The Twelfth Imam

by Joel C. Rosenberg

  The car was a smoldering pile of wreckage. Gasoline was leaking everywhere. David feared a single spark could blow the whole thing sky-high. Inside, the solitary officer was unconscious. He couldn’t have had any time to react to David’s slamming on the brakes, and that had been the point. David had needed the element of surprise, and he’d gotten just that.

  Using all his strength, David pried the driver’s door open and checked the man’s pulse. Fortunately, he was still alive, but he had an ugly gash on his forehead, his face was covered in blood, and David realized to his regret that no air bag had deployed. But he saw what he needed and pocketed the officer’s .38-caliber service revolver and portable radio. Then he pulled the officer from the wreckage, carried him a good distance from the glass and gasoline, and laid him on the sidewalk.

  David hobbled back to Najjar’s car, suddenly realizing his right knee had gotten banged up worse than he’d first realized. He looked down and noticed his pants were ripped and that blood was oozing out of the knee. But he had no time to worry about it. They needed to get out of there before the place was swarming with more police.

  “You ready to move?” David asked, coming over to the passenger side.

  “I think so,” Najjar said, his arms filled with the laptop and accessories.

  “Is that everything?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Follow me.”

  “Where are we going?” Najjar asked.

  “You’ll see.”

  They walked north about a hundred meters before David turned, pulled out the .38, aimed at the gas tank of Najjar’s crumpled Fiat, and pulled the trigger. The car erupted in a massive ball of fire that not only obliterated the vehicle but all traces of their fingerprints and DNA as well. The force of the blast threw Najjar onto his back. David, still standing, gave him a hand and helped him back to his feet.

  “What was that for?” a stunned Najjar asked, shielding his eyes from the intense heat of the flames.

  David smiled. “Insurance.”

  87

  David walked north down the center of Azizi Boulevard.

  With Najjar close behind, he limped his way past wrecked cars and distraught motorists fixated on all the fire and smoke. He clipped the police radio to his belt, put in the earphone, and made sure it was plugged into the radio so the transmissions couldn’t be overheard by anyone else.

  His phone vibrated. It was a text message from Eva, telling him to call Zalinsky in the secure mode. He did so right away and coded in, but it was Eva who actually picked up.

  “What in the world just happened down there?” she asked, her voice betraying her distress.

  “We had a little accident.”

  “A little accident? Have you gone insane? The entire Global Operations Center—and everyone in our safe house—is watching you via a Keyhole satellite. What are you doing?”

  The chatter on the police radio suddenly intensified. Reports of the accident and explosion were coming in from concerned citizens and drivers on their cell phones. Police units, ambulances, and fire trucks were being dispatched. David knew they had only a few minutes before the first units arrived on the scene.

  “I can’t really talk now,” he said. “I need to boost a car that’s still running. Do you need something, or are you just interfering in my operation?”

  “I found you a plane,” she said, not taking the bait. “It’ll be in Karaj tonight. And we’ve got more intercepts about the motel. I thought Dr. Malik would want to know.”

  “And?”

  “There was no one there.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m saying, when the Iranians stormed the room, no one was in there,” Eva said. “Just Dr. Malik’s phone, some clothes, and a few overnight bags.”

  “Where’s his family?”

  “That’s the thing,” Eva said. “We have no idea.”

  David turned to tell Najjar the good news, but just then shots rang out, shattering a windshield beside them. Instinctively David hit the ground and pulled Najjar down with him between a Peugeot and a Chevy, dropping his phone as he did so. People started screaming and running for cover. He could hear Eva yelling, “What is that? What’s going on?” but he had no time to respond. He grabbed the phone and jammed it into his pocket. Ordering Najjar to stay on the ground, he pulled the revolver and tried to get an angle on whoever was shooting at them. Was it one officer or two? Did they know who he was? Had they ID’d him and Najjar? He couldn’t take that chance.

  Two more shots rang out, blowing out the front windshield of the Peugeot. David again flattened himself to the ground and covered his head to protect himself from the flying glass. His knee was killing him as bits of glass ground into the already-injured joint. But there was nothing he could do about it now. As he opened his eyes again, he could see under the cars that someone was moving toward him. He got up into a crouch and took a peek. Another shot whizzed by him and ripped into the door of the Chevy.

  Dead ahead, maybe ten yards away, was a garbage truck. David double-checked to make sure Najjar was okay, then made a break for the rear of the truck. With his wounded knee, he was slower than usual. His movement also drew more fire. But it also gave him a chance to see who was doing the shooting. The blue jacket and cap were the giveaway. This was a Tehran city police officer and he didn’t look much older than himself, David thought.

  Then the officer’s voice crackled over the radio.

  “Base, this is Unit 116. I’m at the crash site. One officer is down. I repeat, one officer is down with multiple injuries. Witnesses say they saw someone steal the officer’s service revolver. I’m currently pursuing two suspects on foot. Shots fired. Requesting immediate backup and helicopter support.”

  “Unit 116, this is Base—roger that. Backup en route. Stand by.”

  This was not good. David had to defend himself and his asset, which meant he had to move fast. He crept along the side of the garbage truck, hoping to outflank the officer from the right, then stopped when he heard the sounds of crunching glass just a few yards ahead.

  David was confused. How could this guy be so close so quickly? It didn’t make sense. A moment before, he’d been at least four cars over. Quickly wiping the sweat from one hand, then the other, David tried to steady his breathing and carefully choose his next move as the footsteps got closer and closer. Should he wait for the officer to come around the corner or seize the initiative and take the first shot?

  Moving first was risky. He had seen only one officer, but there could be more. He could hear more sirens rapidly approaching. He couldn’t wait. He was out of time. He took three steps and pivoted around the front of the truck, aimed the .38, and prepared to pull the trigger. But it was not the officer. It was a little girl, no more than six, shivering and scared. David, a millisecond away from firing, was horrified by how close he had come to killing a child.

  How did she get here? Where is her mother?

  Three more shots suddenly rang out. At least one round ricocheted off the grille of the truck. David dropped to the ground and covered the girl with his body. The pain in his knee was now excruciating, but his first priority had to be the girl. He quickly checked her over to make sure she hadn’t been hit. She hadn’t been, but she was definitely slipping into shock. Her eyes were dilated and she looked vacant. Her skin was clammy and cold. David took off his jacket and wrapped her in it, then got back in a crouch and tried to reacquire the officer in his sights.

  But now there were two.

  David had a clean shot at one of them, but he didn’t dare fire from right over the child. So he broke right, hobbling as best he could for a blue sedan just ahead. Once again, gunfire erupted all around him, as did the screams of terrified motorists who had no idea what was going on or why. David barely got himself safely behind the sedan. He gritted his teeth and caught his breath, then popped his head up again to assess the situation.

  To his shock, one of the officers had decided to ambush him. He was r
unning straight toward David, while the other started running toward Najjar. David didn’t hesitate. He raised the revolver and squeezed off two rounds. One shot hit the officer coming toward him in the stomach. The other hit him in the face. The man collapsed to the ground no more than six yards from David’s position. David quickly pivoted to his left and fired twice more, missing the second officer but sending him sprawling for cover behind the garbage truck.

  David could hear a helicopter approaching from the southeast. He had no time to lose. Adrenaline coursing through his system, he made his way to the first officer, grabbed the revolver from his hand, and sprinted toward the second officer. Racing through the maze of cars, he approached the garbage truck, stopped quickly, and glanced around the side. The second officer was waiting for him and got a shot off. David pulled back, waited a beat, then looked again and fired.

  The round hit the officer in the shoulder. Screaming in pain, the man spun around but didn’t drop. Instead, he began firing wildly at David, stumbling backward as he did.

  David’s first .38 was now out of bullets. Using his shirt, he wiped it clean of his fingerprints and tossed it aside. Then, with the second .38 in hand, he circled back to the other side of the garbage truck. Using the truck as his shield, he made a dash for where he had left Najjar.

  But to his shock, Najjar wasn’t there. The second officer was.

  The man fired three more times. David could hear the bullets whizzing past his head. He dove left behind the Chevy, then flattened himself against the ground and fired under the car at the officer’s feet. One of the shots was a direct hit. The man fell to the ground but refused to quit. David could hear him radioing for help and giving his superiors David’s physical description. Then, before David realized what was happening, the officer crawled around the front of the Chevy, took aim at David’s chest, and fired again.

  David instinctively leaned right, but the shot grazed his left arm. Still, with all the adrenaline in his system, he didn’t feel a thing. Not yet, anyway. Instead, he righted himself, took aim, and squeezed off two more rounds at the officer’s head, killing the man instantly.

  David’s mobile phone rang, but he ignored it. Blood was everywhere. More sirens were approaching, as was the helicopter. They had to get out of there. They couldn’t let themselves be caught. But Najjar was nowhere to be found.

  Again his phone rang, but still David ignored it. Frantic, he looked for Najjar in, behind, and around car after car. Up and down the block he searched, to no avail. Now his phone vibrated. Furious, he checked the text message. It was from Eva.

  EF: 3rd bldg on rt.

  David suddenly got it. He glanced at the sky, thankful for Eva and her team watching his back from two hundred miles up. He made his way up the street to the third apartment building on the right, a four-story walk-up that had seen better days. A few bright orange geraniums in ceramic pots gave the place a look of pride and even some cheer, despite its faded glory. Why was Najjar in there? Who had taken him? There wasn’t anyone standing outside the building.

  David was out of time. How could he search every apartment before the whole area was flooded with police? But what other choice did he have? He pressed himself close to the dirty windows, thankful that the caked dirt from the city streets obscured any view from inside. His gun drawn, he slowly edged his way toward the entrance, wondering what had happened to the doorman. There was one at every apartment building in this city; they were there supposedly for security but in reality spent their time smoking cigarettes and minding everyone’s business. But there was no doorman here, only an empty chair on the front steps.

  David did a quick peek into the lobby, fearing the worst.

  Najjar was there, but he was not alone. On the marble floor next to him were the laptop and accessories. And in Najjar’s arms was the six-year-old girl from the street. He was trying to keep her warm and telling her everything would be all right.

  David began to breathe again. “Didn’t I tell you not to move?”

  “I didn’t want her to get hit,” Najjar said.

  David wiped blood from his mouth. “We need to go.”

  “There’s a Renault out front, and it’s running,” Najjar said.

  “Where’s the owner?”

  “She jumped out to help me with the girl. I asked her to find a blanket, and she went upstairs to knock on doors.”

  David nodded. “Then we’d better move now, before she gets back.”

  88

  It was beautiful—and theirs for the taking.

  Not seeing anyone looking their way, David and Najjar bolted across the street and got in the platinum Renault coupe. David did a K-turn and swung the Renault around, and the two men were on their way.

  With the exception of emergency vehicles approaching them, the northbound side of Azizi Boulevard was fairly clear. The disaster behind them prevented any vehicles from heading north and had no doubt backed up traffic for many kilometers. David turned west on Salehi, then took a right on the Jenah Highway. Their route to Karaj was going to be a bit circuitous and would take longer than he’d hoped, but at least they were finally on their way as Eva—using live imagery from a KH-12 Keyhole satellite—helped them navigate around police checkpoints, roadblocks, and further traffic.

  David felt no sense of relief, however. They were far from safe, and he was under no illusions. His diversion hadn’t worked as intended. He’d hoped to create a wreck that would shake the police car following them, lock up traffic behind him, allow him to steal a car that still worked, and let him slip away with Najjar unnoticed. He hadn’t planned on becoming a cop killer in the process, and the notion haunted him. Everything had spiraled out of control. He’d had no other choice. He’d only fired in self-defense. But his mission was now in jeopardy.

  If anyone could give an accurate description of him to the Tehran police . . .

  David couldn’t bear the implications of where that sentence led, and he dreaded his next conversation with Zalinsky, who, of course, had watched it all play out in real time. He needed to focus on something else. So as they left the city limits of Tehran, David turned to his passenger, who was sitting silently, his head down in prayer.

  “Najjar, I actually have some good news.”

  Najjar looked up.

  “I was about to tell you this earlier, but then everything started going crazy.”

  “What?”

  “My team tells me your family wasn’t in the motel room when the police got there.”

  Najjar sat up straight. “You’re sure?”

  “Absolutely. We’ve intercepted phone messages from the local police saying the place was empty when they raided it.”

  “Thank God,” Najjar said. “Where are they?”

  “We don’t know,” David said. “But I told you my people would do everything they can to find them, and they are.”

  “Thank you.” Najjar’s face brightened in an instant. “Thank you so much, Mr. Tabrizi. How can I ever repay you?”

  “Your information is more than enough.”

  “But you’re risking your life to help me, to protect me. I am very grateful.”

  “You’re risking your life, too, Najjar.” David kept driving for a few moments. “But you’re welcome,” he added quietly.

  Najjar looked out the window, then suddenly turned back to David. “Could I have your phone?” he said. “I just had an idea. I want to try to call my wife.”

  “How?”

  “She has a mobile phone.”

  “She does? You never said that.”

  “We thought she’d been captured,” Najjar said. “There was no point. But now . . .”

  David wasn’t authorized to let a foreign national use his Agency phone. But there was a mobile phone plugged into the cigarette lighter right in front of them. “Here, use this one,” he said.

  Najjar punched the number and hit Send, and ten seconds later, he was talking to his wife, telling her how much he loved her, asking where sh
e was, and relaying David’s cryptic instructions on how they should get to Karaj and where they should meet.

  David thought he had never seen a man so happy.

  Karaj, Iran

  At the safe house, David dressed Najjar’s wounds.

  Only then did he tend to his own and find some clothes for them to change into that reasonably approximated their sizes.

  Najjar ate a little and fell fast asleep. David unlocked a vault stacked with communications gear and uploaded everything on Dr. Saddaji’s laptop, external hard drive, and DVD-ROMs to Langley, with encrypted copies cc’d to Zalinsky and Fischer in Dubai. Then he typed up his report of all that had happened so far and e-mailed that encrypted file to Zalinsky and Fischer as well.

  At six the next morning, word came that the plane had arrived. David woke Najjar, loaded the computer equipment into a duffel bag, and took the bag and Najjar to the garage downstairs, where he had parked the Renault. Ten minutes later, they arrived at the edge of the private airfield.

  David pointed to the Falcon 200 business jet on the tarmac. “There’s your ride,” he said.

  “You’re kidding me,” Najjar said.

  “Have you ever flown on a private jet?” David asked.

  “No, never.”

  “Well, it’s about time. Your family is already onboard. My people are taking care of them as we speak. They’re all waiting for you. You’d better hurry.”

  “What about you?” Najjar asked. “You’re coming too, aren’t you?”

  “No.”

  “Why? You can’t stay here.”

  “It’s my job, and there’s more to be done,” David said.