The Tehran Initiative

by Joel C. Rosenberg

  “Yes. How can I help you?”

  “Honestly, my colleague whom you talked with yesterday was quite skeptical about your story. But we spent most of the night doing our homework and talking to sources, and we’re much more interested now.”

  Najjar tensed. Was he being set up? “I’m not sure I’m interested any longer, but thank you for calling.”

  He was about to hang up the phone, but the producer pleaded with him to stay on the line.

  “You were absolutely right,” Moore said. “This would be a huge story, unlike anything we’ve done in quite some time. You’ve got a very compelling story to tell, and it should be heard. We’re grateful you considered us.”

  “I’m not interested in being played, Mr. Moore,” Najjar responded. “I’ve got governments trying to arrest me and people trying to kill me, and I was hoping for more understanding from the BBC, of all places.”

  “You have it now, Dr. Malik. I’m very sorry. I know you have to be careful. I understand that. I do. But please understand that we have to be careful too. We can’t just let anyone come on the air. People try to play us every day. I’m sure you can imagine.”

  “I guess that would be true.”

  “Listen, Dr. Malik, rumors are flying that a war is going to break out any moment between Iran and Israel or between the US and Iran. Have you heard the news this morning?”

  “No. What?”

  “President Jackson ordered a second aircraft carrier battle group into the Persian Gulf, but the Washington Post says the White House has been engaged in secret discussions with the Twelfth Imam and that the president has accepted the Mahdi’s invitation to talk by phone next Tuesday.”

  “He’s stalling.”

  “Who?”

  “The Mahdi.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s going to launch the warheads, probably this weekend, but no later than Monday,” Najjar said.

  “How can you say that?” Moore asked. “Based on what?”

  “Mr. Moore, the Mahdi has control of eight nuclear warheads. Someone just tried to assassinate him. Maybe it was the Americans. Maybe it was the Israelis. But it doesn’t really matter. He wants revenge. He wants to destroy Judeo-Christian society once and for all. And he’s about to try.”

  “He keeps saying he wants peace.”

  “If he were really interested in peace, he’d be on the phone with the president right now. Why wait six days? There’s only one reason. To stall until he can launch.”

  “Come onto our network and say that,” Moore said. “The world needs to hear your perspective. We’ll tape an hour-long special. Maybe even a two-part series, if you’d like. This is an incredible moment, Dr. Malik. Remember, you came to us first. We did our due diligence. Now we’re ready. What do you say?”

  This was the moment of truth. He had to decide. He’d already shared with the Christian network his story of seeing the vision of Jesus Christ and renouncing Islam. BBC Persian was a huge opportunity. Plus, Moore was right; he had come to them. Najjar glanced in the rearview mirror. He looked horrible—unshowered, unshaven, bloodshot eyes. But he felt the Holy Spirit prompting him to say yes. He had asked for an opportunity to share the gospel with his people and to warn them war was coming. This was another open door, and a significant one at that.

  “Okay, Mr. Moore, I will do it,” he finally replied. “But only on one condition.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’m not going to do it taped. It has to be live, and it has to be now.”

  “The BBC doesn’t take well to conditions,” Moore replied.

  “Fair enough; then I pass.”

  “No, wait.”

  “Yes?”

  One of the BBC’s most senior producers was calculating the payoff on a huge risk. “I can’t get you on before ten Eastern. But if you can get to our DC studio by nine thirty, we’ll get you into makeup, walk you through a few logistics, and do a full-hour live interview from ten to eleven.”

  “No,” Najjar said. “The interview must be no longer than twenty minutes. That’s all the time I can afford. I can’t allow the authorities to track me down.”

  “Twenty minutes, fine. Starting at ten, okay?”

  “That’s six thirty in the evening in Tehran, right?”

  “Right,” Moore said. “And we’ll put together a promo and start running it right away.”

  “No,” Najjar said. “You can’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “People are looking for me, Mr. Moore. A lot of people. I’m taking a big enough risk as it is. I can’t give the Iranian intelligence services or the Americans a head start on finding me.”

  “I understand, but we’d really like to promote this thing, and—”

  “No, I’m sorry. That’s nonnegotiable.”

  There was a long pause. “Okay, fine. Anything else?”

  “Yes, one more thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Promise me you won’t identify where I’m being interviewed from—nothing that would indicate that I’m in DC or even in the US.”

  There was another long silence, so long, in fact, that Najjar began to wonder if they had been disconnected.

  “And that’s it—that’s all your requests?” Moore asked.

  “Yes, that’s all,” Najjar said.

  “Deal,” Moore said, then gave Najjar directions to the BBC’s studios in Washington, not far from the White House.

  * * *

  Langley, Virginia

  A storm was rolling in over northern Virginia and the District.

  Thunder rumbled in the distance as a light rain began to come down. Traffic on the George Washington Memorial Parkway was slow, but Marseille Harper had left in plenty of time, and she pulled onto the grounds of the George H. W. Bush Center for Central Intelligence ahead of schedule. Dressed in a conservative gray suit and equipped with a golf umbrella she’d bought in the hotel gift shop, she cleared the guard station, parked in the visitor lot, entered the main building, and went through security, receiving a temporary badge.

  While she waited to be escorted up to Deputy Director Tom Murray’s office, she tried to soak in all the atmospherics. The enormous seal of the CIA embedded in the gray-and-white marble floor in the Agency’s main lobby. The wall of stars, one for each employee ever killed while in the Agency’s employ. The large American flags and the various works of art. What surprised her most, however, was the Bible verse prominently displayed on one of the lobby walls, defining the mission of the entire Agency.

  “And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.”

  John 8:32

  A lump formed in her throat. That was all she wanted—the truth about her father.

  * * *

  Washington, DC

  “Mr. President, you have the CIA director on line two.”

  Jackson nodded and excused himself from a meeting with his chief economic advisors. He stepped out of the Roosevelt Room and back into the Oval Office, where he took the call in privacy.

  “Roger, how did this leak?” he bellowed, a copy of the Washington Post in his hands.

  “I have no idea, Mr. President,” Allen began. “We’re doing everything we can to find out, but honestly, sir, I’m not optimistic.”

  “I want someone’s head on a platter. We’re on the verge of war here, Roger. This is a very sensitive moment. I’m engaged in extremely delicate diplomatic maneuvers with the Mahdi, with Israel, with the Egyptians, and with the rest of our allies. And this is a huge blow.”

  “I know, sir. And believe me, it hasn’t helped the situation here.”

  “Please tell me you’ve made progress.”

  “A little, sir. But I’ve spent most of the last two hours on the phone with one of my oldest friends, listening to a rant on why you shouldn’t be engaging in back-channel discussions with the Twelfth Imam, of all people.”

  “Let me guess the number of times the words Hitler and Chamb
erlain and appeasement have been used.”

  “A few.”

  “And you’re telling me the prime minister of Israel doesn’t want my government to pursue every possible road to peace, to exhaust every option short of war?”

  “I’m telling you the Israelis think we don’t have the foggiest idea who the Twelfth Imam is, what he really wants, or how far he will go to get it. I’m telling you they think we’re about to get sucker punched because we don’t truly understand what kind of enemy we’re facing.”

  Jackson rubbed his eyes and changed the topic. “What about my offer?”

  “I’ve discussed it with him.”

  “And?”

  “I’ve discussed it some more.”

  “What’s there to discuss?” the president snapped. “I said it wasn’t open for negotiation. It’s take it or leave it. Period.”

  “I reiterated that,” Allen said, “and he says he needs clarifications on several issues.”

  “Like what?”

  “The top concern is what happens if Iran—or one of its proxies or allies or a combination—launches a first strike against Israel. What precisely will the US do for Israel in such a case?”

  “What did you say?”

  “I reiterated that we would keep all of our obligations to Israel. We’d accelerate shipments of already-purchased arms. We’d rush in additional Patriot missile batteries. We’d continue to coordinate on intelligence matters, and so forth.”

  “And?”

  “It wasn’t enough.”

  “Why not?”

  “Naphtali needs assurances—written, signed, Congress-approved guarantees, mind you—that the US would declare war against Israel’s enemies within twenty-four hours of the first attack, use US air superiority to help Israel punish the aggressors, and be willing to send in US ground forces alongside Israeli ground forces to overthrow any regime who participated in the attacks.”

  “That’s negotiating, Roger, and I won’t have it.”

  “That’s not how they see it, Mr. President.”

  The president swore. “I don’t care how they see it! I don’t work for Asher Naphtali, and I’m not going to let him tie my hands or the hands of my government in the event of a future attack on Israel.”

  “I hear you, Mr. President,” Allen said calmly, “but to be fair, he’s trying to get clarification on two of the key points in your offer. He said, first of all, that he’s grateful for your ‘pledge of aggressive US support for Israel to join NATO as a full member in the next six months.’ And second of all, he deeply appreciates your ‘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.’ But he needs to know precisely what that means.”

  “He’s trying to box me in,” Jackson said, pacing.

  “Again, he doesn’t see it that way.”

  “I think anyone would say I’m being exceedingly generous. No American president has ever offered the Israelis what I’m offering, starting with the Los Angeles–class submarines alone, not to mention everything else.”

  “The prime minister seems genuinely appreciative of the offer, in my view. However, he told me repeatedly that the devil is in the details and that there was simply no way his Cabinet would ever agree to such a deal, as generous as it is, without more clarity on just how far you and future American governments are willing to go to defend the Jewish people from a second Holocaust.”

  Increasingly exasperated, Jackson decided to shift gears again. “Are you picking up signs that the Israelis are preparing for a preemptive strike?”

  “Not as such,” Allen replied. “There is a lot of activity on the homeland security side. The government is urging the people to be prepared for any eventuality. They are issuing gas masks. They are deploying antimissile defenses. They’re stocking bomb shelters with food, water, diapers, and other essentials. Magen David Adom has just launched a massive blood drive. But the prime minister and his entire government are being very disciplined. They’re not hinting at an Israeli first strike. In fact, they keep saying they are doing everything they can to avoid war. But they are warning their people in no uncertain terms that war could be coming if Iran and the Twelfth Imam try to make good on their many threats.”

  “Are they calling up the Reserves?”

  “Not formally, though the Ministry of Defense has put all Reservists on alert.”

  “Any unusual air activity?”

  “Nothing out of the ordinary. But of course, the Israeli Air Force has been training heavily and aggressively for months, so it might be hard to distinguish what was accelerated activity at this point.”

  “You think he’ll do it?”

  “Asher?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do I think Asher will order a first strike?”

  “Right.”

  “If we don’t do more, and fast, then yes, Mr. President, I think he’s leaning that way.”

  “What more can we do?”

  “Honestly, sir, I think you should come over here and negotiate this thing yourself.”

  “Right now?”

  “When else?”

  “You want me to drop everything I’m doing and fly to Jerusalem for the day.”

  “I think it would send a powerful message to the Israeli people that the US is standing by our most stable democratic ally in the region. And I think it would send a powerful message to the Mahdi and his advisors that they’d better not play with fire. Because right now, sir, I think people over here are getting mixed signals.”

  “I can’t, Roger; not right now.”

  “Why not, sir? The entire region is on the brink.”

  “I know that. Of course I know that, but I just sent a message back to the Twelfth Imam. I told him that the United States is committed to peace in the region. We’re supposed to talk on Tuesday, once he finishes his tour of the region. Apparently, he’s supposed to be in Cairo today. Tomorrow he’ll be in Damascus. After that, who knows where? But how is it going to look if I show up in Jerusalem right at the point when we’re trying to establish a relationship?”

  “May I speak candidly, sir?”

  “Of course.”

  “It will look like you’re standing with an ally, while he stands with his. Look, Mr. President, Naphtali is asking me why you haven’t commented on the Twelfth Imam’s vow to build a new Caliphate. He and his aides are asking what the US position is on the Caliphate. I said we’re watching the situation very closely.”

  “And?”

  “They took that for what it was—a dodge. Mr. President, the Middle East is being radically reshaped as we speak. The Twelfth Imam has the initiative. By the time you talk to him on Tuesday, he could be in charge of everything from Egypt to Pakistan. I can’t tell you what to do. But my job is to tell you what I think is going to happen next, and I’m telling you we are losing the epicenter and we don’t have to. Naphtali insists the Sunni regimes are terrified of the Shias being in charge. He’s right. We have leverage, if we’ll use it.”

  “Where would you start?”

  “Look, I’m in the region. Send me to Amman today. I’ll talk to the king ahead of his meeting with the Mahdi. I’ll take his temperature and reassure him that you’re standing with him. Then I’d like to fly to Islamabad to see President Farooq. We know he’s hesitant about the Mahdi. I showed you that intercept. Let me go talk to him, reassure him that you won’t let his regime fall, that there’s an alternative to joining the Caliphate. Then, with your permission, I’d recommend I double back to Baghdad and then Cairo to meet with Vice President Riad and Field Marshal Yassin. Let me see how they’re doing after their meeting today with the Mahdi, see if we can help them build a Sunni alliance against him. I can’t promise all this will work. I don’t know that. But I know one thing: if the US does nothing, we’re going to lose everything.”

  “Do it,” the president said without hesitation.


  “The whole trip?” Allen clarified.

  “Yes. I think you’re right.”

  “And what should I tell Naphtali? Are you open to coming to Jerusalem in the next few days?”

  “I don’t know,” Jackson said. “I need to give that more thought.”

  “Time is short, Mr. President. I can’t stress that enough.”

  “I understand, Roger. Believe me—I understand.”

  35

  Langley, Virginia

  “Miss Harper,” a secretary said, “would you please follow me?”

  Marseille glanced at her watch. It was precisely 9 a.m., just as promised. She stood, smoothed the wrinkles out of her skirt, took a deep breath, and forced herself to smile as she followed the secretary into the office of the deputy director for operations.

  “You must be Marseille,” Murray said, shaking her hand and encouraging her to take a seat. He asked her if she wanted anything to drink.

  “Thank you, Mr. Murray. I’ll have some water, if that’s okay.”

  “Please, call me Tom,” he said warmly, asking his secretary to bring back a pitcher of water and some glasses. “What a joy to meet you. I’m so sorry about your father. I was a big fan of his. He really served his country well.”

  “That’s very kind of you, Mr. . . . um, well, sir,” Marseille replied. “I’m sorry; I don’t know why, but I’m feeling very nervous.”

  “Well, you don’t need to be. You’re practically family here. I actually knew both your parents. Oversaw your father’s training at the Farm. Selected him to go to Tehran in ’79. And to be honest, had to work very hard to make sure your mom never knew I worked here but thought I was with State. She was a very bright woman. I would have loved to have recruited her to work for us too, but your father was dead set against it.”

  “Why was that?”

  “He said Claire—er, your mom—didn’t have a poker face. ‘The woman can’t lie,’ he said. ‘It’s like genetic or something. She just can’t do it.’ Said she couldn’t cook, either. But I never had the chance to find out.”