Damascus Countdown

by Joel C. Rosenberg

  Ibrahim was younger than Ali, but he was also brilliant, the son of a highly esteemed Shia cleric in Qom. He had memorized most of the Qur’an by the age of nine. He was sharp and inquisitive and fearless about his newfound faith, but he was also impulsive and had a tendency to speak too much and to act without having fully thought everything through. If Birjandi gave him permission, Ibrahim would rush into the most esteemed seminaries in all of Qom and make the case for Christ powerfully and effectively with the best of the religious leaders of his day, even if that meant going to prison, which it would, and even if that meant being tortured and executed, which it might. With enough time and the proper training, Ibrahim was going to make a gifted leader of men, a powerful ambassador for the Lord Jesus Christ. But this was not yet the time, and Ibrahim was not yet ready.

  The teacher and the student had clashed over this many times in recent weeks. Ibrahim argued that the hour was late and the need was enormous. Why, then, was Birjandi holding him back? Birjandi counseled patience, that Ibrahim’s time would come, that the Lord would open a significant door for him—and for the others as well—and that the Lord would do great and mighty things through each of them.

  But the conversion of Najjar Malik, Birjandi now realized, had upset the apple cart. Najjar had been a believer for only a matter of days, and now he was reaching millions with the dramatic story of his conversion. The young men sitting before him, meanwhile, had been saved for half a year already. They certainly knew the Word far better than Najjar, but how many people had they shared Christ with so far? A few dozen, at most.

  Maybe Ibrahim was right. Maybe it was time to set these men free to preach and teach and make disciples without reservation. Both of them knew the cost, and both of them were ready to give their lives for the One who had given his life for them. Maybe it was also time to set a powerful example for them . . . but not with the Mahdi. That was a bridge too far, Birjandi told himself. Being bold for Jesus was one thing. Being disobedient was quite another, and he would not cross the line.

  Birjandi suddenly realized he had been quiet for several minutes, contemplating his answer longer than he had planned. “Your heart for the lost is admirable, Ibrahim,” he began. “I commend you for it, and heaven forbid that I should stifle or smother it. That is certainly not my intention. Perhaps it is time for you to stand up publicly for Jesus, the way our brother Najjar has done with such power and with such effect. Perhaps it is my time too. I have been your teacher for these six months, but you are teaching me something today, and for this I am grateful. But listen to me, both of you. Please hear my heart. As ready as I am to die for my Jesus, I cannot disobey his clear teaching. You heard me repeat on the phone the passage from Matthew 24. The Lord told his followers not to pursue false messiahs, not to seek them out, not to visit them or spend time with them.”

  To Birjandi’s surprise, this answer seemed to satisfy Ibrahim, but it also stirred up new questions in Ali, who until now had sat back and listened.

  “Dr. Birjandi, would you say you are really still part of the Mahdi’s inner circle?”

  “No, not the Mahdi’s.”

  “But perhaps Hosseini’s and Darazi’s?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “You wouldn’t describe them as false messiahs, would you?”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  “So isn’t it possible that they are still reachable, still redeemable—theoretically, at least?”

  The old man took a moment to contemplate that. “Yes, theoretically.”

  Apparently satisfied by that answer, Ali took the next step. “Then may I ask you a sensitive question?”

  “What, you haven’t already?” Birjandi smiled.

  “Dr. Birjandi, in your time with the Ayatollah and the president, have you ever actually told them you believe in Jesus?”

  There was a long, pregnant pause. “No, Ali,” the scholar admitted. “I have not.”

  “May I ask you why not?”

  “Have you told your father, Ali?” Birjandi countered, knowing full well Ali’s father was an F-4 fighter pilot and the commander of a tactical air wing in the Iranian Air Force, stationed in Bushehr.

  “No,” Ali said, shaking his head.

  “May I ask you why not?”

  “Well, at the moment, I’m not even sure he’s alive.”

  “I know, and I’m praying for his life and his soul,” Birjandi said. “But until now, knowing war was coming, why did you not share the gospel with him? Please know, my son, that I’m not blaming you or criticizing you. I’m simply asking, as you have asked me.”

  Ali was silent for a moment. “My father is a Twelver, as I was,” he said at last. “He is fully devoted to the Mahdi and this regime, and he hates Christians and Jews with a vengeance. If I told him I had renounced Islam and become a follower of Jesus, my father would kill me—literally kill me.”

  Birjandi reached out and put his hand on the young man’s shoulder. “And yet, doesn’t Jesus tell us that unless we’re willing to pick up our crosses daily and follow him no matter what the cost, we’re not worthy of him?”

  “Yes,” Ali said quietly.

  “And didn’t the apostle Paul say, ‘For to me, to live is Christ and to die is gain’?”

  “Yes.”

  “Paul wasn’t afraid to die. Indeed, he was looking forward to being in the presence of Jesus, to worshiping his King and Savior. So Paul preached without fear. And so should we. The fear of death should have no part in our thinking.”

  “You’re saying we should share the gospel even if it means certain death for us?”

  “Each of us must move as the Holy Spirit guides us,” Birjandi replied. “Our job is to say what he wants us to say, when he wants us to say it. The words and the timing must be the Lord’s, but yes, we must be faithful to share the gospel with anyone and everyone the Lord opens the door for us to reach.”

  There was another long pause.

  “You’re right,” Ali said. “I’ve been counting the cost, and I have to confess before both of you, my dearest friends, that I’ve been struggling. But the past few days I’ve been praying and fasting in agony, begging the Lord to save my father and the rest of my family, to give me another chance to share the Good News with each of them. And if you will pray for me for strength, then I will be faithful to the task, come what may.”

  Birjandi and Ibrahim promised to pray for Ali and his family. But Ali was not finished.

  “With all due respect, Dr. Birjandi, the question really comes back to you,” he said gently. “Maybe the Mahdi is unreachable or unwinnable for Christ. I don’t know. I’m not the scholar. You are. But isn’t it time for you to share the gospel with Ayatollah Hosseini and with President Darazi? Isn’t it time to tell them that you’ve renounced Islam and become a fully devoted follower of Jesus Christ? You’re in the inner circle. You can reach them. We can’t. Najjar can’t. No one else can. Perhaps the Lord has given you this open door not to spend time with the Mahdi but to spend time with Hosseini and Darazi. Isn’t it possible that he has raised you up for such a time as this?”

  DAMASCUS, SYRIA

  “Is everyone here—all your family and friends?” the priest asked.

  Hanna’s father turned and scanned the faces, recognizing most and beaming at them all. “Yes, I think this is all of us.”

  “Wonderful! Let us begin.”

  But no sooner had the words fallen from his lips than Hanna heard the unmistakable sound of gunfire, followed by bloodcurdling screams. Hanna instinctively turned to see where the noise was coming from but suddenly felt his father pulling him and his mother and his sisters to the floor. Bodies were falling everywhere. The gunfire didn’t stop. It came in short, quick bursts. Again and again and again.

  Hanna tried to scream as he saw more people cut down, row upon row, but he couldn’t make a sound. He could hear bullets whizzing over his head and heard them drilling into the stone wall behind him. Terrified, he turned to his mother, desperate to
hold her, to cling to her for comfort and protection, but as he did, his heart stopped. His mother’s eyes were open, but they were glassy and lifeless. Hanna looked down and saw a pool of crimson growing beneath her.

  “No, no!” he screamed, and the gunfire ceased, almost on cue.

  Hanna turned and saw three men in long, black leather coats and thick black boots—but no hats, no masks—stepping over bodies to enter the little church. Two of them carried automatic rifles, like the kind he had seen on television, their barrels hot and smoking. But the third carried a small black pistol. He walked slowly and paused to kick each person with his boot. If they flinched, if they were alive, he aimed the pistol and pumped a bullet into their skull.

  He went one by one, killing them all, until he stopped at Hanna’s father. Hanna knew he should look away, but he was paralyzed with fear. He knew he should close his eyes, but he couldn’t believe this was happening. And then it did happen. The man put not one bullet but two into the back of his father’s head and then turned the pistol on little Hanna.

  21

  KARAJ, IRAN

  David took a long, hot shower. Then he toweled off, put on some clean clothes, and—inspired by his conversation with Birjandi—took ten minutes to read the first three chapters of the Gospel of Matthew. He desperately wanted to read more. He had a hunger for God’s Word that he’d never experienced before. It finally made sense to him, and he wanted to lock himself away and read through the entire New Testament, even if it took all night. But he couldn’t. Not now. His team was waiting for him, and he had to do his job.

  He stepped into the living room to check on his team. Torres and Crenshaw were hunched over computers, returning e-mails and scanning headlines while the two other members of their team, Steve Fox and Matt Mays, were cleaning an MP5 machine gun and a Glock 9mm pistol, respectively.

  “How’s it going?” he asked.

  “We’re okay, boss,” Torres said. “How ’bout you?”

  “Better than I deserve,” David replied, deeply relieved that he had been able to tell Birjandi about his decision to trust Christ and deeply encouraged by Birjandi’s reaction.

  “Does that mean you’ve got a lead?” Torres asked, brightening.

  “No, it doesn’t,” David admitted.

  “No one’s answering?” Mays asked.

  “Not so far,” David replied. “I did reach Javad Nouri and Dr. Birjandi, but don’t get too excited. Javad sounds horrible, and Birjandi doesn’t know anything new. He’s got no new leads. And he absolutely refuses to reach out to Hosseini and Darazi.”

  “Why?”

  “Says it’s against his convictions.”

  “Bringing down a nuclear-armed tyrant is against his convictions?”

  “Normally, no—but going to visit false messiahs is,” David explained. “But what can I say? The guy is the real deal. He believes what he believes. He’s not going to be moved one way or the other. Period. End of story.”

  “Maybe we should pay him a visit,” Fox suggested. “You know, a little one-on-one, a little personal persuasion.”

  “Steve, I’m telling you, he’s not persuadable. We need to find another source.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know. How about you guys? Any progress?”

  “Nothing,” Torres said. “We’ve tried every source, every operative, every foreigner we know in the country. They either aren’t answering their phones, or they don’t know squat.”

  “Have you talked to Langley? Are the drones picking up anything? Are we getting any good intercepts?”

  “All the satellites and drones are pretty much tied up doing bomb damage assessments,” Torres said. “They’re not trolling for two missing nukes. Not at the moment, at least. Zalinsky assures me he’ll redirect assets to us if we pick up a lead. But not if we’re just spitting in the wind.”

  Then David had an idea. He couldn’t take this anymore. All this sitting around, waiting around, making calls, sending text messages was getting them nowhere. They needed a target. They needed to make something happen.

  HAMADAN, IRAN

  “Ali, my son, I’m not afraid of being arrested or tortured or dying for my Savior,” Birjandi replied gently. “The only thing I fear is doing anything to displease the Lord. Now, you’re right—I do have a special opening with our nation’s leaders. For years they have invited me for meals or even for weekend retreats. I go when I can, and we chat, and I mostly listen to all that they want to say. But believe me, I have wanted to explain the gospel to them each time. I long to do so. I hate what these men are doing to our country, but I love them as Christ loves them, and I want them to repent. I want them to know the joy and the peace that I have found. I tell you boys in all honesty, I pray and fast for these men for hours and days at a time before I go to meet them. I lay prostrate before the Lord and seek his will before I go. I plead for wisdom and discernment and courage. But each time the Lord has told me to be quiet, to say nothing, to trust him alone, and to listen.”

  “But why?” Ibrahim asked. “That doesn’t make sense. Why would Jesus tell you not to share the gospel? Doesn’t he command us at the end of Mark’s account to go and ‘preach the gospel to all creation’? Doesn’t he command us at the end of Matthew’s account to go and ‘make disciples of all the nations’?”

  “Yes, he does,” Birjandi said. “And to be honest, I don’t know why the Lord has covered my mouth each time. It has bothered me. I have come home wondering if I had failed him by being disobedient. But then I remember the life of Paul, how the Holy Spirit forbade him to preach in Asia in Acts 16:6 and in Bithynia in verse 7.”

  Both young men quickly found the passage.

  “Now, why would the Holy Spirit forbid Paul from preaching the gospel?” Birjandi asked. “Twice in two verses the Lord prevented Paul and his team from going where they thought they should go and saying what they thought they should say. Why?”

  It was quiet for a few moments; then Ibrahim spoke up. “To obey is better than sacrifice,” he said.

  “Yes. Why?” Birjandi pressed.

  “Well, Jesus also said, ‘Why do you call Me, “Lord, Lord,” and do not do what I say?’ I guess it’s always more important to do what Jesus says on a tactical, moment-to-moment basis, than to just do whatever you want, even if it seems like the right thing to do.”

  “Very good, Ibrahim.” Birjandi smiled. “You are truly becoming a disciple of our Lord. Yes, we are to tell everyone the gospel. Unless the Lord tells you for whatever reason to keep your mouth shut. He knows better than we do. His thoughts are higher than our thoughts. We should also err on the side of boldness, I believe. But if the Lord says to be quiet, then we must obey. But now I ask you boys to pray for me. Maybe the Lord will open a door to share the Good News with the Ayatollah and the president and be able to avoid meeting with the Mahdi. Nothing is impossible with God. Amen?”

  “Amen,” they replied.

  “Good. Now, let us get back to our study.”

  FORT MEADE, MARYLAND

  Eva Fischer glanced at her watch. It was 4:17 in the morning. She had been awake for only a few hours, and she was still trying to make sense of the stunning turn of events. She had gone to sleep in a basement cell in the CIA detention center in Langley. Now she was staring out the rear window of a black Lincoln Town Car driving through Maryland, exiting Route 295, and driving past a large green sign marked NSA Employees Only.

  She was still fuming over her “discussions” with Tom Murray, though she didn’t hold him personally responsible. All that had happened in the last few days had been Zalinsky’s fault, not Murray’s. It was probably too much to expect that Zalinsky would be seriously reprimanded, much less fired, for what he had put her through, but a girl could dream, couldn’t she?

  But Eva didn’t really want to waste her time thinking about Zalinsky. Her thoughts turned instead to David Shirazi, aka Reza Tabrizi. She had helped craft his cover story. She had been with him on his first trip insid
e Iran. She wasn’t technically David’s handler—that was Zalinsky’s role—but she had been one of David’s closest allies. It was she who had supplied him with much of the research he needed in the field. It was she who had secured the satphones he’d needed and personally brought them to him in Munich. It was she who typically maintained direct communication with him, she whom he had turned to when he needed a Predator drone to save his life. True, she had hesitated at the time, but in the end she had done what she thought was right, and she’d do it again.

  It had almost cost her job. It could have put her in prison for several years. She was glad to have been exonerated and compensated, but the whole experience had left a bitter taste in her mouth. She had answered all of Murray’s questions. She had signed all the documents. She had, in the process, cleared the CIA of all wrongdoing. But she was not going back to Langley. That was out of the question. Still, she couldn’t abandon David now. His life was in extreme danger. He needed her now more than ever.

  She asked her driver to turn up the heat a bit, which he did. Soon they were clearing through a guard station and a 100 percent ID check and entering the grounds of the sprawling National Security Agency campus, less than an hour north of Washington, D.C., and about half an hour southwest of Baltimore.

  It was a dark and moonless night, bitterly cold, with a howling easterly wind. A fresh blanket of snow lay on thousands of cars still parked in the 18,000-car parking lot, and Eva realized these people had not gone home, probably in several days. Nearly every light in every building was on. The Middle East was in a full-blown war, and Eva was encouraged to see the NSA humming with activity.

  Three men were waiting for her at a side entrance. As the Lincoln came to a stop, one of them opened her door and shook her hand.

  “Eva, hi. I’m Warren McNulty, chief of staff for General Mulholland. Welcome to the Puzzle Palace.”

  “Good to meet you, Warren. Sorry to keep you up so late.”