The Twelfth Imam

by Joel C. Rosenberg

  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.”

  84

  Tehran, Iran

  They sat in the park with the car still running.

  “Why are you telling me all this?” David asked.

  He was increasingly convinced he was really speaking to the actual son-in-law of Dr. Mohammed Saddaji. But to be sure he wasn’t being set up, he needed to better understand the man’s motive.

  “I don’t want innocent people to die,” Najjar explained.

  “All of a sudden you have a conscience?” David countered. “You’ve been working with your father-in-law on building nuclear weapons for years.”

  “No, that’s not true,” Najjar said. “He hired me to help him develop civilian nuclear power plants, not to build the Bomb.”

  “That’s easy for you to say now.”

  “It’s the truth,” Najjar insisted. “I never even suspected what my father-in-law was up to until recently. But even then I had no proof.”

  David was still skeptical. “What changed?”

  “Everything has changed,” Najjar replied. “Dr. Saddaji was killed by a car bomb. I read what was on his laptop. Then there was the earthquake, which you must know was not a natural event. It was triggered by a nuclear test. There are scores of e-mails in which my father-in-law was scheduling the test and assigning tasks for the final details. It’s all on the laptop.”

  David listened carefully. It was all adding up. Everything Najjar was saying was consistent with the evidence he and his team had collected so far, but far more detailed and far more dangerous. If it was all true, it certainly explained why the Iranian regime was working so hard to hunt this man down.

  “Why me?” David asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Of all people, why did you come to me? And how did you know who I am or what I look like?”

  David could see the hesitation in the man’s eyes.

  “I’d rather not say.”

  “Then no deal,” David said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You heard me. I’m not making you a deal unless you explain how you found me and why.”

  “What does it matter?”

  David ignored the question. “How could you have even known I would be at the mosque this morning?” he demanded. “I wasn’t even sure I was going to come until just before the prayer service began.”

  It was clear Najjar didn’t want to answer his question, but David wasn’t going to give up. He had to call this in to Zalinsky, but not unless he was sure, and at that moment, he still had doubts.

  “We should go,” Najjar said, glancing at his watch. “We’re not safe here anymore.”

  But David pulled out his phone. “I can help you, Najjar,” he said calmly. “One phone call, and I can get you and your family out of this country forever. I can get you set up in America with a new life, safe from your enemies here. But first you need to answer all of my questions.”

  “I’m telling you what I know. I’ll tell you more. But not here.”

  “Najjar, you came to me,” David reminded him. “You obviously believe I will help you, and I will. But I need to know—who sent you to me?”

  “Please, Mr. Tabrizi,” Najjar implored. “My family is not safe. I must get back to them.”

  “We will pay you. More money than you’ve ever seen.”

  “I’m not doing this for money! I’m doing this for my family.”

  “Then just tell me. Who sent you? It’s a simple question. Give me a name.”

  “It’s not that simple,” Najjar said.

  “The name, Najjar; just give me the name.”

  Dubai, United Arab Emirates

  Zalinsky’s phone rang.

  It was Tom Murray from the CIA’s Global Operations Center.

  “Talk to me, Jack. What have you got?”

  “It’s not good,” Zalinsky said. “Best we can tell, the Iranians have tracked down Najjar Malik. They’ve dispatched about a dozen police and intelligence units to pick him up. They should be there any moment.”

  “So what do we do now?”

  “I’m working on it, sir.”

  “What about your man in Tehran?” Murray asked.

  “He’s been working on this nonstop,” Zalinsky explained. “But at this point, I don’t think there’s anything more he can do.”

&n
bsp; “Call him,” Murray ordered. “We can’t let this guy slip away. The Israelis are on edge. They’re 100 percent sure now the Hamadan earthquake was triggered by a nuclear test, and the president is afraid Naphtali is going to launch a preemptive strike. If the Iranians get Malik . . .”

  Murray didn’t finish his sentence, but he didn’t have to. Zalinsky promised to get back to Murray in a few minutes, then hung up and speed-dialed Eva.

  “Get me Zephyr.”

  Tehran, Iran

  David wasn’t sure how to respond.

  He’d asked for a name, and Najjar had given him a name. It just wasn’t one he could possibly have expected. In any other country, at any other time, the whole notion would have been ludicrous. But with all that had been happening in recent weeks . . .

  “Let me make sure I have this straight,” David said. “You were a Twelver. But you’ve converted to Christianity because you saw a vision of Jesus. And now you’re saying that Jesus told you to come here and meet me? That doesn’t strike you as strange?”

  “Not that strange. It happened in the New Testament all the time,” Najjar said.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Jesus told people things were going to happen, and they happened.”

  “Really.”

  “Jesus sent people to certain places and they went. Jesus told Ananias to go to Straight Street in Damascus and heal a blind man named Saul of Tarsus at the house of Judas, and Ananias did it. He didn’t know Saul. He’d never seen Saul. The Lord just led him, and he obeyed.”

  “And I’m supposed to believe that Jesus sent you to me?” David asked.

  “Believe it or don’t believe it; I’m sitting here, aren’t I?”

  He certainly was, and David realized he had entered an entirely different dimension. He had come to Iran to engage in a clandestine geopolitical war but had come face-to-face with something else entirely. There was a spiritual battle going on for this country unlike anything he had ever heard of or imagined, and he wasn’t prepared for any of it. People were talking about visions of the Twelfth Imam and visions of Jesus as if such events were commonplace. What’s more, it was becoming clear that the people of Iran were being asked to choose sides between the two.