The Twelfth Imam

by Joel C. Rosenberg

While he waited for the phones, David threw himself back into his work.

  He grieved for his parents and for Marseille. But there was nothing he could do for any of them at the moment. He had to stop being David and get back to being Reza Tabrizi. He had to get himself ready to go back inside Iran, and that, he was convinced, meant becoming an expert on the Twelfth Imam.

  Zalinsky had told him not to get sidetracked. But David couldn’t help himself. He simply could not go back into Iran without understanding better who this so-called Islamic messiah was and why people at the highest levels of the Iranian government seemed so focused on his appearance. Something was happening. Something dramatic and historic. Zalinsky didn’t get it. But David’s instincts told him this was real.

  He went hunting for every scholarly work and serious analysis he could possibly find on the Internet, since his search of the database at Langley had turned up little of value. On the third day, David found himself poring over a study published by a Washington think tank in January 2008. It was a bit out-of-date, but it gave him an important context he certainly wasn’t getting from anyone at Langley.

  Apocalyptic politics in Iran originates from the failure of the Islamic Republic’s initial vision. The 1979 Islamic Revolution began with a utopian promise to create heaven on earth through Islamic law and a theocratic government, but in the past decade, these promises ceased to attract the masses. Faced with this failure, the Islamic government has turned to an apocalyptic vision that brings hope to the oppressed and portrays itself as an antidote to immoral and irreligious behavior. This vision, which is regarded as a cure for individual and social disintegration, appears in a period when the Islamic Republic does not satisfy any strata of society, whether religious or secular.

  David was intrigued by the notion that “when the Iranian government failed to deliver its promises, many Iranians looked for alternatives and found the cult of the Mahdi—the Messiah or the Hidden Imam—and its promise to establish a world government.” The number of people who claimed to be in direct connection to the Twelfth Imam or even to be the Mahdi himself, the author noted, had increased remarkably in recent years in both urban and rural regions.

  That certainly rang true to David. His parents had spoken for years about how desperate Iranians were for a rescue from the failure of the Islamic Revolution of ’79. His father had always stressed the medical angle. Suicides in Iran, he said, were at an all-time high, not just among the young but among people of all ages. Drug abuse was a national epidemic, as was alcoholism. Prostitution and sex trafficking were also skyrocketing, even among the religious clerics.

  Given that David’s mother was an educator at heart, she found it both terribly sad and deeply ironic that Iran’s high literacy rates and increasing access to satellite television and the Internet seemed to exacerbate people’s despair. Why? Because now, for the first time in fourteen centuries—and certainly for the first time since Khomeini had come to power—Iranians could see and hear and practically taste the intellectual, economic, and spiritual freedom and opportunity that people elsewhere in the world were experiencing. Starved, Iranians were desperately seeking such freedom and opportunity for themselves. Indeed, they were so desperate for hope that they were opening themselves up to the deception of thinking it might come from a bottle or a pill or a needle. Was believing in a false messiah just another coping mechanism? David wondered.

  The monograph was written by an exiled Iranian journalist by the name of Mehdi Khalaji, a visiting fellow at the Washington Institute for Near East Policy. As David continued reading, he was intrigued by Khalaji’s assertion that “the return of the Hidden Imam means the end of the clerical establishment, because the clerics consider themselves as the representatives of the Imam in his absence. Hence, they do not propagate the idea that the Hidden Imam will come soon.”

  By contrast, Khalaji wrote, “in the military forces . . . apocalypticism has a very strong following.” He wrote that an influential group within the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps with responsibility over Iran’s nuclear program seemed particularly drawn to this fervor for the coming messiah.

  That was what worried David most—not that everyone in Iran believed the Twelfth Imam was coming but that the country’s top political and military leaders, including those running the country’s nuclear weapons program, did.

  That said, there was something in Khalaji’s assessment that did not ring true. Implicit in the article was the notion that Iran’s Supreme Leader was not a true believer in the soon coming of the Twelfth Imam but rather a shrewd political operator seeking to manipulate public opinion. Yet this certainly didn’t square with Daryush Rashidi’s or Abdol Esfahani’s description of the Supreme Leader. Perhaps Hosseini had once been a skeptic, but no longer. As far as David could tell, Hosseini and his inner circle now seemed to see their role as preparing the hearts and minds of the people—and the military—for the coming of the Twelfth Imam.

  These beliefs seemed to be driving Iran’s nuclear weapons development to a feverish pace, and David wondered how he could persuade Zalinsky they weren’t a sideshow. Washington’s entire approach toward Iran thus far had been built on trying to engage Ayatollah Hosseini and President Darazi and their regime in direct negotiations while applying escalating economic sanctions and international isolation. It had worked with the Soviets, the Jackson administration argued. Ronald Reagan had engaged Gorbachev in direct negotiations, and the Cold War had ended without a nuclear war, indeed without a shot being fired between the United States and the Soviet Union. Now the administration wanted to take the same approach with the regime in Tehran. But they were wrong. Dead wrong. They were following the wrong historical model, and the results could be disastrous.

  David opened a new document on his laptop and began drafting a memo to Zalinsky. He noted that Gorbachev—like all Soviet leaders of his time—was an atheist. Atheists, by definition, believed neither in God nor in an afterlife. So Reagan sought to persuade Gorbachev that any nuclear attack on the U.S. would result in the Gorbachev family’s personal annihilation—that Mikhail, his wife, Raisa, and their daughter, Irina, would personally die a horrible, grisly death, that they would be snuffed out like a candle and cease to exist, unable to take their power and money and toys with them. Reagan’s theory was that if he could convince Gorbachev that the U.S. policy of “mutual assured destruction” was real and viable, then he could persuade Gorbachev and the Soviet politburo to back off of their nuclear ambitions and truly negotiate for peace. It worked. Realizing there was no way the USSR could win a nuclear war with the technologically advanced West, Gorbachev launched a policy of glasnost (openness and transparency) and perestroika (restructuring). Eventually the Berlin Wall fell, Eastern Europe was liberated, and the Soviet Union itself unraveled and disintegrated.

  By contrast, Hamid Hosseini was not Mikhail Gorbachev, David noted, typing furiously. Hosseini was not a Communist. He was not an atheist. He was a Shia Muslim. He believed in an afterlife. He believed that when he died, he was going to wind up in the arms of seventy-two virgins—not exactly a disincentive for death. Moreover, Hosseini was a Twelver. He was a member of an apocalyptic cult. The man wanted the Mahdi to come. He believed he had been chosen to help usher in the era of the Islamic messiah. He was convinced he needed to build nuclear weapons either to destroy Judeo-Christian civilization himself or to be able to give the Twelfth Imam the capacity to do it. How could the U.S. successfully negotiate with such a man? How could the West successfully deter or contain him? What could the president of the United States possibly offer or threaten that would persuade Hosseini to give up his feverish pursuit of nuclear weapons? For the Supreme Leader to negotiate with the U.S. would, in his mind, be tantamount to disobeying his messiah and being sentenced to an eternity in the lake of fire. Why didn’t Washington understand that? Why were they so consumed and distracted by other issues? Didn’t they understand the stakes?

  David finished the memo, tagged Eva with a blind cop
y, hit Send, and immediately wondered if he had done the right thing.

  Hamadan, Iran

  Najjar needed to see Dr. Saddaji’s files.

  He was drained and exhausted from the funeral. He was also still quite ill. He took Sheyda, Farah, and the baby back to the apartment and got them settled in for the night. His mother-in-law was still nearly inconsolable, and Sheyda didn’t want her to be all alone that night. But Najjar explained that he could not stay. He had to get back to the office, where Dr. Saddaji’s papers and personal effects had to be attended to and secured.

  “Can’t all that be done tomorrow, Najjar?” Sheyda asked, imploring him to stay with his family.

  No, it could not wait, he told her. But the truth was also that he did not want to be home just then. He did not feel remorse for his father-in-law’s death, and he didn’t have the capacity to fake it for much longer, certainly not in front of two women he truly loved. More importantly, he knew he had to get to Dr. Saddaji’s computer, break into it, and find out as much as he could. But Najjar said none of these things to his fragile wife. He simply kissed her and promised to drive safely and get home as quickly as he could.

  Reluctantly she let him go, though not without more tears.

  To his shock, however, when he got all the way to Dr. Saddaji’s office, he found it already heavily guarded by plant security. Boxes full of files were being removed by armed guards. Dr. Saddaji’s desktop computer had already been removed, along with his external hard drive. Najjar insisted that he be allowed to review his father-in-law’s files and possessions to ensure that the family got what was theirs, but he was quickly introduced to the deputy director of Iranian internal security and told he would simply have to wait.

  “Dr. Malik, as you know, your father-in-law was a very powerful, very influential man,” said the intelligence official, who explained he had come from Tehran on direct orders from Defense Minister Faridzadeh. “He held many state secrets that the Zionists, the Americans, the British, and frankly all of our enemies would love to get their hands upon. I know you and your family are grieving. But please, give us a few days, and we will send to you everything that is rightfully yours.”

  Najjar was offended and angry, but he lacked the energy and the will to argue with anyone. Not there. Not then. He was still reeling from the day’s events and weak from a fever he hadn’t shaken. He had eaten nothing all day. He had barely been able to keep down water; the doctor had had to give him shots because he kept vomiting up the antibiotics he was on.

  He excused himself from the intelligence official, went to the men’s room, washed the perspiration off his face, and tried to figure out what to do next. He needed to know what Dr. Saddaji had been up to—not in theory but in fact. He needed proof. But he had none, and whatever shred of motivation he’d had to make it through the day was now gone.

  63

  For more than an hour, Najjar had been suffering dry heaves.

  Now, physically and emotionally spent, he exited the building, cleared security, got in his car, and began the forty-five-minute drive home.

  Hamadan is a city of concentric circles. At the center is a one-way street running counterclockwise that encircles Imam Khomeini Square. Connecting to this street are six boulevards radiating outward like spokes of a wheel. Each connects to a road that rings the heart of the business and cultural district. Eventually, they connect to a highway that surrounds the entire city, much like the Boulevard Périphérique that encircles Paris or the Beltway around Washington, D.C.

  Hamadan’s airport lies just beyond this outer highway, along the plains to the northeast. To the west lie the foothills of the Zagros mountain range, the largest and most rugged peaks in all of Iran.

  Facility 278, the purposefully bland and unassuming name of the nuclear research center that Dr. Saddaji had run for so many years, was located about forty kilometers west of the city center. It was not in the foothills but rather deep in the mountains. Constructed in the early 1990s, the facility was built into the side of an 11,000-foot mountain known as Alvand Peak.

  Najjar had always loved the remote location. He loved the long drive to and from work every day. It gave him time to himself, time to think, time to pray, time to enjoy the gorgeous views of the mountains and the valley below. Now, however, as he came down the snowy, ice-clogged service road and felt the winds picking up and a new snow squall beginning to descend on the mountain, he felt trapped. He had no friends, no family to whom he could turn and talk about the situation in which he now found himself. He needed wisdom. He needed someone to tell him what to do and how to do it.

  Suddenly, as he came around a hairpin turn, he was practically blinded. It was as if a large truck with its high beams on were coming straight for him, yet something about the light did not seem normal. Najjar slammed on the brakes. His rear wheels began fishtailing. Turning the steering wheel furiously and pumping the brakes rather than locking them down, he tried desperately to regain control. Instead, his car slammed into the mountainside, then skidded toward the embankment and finally came to a halt by thudding hard into the guardrail.

  Najjar’s heart pounded. He could barely breathe. The light was intense. He squinted behind him and then ahead, hoping there were no other vehicles coming or going. Cautiously, he stepped out of the car to assess the damage and gain his balance.

  But just as his feet hit the icy pavement, he saw him. Someone was standing on the road ahead.

  As his eyes began to adjust, Najjar saw the man more clearly.

  Rather than winter clothes, the man was wearing a robe reaching to his feet. Across his chest was a gold sash. His hair was as white as the snow that surrounded them. His eyes were fiery. His face shone.

  Najjar fell at his feet like a dead man, but the figure said, “Do not be afraid.”

  “Who are you?” Najjar asked shakily.

  But the reply shook Najjar even more.

  “I am Jesus the Nazarene.”

  Munich, Germany

  David was startled by the knock on the door.

  He rubbed his eyes and checked his watch. It was almost 9 p.m. He wasn’t expecting anyone. He hardly even knew anyone in the city. Grabbing his Beretta from the drawer of the nightstand by his bed, he disengaged the slide-mounted safety with his thumb and moved cautiously and quietly down the hallway, through the dining room, and to the front door.

  Aside from cleaning it, weeks had passed since he had held the pistol in his hands, and his palms were perspiring. He pressed himself against the wall by the door and quickly looked out the peephole. A moment later, he reengaged the safety, though more confused than relieved.

  What in the world is Eva doing in Munich?

  He opened the door a crack.

  “Delivery girl.” She smiled.

  “I wasn’t expecting to see you,” he replied.

  “I couldn’t resist,” she said. “May I come in?”

  “Of course.”

  She was toting several large boxes. He hoped they were satellite phones. The first box she handed him upon entering, however, was already open. It was from Amazon and contained Dr. Birjandi’s book. Fully awake now, he flipped through it quickly and noticed it was already heavily marked up with yellow highlighter and notes in pen in the margins.

  “I stole your book for a few hours,” Eva confessed. “It’s fascinating. You should read it.”

  David laughed. “I was hoping to.”

  “I’m doing some research on Birjandi, working up a profile on him,” Eva said. “He’s an interesting guy. Noted professor, scholar, and author. He’s widely described in the Iranian media as a spiritual mentor or advisor to several of the top leaders in the Iranian regime, including Ayatollah Hosseini. They have dinner once a month. But at eighty-three, the guy is pretty reclusive; he’s rarely heard from in public anymore. Until that conference a couple weeks ago, he hadn’t given a sermon or speech in years.”

  “Why the reemergence?” David asked.

  “Turn to
page 237,” Eva replied.

  David did and began to read aloud the underlined passage.

  “The Mahdi will return when the last pages of history are being written in blood and fire. It will be a time of chaos, carnage, and confusion, a time when Muslims need to have faith and courage like never before. Some say all the infidels—especially the Christians and the Jews—must be converted or destroyed before he is revealed and ushers in a reign characterized by righteousness, justice, and peace. Others say Muslims must prepare the conditions for the destruction of the Christians and the Jews but that the Mahdi will finish the job himself.”

  David looked up, his heart pounding. “Birjandi thinks he’s here.”

  “That’s my guess.”

  “We need to get this to Zalinsky.”

  “It’s not enough,” Eva said. “We need more.”

  “You said it yourself—Birjandi is Hosseini’s advisor. If this is what Birjandi believes, it’s got to be what Hosseini believes. Darazi, too.”

  “I agree,” Eva said. “This is what’s driving them to get the Bomb. But that’s just us guessing. We need proof.”

  “What kind of proof?”

  “I don’t know,” she conceded. “But more than this.”

  David sighed. She was right. He looked at the boxes.

  “Tell me those are satellite phones,” he said.

  “They are. Twenty. Government-issue. Military-grade.”

  “And our friends back at Langley have toyed with them all a bit?”

  “Actually, no. Jack was worried the Iranians would find any chip we put into the phones. These particular satphones are the product of a joint venture between Nokia and Thuraya.”

  “Thuraya—the Arab consortium?”

  “Based in Abu Dhabi, right. Long story short, I have people on the inside at Thuraya. They gave me the encryption codes and all the satellite data. I gave them a boatload of money.”