The Twelfth Imam (24 page)

52

Each man helped himself to a plate and sat down.

But just as David began to take a bite, the questions started coming faster and faster. The interrogation phase was over. Rashidi and Esfahani were growing comfortable with him, but they were by no means finished. Now they shifted to the delivery phase.

“How quickly can MDS have teams of technicians on the ground in Tehran?” Esfahani asked.

David reiterated what he had promised Esfahani outside the Imam Khomeini Mosque. The teams could be there within a day or two if he called soon and set them into motion. They were all on standby.

“How long will it take them to do their work?” Rashidi asked.

“For the first phase, with testing, I’d say about a month,” David said. “But as you know from our proposals, the second, third, and fourth phases will take the better part of a year, altogether.”

Was he aware that each technician would be assigned two translators, each working six-hour shifts, as well as a security team?

David said he was. But he added that several of them already spoke Farsi. What’s more, MDS was in the process of hiring and training another dozen Farsi-speaking technicians, though they probably wouldn’t be ready until late spring. Rashidi liked this very much.

Esfahani wanted to know how quickly the monitoring center could be up and running.

David knew the executive was referring to the high-tech operations center MDS had committed to outfitting that would allow Iran’s security services to intercept, monitor, trace, and record any call on their new wireless system. He replied that his teams needed to get the software installed on Iran Telecom’s mainframes first, and then they would focus on setting up the monitoring center.

“No,” Esfahani said, “that won’t do. We want the software to be installed and the center to be outfitted simultaneously.”

“That’s not part of the contract,” David said.

“We’ve changed our minds,” Rashidi said. “We like you. We trust you. We want you to do this for us. Will that be a problem?”

“It will cost more, and we’ll need three or four days to get that team assembled, but we can certainly do it, if you want.”

“Cost is no object,” Rashidi assured him. “Time is the issue. Can everything be done in a month?”

“That’s really Ms. Fischer’s call.”

Esfahani’s mood suddenly darkened at the mention of Fischer. “That’s not what we asked,” he said curtly. “Can the software and monitoring center all be installed and ready in one month’s time?”

“It can,” David said. “Again, I need Ms. Fischer’s approval, but I don’t see this being a problem.”

“I thought you were the new project manager,” Esfahani said.

“Here, yes, but I still report to Ms. Fischer in Dubai,” David explained. “Is that a problem? You won’t have any interaction with her whatsoever, I assure you.”

“I’m sure that is true,” Rashidi said. “But I think what my colleague means is that, given all that has happened, is there any reason for us to be concerned that this Ms. Fischer would refuse to move the project faster because perhaps she was offended by her time here?”

That wasn’t, of course, what Esfahani meant, David knew. The man was simply using religion as his cover to discriminate against a highly qualified colleague and new friend. But he was not about to point that out and blow this deal—not when it seemed to be going so well.

“Believe me, Mr. Rashidi and Mr. Esfahani, everyone in our company knows how important this project is,” David assured them. “Ms. Fischer knows this most of all. I can assure you that she is a consummate professional. She won’t let her personal feelings affect her performance. The only real issue is getting you a cost estimate, which I can have for you by the close of business tomorrow. Once you approve the estimate, all that remains will be to have Ms. Fischer pull together the equipment for the monitoring center and assemble a second crew that can arrive by the end of this week or early next.”

“Will you push for this to be done?” Esfahani asked.

“Absolutely.”

“We’re counting on you, Mr. Tabrizi,” Esfahani stressed.

“Thank you, sir,” he replied. “I appreciate your trust.”

Now Rashidi took the lead again. “You know that I just got back from Beijing, right?” the CEO said.

“Yes, sir,” David said. “I read that in the newspaper.”

“The Chinese are begging us to give them this contract.”

“I understand, sir. But believe me, we can take care of this for you, and we want to. We’ll get you the best price and the best people. You have my word.”

“That is good enough for me,” Rashidi said.

Esfahani nodded his agreement. “Now we have another request.”

53

Hamadan, Iran

Najjar got home late and exhausted.

The apartment was dark and quiet. On the kitchen table was a note that read,
I’m at my parents’ for dinner. Will be home late. Don’t wait up. But have you heard the rumors? Someone has seen him. They say he’s coming soon. Isn’t this exciting? Love and kisses, Sheyda.

Najjar was furious. He was tempted to jump back in the car, drive over to his in-laws’, and have it out with his father-in-law right there and then. Of course he had heard the news. Dr. Saddaji had told his entire staff about Ayatollah Hosseini’s vision of the Twelfth Imam, and the news had exhilarated Najjar. He had been waiting for the Mahdi for most of his life. Finally there would be justice. Finally there would be peace. But he was increasingly convinced that his father-in-law believed a nuclear war against the U.S. and Israel had to precede the Mahdi’s arrival. Najjar resisted this notion with every fiber of his being. Yes, he had vowed to serve Allah with all that he was. Yes, he had vowed to devote himself to preparing for the coming of the Twelfth Imam. But he couldn’t be party to genocide. That couldn’t possibly be what the Mahdi really wanted for him and his family.

Yet it was becoming clear to Najjar that this was precisely what his father-in-law believed, that mankind in general—and the Iranian government in particular—was responsible for proactively and intentionally unleashing the “blood and fire” that would be the last sign before the Twelfth Imam’s arrival on earth. That was why he was secretly building the Islamic Bomb. Did Dr. Saddaji’s wife, Farah, know this? Did Sheyda? Did they know their husband and father was a cold-blooded murderer? Najjar couldn’t believe they did. And how could he tell them? What would they do if they learned the truth? Moreover, what should he do? Resign in protest? Move to another city? Move to another country?

To Najjar, overseeing Iran’s version of the Manhattan Project and lying to the world about it every day was morally repugnant. But to order a man killed—beheaded, no less—without the benefit of a trial or a judge, and to do so in the presence of other senior physicists working under his direction? This was beyond the pale. Yet this was the life his father-in-law was living, and the message to Najjar, to his team, and ultimately to his family as well was clear: Betray me, and you’re an infidel. Become an infidel, and you are dead.

The truth was slowly coming into focus for Najjar, but as it did, it became clear that he could not say anything to his wife. Or to his mother-in-law. Or to anyone else. He couldn’t move his family. He couldn’t take them out of the country. He was trapped in a family led by a man without conscience, a man who would commit any atrocity in the name of jihad.

Najjar collapsed in a chair in the living room and picked up the television remote. He desperately needed to escape, if only in his mind.

Satellite dishes were illegal in Iran, which was why everyone had one. Sheyda was actually the one who had begged Najjar to get one, so long as he promised not to tell her parents. Najjar, eager for news of the outside world, had happily agreed. They had saved for nearly a year to afford a good system, but a friend had installed it for them just the previous weekend.

Najjar turned on the TV and began searching through the hundreds of channels now available to him. He immediately skipped past any program produced by the government and past sporting events, of which he’d never been a big fan. Coming across the BBC, he paused for a moment to watch a breaking news story about two Israeli Dolphin-class submarines—each likely equipped with ballistic missiles capped with nuclear warheads—passing through the Suez Canal. A British intelligence analyst speculated the subs were most likely headed for the Indian Ocean or the Persian Gulf, presumably to park off the coast of Iran and await orders from Jerusalem.

Further depressed by such a prospect, Najjar kept scanning. Suddenly he came across a network he had never heard of before and a character he had never seen. On screen was an elderly priest of some kind, wearing a black cassock, a black cap, and a large metal cross. But it was not the man’s looks that forced Najjar to stop and watch for a moment. It was what the man was saying.

“Children are brainwashed that Islam is the truth,” the priest declared, looking directly into the camera. “Children are brainwashed that Muhammad is the last prophet, that the Christians are infidels, and that the Jews are infidels. They repeat it constantly.”

Afraid of being overheard by his neighbors, Najjar instantly lowered the volume but didn’t turn the channel. He couldn’t look away. He was stunned by the intensity of the man’s voice and the brazenness of his words. This priest was speaking Egyptian Arabic, but Najjar could understand him quite well, given his own upbringing in Iraq.

“Islam, as portrayed in the Qur’an, in the Hadith, and in
The Encyclopedia of Islam
, was spread by means of the sword,” the priest explained. “The sword played a major role in spreading Islam in the past, and it is the sword that preserves Islam today. Islam relies upon jihad in spreading the religion. This is very clear in the encyclopedia. This appears in section 11, page 3,245. It says, ‘Spreading Islam by means of the sword is a duty incumbent upon all Muslims.’ Thus, Islam is spread by means of the sword.”

Now the priest leaned forward and spoke with great passion. “It’s time for the church to stand up with courage and conviction and say in the power of the Holy Spirit, ‘Islam is not the answer; jihad is not the way. Jesus is the way. Jesus is the truth. Jesus is the life. And no man or woman can come to the Father except through faith in Jesus Christ.’ This is the message of John 14:6. This is the message of the entire New Testament. And this message of faith is filled with love, not with swords.”

It was as if electricity were coursing through Najjar’s system. He was no longer slumped in his chair. He was sitting up straight, at once furious at this man, wanting to throw his shoe at the television, yet simultaneously intrigued beyond anything he could imagine. How could the government allow such things to be on television? Wasn’t anyone trying to stop this man? Mesmerized, Najjar kept watching.

“Now is not the time to hide in fear from the Muslim world,” the priest declared. “Now is the time to take the gospel of Jesus Christ to every man, woman, and child on the planet and proclaim Him as the hope of mankind, the only hope for the troubled world. I have been doing this for most of my life, sharing the good news of salvation through Jesus Christ with the people of the Middle East. For this I was exiled from my home country of Egypt. For this I have been named ‘Islam’s public enemy number one.’ For this there is now a price on my head. But I love Jesus more than my life. And because Jesus loves Muslims, because He came and laid down His life to save them, I love them too. And I am willing to lay my life down if necessary to reach them for my beloved Jesus.”

Najjar had never heard anyone talk like this.

“The God of the Bible is moving powerfully in the Muslim world today,” the priest continued. “He is drawing Muslims out of Islam to faith in Jesus Christ in record numbers. Yes, there is much bad news in the Muslim world today. But there is also much good news; more Muslims have come to faith in Jesus Christ in the last three decades than in the last fourteen centuries of Islam put together. This is the greatness of our great God.”

Was that true? Najjar wondered. Were Muslims really leaving Islam and becoming followers of Jesus Christ? Was it happening in large numbers? He was suddenly afraid to watch anymore. He turned off the television, turned off the lights, and climbed into bed, trembling. He was grateful Sheyda wasn’t home. He was ashamed of what he had just watched. What if someone had heard him? He should be more careful, he told himself.

Yet alone in the darkness, he couldn’t shake what he had just seen and heard, and one phrase echoed in his heart again and again.

“Jesus is the way. Jesus is the truth. Jesus is the life. And no man or woman can come to the Father except through faith in Jesus Christ.”

54

Tehran, Iran

Rashidi’s mobile phone rang.

He excused himself and left the room. Then Esfahani leaned close to David and whispered, “What I say next needs to be kept very quiet. Are we understood? It must never be spoken of to anyone.”

“Of course,” David said.

“We need to buy twenty secure satellite phones,” Esfahani explained. “State-of-the-art. Encrypted. Absolutely impenetrable. You make them, right?”

“Well, we don’t make them ourselves,” David replied. “Nokia has a joint venture with someone who does. But they’re built for European government officials. They’re not for export.”

“The Saudis have them.”

“That I wouldn’t know.”

“The Pakistanis have them.”

“Again, that’s not my area.”

“The Moroccans have them. Do you see where I’m going with this?”

“I think so.”

“Then can you get them for us?”

“I can ask Ms. Fischer.”

“No,” Esfahani said, “that’s not what I asked. I’m asking you—
you personally
—can
you
get them for us?”

“I don’t know. Ms. Fischer is the real expert on such things, sir, but I don’t think even she could get an export license for them, given all the international focus on . . . well, you know . . . the situation here. I don’t know how I would get the licenses, much less the phones.”

Esfahani said nothing. There was a long, awkward pause. It was quiet. Too quiet. All David could hear was a clock ticking in the living room and the faint sound of rattling dishes in the kitchen.

“I can try,” David finally said.

“Without involving Ms. Fischer?” Esfahani pressed.

David pretended to ponder that a while longer. He knew he could get the phones in a heartbeat. Zalinsky would happily build them by hand if he thought that would help the mission. But David knew he couldn’t seem too eager or too accommodating.

He looked back at Esfahani and assured the man he would do his best, and without Fischer’s involvement. It was a lie, of course. Fischer would be intimately involved. But it was what the man wanted to hear, and it seemed to work.

“Good, because you know there are more telecom infrastructure contracts coming in the next few months,” Esfahani reminded him. “Each one is worth hundreds of millions of euros, and Mr. Rashidi and I would certainly want to look favorably on your bids.”

“That’s what I want too,” David said. “MDS values your business a great deal.”

“Very well. How soon could you get them?”

“How soon do you need them?”

“Five business days.”

“
Five?
That’s pretty fast.”

“Perhaps we should go to the Chinese.”

“No, no, I’ll figure out a way,” David promised, suddenly fearful that he was playing too coy. “You need twenty of them?”

“Yes.”

“Done,” David said. “After all, we can’t let the Saudis or the Zionists have something you don’t have. I’ll get right on it.”

“See that you do,” Esfahani said. “I can assure you, success will be handsomely rewarded.”

“It will be my honor to bless Iran in every way I can,” David said. “Which reminds me. I need to call Dubai and tell our tech teams to get here tomorrow. Will your staff be able to pick them up at the airport, orient them, and show them where to get started? I’ll need to head back to Munich to fulfill this other request.”

“Yes, we will take care of everything,” Esfahani assured him. “Just tell my secretary who is coming and when.”

“I will do that, but could I just ask a question?”

“What is it?”

“If it’s inappropriate, please forgive me.”

“You needn’t hesitate. What’s your question?”

“Well, I’m just curious. Why such urgency?”

The moment the words left David’s lips, Rashidi reentered the room. David sensed he had finished his phone call some time before and had been listening to most of the conversation, presumably approving of its direction.

“That one I would like to answer,” the CEO said. “Mr. Tabrizi, have you ever heard of the Twelfth Imam?”