Damascus Countdown

by Joel C. Rosenberg

  “We’re tracking the ambulance with a Predator,” Zalinsky told him. “They’re about twenty-five minutes from the base. We’re tracking you guys, too. You’re about twenty minutes out. But why the convoy?”

  David quickly explained, and Zalinsky liked what he heard.

  “How many other vehicles are with the warhead?” David asked.

  “It’s a package of three,” Zalinsky said. “A police car out front, two ambulances following. The warhead is in the first ambulance.”

  “How many men in the package?”

  “Fourteen—four in the lead car, four in the car with the warhead, and six in the tail car.”

  “That’s it?” David asked, perplexed. “Why so few?”

  “I’m guessing they felt more cars and more men would draw too much attention,” Zalinsky replied.

  “Do they have air support?”

  “No, none,” Zalinsky said.

  “Do we?” David asked.

  Zalinsky didn’t respond.

  “Jack, are you there?”

  “Yeah, I’m here.”

  “Do we have air support?” David asked again.

  Zalinsky paused, then said quietly, “I can’t promise you anything. Just do your best without it, and I’ll see what I can do.”

  “What kind of answer is that?” David shot back. “The president’s national-security directive was clear. We’re authorized ‘to use all means necessary to disrupt and, if necessary, destroy Iranian nuclear weapons capabilities in order to prevent the eruption of another cataclysmic war in the Middle East.’”

  “I think we’ve passed that point,” Zalinsky said. “The cataclysmic war is already under way.”

  “Meaning what, that now we’re now supposed to use less force?”

  “Look, Zephyr,” Zalinsky replied, “that directive was designed for operations inside Iran. Now you’re operating inside Syria. Everything’s changed.”

  “No, no, I memorized that document. Every word. Every comma. The president’s authorization for covert action wasn’t limited to inside Iran.”

  “You’re out of line, Zephyr.”

  “I’m risking my life here and the lives of my men, and for what?” David asked. “Is there authorization for this mission or isn’t there?”

  Zalinsky took a deep breath. “There is.”

  “Under the same NSD that we’re talking about?” David pressed.

  Zalinsky hesitated for a moment, then said yes.

  “Does the president want us to be here? Does he want us to move forward or not?”

  “He does,” Zalinsky replied, “and so do I. So does the director. But you’ve got to admit—the entire dynamic has changed. The Mahdi now has control of more than three hundred Pakistani nukes.”

  “Maybe yes, maybe no,” David said. “But these are the two he’s trying to launch today. All I’m asking for is some help here. Just give us the tools. Give us the air support we need, and I promise we’ll do everything we possibly can to stop them.”

  “I know, and your country is grateful, Zephyr. Like I said, I’ll do my best. Really. I promise.”

  David was furious. It wasn’t enough. But he realized he was no longer doing this mission for Zalinsky or Murray or Allen or the president or even for his country anymore. He was responding to a higher calling, and he’d have to leave his fate in the hands of a higher power than the bureaucrats at Langley or the politicians in the White House.

  44

  DAMASCUS, SYRIA

  “He’s here!”

  General Hamdi burst into the hall where Dr. Birjandi was now all alone.

  “Who is here?” Birjandi asked.

  “Imam al-Mahdi,” Hamdi replied breathlessly. “He just arrived a few minutes ago, and he ordered me to summon you to his chambers.”

  “What time is it?”

  “About 11:20,” Hamdi said.

  “I thought he wasn’t arriving until noon. Wasn’t that what they told us?”

  “Yes, they did,” the Syrian general confirmed. “But let’s just say that was a bit of misinformation for security purposes. Believe me, Dr. Birjandi, he is here now, and he is calling for you to come to him immediately.”

  TEL AVIV, ISRAEL

  Zvi Dayan entered the command center of the Israel Defense Forces looking ashen.

  It was not because Israeli cities were still being pummeled by a seemingly never-ending shower of rockets, missiles, and mortars fired by Hezbollah, Hamas, and Iranian forces. Nor was it because IDF mechanized units and ground forces were encountering heavy resistance in southern Lebanon and Gaza. Nor was it because three more Israeli fighter jets and an Israeli reconnaissance plane had just been shot down—one over Tehran, one over the Persian Gulf, and two near the Iranian-Turkish-Iraqi border. All of these weighed heavily on his heart and mind, of course. This war was far from over, and international pressure on Israel to commit to a cease-fire was mounting by the hour. Yet Dayan had something far more urgent in his hands when he strode through the main war room and knocked on the door of Defense Minister Levi Shimon, operating out of a side conference room.

  “Come in,” said Shimon, looking up from his laptop, where he was reading the latest dispatches of his commanders in the field.

  “Levi, we have a serious situation.”

  Shimon took off his trifocals. “What is it, Zvi?” he asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “We just got a call on the line dedicated to Mordecai,” said the Mossad chief.

  Shimon instinctively stood. “What did he say?”

  “It wasn’t him.”

  “What do you mean it wasn’t him?”

  “Someone called the number. Someone had the authorization code and password. Someone got all the way through our security, but it wasn’t Mordecai. He started talking, but after a few moments the voice-recognition software determined it wasn’t our man and cut off the call.”

  “Then who was it?”

  “We have no idea.”

  “How did he penetrate your security?”

  “I cannot tell you that either.”

  “What did he say?” Shimon pressed.

  Dayan set a portable digital sound recorder on the desk and pressed Play.

  “One nuclear warhead is at Al-Mazzah Air Force Base in Damascus. Stop,” said the voice in flawless Farsi. “The other is being transported in a Red Crescent ambulance to the air base at Dayr az-Zawr. Stop. Both will be fired at Israel within hours. Stop. Urge immediate air strikes on—”

  Then Shimon heard a computerized voice say, “Voice match—negative,” and the call was abruptly cut off. Dayan shut off the recorder.

  “We’re running that voice against everything we have in our system,” Dayan explained. “But so far, we’ve got nothing.”

  “It has to have been someone close to Mordecai,” Shimon said.

  “Not necessarily,” Dayan said. “If Iranian intelligence has captured Mordecai, perhaps they were able to force him to talk. Perhaps they are trying to get us to strike the Syrians to provoke them into the war.”

  “Or maybe the Iranians are already planning to launch a nuclear attack from Syrian soil.” Shimon let out a string of curses. “Your people should never have cut off the call,” he bellowed. “They should have engaged that guy, kept him talking, and learned everything they possibly could.”

  “Fair enough,” Dayan said. “But the real question is whether anything he said was accurate.”

  “And?”

  “And nothing. I’ve put my best men on it. We’re turning over every leaf. We’re in the process of redeploying drones to Al-Mazzah and Dayr az-Zawr, but that’s going to take time, Levi. Most of our assets, as you know, are tied up over Iran, not over Syria.”

  “What’s your best guess, Zvi?” Shimon pressed.

  “If I had to guess—and I hate to guess; I want to know—but if I had to guess, under these circumstances, I’d say Mordecai has been compromised, so he’s found another ally. He’s using this all
y to get us this information, and it’s legit. I can’t prove it. But Mordecai has always told us the truth.”

  “This wasn’t Mordecai,” Shimon reminded his colleague.

  “You asked for my best guess, Levi,” Dayan replied. “That’s it.”

  Shimon lit a cigarette and paced the room. He cursed again and then said, “I think you’re right. We need to take this to the prime minister immediately.”

  DAMASCUS, SYRIA

  This was it, thought Birjandi.

  He had dreaded and resisted this moment for weeks, but now it had come. He was being led down a series of hallways and secret chambers and antechambers, and soon he would be ushered into the presence of the Twelfth Imam.

  The Bible specifically forbade followers of Jesus Christ from willingly going to meet with a false messiah, but somehow Birjandi did not feel as anxious at this moment as he had expected. He was not, after all, going willingly. He had been forced to come to Syria against his will, and he was being forced into this meeting as well. Birjandi could think of plenty of examples in Scripture of men of God being dragged before evil authorities as a result of God’s sovereignty, not their own human will. Moses was sent by God, against his will, to confront Pharaoh. Elijah was sent to confront King Ahab and the false prophets of Baal. Jesus was dragged before Pontius Pilate. The apostles Peter and Paul were brought to Rome by cruel tyrants.

  Birjandi said nothing as General Hamdi led him to the Mahdi. Silently, however, he kept meditating on a passage from the Gospel of Matthew. “You will even be brought before governors and kings for My sake, as a testimony to them and to the Gentiles,” Jesus told his disciples. “But when they hand you over, do not worry about how or what you are to say; for it will be given you in that hour what you are to say. For it is not you who speak, but it is the Spirit of your Father who speaks in you.”

  Again and again Birjandi repeated these words to himself as he thanked his Father in heaven for the opportunity to suffer for the name of Jesus.

  HIGHWAY 4, EASTERN SYRIA

  As Torres raced along Highway 4 in a northwesterly direction, David, still in the backseat, called Fox on his satphone to brief him on the plan, then called Crenshaw to do the same. By the time he was done explaining everything and answering their questions, Torres indicated they were nearing Dayr az-Zawr and were approximately six minutes from intercepting the convoy.

  “Marco, I need to ask you a question before we get there.”

  “Sure thing, boss.”

  “I’m not asking as a boss,” David said. “I’m asking as a friend.”

  “No problem,” Torres replied. “What’s up?”

  “If we don’t make it through this thing—and you know as well as I do there’s a real chance that we won’t—do you know where you’re going?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m saying when you die, whenever that is, do you know if you’re going to heaven or hell?”

  “Wow, gee; that’s a little grim, isn’t it?”

  “Seriously, Marco. You’re a good man and a good friend. But we’ve never had a spiritual conversation, and I really want to know.”

  “I . . . No . . . I don’t really . . . I haven’t given it much thought,” Torres stammered, clearly caught off guard by the question.

  “You know, it’s actually kind of amazing—kind of crazy, really—that people who have jobs as dangerous as ours haven’t given this topic much thought,” David said. “I mean, you and I are willing to die for our country. That means we’re willing to plunge headlong into eternity. Yet most of us have absolutely no clear idea of where we’re going. It’s not just you. Until a few days ago, I hadn’t thought about it much either.”

  “And now?” Torres asked.

  “A few days ago, I got down on my knees and gave my life to Jesus Christ,” David replied, his heart racing. “Lately I’ve been reading the New Testament and really searching for the truth. And it finally became clear to me the other day how messed up I’ve been, how lost I’ve been, how much danger I’ve been in of going to hell forever, and it scared me, you know? I’ve never been a religious person. My parents were turned off by religion when they lived in Iran. And until recently I never thought much about God.”

  “What happened?” Torres asked.

  “A lot of things,” said David. “I found out my friend Marseille had become a follower of Christ. Then I found out Dr. Birjandi had become a Christian. Then I met Najjar Malik and heard his story of how he gave his heart and soul to Christ. And I’ve seen how much it’s changed them, how much peace and joy and courage it’s given them. And I finally decided I wanted what they had. I wanted what Christ was offering. And honestly, I should have said something to you—to all of you guys—sooner, but I didn’t. We were busy, and I wasn’t sure how to explain it. But I couldn’t forgive myself if I didn’t ask you right now—do you believe that Jesus is the Christ, the Savior, the Messiah?”

  “Well, sure,” Torres said. “I mean, I grew up Catholic, but honestly I never really took it seriously as a kid.”

  “Do you believe Jesus is the Son of God?”

  “Of course.”

  “Do you believe he died on the cross to pay the penalty for all your sins?”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  “Do you believe that God the Father raised Jesus from the dead to prove to us that he really is the Messiah, the Savior, the Lord of the universe?”

  “Sure, I think I’ve always believed those things,” said Torres. “My mom and my grandmom used to teach me those things growing up.”

  “Then the question is: have you personally received Jesus Christ into your heart to save you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Dr. Birjandi taught me that it’s not enough just to believe these things about Christ in your head,” David explained. “We must consciously, intentionally choose to receive Christ into our hearts by faith. The Bible says, ‘But as many as received Him, to them He gave the right to become children of God, even to those who believe in His name.’ To receive Christ, we have to admit we’re sinners, that we’ve fallen short of God’s perfect standard. And we have to ask Christ to forgive us and adopt us into his family. Have you ever done that?”

  “I never knew you had to.”

  “Would you like to?”

  “Right here? Right now?”

  “Before it’s too late, my friend.”

  It was almost too late. They were only a few minutes away from the intercept. But to David’s surprise, Torres said yes. He did want to receive Christ, but he didn’t know how.

  “I appreciate you saying something to me,” Torres added. “No one has ever made it quite so clear to me.”

  “It’s my honor,” David said. “How about if I pray and you follow my lead? It’s not so much about the precise wording as it is about whether you really mean it. But if you do, I’d love to help you accept Christ right now.”

  “I would,” said Torres. “Let’s do it.”

  “Great—now usually I pray with my eyes shut and on my knees, but under the circumstances I’d say let’s keep our eyes open,” David quipped.

  Torres smiled and nodded.

  “Okay, then,” David said. “I’ll lead you in a prayer similar to the one I prayed. Let’s go. ‘Dear Father in heaven, please have mercy on me. I am the worst of sinners. I have been resisting you for so long, yet you have not given up on me. Thank you. Please forgive me for the wrong things I have done. I know that the Bible is your Word. I know it alone contains the true words of life. And I know that Jesus Christ is your Son and the only true Messiah. I believe Jesus Christ died on the cross for me. I believe he rose for me. I want to know that I’m going to heaven when I die. I want to know that all my sins are forgiven. Lord Jesus, I love you, and I need you. I promise to follow you forever, so long as you will help me and lead me all the way. Thank you for saving me. Thank you for forgiving my sins and adopting me into your family. Give me the courage to follow you no matter where you
lead me and no matter what the cost. I pray in the name of my new Savior and Lord, Jesus Christ. Amen.”

  To David’s great amazement but great joy, Torres prayed right along with him, line by line, phrase by phrase. And Torres didn’t just recite the lines; he prayed with passion, with a deep sense of conviction and hunger for God that both stunned and electrified David. And just in time, too, since Zalinsky was calling on the satphone. The convoy with the warhead was only three kilometers ahead of them.

  45

  TEL AVIV, ISRAEL

  Mossad chief Zvi Dayan began the hastily convened meeting of the War Cabinet via secure video teleconference. He explained the strange phone call to the line that had been set up expressly for Mordecai’s use and the impossibility of someone penetrating the Mossad’s multiple layers of security without, in his view, direct help from Mordecai himself.

  “The three key questions in my mind,” Dayan said, “are: One, did Mordecai provide the information to this mystery caller willfully or under duress? Two, is the information that we received regarding the two warheads accurate or not? And three, if the intel is legitimate, what do we do about it?”

  The prime minister listened carefully to the brief. “Forget the first question,” he said. “At this point, it’s irrelevant. Zvi, you’re the chief of Israeli intelligence. What’s the answer to the second question? Is there a warhead at Al-Mazzah and one at Dayr az-Zawr, or are we being set up?”

  Dayan shook his head. “I really cannot say, Mr. Prime Minister. Events are moving too rapidly. All my primary assets are focused on Iran, not Syria. But are there strange tidbits here and there that suggest something is going on in Syria? Yes. Are there reports of Iranian Revolutionary Guards arriving in Damascus from all points on the globe? Yes. Is it strange that President Mustafa hasn’t already launched a full-scale war with us, and could it be that he’s holding back until some key moment? Yes. Could that mean the Mahdi has chosen to launch the final two Iranian warheads from Syrian territory? It could, but I hate to speculate. I want to give you facts, not opinions. But I simply don’t have enough facts to draw a firm conclusion nor the time to gather those facts.”