure that I heard you correctly.”

“You did, and I said no. Of course I will accept you into the Caliphate. But I don’t want you firing your weapons at the Zionists. Not yet.”

“But we are ready, my Lord—and more importantly, we are eager to join the fight. I have been eager for days. It’s just that—”

“Yes, yes, I know—you wanted it to be unanimous.”

“Well, you see, I—”

“Silence, Gamal,” said the Mahdi. “You have already tested my patience beyond its healthy limits. Now
you
will be patient and do what I say or suffer the judgment of the damned. You are not to fire upon the Zionists until I say so. Instead, you are to continue slaughtering the infidels among your people. Indeed, I want you to accelerate your operations. Kill the Christians, the Jews, and any so-called Muslims you find who won’t bow to me. Find them all. In every city. In every province. Show them no mercy. I know you have begun because you heard I had given similar orders here in Iran and throughout the Caliphate. And because you have already begun the slaughter, you have bought yourself
precious time you would not otherwise have. But now I want to hear reports that the blood of the infidels is flowing thick and fast through every Syrian street. And not just rebels. I’m not simply talking about you killing your political enemies. You’ve killed enough of those—and turned the world against you in the process. No, I want you to unleash your fury on the real infidels, the ones who will defy me as Lord of the Age. Do you understand what I am saying to you?”

“Yes, my Lord, I believe I do.”

“You had better. And if you do this and do this well—if you are faithful in this small thing—I may put you in charge of something more. But not until then. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, my Lord; you can count on me.”

“Perhaps,” said the Mahdi. “We shall see. Now, there is one other thing.”

“Yes, of course—whatever you want.”

“Some special friends of mine are on the way. You will receive more details later. Treat them as you would treat me. Make sure they have everything they need.
Everything.
And remember this—I am watching you, Gamal, and your very soul hangs in the balance.”

QOM, IRAN

Torres drove. David sat in the front passenger seat with his window down and the wind whipping through his hair as they raced south along Route 7, winding through the mountains, headed for Iran’s most religious city. The rest of the team sat in the back of the stolen van, cleaning their weapons and readying themselves for whatever was to come. For the most part the roads were clear of civilian traffic, but there were a lot of military convoys about, especially those moving fuel and food.

As they exited Route 7—the Tehran-Qom Freeway—onto Highway 71 and approached the outer suburbs of Qom near Behesht-e-Masomeh, they could actually begin to smell the war. David winced. It was an odor he would never get used to—the smell of burning flesh and burning jet fuel.

A moment later, they came around a large mountain peak and over a ridge, and they could see the enormous columns of smoke and the fires raging. They were still about ten kilometers from the city center, but they suddenly felt the ground shaking and heard a massive explosion off to their right. A split second later the ground shook again, though another mountain blocked their ability to see exactly what was happening. As they kept racing forward, however, they soon broke out into a valley, and that’s when they saw a group of Israeli F-16s roar overhead. David counted four jets—no, six—and soon the Israelis began dropping their ordnance. But now the sky erupted with the sound of antiaircraft artilleries as well. The Iranians were shooting back.

“Step on it, Torres,” David ordered, “and everyone stay sharp.”

It was tempting to watch the battle in the skies. The planes and ordnance were mesmerizing, to be sure. But David didn’t want Torres and his men distracted. There was little chance of getting hit by an Israeli air-to-ground missile or a bunker-buster bomb. Those were being fired at the Fordow uranium enrichment plant located on the northern edge of Qom. What really worried David was the possibility of running into a military checkpoint and having to explain who they were and why they wanted to enter the war zone. David had his official papers identifying him as Reza Tabrizi, a subcontractor for Iran Telecom. Torres and his men all had false papers identifying them as members of Reza’s technical team. But David prayed they wouldn’t have to use any of them. No Iran Telecom employee in his right mind would be working today, certainly not without a hazmat suit and portable oxygen supply. David and his team had neither, but they were going in anyway.

“Look there,” Crenshaw shouted from the backseat. “Two o’clock high.”

David couldn’t help but turn his eyes to the right, and as he did, he felt his stomach tighten. An Israeli fighter jet was trailing smoke and rapidly losing altitude.

“He’s hit,” Torres said.

“Say a prayer, gentlemen,” David agreed. “Looks like one of the good guys is about to go down.”

It was painful to watch but impossible to look away. The Israeli
pilot was valiantly trying to regain control of his plane, but even to the untrained eye it was obvious what was going to happen next. Less than a minute later, they lost sight of the F-16 behind another ridge, but they could feel and hear it hit the ground in a massive explosion, and soon they could smell it as well.