Damascus Countdown

by Joel C. Rosenberg

  “I don’t know that either.”

  “And how do we get into Syria in the first place?” Torres pressed.

  “That I do know,” David said, smiling, and quickly laid out his plan.

  They would follow the protocols they’d found in the memos on Omid’s computer. They had the maps Omid had prepared for his father’s security team to drive from Iran to Syria, including detailed directions to get to the Al-Mazzah air base. They had radios and the precise frequencies and encryption codes the Revolutionary Guards would be using. And they would all wear the Iranian Revolutionary Guard Corps uniforms David had taken from Omid’s closet. In short, they had everything they needed but time.

  The warheads, they had to assume, were en route and might already be at the base. There, too, was the Iranian team capable of fitting the warheads on Syrian Scud-Cs, though none of the specific names of that team were mentioned in the memos. Circumstantial evidence suggested the Mahdi was headed to Al-Mazzah as well. At David’s request, Zalinsky and his team at CIA headquarters were already retasking a satellite and several Predator drones to provide 24-7 surveillance of the base. But with the Mahdi expected at the base by noon local time, David feared the missiles could be ready to launch shortly after his arrival.

  “We need to get on the road—now,” he told Torres. “Matty will stay and guard the Israelis and try to get more information out of them.”

  “But we’ll need Matt with us.”

  “We’ll have to make do without him.”

  “Just four of us going into Syria to take out two nuclear warheads?”

  “I get it, Marco,” David replied. “The odds aren’t exactly promising. But you really think a fifth guy is going to make all the difference?”

  “I think we need all the manpower and firepower we can get.”

  “This is all we can get,” David concluded. “Matty stays. Tell the guys to suit up in the Iranian uniforms and gear up fast. The rest of us roll out in ten minutes. We’ve already burned too much time as it is.”

  36

  KABUL, AFGHANISTAN

  At precisely 12:07 a.m. on Monday morning, March 14, the Falcon business jet carrying the Twelfth Imam, Rashidi, and their small but well-armed security team touched down in Kabul. No one was there to greet them. Almost no one knew they were coming. There was no pomp and circumstance. This was not a state visit. This was a hastily arranged and highly secretive meeting.

  Pakistani president Iskander Farooq hadn’t even been told the meeting would be in Kabul. All he was told by a representative of the Mahdi was to get to Kabul quietly and discreetly by 11:30 p.m. on an unmarked jet and accompanied by no more than five bodyguards. At that point, he would learn where to go and what to do next. Farooq had assumed he would be told to fly into an Iranian border town. Instead, upon touching down in Kabul, he and his team had been directed to a large but unassuming compound on the south side of the city. Farooq didn’t know the compound was owned by the largest drug dealer in Afghanistan, the father of Iraq’s speaker of the parliament and a devout Twelver who was an old friend and seminary classmate of Ayatollah Hosseini. Nor was that piece of information necessarily relevant to this meeting. The owner of the home was not there. Nor were any of his family members or servants. Twenty members of the Iranian Revolutionary Guard Corps had taken over the compound. Most of them had arrived earlier that day and were providing security, while the remainder of the team was there to handle communications, hospitality, and other logistics.

  Stepping off the plane, the Mahdi immediately got into a black, bulletproof Nissan SUV with several members of his security detail. Rashidi boarded a second black SUV with the remaining members of the detail. Less than two minutes after their feet had touched the Afghan airport pavement, they were rolling.

  Rashidi had never been to the Islamic Republic of Afghanistan, much less its troubled, war-torn capital. He would never have chosen it for a meeting of this import—or a meeting of any import. Indeed, he had never seen a city more devastated by war or terrorism or poverty than Kabul. Every building he saw looked more devastated than the one before it. They were poorly built to begin with, and almost all were now riddled with holes from machine-gun fire. The roofs of many were partially or completely caved in, some from aerial bombings, and some, the driver told him, from sheer neglect. Dust and filth covered everything, and though many of the buildings looked utterly uninhabitable, people seemed to live and work in all of them.

  Normally, the driver said, the streets would be teeming with the wretched refuse of the Afghan tribes. Over the years, Rashidi had seen news reports from Kabul. To him, the men pictured on the streets always looked old, with long, scraggly beards and grimy, dusty clothing. Their eyes seemed sad and weary, though haunted was the word that described them best. The Afghan women he’d seen on television were even more traumatized. They walked around in blue burqas that covered them head to foot, even when it was ghastly hot.

  But Kabul was a ghost town at this hour. The streets were dark and empty of people and largely empty of cars and motorcycles, scooters and bicycles, sheep and goats, as well. An armored personnel carrier drove by from time to time, and Rashidi noticed several Afghan military units patrolling various neighborhoods. But mostly all was quiet and unseasonably hot. Even this late at night, the temperature was still in the high nineties, and Rashidi found himself grateful for air-conditioning. He couldn’t imagine how unbearable it must be for the women shopping in the marketplaces during daylight hours, women whose entire faces, noses, and mouths were covered by the blue cloth that looked, at least on television, like some kind of burlap. Rashidi thought of himself as a deeply devout Muslim. He believed strongly in Islamic women being modest in every possible way. But though he’d heard of the burqa culture, he had never seen it for himself, and something inwardly chafed against the notion that a woman who was properly submitting to Allah should have to go this far, especially in a place as brutally scorching as Kabul.

  Rashidi glanced at his watch and wondered what the Mahdi was thinking. They were on a very tight schedule and needed to proceed with the utmost haste. But they were running a bit behind, and Rashidi feared another outburst. He was sure the Mahdi was boiling.

  At 12:48 a.m., a full eighteen minutes behind schedule, the SUVs carrying the Twelfth Imam and his team finally pulled into the compound, and at precisely one o’clock in the morning, the meeting was under way.

  The group gathered in a large and somewhat-ornate dining room complete with an impressive crystal chandelier and a massive rectangular mahogany table. President Farooq had been briefed ahead of time on the proper protocol, and he dutifully got down on his knees and touched his forehead to the ground when the Mahdi entered the room, as did his security men, all of whom had had their weapons and radios taken from them by the Mahdi’s team upon arriving at the compound. The Mahdi did not greet Farooq or shake his hand. Indeed, Rashidi noted with a degree of curiosity and even a touch of disappointment he couldn’t quite understand, the Mahdi barely acknowledged the Pakistani leader at all.

  Muhammad Ibn Hasan Ibn Ali took his seat at the far end of the table. Rashidi quietly slipped into the dining room and took a seat along the wall, just behind the Mahdi and off to his left.

  “Get up,” said the Mahdi abruptly, and Farooq complied, though he did not immediately make eye contact.

  “Now sit, and let us begin,” the Mahdi added.

  Farooq again did as he was told, taking a seat in the chair at the far end of the table, directly opposite the Mahdi. Rashidi couldn’t imagine the Pakistani had ever been treated like this or spoken to so brusquely in the nine years he had been ruling the Islamic world’s only nuclear-armed power.

  “Are you ready to join the Caliphate?” the Mahdi asked, seething as far as Rashidi could tell and evidently ready to explode at the slightest provocation. “Your dithering thus far has been noted.”

  “Pakistan is ready,” Farooq replied. “Indeed, we are honored to join the Caliphate, an
d we look forward to your enlightened leadership.”

  Rashidi could have sworn he detected an ever-so-slight edge of sarcasm in Farooq’s reply, but he privately rebuked himself for being cynical and then felt a flash of fear when he considered the possibility that the Mahdi knew all that he was thinking. Nevertheless, the Mahdi seemed to welcome Farooq’s support and did not question the man’s sincerity, at least not directly.

  “What token do you bring of Pakistan’s desire to be part of the Islamic kingdom?” the Mahdi asked.

  Farooq did not hesitate. “We offer you the keys to the kingdom.”

  Rashidi quietly gasped. He knew this was what they had come for, but it was hard to believe it was really happening right before his very eyes. There were many in the Iranian high command who privately doubted the Sunni Muslim leaders of Pakistan would ever willingly hand over outright control of their nuclear missiles to a Shia, even if it was the Islamic messiah. The Pakistanis were not Persians. They were not Arabs. Theirs was a rich and proud and complicated history, vastly different from his own.

  “You have brought the launch codes?” the Mahdi asked.

  “I have, Your Excellency.”

  “Have you done so willingly?”

  “I have, Your Excellency, with the unanimous vote of the Pakistani Security Cabinet and the full support of all my senior generals. It pleases me to inform you that I am now prepared to turn over to you full control of all 273 of Pakistan’s most advanced ballistic missiles, each of which possesses a nuclear warhead developed by our own A. Q. Khan.”

  Transfixed by the unfolding developments, Rashidi looked to the Mahdi, who suddenly seemed more surprised than pleased.

  “273?” he asked. “Why was I under the impression there were only 173?”

  “Well, it would not do for our enemies to know the full scope of our offensive capabilities,” Farooq noted. “Perhaps we have allowed the misperception to develop that there are fewer missiles in our arsenal than there actually are.”

  “Perhaps,” the Mahdi said with a slight smile. “Continue.”

  “May I?” Farooq asked, signaling his desire to come closer.

  The Mahdi waved him forward, so Farooq got up from his seat and walked across the dining room, pulling up a chair beside the Twelfth Imam. Then he lowered his voice, though Rashidi wasn’t sure why. Was it so all the security men couldn’t hear him? Rashidi discreetly leaned in and tried to catch as much of the conversation as he could.

  “Your Excellency, in the twentieth century, the main threat to Pakistan was, of course, from India,” Farooq began. “But we now live in a new age, do we not? Your arrival on the international stage has been a game changer. Your ability to persuade the Saudis to join the Caliphate, along with the Egyptians and the Lebanese and so many others, is rapidly changing the geopolitical equation. The Islamic kingdom is rising fast, and the world is doing nothing serious or decisive to stop you. I believe you now have the opportunity not only to annihilate the Jews—a goal that my government and I fully support—but also to humble the arrogant Americans and the feckless Europeans, along with all the world’s powers. You have the opportunity to build not just an Islamic empire but a global empire, something no other Islamic leader has ever been able to accomplish before. I have come to tell you that the government of Pakistan stands ready to serve you. We believe with all our hearts that Islam is the answer. Jihad is the way. The Qur’an is our guide. The Prophet is our model. But now you are our caliph and king. And so you must know the full extent of the arsenal—the power—now at your fingertips.”

  “You have all the documentation, the authorization codes, and launch instructions?”

  “I do,” said Farooq. “Let us begin.”

  EN ROUTE TO WASHINGTON, D.C.

  The FBI had moved quickly to assume custody of Najjar Malik from the Cape May Police Department and had put Najjar on a Bureau jet back to the nation’s capital. The CIA and the White House were immediately notified of the arrest, and the president insisted the story not be leaked to the press under any circumstances. Rather, he wanted Najjar to be interrogated thoroughly and then given an hour with his family before being placed in solitary confinement at the FBI building in Washington until further notice.

  All this was explained to Najjar before he was handcuffed, shackled around the feet, blindfolded, and gagged for the thirty-seven-minute flight to Andrews Air Force Base, where he arrived under secure conditions with no possibility of the media catching wind of it. The cuffs were terribly uncomfortable as they dug into his wrists, but Najjar didn’t mind. He wasn’t anxious at all but felt very much at peace with himself and what he had accomplished.

  He was willing to pay the price for his escape, and though as of yet he had not expressed remorse for breaking into the house in Oakton, Virginia, and “borrowing” the owners’ cell phone and their red Toyota Corolla, he did feel terrible about it. Indeed, he silently vowed to repay the owners for all the trouble he had caused them, including the broken window in their basement.

  But now, he concluded, was not the time to say such things. Rather, he told himself, now was the time to rest, the time to sleep, perchance to dream about reuniting with Sheyda and sharing with her all the adventures he had had.

  DAMASCUS, SYRIA

  “Dr. Birjandi, wake up,” said the young Iranian officer. “We’re here.”

  Birjandi rubbed his eyes more out of habit than necessity as he sat up in the backseat of the luxury sedan.

  “What time is it?” he asked, emerging from a very deep slumber.

  “It’s getting late. Come, we need to get you into your quarters, and then I must return to Iran.”

  “But I don’t understand,” Birjandi said, trying to get his bearings. “Where are we now? What is this place?”

  “Damascus.”

  “Yes, yes, of course, but where?”

  “An air base.”

  “Which one?” Birjandi asked.

  There was a long pause.

  “Which one?” he pressed.

  There was another long pause, and Birjandi could hear some whispering.

  “We have just entered the Al-Mazzah Air Force Base,” the young officer finally replied. “They have a private room ready for you in the officers’ quarters. I’ll lead you up there and bring your personal effects. I will explain to you the facilities and help you get acclimated to the room, and then I must go.”

  “Perhaps you should stay,” said Birjandi, yawning. “I could use your help.”

  “I have my orders,” the officer said.

  “So do I,” Birjandi replied.

  “Please, Dr. Birjandi, you’ll be fine,” the officer assured him. “You need a good night’s rest. You have a big day ahead of you. And I’ve been told that when the higher-ups are ready for you, they will send someone to your room to summon you.”

  “And breakfast?”

  “It will be at 8 a.m. sharp. I’ve already informed them how you like your tea and toast. Don’t worry about anything.”

  Birjandi turned away. The last line would have been laugh-out-loud funny if the situation weren’t so dangerous. Don’t worry about anything? Did this young man have any idea how close the Middle East was to full-scale, all-out nuclear war? Yet somehow the import of the moment appeared to be lost on the young Iranian soldier, and Birjandi saw no point in trying to educate him at this late hour.

  “Very well,” the old man said at last. “Let’s get on with it.”

  As he was helped out of the Mercedes and up to the guest room, Birjandi couldn’t care less when breakfast was or what they were serving. He wasn’t listening as the young officer talked him through where the light switches and the toilet and shower were. He paid little attention as the man explained what drawers he was putting Birjandi’s clothes into or any of the other myriad details pouring from his mouth. Rather, Birjandi was playing catch-up, desperately trying to analyze what was happening and why. He hadn’t intended to fall asleep on the long journey. To the con
trary, he had intended on praying without ceasing, urgently seeking the Lord’s wisdom at this fateful hour. But he was old, and he was increasingly frail, and the rigors of the trip had overwhelmed him. He had slept, and slept soundly, and in so doing he had lost precious time.

  While the young officer droned on, Birjandi tried to clear the fog from his thoughts and make sense of what few facts he knew. Apparently he was now at Al-Mazzah, one of the most important military bases in all of Syria, though not the largest. The base previously had been the home of the Damascus International Airport until a new, more modern facility was built in another part of town. Now Al-Mazzah was the home of the Syrian strategic air command.

  Over the years, Birjandi had heard from sources as reliable as Hosseini and Darazi that the Syrians kept the bulk of their chemical weapons nearby, in deep underground caverns. And the entire base, allegedly, was ringed by the world’s most sophisticated air defense system, the S-300, designed and built by the Russians. If that was true, and he had little doubt it was, that meant Al-Mazzah was among the most effectively guarded bases in the entire Arab Republic. It would, therefore, be a reasonably safe place to quietly bring the Mahdi.

  Then again, why bring the Mahdi here at all? Why would the Twelfth Imam want to be in Syria? And why would he want to meet with an old man like Birjandi here, of all places? Such questions had been bothering him all day, but it wasn’t until the young officer said good-bye, clicked off the lights, and left the room—locking the door behind him—that the answer finally came.

  Birjandi was in the bathroom washing his face when the truth he had been nibbling at all evening suddenly dawned on him so plainly he wondered why it hadn’t been this obvious before. He turned off the faucet and stood ramrod straight, water dripping from his face and hands. The Mahdi was going to launch the last jihad against Israel from right here in Damascus. He was sure of it. And now it dawned on him, too, that the Mahdi and his forces had pre-positioned the remaining two nuclear warheads here at Al-Mazzah. They were planning to fire both warheads—most likely with a massive salvo of chemical weapons—at the Zionists to destroy the Jews once and for all. Then, presumably, when the evil act was complete, the Mahdi planned to go on worldwide television and declare victory.