The Tehran Initiative

by Joel C. Rosenberg

  But his father cut him off. “No, no, David; you have to go. You have to. Your country needs you, especially now.”

  “But, Dad, there are others who—”

  But Dr. Shirazi would have none of it. “I’m so proud of you, David.”

  “You are?”

  “Of course. Your mother would be too.”

  David bit his lip. This wasn’t a reaction he’d even considered.

  “Honestly, I wish I was young enough to do the same thing.” Dr. Shirazi smiled faintly and put his arm on David’s shoulder.

  “Join the CIA?”

  “Of course.”

  “But why?”

  “Because America saved my life, and your mother’s. The CIA and the State Department saved our lives. I’ll never forget what Jack Zalinsky and Charlie Harper did. They risked their lives to get us out of Iran. They adopted us into this country. Don’t get me wrong, Son; I love Iran for giving me birth, but I’m disgusted by what the mullahs are doing to the people. I loathe Ayatollah Hosseini and President Darazi. I despise everything they stand for. They’re suffocating Iran’s economy. They’re devouring Iran’s children. They’re strangling Iran’s future, and they don’t care. They’re cult members and murderers, both of them. They deny the Holocaust, and they want to murder six million Israeli Jews. And that’s not even their main goal. Israel is just the small devil. America is the big devil. Hosseini and Darazi want to annihilate us all. They want to murder Christians along with Jews, plus every Muslim who doesn’t believe what they believe. They want the whole world to bow down and worship the Twelfth Imam, all to bring about their Caliphate and the end of the world. They are evil, David, sheer evil. Someone has to stop them. Someone has to go in there and cut through all their lies and all their defenses and find a way to put an end to all this madness. And believe me, David, if I were younger, I would join the CIA and go back to Iran and put a bullet through both their heads. I thought about that many times over the years, but I’m ashamed to say I never had the guts to do it. But I will die a happy man—your mother will die a happy woman—if that someone is you. At least our lives will have meant something. At least we’ll have done something right.”

  9

  Tehran, Iran

  Hosseini set down the folder and turned on the television.

  He soon found himself glued to Iran’s state-run news channel, showing alternating coverage of the Twelfth Imam’s inaugural address in Mecca only four days before and the news out of Manhattan. As he stared at the mesmerizing images and listened to the reporting and analysis, Hosseini found himself in near disbelief. For decades he had prayed for this moment—dreamed of it, studied for it, prepared for it. But though he didn’t dare confide this to any of his subjects or staff, the Supreme Leader of the Islamic Republic of Iran wasn’t sure if he had ever fully believed such a moment would truly happen in his lifetime, much less that he would be so intimately involved. It was one thing to believe oneself to be living in the end of days, but it was quite another to be certain.

  As a child, his parents and teachers had taught him that one day, Muhammad Ibn Hasan Ibn Ali—aka the Promised One, the Mahdi, the Lord of the Age, the Twelfth Imam—would return from hiding or “occultation,” bring Jesus as his deputy, force all Jews and Christians and other infidels to convert or perish, destroy the leaders of enemy nations, and then reestablish the Islamic Caliphate once and for all. Seven decades later, he could still remember word for word a passage from one of his grandfather’s books on Shia eschatology that his father had required him to memorize. The words were seared into his psyche forever, and as he watched a montage of video clips, they began to tumble involuntarily from his lips.

  “‘He will appear as a handsome young man, clad in neat clothes and exuding the fragrance of paradise. His face will glow with love and kindness for the human beings. He has a radiant forehead, piercing black eyes, and a broad chest. He very much resembles his ancestor, the prophet Muhammad. Heavenly light and justice accompany him. He will overcome enemies and oppressors with the help of God, and as per the promise of the Almighty, the Mahdi will eradicate all corruption and injustice from the face of the earth and establish the global government of peace, justice, and equity.’”

  How poor even the blessed Farsi language was at painting the portrait of the man who had come to save them, Hosseini thought.

  With an estimated fourteen million faithful breathlessly awaiting his first formal public appearance, the Twelfth Imam had emerged from the shadows and taken center stage. He appeared significantly younger and strikingly more good looking than Hosseini had imagined growing up. But there was no question it was him, and what a contrast to Hosseini’s old nemesis, Abdullah Mohammad Jeddawi. The Sunni Saudi king looked positively ancient as he bowed in his standard white robes before the Shia messiah. What’s more, the man looked ashen, his face gaunt, his hands trembling. Hosseini couldn’t remember a single word Jeddawi had uttered in his brief and pathetic introduction, but he hadn’t forgotten a single syllable of the Mahdi’s brief and powerful message—nor would he.

  “It is time,” the Twelfth Imam had said with a strong, booming voice that instantly seemed to command both reverence and respect. “The age of arrogance and corruption and greed is over. A new age of justice and peace and brotherhood has come. It is time for Islam to unite.”

  The crowd in Mecca had erupted with an intensity Hosseini had never witnessed in any public event, not even the Friday sermons delivered by his own mentor and guide when the Islamic Revolution had first begun in 1979.

  “No longer do Muslims have the luxury of petty infighting and division. Sunnis and Shias must come together,” the Mahdi had continued. “It is time to create one Islamic people, one Islamic nation, one Islamic government. It is time to show the world that Islam is ready to rule. We will not be confined to geographical borders, ethnic groups, and nations. Ours is a universal message that will lead the world to the unity and peace the nations have thus far found elusive.”

  Men were spellbound. Women wept. And Hosseini felt a pang of regret that he had not insisted upon being there to experience this historic, transformative event in person.

  “Cynics and skeptics abound. But to them I say, it is time. Time for you to open your eyes and open your ears and open your hearts. It is time for you to see and hear and understand the power of Islam, the glory of Islam. And today, let this process of education begin. I have come to usher in a new kingdom, and today I announce to you that the governments of Iran, Saudi Arabia, and the Gulf States are joining together as one nation. This will form the core of the Caliphate. My agents are in peaceful, respectful discussions with all the other governments of the region, and in short order we will be announcing our expansion. To those who would oppose us, I would simply say this: The Caliphate will control half the world’s supply of oil and natural gas, as well as the Gulf and the shipping lanes through the Strait of Hormuz. The Caliphate will have the world’s most powerful military, led by the hand of Allah. Furthermore, the Caliphate will be covered by a nuclear umbrella that will protect the people from all evil. The Islamic Republic of Iran has successfully conducted a nuclear weapons test. Their weapons are now operational. They have just handed over command and control of these weapons to me. We seek only peace. We wish no harm against any nation. But make no mistake: any attack by any state on any portion of the Caliphate will unleash the fury of Allah and trigger a War of Annihilation.”

  * * *

  En Route to Washington, DC

  The Agency-owned Citation climbed rapidly and banked southeast.

  David sat alone on the eight-seat business jet, ensconced in a Corinthian-leather seat, staring down at the city of his youth as it shrank in the distance behind them. He was shocked by, but grateful for, his father’s unexpected blessing. He had never dreamed of doing any of this when he was growing up. When he’d joined the Agency, he certainly had never imagined his parents approving. Just the opposite. He’d been certain they’d
be furious, and he’d been glad that he was not legally allowed to tell them. But now he wished he’d broken the law earlier, telling them from the beginning. Finding out that he actually had his parents’ full support would have relieved a lot of stress.

  The conversation with his father had gone much better than he’d thought on so many levels. After talking awhile longer about the CIA, David had even told him a little about his breakfast with Marseille and about the feelings he was having for her again. To his surprise, his father had actually encouraged David to keep in touch with her and try his best to, at the very least, rebuild the friendship. “Even if nothing else comes of it,” his father had said, “you could do worse than having a Harper for a friend.” His father had even mentioned not once but twice how grateful he’d been when Marseille sent flowers and a note to the hospital, and when David asked if it would be appropriate if his father added Marseille to the list of those he was e-mailing with occasional updates on his mother’s condition, he’d agreed.

  Now, however, it was time for David to shift gears. Before him lay a folder of classified cable traffic and raw intel reports from throughout the Middle East, including Iran. As they reached cruising altitude, he felt completely overwhelmed by the thought of how desperately he needed to catch up on all that had happened in the past few hours and how urgently he needed to develop a plan. Was he really going back into Iran within the next twenty-four hours? It was an order he both expected and worried would be issued the moment he arrived at Langley, and if it was, he wouldn’t simply be going in to “oversee” the team of Munich Digital Systems technicians already on the ground and working around the clock in Tehran. Events were spinning out of control. War was coming too quickly. They needed an entirely different approach. But what?

  David forced himself to sift through the contents of the folder. The Twelfth Imam’s decision to head from Saudi Arabia to Lebanon caught his eye first. David had expected the Mahdi to return to Tehran after his big coming-out party in Mecca. But he’d been wrong, and that worried him. He’d been distracted for the past several days. He was having trouble focusing. He stared out the window for several minutes, saw nothing but a black night sky, then closed his eyes and tried to recalibrate.

  What is the Mahdi doing? What does he want? How will he try to get it? What is driving him? Vanity? Power? With so many nations and leaders joining the Caliphate so rapidly, why is he heading to Lebanon, of all places? Isn’t Lebanon already controlled by Shias? Isn’t Hezbollah the wholly owned subsidiary of Iran? Haven’t Hezbollah’s leaders and rank-and-file members been pining for the coming of the Twelfth Imam for decades? Why spend precious time shoring up his base?

  David chewed on that awhile. Yes, the Mahdi had the passion of the masses in Lebanon, particularly the Shia-dominated southern tier. But perhaps he was trying to make sure Hezbollah was truly ready for war with Israel and would be loyal to him when he ordered them to strike. Perhaps he was going to review the troops. Perhaps he was going to make sure Hezbollah’s fifty thousand–plus rockets and missiles aimed at Israel were in place, fueled, armed, and ready to go. Maybe this wasn’t public relations but final preparations for war.

  If that were true, where might the Mahdi go next after Beirut? David quickly scanned through the folder to see if there was any intel about the Mahdi’s schedule for the week. Unfortunately, there was none. Even details about the day ahead were sketchy.

  But something else struck David as odd as he forced himself to focus on the intel before him. He noticed that neither US spy satellites nor the NSA was picking up any evidence that the Israel Defense Forces were mobilizing for war. Why not? Hadn’t Prime Minister Naphtali nearly been assassinated just hours ago? Hadn’t the Iranians tested an atomic bomb just days before? Wasn’t Shia Islam’s so-called messiah heading for the northern border of Israel? Why weren’t the Israelis moving to a higher-alert status in anticipation of more attacks? Something didn’t add up.

  His phone vibrated. A text message was coming in. He checked it immediately, hoping it was from Marseille or his father. Instead, it was from Eva Fischer, letting him know that she would be the one picking him up from Reagan National once he landed. She hoped he was doing well, she said, and she had news, though she left it unspecified.

  David set the phone down and stared out the window. He was still struggling to clear his head of the cancer consuming his mother, his father’s crushing grief over her seemingly imminent death, and his own grief as well, not to mention thoughts of Marseille. He was a professional, he told himself. He could not let himself be encumbered or bogged down. He had to sharpen his focus for the mission ahead. It was for Marseille and his parents that he had joined the Central Intelligence Agency in the first place, was it not? To avenge them. To defend them. It was for them, not for himself, that he had left the comforts of home and been willing to go into the heart of darkness. He would never have chosen this life for himself. He wasn’t that brave. He wasn’t that adventurous.

  Unchecked, David knew his love for his parents and for Marseille might threaten to divert him from his destiny, tempt him to renege on his duty, all out of a desire to remain with the ones he cared for so deeply. But now, in no small measure because of the talk with his father, he realized that it was precisely because he loved them that he had to leave them. Such love had to compel him to keep his word and return to the battle, to fight for those he loved, to protect them, to honor them, and to give them the freedom to live their lives without fear or regret—even to lay down his very life if necessary.

  It was time. He was ready. Now there was just one piece of unfinished business—he had to decide whether to tell Marseille what he was doing and why.

  10

  Washington, DC

  Eva Fischer was waiting for him as promised.

  As David stepped off the jet and into the chilly night air at Washington’s Reagan National Airport, Eva gave him a long hug and asked about his mother. David appreciated the gesture and filled her in as best he could as they got in her car and headed to Langley. He felt like he should reciprocate, but David realized he knew hardly anything about Eva’s personal life, and at that moment it somehow felt awkward to ask. He was certain she wasn’t married. She wasn’t wearing a ring, and in all the time they’d worked together, she’d never mentioned a boyfriend, much less a fiancé. He wondered why. Blonde, blue-eyed, in good shape, and attractive, she was certainly one of the most eligible single women in their division, maybe in the entire Agency. He’d been interested in her since the first day they’d met, and if Marseille weren’t suddenly back in the picture . . .

  It was not a thought he wanted to finish. He realized that work typically dominated all of their conversations. Perhaps it should again, he decided.

  “So what’s your news?” he asked, running his hands through his hair and shifting gears. “Is it about the president?”

  It wasn’t. She had nothing new to report on Jackson’s condition beyond what the media was reporting. He was alive and was still in surgery. Beyond that, the doctors were keeping tight-lipped. Eva said the White House press secretary had announced she would do a briefing at the top of the hour. The National Security Council had just finished meeting with the vice president, but apparently the twenty-fifth amendment was not being invoked. Not yet, at least.

  “Let’s hope that’s a good sign,” David said.

  Eva agreed, then shared the news she’d hinted about in her text. “I just talked to one of my friends over at the Secret Service. They’re all under strict orders not to say anything. They don’t want it to leak to the media yet. But they killed one of the terrorists in Manhattan during the attack, they captured another, and a third escaped. There’s a massive manhunt under way for him at the moment.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “Jack wants me to head up to New York after our meeting tonight to be part of the interrogation team.”

  “That’s phenomenal.”

  “Thanks. I know. I’m excited.
Whoever this guy is, we need to squeeze him hard. Are there other attacks coming? Who sent them? Where’d they get their weapons? How did they get into the country? Is there anyone else involved in the cell? All that.”

  “What’s your sense of it?”

  “There’ve got to be more people involved,” she said. “The Service and FBI guys think so too. They found a cell phone on the guy they captured. They’re running the LUDs now and seeing who he called and when.”

  “Do you know their nationalities yet?”

  “Nothing definitive. Just ‘Middle East origin.’ That’s it so far.”

  * * *

  “Excuse me, ma’am, do you have any updates on the Portland flight?”

  Marseille Harper’s flight out of Syracuse had been repeatedly delayed and hadn’t landed at Washington Dulles until just after 6 p.m. She’d missed her 5:35 p.m. connection back to Oregon, though it had been canceled anyway. She had been standing in line at the United customer service desk ever since.

  Massive late-season snow and ice storms in the Midwest and Northwest, some of them quite severe, had caused dozens of major airports to be shut down, and hundreds of flights were canceled. United wasn’t alone in routing flights to its Dulles operations hub, and now thousands of passengers found themselves stranded, frustrated, and trying to figure out another way to their homes, businesses, or other destinations.

  “Portland?” the harried customer service rep asked above the din.

  “Yes, I really need to get home tonight,” Marseille said, trying to imagine twenty-three little faces showing up in her classroom the next morning without her being there to greet them.

  “Good luck, honey. Nothing’s moving to the Northwest today. Probably not even tomorrow. Haven’t you seen the news?”