The Tehran Initiative

by Joel C. Rosenberg

  “Nonsense—you’re practically family,” Nora said with a genuine warmth that touched Marseille. “Heck, you’ve known the Shirazis longer than I have, and Dad for one is really eager to see you. Honestly, when Azad told him you were coming, he said it was the first time in days when Dad’s spirits actually seemed to pick up a bit.”

  Then the baby started fussing. Nora apologized and said she had to go. Marseille said she understood and hung up, but as she drove, she wished they could have talked longer. It wasn’t just that Nora was part of the Shirazi family or that Nora had to have known David far better over the last few years than she had. It was also the sinking feeling that at the moment, she really had no one else to talk to.

  * * *

  Karaj, Iran

  David sat bolt upright in his bed.

  He checked his watch. It was not yet dawn, but he couldn’t believe he’d been sleeping for so long. He rubbed his eyes, then jumped up, splashed some water on his face, and quietly went out into the living room to find a laptop and log on to the Internet.

  Once online, he checked his AOL account, hoping to write a quick note to his dad and to Marseille. What he found, however, were nearly a dozen e-mails from Azad and Nora and even Saeed, and when he learned that his mother had died some forty-eight hours earlier and his brothers were angry that he wasn’t calling or e-mailing back, his heart broke.

  There were e-mails about the viewing and e-mails about the memorial service and e-mails about the burial, all of them asking where he was and when he was coming.

  What was he supposed to say to them? How could he possibly explain to them why he wasn’t going to be there for his own mother’s funeral or why he hadn’t even had the decency to be in touch with them? No lie would suffice. And for David, at the moment, not even the truth sufficed.

  * * *

  Syracuse, New York

  Marseille allowed herself extra time to get to the viewing.

  Not wanting to be late, she wound her way through the neighborhoods near the university, crossed Erie Boulevard, and started up the hills into the northern neighborhoods, thankful for her GPS. Carter Funeral Home was a lovely white building set away from the road. It looked welcoming. There were already several cars parked outside, though it was still thirty minutes before the visiting hours would begin.

  Hoping to have some quiet moments with David’s family, yet not sure if it was appropriate to show up early, she decided to just go in. The front doors were propped slightly open, and she could see a small group at the top of a short set of stairs. She suddenly worried that no one would recognize her and felt a flutter of fear and awkwardness. But as the older man in the center of the little knot of people glanced in her direction for a moment and she saw instant recognition light up his eyes, she sighed with relief and returned his smile.

  “My dear Marseille, it is so wonderful that you are here,” Dr. Shirazi said, wiping his tears and actually brightening. “I am so honored that you would come. To have such a longtime friend here with us means a great deal.”

  Dr. Shirazi came to her and embraced her, and she almost lost control of her emotions. To be in a father’s arms, to smell the somehow-familiar scent of pipe tobacco and aftershave, was almost too much to bear.

  “Dr. Shirazi, I am so glad to be here with you,” Marseille said, sniffling. “But I am so sorry for all the sadness you are bearing, that all of you are bearing. And I’m so sorry that David can’t be here.”

  Her voice faltered just then, and she suddenly wished she had waited for him to bring up David’s name.

  But Dr. Shirazi just patted her on the back. “Thank you, Marseille. The empathy of a friend is a treasure I do not take for granted. And I know you have had more sorrow than a young woman should ever be asked to bear. Thank you for sharing ours.”

  His words soothed her, and in her heart she thanked God for the kindness of this dear man.

  “And as for David,” Dr. Shirazi said softly and with an intensity that surprised her, “he is where he is needed most. I know it breaks his heart to miss this difficult time with the family. But my heart is not broken because he is a good son, because he sat with me and his mother for hours and cared for me, because he is a good man and this is the heart’s desire of any father. Do not judge him, Marseille. It is not vanity or riches that have prevented him from coming. He is doing his duty, and I am grateful—and I know his mother would be, too.”

  Marseille was amazed by the firm words and will of Dr. Shirazi. She wondered how he could have such strength, such faith in David, unless he knew the truth about who David worked for and where he now was. But how could he?

  “Come, now,” he said, taking her by the arm. “Come say hello to my other two sons. It has been a long time since you’ve seen each other, no?”

  David’s father guided her over to greet Azad and Saeed, two strikingly handsome men with the same piercing brown eyes as their younger brother. They each embraced her, kissing her on the cheek, and she fell into easy conversation with them all until people began arriving and they needed to host.

  62

  Karaj, Iran

  David spent the day forcing himself not to call home.

  He had returned all the e-mails from his family. He had told his brothers and Nora the best lie he could come up with, and he prayed to God his father could read between the lines and forgive him.

  As for Marseille, he hadn’t written her at all. He didn’t want to lie to her. He would rather say nothing than deceive her. But having no contact whatsoever was more painful than he thought he could bear. Did she know about his mother? Had anyone in his family thought to tell her? What would she think of him when she learned he hadn’t gone to the funeral, that he hadn’t even been in touch? What could he possibly say to her to make it right?

  Going stir crazy in the safe house, he called Zalinsky to check in. The news from Langley was mixed. Aside from the administration’s denunciation of the Israeli strikes and the president’s threat to support a UN Security Council resolution condemning the Jewish State for unprovoked and unwarranted acts of aggression, the early evidence suggested the Israeli operation had been far more effective than the Agency would have believed possible. It would still take days if not weeks to assess, but initial Keyhole satellite photography indicated that all of Iran’s major nuclear sites had been destroyed, as had most of their missile production sites. The Patriot missile batteries had worked better than expected in defending the Israeli homeland. In fact, what the media didn’t know yet, but the CIA had just confirmed, was one of the missiles shot down by a Patriot over Jerusalem had, in fact, been carrying a nuclear warhead. Fortunately, the missile had been destroyed before the warhead could arm itself, and recovery crews had been successful in locating the warhead’s uranium trigger before significant radiation could be released. What was more, it appeared the rest of the warheads had been taken out in the air strikes.

  Also remarkable, Zalinsky said, was that Israeli losses had been so low. Director Allen had told the president that Agency analysts envisioned the Israelis losing forty to sixty planes if they ever embarked on a preemptive strike—one of the reasons Jackson didn’t think Naphtali, in the end, would actually authorize such a mission. Actual planes downed, however, were far less. Only six F-16s had been shot down by ground-to-air missiles in Iran. Two more were lost to mechanical failures. A KC-130 tanker and an F-15 had suffered a midair collision over northeastern Syria during a refueling operation. But not a single Israeli plane had been shot down in combat.

  That said, the Twelfth Imam had ordered a full-scale retaliation.

  More than two hundred Israeli citizens had already been killed in the first twenty-four hours of missile attacks from Iran, Hezbollah, Hamas, and Syria, Zalinsky said, and the death toll was expected to keep rising. The injured were many multiples of that number, and Israeli hospitals were rapidly approaching their breaking point. Millions of Israelis had been forced into bomb shelters. All flights into and out of Ben Guri
on International Airport had been canceled, yet thousands of tourists were still streaming to the airport, not knowing what else to do.

  “The Israelis have launched massive air attacks against their neighbors,” Zalinsky said. “And they seem to be gearing up for major ground campaigns within the next few hours.”

  “What do you want me to do?” David asked, his anger rising in proportion to his sense of helplessness.

  “Nothing,” Zalinsky said. “Just hunker down and stay safe until we figure out how to get you and your men out of there.”

  It was precisely what David didn’t want to hear. He hadn’t signed up to hunker down or retreat. He wanted a new mission. He wanted to make a difference, to stop the killing. But how?

  * * *

  Syracuse, New York

  Saturday morning’s memorial service was beautiful.

  It was in a quiet and lovely room at the back of the funeral home, with Persian area rugs over green carpet and white upholstered chairs set in place. In the center of the room were several huge flower arrangements set around a framed portrait of Mrs. Shirazi. Marseille had been welcomed with open arms by David’s father and brothers, and sitting in the room filled with coworkers and neighbors, she knew it was right to have come. She belonged.

  She was grateful for her connection to this warm family, grateful for the memories of infrequent but memorable visits paid back and forth between Syracuse and New Jersey during her childhood before her own mother had died. Marseille remembered the vibrant, passionate Mrs. Shirazi from those years and smiled. Somehow, being here made her feel closer to her own parents. Azad stood with tears in his dark eyes and spoke of the faithful, loving mother Mrs. Shirazi had been. Saeed read from a book of Persian poetry. Then he translated the poem into English, and Marseille found the words strange yet beautiful.

  Could be I know you for years,

  As if You have been with me for centuries,

  For Your strong presence,

  Your now and then smiles,

  Your gentle Heart,

  Your sweet Voice,

  Yet are touchable for me!1

  The Persian words were so evocative and fascinating. The land of Iran intrigued her, and her thoughts turned to David, as they had a thousand times that day. Was he okay? When would she hear from him again? How would he react when she told him what she knew? Would the Lord help her heart loosen its grip on thoughts of him? Marseille prayed for David as she had for years, that he would search for God and that Jesus would reveal Himself, that her old friend would open his heart to the Savior, and that Jesus would be at home in the heart of David Shirazi.

  Epilogue

  Ahmed Darazi brought tea to his colleagues in the command center.

  The lighting was dim, the air was thick with cigarette smoke, and the atmosphere was solemn. This wasn’t going as planned, and Darazi was at a loss to know why. How many times had the Twelfth Imam promised that the Zionists would be annihilated? How many times had he said the destruction of the Jews and Christians was imminent? How many times had Darazi himself repeated those words? Why wasn’t it happening? What had gone wrong? What was more, why weren’t all the prophecies coming true? What about all the questions that Alireza Birjandi had raised? Who had the answers?

  Part of Darazi felt terrified even to think such thoughts in the presence of the Mahdi, yet he couldn’t help it. His doubts were rising, though he dared not voice them. He wanted to live. It was as simple as that. Perhaps the answers would come in due course. For now, he decided, it was best to remain silent and play the servant.

  That said, Hosseini was as angry as Darazi had ever seen him. The man wasn’t going off in tirades or even raising his voice at all. But he paced the room constantly, demanding more information from Defense Minister Faridzadeh and the generals around him, all of whom sat behind a bank of computers and video monitors, working the phones and gathering intelligence from the field.

  The Zionists’ attack had caught them all completely by surprise, Darazi chief among them. He had been absolutely convinced that the Americans would be able to keep the Israelis in check. He had fully bought the lie on Thursday morning about Naphtali preparing to leave for the US on Friday. So had Hosseini, and Darazi guessed this largely fueled his anger.

  The counterstrike was in motion, at least. They were pushing the enemy back on its heels. The Iranian Revolutionary Guard Corps was firing four to six ballistic missiles at Israel every hour. The Zionists’ Arrow and Patriot systems were downing 75 to 80 percent of them, but those that were getting through were causing heavy damage in Tel Aviv, Haifa, and Ashkelon, though none had hit Jerusalem—at least not yet.

  Hezbollah, meanwhile, was launching twenty to thirty rockets out of Lebanon every hour. A half dozen had hit the northern suburbs of Tel Aviv. Most were hitting Haifa, Tiberias, Nazareth, Karmiel, and Kiryat Shmona. Fires were raging in each of those cities and towns, but with so many rockets raining down on Israel’s northern tier, it was extremely difficult for fire trucks and ambulances to respond quickly, if at all.

  At the same time, Hamas terrorists in Gaza were launching forty to fifty rocket and mortar attacks an hour against the Jews living along the southern tier in places like Ashdod, Ashkelon, Beersheva, and Sderot. Even the community of Rehovot, south of Tel Aviv, had been hit by several Iranian-made Grad missiles.

  But Darazi could see it was not nearly enough for the Twelfth Imam, meditating alone in the corner, quiet and contemplative. The Mahdi had not said anything for several hours. Nor had Darazi seen him eat or drink anything in more than two days. It was fitting, Darazi guessed, for the Promised One to be consumed in prayer and fasting, but the silence was unnerving.

  Suddenly, without warning, the Mahdi opened his eyes. “Jazini. Where is he?”

  “He went to check on the status of the Intelligence Ministry,” Faridzadeh said. “He should be back in about an hour.”

  “Call him now,” the Mahdi ordered. “He has news.”

  “How can we, my Lord?” Faridzadeh asked. “We’re only using landlines right now, and as I said, he’s out in the city.”

  “Get him by satellite phone,” the Mahdi insisted. “Just get him now.”

  “My Lord, please do not be angry, but we’re concerned that those phones might be compromised after what happened when Javad met Reza Tabrizi.”

  “Nonsense,” the Mahdi said. “I talked to Javad myself yesterday. He said Tabrizi saved his life. Now get me Jazini, and put him on speakerphone.”

  Darazi watched as one of the defense minister’s aides connected Faridzadeh’s satphone to a line running up through the bunker to a satellite dish on the roof. A moment later, General Jazini was on the line for everyone in the command center to hear.

  “I was praying, and your face came before me, Mohsen,” the Mahdi said. “Allah is with you, and you have news.”

  “I do, my Lord,” Jazini said breathlessly. “I was going to wait and bring you the news in person, but is it okay to speak on this line?”

  “Of course. Now speak, my son.”

  “Yes, my Lord. I have good news—we have two more warheads.”

  “Nuclear?”

  “Yes, two have survived the attacks.”

  “How?” the Mahdi asked. “Which ones?”

  “The ones Tariq Khan was working on. The ones in Khorramabad.”

  “What happened?”

  “The moment Khan went missing, the head of security at the Khorramabad facility feared for the safety of the warheads,” Jazini said. “He feared Khan might be working for the Zionists. Since the warheads weren’t yet attached to the missiles, he decided to move them out of his facility and hide them elsewhere. I just spoke to him. He’s safe. The warheads are safe.”

  The Mahdi stood and closed his eyes. “I thank you, Allah, for you have given us another chance to strike.”

  Acknowledgments

  It’s an honor to publish another book with such a great team of people, and I’m deeply thankful to Mark Ta
ylor, Jeff Johnson, Ron Beers, Karen Watson, Jeremy Taylor, Jan Stob, Cheryl Kerwin, Dean Renninger, Beverly Rykerd, and the incredible team at Tyndale House Publishers.

  Thanks to Scott Miller, my excellent agent and good friend at Trident Media Group.

  Thanks to my loving family—my mom and dad, Len and Mary Jo Rosenberg; June “Bubbe” Meyers; the entire Meyers family; the Rebeizes; the Scomas; and the Urbanskis.

  Thanks, too, to my dear friends Edward and Kailea Hunt, Tim and Carolyn Lugbill, Steve and Barb Klemke, Fred and Sue Schwien, Tom and Sue Yancy, John and Cheryl Moser, Jeremy and Angie Grafman, Nancy Pierce, Jeff and Naomi Cuozzo, Lance and Angie Emma, Lucas and Erin Edwards, Chung and Farah Woo, Dr. T. E. Koshy and family, and all our allies with The Joshua Fund and November Communications, Inc.

  And thanks especially to my best friend and awesome wife, Lynn, and our four wonderful sons, Caleb, Jacob, Jonah, and Noah. I love you guys so much and I love the adventure the Lord has us all on together!

  About the Author

  Joel C. Rosenberg is the New York Times best-selling author of six novels—The Last Jihad, The Last Days, The Ezekiel Option, The Copper Scroll, Dead Heat, and The Twelfth Imam—and two nonfiction books, Epicenter and Inside the Revolution, with some 2 million total copies in print. The Ezekiel Option received the Gold Medallion award as the “Best Novel of 2006” from the Evangelical Christian Publishers Association. Joel is the producer of two documentary films based on his nonfiction books. He is also the founder of The Joshua Fund, a nonprofit educational and charitable organization to mobilize Christians to “bless Israel and her neighbors in the name of Jesus” with food, clothing, medical supplies, and other humanitarian relief.