Damascus Countdown

by Joel C. Rosenberg

  “Good news, really?” Marseille asked, surprised but encouraged.

  She turned off the engine and got out of the car to be closer to the Walshes.

  “A little,” Murray said. “It’s regarding our mutual friend, the one you came in here the other day to talk about.”

  “David?” she asked.

  “Well, yes,” Murray said, “but I was trying to avoid using his name over an open line.”

  “Oh, right, I’m so sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

  “It’s okay. But between the two of us, I wanted you to know that our people just talked with him. He’s still in harm’s way, but for the moment, at least, he’s alive and well and . . . Let’s just say, I think you’d be proud of him. He’s serving his country and his family with great distinction.”

  “Really, he’s okay? He’s safe?” Marseille replied, her eyes filling with tears.

  “Well, he is okay,” Murray corrected. “I can’t say for certain that he’s safe. But he’s doing what he was trained to do, and he’s doing it very well. I really can’t say more than that, but I thought you’d like an update, however brief.”

  “Oh yes, Mr. Murray, thank you so much—thank you. I can’t tell you how happy I am to hear you say that,” she replied, burying her face in her free hand and trying not to dissolve into tears of joy or risk not being able to hear the rest of the call.

  “You’re very welcome, Miss Harper,” Murray said.

  Then Marseille looked up and saw Mr. and Mrs. Walsh waiting eagerly for the news.

  CAPE MAY, NEW JERSEY

  Najjar was just about to pull into the Acme supermarket on Ocean Street, only a few blocks from the shore, when he spotted a Cape May Police Department squad car. His pulse began to quicken as thoughts of being captured flooded his mind. But just as quickly he chastised himself for becoming paranoid. There was no scenario in which anyone was looking for him in New Jersey, much less in this quaint, seaside, tourist community in the off-season. He was about as far off the grid as he could get. He didn’t know anyone in Cape May. He hadn’t talked to anyone in the area. He wasn’t making mobile phone calls. He wasn’t driving a stolen car. He was being as careful as possible, and he had no reason to worry, he told himself.

  Forcing himself to take several deep breaths, Najjar double-checked his rear and side mirrors, made sure his right turn signal was on, then cautiously steered the Honda into the parking lot. The last thing he wanted to do was make a wrong turn or stumble into a moving violation, however minor, that could draw the attention of the local police and require him to produce an American driver’s license, which he didn’t have, or the car’s registration or insurance, which he didn’t have either, though he hoped paperwork for both were in the glove compartment.

  Najjar breathed easier when the squad car drove past him without stopping, but he still felt the urge to move quickly. He didn’t like being out of the house. He was uncomfortable being away from what he knew, exposed to the prospect, however remote, of even getting noticed by the local authorities, much less caught. So he proceeded to find a parking space not far from the grocery store’s front doors, turned off the engine, locked the doors of the sedan behind him, and headed into the store to get some basics and get back as rapidly as he could.

  SYRACUSE, NEW YORK

  The Walshes could see Marseille’s obvious sense of relief, and their faces brightened as they began to relax a bit, especially Lexi’s mom, who came over and gave her a hug. Wiping her own eyes, Marseille asked Murray directly about Chris and Lexi Vandermark. But to her shock, there was a long, awkward silence on the other end of the line.

  “Miss Harper, there’s really no easy way to say this,” Murray finally began.

  “Oh no,” Marseille said, her hands beginning to shake. “Please, no, no . . .”

  “I’m so sorry to have to be the one to inform you, Miss Harper.”

  “No, no, no . . .”

  “I’m afraid both of your friends were pulled from the wreckage of the hotel collapse about an hour ago. They were taken to a nearby hospital in Tiberias, but both were pronounced dead on arrival. An official from our embassy in Tel Aviv is on scene. He made a positive identification based on the passport photos we have on file for them. I’m truly sorry for your loss. Indeed, I wish there was something else I could say. Anyway, I am very sorry.”

  All of Marseille’s joy turned to shock. She turned to Lexi’s parents and shook her head. But before Marseille could say a word to them or ask Murray any more questions, Mrs. Walsh collapsed to the ground, wailing in a manner Marseille had never heard before and would never forget.

  CAPE MAY, NEW JERSEY

  Najjar was rolling his half-full grocery cart toward the dairy section to pick up a few gallons of milk when he first realized that there was hardly anyone in the store. There had been at least a dozen shoppers, maybe a few more, when he’d first entered, but now he couldn’t find a soul. Not even a clerk or a stock boy.

  His heart began to pound. Beads of perspiration formed on his brow. His palms felt sweaty, and he forgot about the milk. Something was very wrong. He wanted to tell himself that he was imagining it, that he was becoming paranoid, but he knew his instincts were not misleading him. Without making any sudden movements, he cautiously maneuvered his cart down an aisle that gave him a peek out the main windows in the front of the store, and it was then that he saw the flashing lights and heard the screeching tires as more and more police cars arrived on the scene.

  Just then, milliseconds after his brain began to consider if not truly comprehend what might be happening, members of the SWAT team rushed into the store from all directions. Clad in black jumpsuits and black helmets, they had automatic weapons trained on his head.

  “Najjar Malik, put your hands in the air!” their commander shouted. “Put your hands in the air where we can see them, or you will be fired upon!”

  Trembling, Najjar did as he was told. He had no idea how they had found him, but found him they had, and he feared for what was coming next.

  35

  KARAJ, IRAN

  Back at the safe house, David pulled out his phone and noticed three new tweets from Dr. Najjar Malik, the most wanted Iranian in the world. The first was in Farsi. The second was in Arabic. The third was in English. All three said the same thing.

  I’m not ashamed of #gospel, cause it’s the pwr of God that brings salvation 2 all who believe: 1st 2 the Jew, then 2 the Gentile /Rmns 1:16

  David continued to be amazed by how radically Christ had changed Najjar in such a short period of time from a devout Twelver committed to the return of the Twelfth Imam to an even more devoted follower of Jesus doing everything he could to share the gospel with the Islamic world. He said a quick prayer for Najjar and his family—for their safety and for the Lord to use them to reach millions—and then he forced himself to refocus on the priorities at hand.

  He made a quick call to Zalinsky to coordinate his next moves and learned that Langley had now positively identified the two Mossad agents in their custody as Tolik Shalev, twenty-six, and Gal Rinat, twenty-five. David directed Fox and Mays to take both Israelis to the holding room, where they could neither escape nor witness any of the team’s sensitive discussions. He also directed Crenshaw to provide Rinat, the wounded Israeli, whatever additional medical attention he required.

  “Whatever you do, don’t let him die,” David ordered.

  “Wait a minute,” said Shalev. “You’re making a mistake.”

  “You mean we should let your man die?”

  Shalev ignored the crack and argued that they should evacuate Rinat out of the country. He would likely need surgery and soon. “But you should take me with you,” Shalev added. “I can help you.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” David snapped and turned back to Fox and Mays. “Get him out of here.”

  “No, wait, really,” Shalev insisted. “Look, yes, we’re both with the Mossad. There’s no point pretending we’re not. You know our names, our
ages, and I’m sure you know a lot more. You also know our mission, and it’s the same as yours—to hunt down these two last warheads and neutralize them before the Mahdi can fire them at our country. Now I think you know exactly where these weapons are—or at least where they’re heading and how they’re getting there. I think you pulled a treasure trove off Omid’s computer, information that could save millions of Israelis’ lives. So I’m pleading with you. Don’t lock me up. Let me help you stop these madmen before it’s too late.”

  “The answer is no, Tolik,” David replied. “I have my orders. Now let’s move.”

  “I can help you.”

  “Right now you’re just slowing us down.”

  “Wait, wait—what if I told you we have a double agent deep inside the Iranian nuclear program?” Shalev asked as Mays began to lead him toward the doorway.

  His colleague’s eyes grew wide. “No, don’t listen to him,” Rinat insisted. “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

  “Sheket, Gal,” Shalev shot back, ordering his deputy in Hebrew to be silent.

  “You have no authorization to do this,” Rinat argued.

  But Shalev wouldn’t hear of it. He lowered his voice and rattled off a few heated lines in Hebrew before turning back to David and returning to English. “Listen to me. Please. Listen to reason. How do you think my country pulled off such a precise preemptive strike against the Iranian warheads?”

  “If it was so precise, then why did you miss two?” David asked.

  “You know exactly what I mean,” Shalev said. “We knew where those warheads were because someone told us. Someone inside. Deep inside. A mole. A mole who reports directly to us. Obviously someone moved the other two warheads before our fighter jets could get there. But at the time our man inside called in the locations, they were accurate. How else could Prime Minister Naphtali have ordered those strikes? He couldn’t afford to guess. He had to know. And he did know.”

  “So what are you saying?” David pressed. “Cut to the chase.”

  “I’m saying Gal and I aren’t really hunting the warheads,” Shalev replied. “We’re hunting for our mole. If we can find him, we can find the warheads. If we can’t, then there is no reasonable hope for my country. Now America is our best ally. You’ve always been there for us. And I don’t believe it’s a coincidence that we are together now, you and I—the men in this room. This is not a mistake. This is a sign from God. Please, let us work together. Let me help you. There’s no more time to work apart.”

  SYRACUSE, NEW YORK

  Marseille helped the Walshes back inside. She wondered if she should call 911. Lexi’s mom was hysterical and had locked herself in her room, wailing uncontrollably and refusing to come out. Lexi’s father sat at the kitchen table unable or unwilling to speak. He was so pale and so shaky that Marseille feared he might suffer a heart attack from the stress and grief. Yet he would not let Marseille do anything to console him, nor was he doing anything to console his wife.

  She glanced at her watch. It was now clear that if she didn’t leave for the airport immediately, she was going to miss her flight back to Portland. But how could she possibly leave these two alone right now? Either or both of them were capable of doing harm to themselves or to each other, and given the recent trauma of finding her own father after he had committed suicide, Marseille knew she had to stay. She riffled through several kitchen drawers and soon found a notebook that seemed to have doubled as a wedding planner. Inside, she found a directory of addresses and phone numbers of family members and close friends, all of whom had been invited to the wedding. Marseille scrolled to the end and found the number for Jan Walsh—Mr. Walsh’s older sister—who lived in DeWitt, a town not far away. She dialed the number, got Jan on the line, and relayed the tragic news about Lexi and Chris as gently as she could. Then she explained how much trouble Sharon and Richard were in.

  “I’ll be there in ten minutes,” Jan assured her. “And here’s my cell number if you need to reach me on the way.”

  Marseille thanked her, hung up, and tried to assess the situation. She asked Mr. Walsh if he wanted some coffee. He didn’t answer. She offered him tea, but again he didn’t answer. Then she asked him if he’d like a glass of water, and still he couldn’t seem to hear her, much less respond. He just stared blankly out the window, his hands trembling. She poured him a glass anyway and set it on the table in front of him. Then she pulled out her iPhone and dialed her principal back in Portland.

  The conversation did not go well. Her boss tried to be sympathetic, to be sure, but he also had to remind her that she had used up all of her vacation time and personal days. What’s more, she had a class of children that hadn’t seen her face in two weeks and expected to see her bright and early the following morning.

  “I know, I know,” she said. “But, Mr. Martin, I simply can’t leave.”

  “You have a contract, Marseille.”

  “I realize that, sir, but I also have an obligation to my friend’s family.”

  “Didn’t you say Lexi’s aunt is on the way over there right now?”

  “Yes, sir, but I can’t bolt out the minute she gets here. And even if I did, I still might not make the flight, and it’s the last one out there tonight.”

  The principal sighed and was silent for a moment. “Look, stay there tonight, and I’ll get another sub for your class tomorrow,” he finally said. “But you need to get back here tomorrow and be in your class ready to go first thing Tuesday morning, or I can’t promise you’ll have a job when you return. Is that understood?”

  Marseille assured him it was and thanked him for his understanding, and the two hung up. She covered her face with her hands and did her best not to cry. She was grateful for the reprieve, but she wondered whether twenty-four hours would be enough. It wasn’t just a matter of comforting the Walshes and helping them stabilize. There was a funeral for Lexi and Chris to organize. People to invite. A wake to be arranged, and all that went with that. Was Richard’s sister going to do all that? Maybe yes, maybe no. But it was going to be an enormous task, and even if Jan was emotionally up for it all, she was going to need help.

  Plus, Marseille realized, she had an obligation to Lexi to try to lead her parents to the Lord. At least Lexi and Chris were now in heaven with Christ. They were safe and free, and a part of Marseille envied them for it. But she knew she’d never forgive herself if she didn’t do everything she possibly could to lead Lexi’s parents to a saving knowledge of Jesus Christ as well. She hoped that wouldn’t mean losing her job. She couldn’t imagine not going back to those precious children in Portland. But the truth was, someone else could teach them as well as or better than she could. Right now, she was needed here. How long? She had no idea. But in her heart she resolved to stay as long as necessary.

  She bowed her head and began to pray for wisdom, then heard a car pull up out front. Assuming it was Jan, she prayed for the Lord to comfort these two grieving parents. She prayed that she and Jan would have the strength and the wisdom to do the right thing and for the Lord to give her the opportunity to share the gospel with them in the right time and the right way and that each of them would be saved. And then she said a prayer for David, too, that wherever he was, Christ would give him the strength and courage to do the right thing as well.

  KARAJ, IRAN

  David walked over to Shalev and looked him straight in the eye.

  “You want to help me?” he asked.

  “I want to save my country,” the Israeli replied.

  “You want to help me?” David repeated.

  Shalev paused and then nodded.

  “Then start spilling your guts. Tell my man here everything you know. He’ll relay it to me on the road. If it checks out, fine. If not, God help you.”

  With that, David turned to Mays and Fox and ordered them to get the prisoners secured immediately. They complied without hesitation and despite Shalev’s angry protests.

  Once they were all out of the room, David an
d Torres huddled together to review their options, which both knew were scant at best.

  “You think he’s telling us the truth?” Torres asked. “I mean, you think they really have a mole inside the program?”

  “I don’t know,” said David. “Why wouldn’t Najjar have told us?”

  “Maybe Najjar didn’t know. Najjar was the son-in-law to the director of the entire nuclear program. If you were a mole, would you have confided in Najjar?”

  “No.”

  “Maybe we really should take this guy with us,” said Torres. “Maybe you should talk to Jack again.”

  “Absolutely not,” David shot back, unlocking the gun cabinet and stuffing more boxes of ammo into his backpack. “This Tolik guy is a loose cannon. It’s too much of a risk. Besides, the order to keep the Israelis here until Langley can extract them came from the top, not from Jack.”

  “Director Allen?”

  “No, the president.”

  “The president knows that much detail about what we’re doing?”

  “He’s requested updates every half hour. In fact, Jack didn’t come right out and say it, but I get the feeling the president is trying to micromanage this op from the Oval Office.”

  “He could end this whole thing with a massive air strike on Al-Mazzah once the warheads get there,” Torres said.

  “You’re right,” David said.

  “But he’s not going to, is he?”

  “No, he’s not.”

  “Why not?”

  “Do I really need to say it?”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “We’ve got to find those warheads ourselves, before the Iranians fire them.”

  “Of course, but how?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “And even if by some miracle we can find them, how do we destroy them?”