The Tehran Initiative

by Joel C. Rosenberg

  “So pretty successful,” Allen said.

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “The president also wants to know if the Iranians can deliver one of these warheads by missile at the moment,” Allen said.

  Zalinsky took that one. “We don’t think so, sir—not yet.”

  “How confident are you in that assessment?”

  “Ninety-five percent.”

  “So there’s still a chance.”

  “There’s a chance, sir—it’s small, but I agree it’s something we need to push on and find out for sure.”

  “Director Allen, if I may?” Eva asked.

  “Please.”

  “The reason we’re as confident as we are on the missile issue is the material David here was able to acquire from the computer of Dr. Saddaji, the head of Iran’s nuclear weapons program.”

  “The one who was assassinated two weeks ago.”

  “Correct. And what we’ve learned from our subsequent interrogations of Saddaji’s son-in-law, Dr. Najjar Malik—”

  “The scientist David smuggled out of the country.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “He was Saddaji’s right-hand man?”

  “Correct.”

  “Okay, proceed.”

  “Well, sir, while it’s true that Saddaji wasn’t running Iran’s ballistic missile program, the fact is we now have volumes of highly classified e-mail correspondence between Saddaji and the head of the missile program. When you go through it all, it becomes clear that Saddaji was being told that his colleagues were still several months—possibly even a year or more—away from perfecting the detonation of a warhead on an incoming ballistic missile.”

  “A few months isn’t that much time,” Allen noted.

  “That’s true, sir,” Eva agreed. “My point is only that we’re highly confident that the Iranians aren’t there yet—though you’re right, they’re not far off. What’s also troubling is that we have e-mails between Saddaji and high-ranking military officials with plans and memos discussing how to transport the warheads by truck, what kind of safeguards need to be in place, how many men would need to be part of the transportation team, whether detonation control would be in the hands of the on-the-ground commander or could be with someone more senior back in Tehran, and so forth.”

  “Good. Now, the next thing the president needs to know—and this is his highest priority—is the exact location of all eight warheads at the moment.”

  “Right—Jack, you want to talk about that?” Murray asked.

  Zalinsky nodded and leaned forward in his seat. “Sir, we have retasked a Keyhole satellite over Hamadan,” he began. “We’re watching all movement in and around that nuclear facility and have been since the earthquake. If all the warheads were built there—and based on all the documentation we have from Dr. Saddaji’s computers, we believe that’s the case—then some, if not all, could still be there.”

  The director interrupted. “I thought David had a highly placed source who told him all the warheads had been moved.”

  “Yes,” Zalinsky agreed. “You’re referring to the source we’ve code-named Chameleon. He is a longtime personal friend and advisor to President Darazi and Ayatollah Hosseini. The three had lunch recently—we don’t have the exact date, but it was about three weeks ago—and Chameleon obtained direct intel that ‘large nuclear bombs’ had been dispersed to secure locations all throughout the country.”

  “How reliable is the source?” the director asked.

  Zalinsky looked to David.

  “Very,” David said. “Chameleon is the one who said we needed to find Dr. Malik because Malik was the key to understanding exactly what Iran had.”

  “And he was right.”

  “He was.”

  “But you guys don’t believe him when he says the weapons aren’t in Hamadan anymore. Why not?”

  Zalinsky answered that. “That’s not exactly what we’re saying, sir. Chameleon could be right. We certainly believe that Darazi and Hosseini told him that the warheads were no longer in Hamadan. But we still have questions.”

  “Such as?”

  “Was the president being told the whole truth by Saddaji and his team? Were they planning to move the weapons but hadn’t yet? If they were really moving the warheads, were they fully assembled, or were parts being moved? It’s dangerous to move fully assembled nuclear warheads, not so much because they might go off but because someone could hijack the convoy and suddenly a fully assembled warhead is in the hands of a rogue element of the military or a terrorist group or whatever.”

  “Bottom line?” Allen asked.

  “The bottom line, sir, is that maybe all the weapons were scattered. Maybe they weren’t. We simply don’t know, which means Iran has eight operational two-hundred-kiloton nuclear warheads, and we don’t have any idea where they are.”

  14

  Beirut, Lebanon

  The motorcade finally departed the airport grounds.

  Jacques Miroux, following the Mahdi in a rented compact Renault, expected the entourage to head directly up Hafez El Asad Drive, where hundreds of thousands of Lebanese lined both sides of the street, hoping to catch a glimpse of their beloved Twelfth Imam as he made his way to Beirut’s largest stadium to deliver a major address. But at the last moment, to his surprise, the Mahdi’s SUV and the six other vehicles filled with heavily armed bodyguards diverted off the expected path, heading north on Al Imam El Khomeini Boulevard. A few minutes later, they turned northwest and made an unscheduled detour and stop inside the Shatila refugee camp.

  It was a brilliant move, Miroux realized instantly—bold, risky, unconventional, and populist to its core. It was exactly what a typical head of state wouldn’t do. Indeed, he couldn’t think of a single world leader—especially an Arab leader—who had ever visited the twelve thousand impoverished souls crammed into the one square kilometer that was the Shatila refugee camp. The Mahdi was going to identify directly with the Palestinian cause. He was going to see and feel and touch and smell the misery of these refugees, and in so doing he was likely to win not only the hearts of the four hundred thousand or so Palestinians living in Lebanon but of the nearly four million Palestinians in the West Bank and Gaza, the nearly three million in Jordan, the million and a half living in Israel proper, the million living in Syria, and the pockets of Palestinians living in nearly every other country in the Middle East and North Africa.

  Sure enough, as word spread through the camp of what was happening, Miroux watched the place become electrified. Thousands of Palestinian boys and girls, dirt-poor but smiling and cheering, came running to the motorcade, shouting, “The Holy One has come! The Holy One has come!”

  The bodyguards assigned by the Lebanese government to protect the Mahdi scrambled to take up positions and attempted to build a corridor of protection around their principal. But as the Mahdi stepped out of the SUV, he ignored their movements and their counsel and immediately plunged into the throng. The crowd went wild. Mothers, clad head to foot in black chadors and holding babies in their arms, came running, as did fathers and sons, all of them unemployed, few of them sacrificing anything more important to do.

  The crowd pressed in closer and closer. They tried to touch the Mahdi. They tried to kiss his hands and feet. The elderly and infirm tried to get close, hoping to touch the hem of his garment, that their ailments might be healed, and Miroux wrote furiously in his notepad to get it all down.

  He noted that the Mahdi didn’t try to speak but for a few words of thanks and appreciation to those nearest to him. The crowds wouldn’t have been able to hear him anyway, but they loved him.

  * * *

  Ahmed was only eleven.

  He was playing soccer with his friends near the trash dump when he heard the rumor come rifling through the camp. Could it really be? he wondered. Could the Lord of the Age be near us? Could he really be walking among us? It seemed impossible.

  Ahmed had no access to a television. His parents could not afford any books.
All they had was a Qur’an, and he studied it morning and night. He knew he was not that bright; his father told him constantly. Still, he was trying to memorize it all. His memory was terrible, certainly compared to his older brothers. But he wanted to learn. He wanted to be faithful. What more could he do? He prayed constantly for Allah to have mercy on him. It seemed impossible. He was only a poor Palestinian refugee. Forgotten by the world. Alone and scared. What could he do for Allah but perhaps one day join Hezbollah and become a martyr waging jihad against the Zionists?

  He picked up his soccer ball and took off running, leaving his less-devout friends bewildered and screaming after him to come back or at least leave them the ball. But the ball was his only worldly possession. And he knew what he had to do. Down one muddy, sewage-filled alley after another he ran, as fast as his little legs could take him. He was smaller than most children his age, and when he saw the enormous crowd near the center of the camp, his first instinct was to cry. He would never get close enough to see the Mahdi.

  Fighting back tears, determined not to give up, Ahmed pushed together several empty crates lying nearby and used them to climb up on the corrugated tin roof of a makeshift medical clinic. Scrambling to the top, he stood on his tiptoes and found himself in awe of what lay before him. There were masses of people as far as the eye could see—and more coming from every direction. People were chanting praises to Allah at the top of their lungs. He counted six—no, wait, seven—white vehicles in the center, nearly engulfed by the crowd, and figured that had to be where the Mahdi was. Try as he might, though, he couldn’t see the one he had come for. Nor could he imagine a way to get closer.

  Suddenly, he saw in the swirling dust something hovering in the sky over the center of the crowd, something almost glowing, right over where he was sure the Mahdi must be standing. It was a figure of some kind, Ahmed realized, bathed in a yellowish-white light. He had never seen anything more beautiful. Then, to his amazement, the apparition seemed to turn and look at him directly. And then it began to speak.

  “Ahmed, do you know who I am?”

  “I do not, my Lord,” the boy replied, trembling.

  “I am the angel Gabriel, Ahmed. I have come to proclaim to you the one you seek, the one over whom I now stand, is the Promised One, and you shall be his servant, the servant of the ruler of the Caliphate now rising. Submit to him, Ahmed, and you shall live.”

  * * *

  Miroux saw it and was mesmerized.

  Not that he wanted to be. He didn’t. He wasn’t religious. Far from it. He’d been raised near Lyon by atheist parents, who taught him from his childhood that religion was dangerous, anti-intellectual, a crutch for the masses, and a game for the foolish, the poor, and the hypocrites. For him, covering the Twelfth Imam was a fascinating diversion from typical stories about wars and rumors of wars and peace talks that never went anywhere. This story, he believed, was about the rise of a new political leader in a tumultuous political environment. The man was building a new Caliphate, an Islamic kingdom, or so he claimed. Few people in the West had ever heard of Muhammad Ibn Hasan Ibn Ali even a month earlier. Now he was a rock star.

  But this was different. This was strange. This was news, but would anyone, his editors included, actually believe him? He grabbed his digital camera and started snapping pictures, and to his shock, when he checked the result on the viewfinder, the ghostly image hovering over the Mahdi was as plain as day.

  * * *

  Langley, Virginia

  Director Allen turned to Eva.

  “Now let’s get back to Dr. Najjar Malik, whom you referenced earlier. I take it your interrogations of the good doctor are bearing fruit, Agent Fischer?”

  “They are, sir. Very much so.”

  “He’s cooperating?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “What can I pass along to the president and the NSC?”

  Eva got up and handed out a black folder marked EYES ONLY, containing a five-page summary of key findings from her several days’ worth of interrogations. “Dr. Malik, as we’ve already established, is the highest-ranking living Iranian nuclear scientist at the moment, and thanks to David, he is presently secured in a CIA safe house in Oakton, Virginia. We’ve covered a lot of ground in the last few days. You’ve got the highlights there. But the headline would be this: Dr. Malik has helped us identify two new high-priority targets, both of whom were the senior deputies to Dr. Saddaji in the Iranian weapons development program. The evidence we have suggests these two scientists were doing most of the actual technical work day to day on building the warheads.”

  “Do you have names?” Allen asked.

  “Yes, sir. The first is Jalal Zandi. He’s forty-seven. An Iranian national. Born in Tehran. Holds one PhD in physics from Tehran University and another PhD in nuclear physics from the University of Manchester in the UK.”

  “And the second?”

  “The second is Tariq Khan. Fifty-one, Pakistani national. We don’t have a bio on him yet, but we know he’s a nephew of A. Q. Khan and worked closely with his uncle on the Pakistani nuclear program during the nineties. These are the guys who know where the bodies are buried. Find them, and I think we find the warheads.”

  “So how do we find them?” the director asked.

  “I don’t think we have any choice,” Eva said. “We need to send David back into Iran immediately.”

  15

  Beirut, Lebanon

  Ahmed stared and couldn’t look away.

  He tried to speak but couldn’t. He tried to swallow but his throat was bone dry. After a few moments, however, he realized that he was not the only one to see this angel of light. Suddenly everyone was pointing into the air and a hush fell over the crowd, and at that moment, Ahmed snapped out of the trancelike state he had just been in. He realized that the motorcade was getting ready to depart and that with everyone else focused on the angel, he had a chance.

  Scrambling down from the roof of the clinic, careful not to drop the soccer ball he held in a vise grip, he began running once again as fast as he could. Zigzagging through alleyways filled with garbage and a stench he had never grown used to, Ahmed did his best to outflank the crowd and reach the northwest exit of the Shatila refugee camp. His heart pounded. His little lungs were sucking in as much air as they possibly could, but it didn’t seem to be enough. Sweat poured down his face and down his back. His bare, calloused feet ached terribly. But finally he reached the checkpoint just as the crowds reluctantly parted and the Twelfth Imam’s white SUV began to wind its way ever so carefully through the narrow streets toward Tarik Jdideh, the road that led to the sports complex.

  Panting fiercely and trying desperately to catch his breath, Ahmed ran ahead of the crowd to a highway overpass just in front of the camp entrance. Standing in the shadows, listening to the cars and trucks rumbling overhead, he waited for the motorcade to pass by. He waved at the tinted windows, not knowing who—if anyone—was watching or caring. Then suddenly, one of the vehicles stopped right in front of him. One of the tinted passenger-side windows in the back rolled down, and there, staring directly into Ahmed’s eyes, was the Twelfth Imam.

  “Peace be with you, my son.”

  Ahmed fell to his knees and bowed low.

  “Are you coming to hear my sermon?” the Mahdi asked.

  “No, my Lord.”

  “Why not?”

  “I do not have a ticket, my Master. I waited in line all night, but when morning came, they told me there were no tickets left.”

  “Come and see,” the Mahdi said.

  “How, my Lord?”

  “Come with me, little Ahmed, and I will show you great and mighty things you do not know.”

  A rear passenger door opened. The Mahdi told an aide to get out and find a seat in the last SUV in the motorcade. Ahmed could not believe it—the Mahdi knew his name and was inviting him to join him for the most important event in the history of Lebanon, maybe in the history of the world. And yet he hesitated.

 
; “You do not want to come?” the Mahdi asked.

  “I do, my Lord, more than anything. It’s just my parents. I don’t want them to miss me. I’m not always a good boy, but I . . .”

  Ahmed stopped in midsentence. His eyes went wide, and he turned pale as a sheet. For as he peered into the SUV, there sat his father and his mother waiting for him in the backseat, tears streaming down their faces. How was this possible? Ahmed wondered. It was simple, he figured. The Promised One could do all things. All he needed to do, Ahmed decided, was to believe and to submit, without asking questions. Questions, he feared, might mean he didn’t really believe or perhaps believe as deeply as he should.

  Nodding his head without saying a word, he gratefully climbed into the vehicle, kissed his mother, and sat beside the Twelfth Imam, his hands shaking, his lips quivering.

  “Do not be afraid, little one,” the Mahdi said. “I will take care of you. And once we are inside, I have a surprise for you, young man, something I think you will enjoy very much.”

  “What is it?” Ahmed asked, surging with anticipation.

  “Be patient, and you will see.”

  * * *

  Miroux saw Javad exit the Mahdi’s vehicle.

  He saw the aide walk to the back of the motorcade and climb into the last SUV, already jammed with Iranian intelligence operatives. But from his vantage point, Miroux could not see why any of this was happening. The highway overpass cast such deep and dark shadows that it was virtually impossible to get a good look at what the holdup was.

  Not that it really mattered. His main job at the moment was to not lose the motorcade. His editors had been explicit. They wanted wall-to-wall coverage of the Mahdi and his movements. Interest in the UK was off the charts, and it was spiking worldwide as well. Editors of newspapers and news websites around the world were seeing readership of Twelfth Imam–related articles surge beyond anything they had ever witnessed in their lifetimes. Miroux was tasked with filing three stories a day—at least.