The Tehran Initiative

by Joel C. Rosenberg

  He raced upstairs, past the children’s rooms to the master bedroom at the end of the hall, grateful that the layout of the house was exactly the same as the one from which he had just come. And there, to his relief, on the nightstand by the bed he found a spare set of keys—along with a cell phone. He grabbed both, found a pad of paper and a pen on the dresser, and scribbled out a short message—a thank-you—and his name. He was ready to go to jail for this if need be. He wasn’t going to hide what he had done. He just hoped he could stay ahead of the CIA and the police long enough to do what he had to.

  Najjar raced downstairs, through the laundry room, and back to the garage. He unlocked the driver’s-side door of the red Toyota Corolla, got in, and quickly acclimated himself to the dashboard. Then he adjusted the mirrors, turned on the engine, hit the garage door opener clipped to the visor, and backed out as carefully as he could, half-expecting the house to be fully surrounded by American agents by that point. But it wasn’t. He could hear a siren in the distance, making his heart beat even faster. Then he put the garage door down again and pulled out of the neighborhood, not exactly sure where he was headed but determined not to look back.

  * * *

  En Route to Tehran

  David couldn’t wait to get on the ground in Tehran.

  Having been cooped up on one flight after another for nearly twenty-four hours, he was eager to get to his hotel, take a shower, and get an early start on the day. In the meantime, he made a mental checklist of his next moves.

  His top priority was hunting down Jalal Zandi and Tariq Khan. His best shot, he figured, was to reconnect with Dr. Alireza Birjandi, code-named Chameleon. Thus far his most useful asset, Chameleon was essentially a mole inside the upper echelons of the Iranian regime. It was from Birjandi he had learned that Iran now had eight operational warheads, and it was Birjandi who had pointed him to Najjar Malik, an absolute treasure trove of intel for Langley. Perhaps the eighty-three-year-old professor, scholar, author, and leading expert on Shia eschatology—widely described in the Iranian media as a spiritual mentor or advisor to several of the top leaders in the Iranian regime, including Ayatollah Hosseini and President Darazi—could help him track down Zandi and Khan as well.

  Birjandi regularly met with both Hosseini and Darazi, and he’d been willing to share with David information from these meetings—information that had proven invaluable. If David remembered correctly, Birjandi was scheduled to have lunch with one of the leaders the following day. He was determined to be the last person Birjandi talked to before going into that lunch and the first person Birjandi spoke to when it was over. At the very least, he hoped he could gain critical insight on the regime’s latest thinking, especially after the assassination attempt on the Twelfth Imam. Whom did they hold responsible—the US, Israel, or someone else? How were they planning to respond? How quickly were the Iranians—or the Mahdi—planning to use the eight warheads in their possession? Was Israel the first target? Had they truly been unable to attach the warheads to ballistic missiles yet? Would the Iranian missile boats heading through the Suez Canal in the next few days be carrying nuclear warheads? The list of questions David needed answers to was growing by the hour.

  25

  Jerusalem, Israel

  It was 8:12 p.m. Jerusalem time.

  Roger Allen was finally ushered into the prime minister’s spacious, wood-paneled office. He was in a foul mood and more than ready to have a very candid conversation about the importance of maintaining good professional relations between two allies. But the moment he saw Naphtali, a man he had known personally for more than four decades, Allen’s tone changed completely. He suddenly realized that not a single photograph of the PM had been released since the attack, and now he knew why. The official government spokesman had told the international press corps that Naphtali had “miraculously” received only “minor wounds.” Nothing, it was now clear, could have been further from the truth. The man’s entire face was bandaged, as were his hands. He was wearing not a suit but light-blue scrubs, like a surgeon would wear. Hovering in the background was Naphtali’s personal physician, and a bed specially designed for burn victims was set up in the corner, alongside an array of monitors, medical trays, and various other types of equipment.

  “Asher, I heard you’d suffered more than publicly known,” Allen blurted out, dispensing with formalities, “but I had no idea how serious it was. Why didn’t you tell us?”

  “You know exactly why,” Naphtali said, clearly unable to shake hands but gesturing to the couch for Allen to sit down.

  “The Iranians.”

  “They would think we were coming for them tonight.”

  “Didn’t you just do that?” Allen said, choosing to stand instead when he realized Naphtali was unable to sit.

  “The hit on the Twelfth Imam?”

  “That was a mistake, Asher.”

  “It wasn’t. He killed Abdel. He tried to take out your president. He tried to kill me. We didn’t have a choice.”

  “You nearly killed an eleven-year-old boy.”

  “We didn’t know he was in there.”

  “You killed his parents.”

  “We didn’t know they were in the car either.”

  “Then you shouldn’t have ordered the shot.”

  “We didn’t start this war, Roger. Look at me.”

  “I know, but it was a foolish move. You’ve made a hero out of him.”

  “Roger, the Muslims think he’s the messiah. He was a hero the moment he stepped out onstage in Mecca and King Jeddawi bowed down before him.”

  “Now you’ve made him look invincible.”

  “I was promised he wouldn’t survive. No Mahdi, no Caliphate. The IDF told me it was going to be a surgical strike.”

  “They never are.”

  “No, not always,” Naphtali said, asking his physician to give them the room for a few minutes before continuing. “I’m sorry to make you wait.”

  Allen held his tongue.

  “I’m sure you think it was personal,” the prime minister said.

  “Not at all,” Allen said.

  “Don’t lie to me, Roger. We’ve known each other for forty years. You think I’m mad at you. But I’m not. Well, okay, I am, but that’s not why I kept you waiting out there so long.”

  “Why, then?”

  “We just had an emergency meeting with the Security Cabinet. The Mossad says the Iranians are moving five warships into the Med. They’re heading north up the Red Sea right now and are set to pass through the Suez Canal tomorrow. We think two are heading for Turkey, while the other three will go to Syria. They’re destroyers and missile boats, and I don’t have to tell you what a provocative act this is right now.”

  “I haven’t heard definitive intel on that.”

  “Given the last twenty-four hours, you’re not exactly instilling me with confidence that the US is on top of things.”

  “I’ll look into it,” Allen said.

  “You’ll do better than that,” Naphtali said. “I want the president to block the Suez Canal and refuse the Iranian warships entry into the Med.”

  “Asher, please, we can’t do that. It’s tantamount to an act of war.”

  “And Iranian missile boats off the coast of Tel Aviv and Haifa aren’t?”

  “This isn’t the first time the Iranians have sent warships into the Med.”

  “This is the first time those ships could have nuclear warheads on board.”

  “You don’t know they do.”

  “I can’t take the risk, Roger. This is a red line for me and my government.”

  Allen felt like he was being backed into a corner, and he didn’t like it. “You’re preparing for war, Asher.”

  “I don’t want war. That’s not my intention.”

  “But you see one coming.”

  “You don’t?”

  “It doesn’t have to come to that. We’re actually opening a back channel with the Mahdi. We have reason to believe he wants to cont
act the president directly and talk peace and find a way to de-escalate the situation.”

  “Assassination and warships don’t signal de-escalation.”

  “Look, Asher, we don’t know for certain who is responsible for the attacks in New York. We certainly don’t know it was Iran.”

  Allen knew full well that wasn’t true. He’d gotten off the phone with Tom Murray less than an hour ago. He knew all about the Yazidi brothers and their connection to the Nouri family. But he was under strict orders from the president to keep the Israelis from launching a preemptive strike. He hadn’t had time to discuss the latest intel with the president, but he had no doubt Jackson would not permit him to disclose such information to the Israelis, for fear that such proof would provide the casus belli for an Israeli attack.

  * * *

  Langley, Virginia

  “What do you mean you can’t find him?”

  The more Eva Fischer heard from the watch commander at the safe house, the more furious she became. “How do you lose the most important defector in a generation?”

  There was nothing the commander could say that could possibly calm her down. So she cut him off and told him exactly what to do. “Call Fairfax County police. Get them his name and photo and tell them he’s wanted by federal authorities. Don’t tell them he’s a defector or that he’s an Iranian national. Got that?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Get the neighborhood sealed off. No one goes in or out without a full search. He can’t have gotten far. He’s never been to the US. He’s obviously not familiar with the area, he’s on foot, and he’s not dangerous. He’s not a threat to the neighbors. But he is smart, and he has had at least a forty-five-minute head start. So have the cops put checkpoints up at every major intersection for ten miles in every direction. And you’d better catch him fast, Commander, or your career is finished.”

  * * *

  Jerusalem, Israel

  Allen continued his case to the prime minister.

  “We’re doing everything we can to investigate what happened in Manhattan, Asher. But at this moment we don’t know exactly who was responsible, and the stakes are too high for guessing. We can’t slide or drift or lurch our way into war with Iran or with the Twelfth Imam based on guesses and hunches, and neither can you.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Roger, please tell me you’re kidding.”

  “I’m not.”

  “You think I need to know who tried to kill me to take the State of Israel to war? That would merely be the proverbial straw. Please tell me you’re not forgetting the nuclear weapons test in Hamadan. Please tell me you’re not forgetting the Twelfth Imam’s assertion in Mecca that Iran has nuclear weapons, and that command and control of those weapons are being transferred to his authority. Please tell me you didn’t miss the Mahdi’s press conference in Beirut in which he told the BBC, ‘The Zionist regime is heading toward annihilation’ whether I’m dead or not.”

  “The president called me on my way to see you,” Allen said.

  “How is he?”

  “About the same as you, as it turns out.”

  “I’d like to call him and tell him I’ve asked all the people of Israel to pray for his speedy recovery.”

  “That’s very kind. I’ll let him know. In the meantime, he wanted me to pass on to you a very specific message, in person, face-to-face.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “You know the people of Israel have no greater friend than the American government.”

  “But . . . ?”

  “But under no circumstances can the president tolerate an Israeli first strike against Iran.”

  The words just hung in the air, as incendiary as they were direct.

  “I don’t want a war with Iran, Roger. I thought I had made that clear.”

  “You don’t want one, Mr. Prime Minister, but you might be tempted to order one anyway. I am here as a personal representative of the president of the United States to make it unequivocally clear that our government wholly, completely, and utterly opposes a preemptive strike by the State of Israel on the Islamic Republic of Iran.”

  “Under any circumstances?”

  “The president opposes a preemptive strike under any circumstances.”

  “He wants to dictate to a sovereign nation how to defend her people and prevent a second Holocaust?”

  “The president is ready to make it worth your while.”

  “Meaning what?”

  Allen pulled out of his suit pocket a page of handwritten notes with a deal dictated by the president over the phone less than ninety minutes earlier. He offered it to Naphtali, but the PM couldn’t hold it in his hands, so Allen read it from beginning to end. It was an extraordinary deal, the most sweeping and lucrative ever offered by the US.

  1. $250 billion in advanced new fighter jets, missile defense systems, and two Los Angeles–class submarines to help Israel maintain her “qualitative edge” over her enemies

  2. A pledge of aggressive US support for Israel to join NATO as a full member in the next six months

  3. A pledge for the US to sign a full alliance treaty with Israel should the NATO deal stall or be denied, promising to go to war alongside Israel if the Jewish State were ever attacked by Iran

  4. A pledge for the US to build a new American embassy in Jerusalem within eighteen months of acceptance of this deal, and for the president to publicly declare Jerusalem the “eternal, undivided capital of the Jewish State of Israel”

  There was, of course, a price: Israel had to forswear any preemptive strike against the Islamic Republic of Iran for at least the next five years.

  “It is a very generous offer,” the prime minister said, “but it doesn’t solve the problem. Iran already has several nuclear warheads. Next month, it will have more. The month after that, it will have even more. This growing arsenal of annihilation is controlled by madmen who have specifically and repeatedly and publicly threatened to attack us—and you, I might add. Now the president is asking us to accept this American largesse on the hope—some in my government would say the false hope—that Iran or the Mahdi can be deterred or contained over the next five years. I’m not certain this is possible.”

  “Well, that’s the president’s offer,” Allen said. “I’m afraid it’s not open for negotiation.”

  “And if we decline?” Naphtali asked.

  Allen had hoped he wouldn’t be asked. He was not comfortable with the answer, but he served at the pleasure of the president.

  “Asher, as a friend, I cannot stress how strongly the president opposes an Israeli first strike.”

  “I understand,” Naphtali replied. “But if we find ourselves with no other choice?”

  “There is always another choice.”

  “But if we get to a point where we don’t see it that way, what happens then?”

  “Please don’t ask me that.”

  “Roger, there’s an ultimatum here. I can feel it. Just tell me what it is.”

  Allen looked away and took a deep breath, then looked back in his friend’s eyes. “Should the government of the State of Israel defy the wishes of the president and thereby endanger American national security and the security of the entire region by launching a preemptive strike or series of strikes against Iran, then my government would have no choice but to halt and rescind all foreign military assistance indefinitely.”

  26

  Tehran, Iran

  David landed in Tehran late Tuesday night, local time.

  He powered up his phone and found a rare e-mail from his brother Azad.

  Hey, David—not sure where you are right now but thought you’d like to know you’re an uncle. Nora delivered a beautiful, healthy, strapping baby boy this morning. We’ve named him Peter Alexander Shirazi, after Nora’s grandfather. He’s seven pounds, six ounces, with thin little wisps of black hair. Nora’s labor was difficult, but overall she’s doing well. I’ll t
ake her home tomorrow. Her mom came in from Ohio last night and will be here for as long as we need her to help out. I just talked to Dad to tell him the good news. I’m sure he’s glad to be a grandpa, but I don’t think he can focus so much right now. He said Mom’s condition seems to be worsening, and the doctors aren’t sure there is anything else they can do for her. Thought you’d want to know I’m driving up there tonight to be with him and to see Mom and bring them some pictures before coming back for Nora in the morning. Anyway, call me when you can. Thanks. —Azad

  David smiled. He needed some good news. There had been far too little of it in the last few weeks. Part of him wished Azad had named his firstborn son after his own father or grandfather, but did the world really need another Mohammad Shirazi? As much as he loved his father, David couldn’t quite imagine naming his own son Mohammad, if he ever married and had a son, so he could hardly blame Azad for not doing so.

  It was time to move. David grabbed his jacket and briefcase from the overhead compartment and followed the crowd off the plane to a long line for passport control. Just then, however, someone tapped him on the shoulder.

  “Excuse me; are you Reza Tabrizi?” asked an airport official wearing a dark suit, starched white shirt, dark tie, and a security badge of some kind.

  “Yes, I am. May I help you?”

  “Please, Mr. Tabrizi, come with me.”

  “What about passport control?”

  “I will take care of that.”

  “And my luggage?”

  “One of my colleagues will collect your bags and bring them to me.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “We just have a few questions. It should only take a moment.”

  David complied. He had no choice. But he did not have a good feeling about what was going to happen next. They stepped away from the crowd, turning many heads in the process, and proceeded through several locked doors, along several nondescript hallways, down a stairwell, and into a small, windowless, cinder-block room. There were no furnishings, save two wooden chairs on either side of a simple wooden table.