Damascus Countdown

by Joel C. Rosenberg

  Dressed in a long black robe, turban, and sandals, the Mahdi paced for a few moments. He hated being confined to a bunker. He needed fresh air. He wanted to pray in the sunshine, bowing toward Mecca. He wanted to be in Islamabad to consummate the deal he’d been cooking up with Pakistani president Iskander Farooq for the past few days. It was close. Very close. He could taste it. But he hated negotiating by e-mail, no matter how secure his aides said it was. He wanted to sit with Farooq face-to-face. He wanted to read the man’s body language and make sure he was as compliant and supportive as his messages suggested.

  But the Mahdi needed to step carefully. The stakes were too high for another misstep now. His team had deeply disappointed him. They were making serious mistakes. They had lost the initiative, and they didn’t seem to know how to regain it. The time had come for the Mahdi to step in and reassert his authority. He had been patient long enough, and the price had been steep. Never again.

  Not wanting those beneath him to see or sense his agitation, he chose to take a seat at the far end of the table, then folded his hands, closed his eyes, leaned back in the leather executive chair, and waited.

  His thoughts quickly drifted to his inaugural address to the Islamic world and to the world at large, delivered in Mecca on Thursday, March 3. It was then he had made his intentions clear. “To those who would oppose us, I would simply say this,” he had warned in no uncertain terms. “The Caliphate will control half the world’s supply of oil and natural gas, as well as the Gulf and the shipping lanes through the Strait of Hormuz. The Caliphate will have the world’s most powerful military, led by the hand of Allah. Furthermore, the Caliphate will be covered by a nuclear umbrella that will protect the people from all evil. . . . We seek only peace. We wish no harm against any nation. But make no mistake: any attack by any state on any portion of the Caliphate will unleash the fury of Allah and trigger a War of Annihilation.”

  But the Israelis had called his bluff.

  Darazi—Iran’s moron of a president—had insisted to the Mahdi’s face that the Zionists would never strike first. Indeed, Darazi had claimed that the Americans would never allow it. But he was a fool. There was no other way to describe it. He’d been wrong, disastrously so, and this could not be forgotten.

  Hamid Hosseini had been more cautious, hedging his bets regarding the possibility of an Israeli first strike, but it wasn’t because the Ayatollah possessed any scrap of wisdom or sound judgment. The man was a coward, pure and simple. He was a sheep, not a shepherd, and his days were numbered.

  Faridzadeh was a different story. Iran’s defense minister had operational control not simply of Iran’s military forces but all the forces of the Caliphate. At the moment, that meant primarily the men and arms of Hezbollah and Hamas, both of whom were actively engaged in the war against the Zionists. Ostensibly, Faridzadeh could also direct the militaries of Egypt, Algeria, Lebanon, Saudi Arabia, Somalia, Sudan, Yemen, and Qatar to do his bidding. All of them had joined the Caliphate in recent days. Soon, perhaps within the next forty-eight to seventy-two hours, he would oversee the forces of Syria, Jordan, and Iraq, and possibly Pakistan and Indonesia as well, should everything play out as the Mahdi expected. But was Faridzadeh capable of such enormous power?

  There was a knock at the door, and then Hosseini, Darazi, and Faridzadeh entered, one after another, and bowed low to the one whom they called “the Lord of the Age.” The Mahdi commanded them to take seats at the end of the table near the door. For now, he would not permit them to approach too closely. That was an honor they had to earn, and none of them yet had.

  The Mahdi stared at each one of them in succession, then spoke bluntly and without emotion. “You are losing this war. This is completely unacceptable. You had eight nuclear warheads. Now you have two. You had dozens of high-speed ballistic missiles. Now you have merely a handful. You had the world trembling at the rise of a new Persian superpower. Now it is the people of the Caliphate who are trembling and wondering—fearing—if the Zionists are going to defeat us. How do you explain this?”

  A long, awkward silence ensued. The three men looked at each other and then down at the notebooks in front of them. None of them made eye contact with the Mahdi. How could they? They knew the situation was untenable.

  Finally Faridzadeh cleared his throat. “Your Excellency, may I speak?”

  “By all means,” said the Mahdi. “You have an explanation?”

  “I have a plan,” the defense minister replied. “Or rather, we have a plan.”

  “Go on.”

  “We have figured out a way to slip you out of the country to meet with Farooq,” Faridzadeh ventured.

  “In Dubai, as we have discussed?”

  “No, my Lord. Dubai is full of CIA, Mossad, MI6, the Germans—it’s not worth the risk.”

  “But it was before?”

  “The situation has changed.”

  “It certainly has. Where, then? Islamabad?”

  “No, my Lord, we believe that is too risky. We propose a secret meeting in Kabul, preferably tomorrow—fast and quiet—and then get you right back here before anyone notices.”

  “Why Kabul?” the Twelfth Imam asked.

  “The Americans have pulled out,” Faridzadeh said. “NATO has pulled out. The West has largely given up on the place. So it’s now free from infidel troops. Plus it’s close—just a two-hour flight from here and barely a half hour from Farooq’s palace. What’s more, the ISI has a strong network in the city. And as you know, we’ve been putting more and more intelligence assets into Afghanistan since the Americans withdrew. We’ve discreetly strengthened our presence in the past few days, and we can guarantee your safety. I think we can guarantee your movements won’t be detected, either, which means the trip won’t get into the news unless you want it to.”

  “I don’t.”

  “My point exactly, my Lord.”

  The room went quiet. The Mahdi studied each man closely. Hosseini was tense. Darazi was pale. Faridzadeh seemed . . . what? Confident? Self-assured? Even proud?

  “Is this your plan, Ali?” the Mahdi asked.

  “We worked on it together, my Lord.”

  “But this is your brainchild?”

  “Actually, I cannot take any credit, Your Excellency—the original idea came from Mohsen,” Faridzadeh said, referring to General Mohsen Jazini, commander of the Iranian Revolutionary Guard Corps. “We helped refine it, but Mohsen gave us a five-page memo outlining a detailed plan.”

  “When?”

  “Friday morning.”

  “Why am I only hearing of it now?”

  “We’ve been refining it.”

  “Give it to me,” the Mahdi demanded.

  Faridzadeh pulled a copy out of his notebook and then hesitated.

  “You may bring it to me,” said the Mahdi.

  Faridzadeh pushed his chair back, got up, and walked the memo down to the Mahdi, bowing as he did. The Mahdi held up his hand, directing Faridzadeh to wait, and so he did, his forehead pressed to the ground. The Mahdi, meanwhile, carefully read the five-page, single-spaced document. It was not what he had expected, but he had to admit it intrigued him.

  To begin with, Jazini laid out a daring strategy to secret the Twelfth Imam out of Iran and into Afghanistan without being detected, and he proposed a compelling strategy for sealing the deal with Farooq for the Pakistanis to join the Caliphate immediately and turn launch authority of their arsenal of 173 nuclear-tipped missiles—including, but not limited to, provision of all the launch codes—over to the Mahdi’s control. That alone would have been enough, but that was just the first three pages.

  The last two pages counterintuitively recommended against the Mahdi’s order to attach the last two remaining nuclear warheads to medium-range ballistic missiles on Iranian soil and launch both at Israel at the same time amid a simultaneous barrage of some two hundred Hezbollah and Hamas rockets and missiles, thereby drastically reducing if not eliminating Israel’s ability to identify which missiles
carried the atomic payloads and thus Israel’s ability to successfully shoot them down. Instead, Jazini suggested getting the warheads off Iranian soil—forward deploying them to Syria, transported in milk trucks or fuel trucks or something innocuous like that rather than in military convoys.

  Once the warheads were on Syrian soil, Jazini wrote that they should be moved to military bases in or around Damascus to be attached to shorter-range Syrian missiles. When all was ready, ideally within the next few days, Jazini recommended the same simultaneous missile barrage from Iran, Hezbollah, and Hamas but combined with a full-fledged Syrian barrage of some twenty to thirty missiles, all aimed at Tel Aviv, Jerusalem, and Haifa.

  Jazini’s theory was that if the Israeli air defense systems could discriminate between Iranian missiles and Lebanese rockets, then the Patriot and Arrow systems would focus exclusively on the missiles inbound from Iran every time. The risk of having the last two nuclear warheads shot down, therefore, increased dramatically. But, he argued, in such a massive incoming missile and rocket attack from all directions, the Israelis would never suspect the atomic warheads were coming from Syria. Thus the likelihood of those warheads getting shot down would decrease dramatically under this scenario, and the chances of annihilating the Israeli Jewish population would increase.

  Jazini concluded his memo by noting the critical element of the Twelfth Imam’s securing full and unhindered control of the Pakistani nuclear missiles before launching the final two Iranian warheads. If this could be successfully negotiated and announced publicly, it should forestall the Americans from even considering a retaliation against Iran or any part of the Caliphate after the Mahdi wiped the Zionists off the map. Indeed, full control of the Pakistani nuclear arsenal would make the Caliphate a fast-rising superpower and the Mahdi one of the most powerful leaders on the planet, if not the most powerful.

  “Just as Allah would have it,” Jazini concluded.

  The Mahdi was surprised. The memo was good—better than he had expected—and he found himself impressed with Jazini’s foresight and initiative. Actually, Jazini was proving himself a far more effective tactician than Faridzadeh. It was Jazini who, several years before, had successfully overseen the program to enrich Iran’s uranium to weapons-grade purity. It was Jazini who had overseen the program to make sure the warheads were successfully built and tested and attached to the Shahab-3 missiles. What’s more, it was Jazini who had overseen the training and deployment of the IRGC cell that had successfully assassinated Egyptian president Abdel Ramzy in New York City. He couldn’t be personally blamed for the failure to kill the American and Israeli leaders as well. At least both had been wounded. Besides, killing Ramzy had been the top priority in order to prepare the way for Egypt’s joining the Caliphate, and that’s exactly what had happened. Plus, the Americans had suffered another black eye, another major terrorist attack inside their homeland—and in Manhattan of all places. Oil prices had soared. Gas prices were skyrocketing. The Dow was plummeting. The American people were rattled. President Jackson looked feckless and indecisive, and Jazini deserved a great deal of credit.

  Put simply, Jazini’s job had been to build Iran’s nuclear weapons program and make it viable while also giving Iran a terrorist network capable of striking deep inside enemy territory, and he had succeeded beyond anyone’s most fervent prayers. Faridzadeh’s job, on the other hand, had been to protect Iran’s nuclear weapons program from sabotage and external attack, and Faridzadeh had failed disastrously.

  It was Faridzadeh who had failed to stop the Israelis—or perhaps the Americans, or possibly a coordinated effort by both—from assassinating Dr. Mohammed Saddaji, ostensibly the deputy director of Iran’s Atomic Energy Organization but clandestinely Iran’s chief nuclear physicist running the weapons-development program. It was Faridzadeh who had failed to stop the defection to the United States of Dr. Najjar Malik, Saddaji’s son-in-law and chief deputy on the weapons program. Not only was Malik now apparently cooperating with the CIA, but he was claiming on satellite television and through his wildly popular Twitter account that he had renounced Islam and converted to Christianity. And now Faridzadeh was systematically losing this war against the Zionists. Any one of these crimes would have been abominable enough, but combined they were unforgivable sins.

  The Twelfth Imam had no intention of litigating any of this in front of Hosseini and Darazi. This was not a democracy. Allah forbid! Faridzadeh was not presumed innocent until proven guilty. This was no time to reprimand or demote or arrest the man. He was not, after all, merely incompetent. He was not simply a bumbler or a fool or a failure. He was a traitor to the Islamic people, a betrayer of the Caliphate. He was apostate. He was guilty of treason against Allah, and thus he was worthy only of the eternal fires of damnation.

  Realizing this gave the Mahdi a great peace about what Allah required of him. Without warning, he drew a small gun from underneath his robe. Darazi’s eyes went wide. Hosseini immediately recognized the pistol as his own but clearly couldn’t imagine how the Mahdi had gotten hold of it. But neither of them could speak, and Faridzadeh, his forehead still bowed to the floor, had no idea what was coming.

  The Mahdi aimed and pulled the trigger. The shot itself, especially in such a confined space, sounded like a cannon being fired. Guards immediately burst into the room, guns drawn, but stopped in their tracks at the grisly sight, as if unsure what to do. On the floor lay the lifeless carcass of Ali Faridzadeh, surrounded by a rapidly growing pool of crimson. In the Mahdi’s hand was a pistol, which he now calmly laid on the table. No one else in the conference room was injured, though everyone in the war room was now on his feet. Sirens were going off. Security was rushing to their location from all directions.

  The Mahdi, however, told all of them to go back to work, all but those necessary for removing the body and cleaning up the mess. Without saying a word to the Ayatollah or the president, the Mahdi picked up one of the phones in front of him and asked to be patched through to General Mohsen Jazini, whom he was about to name the new defense minister of the Caliphate. Then he asked to be connected to the personal line of Gamal Mustafa, the president of Syria.

  6

  SYRACUSE, NEW YORK

  Marseille Harper needed a few moments to herself. She needed to catch her breath and pull herself together. She stepped into the powder room in the Shirazi home, just off the kitchen by the door to the garage, to hide herself away from all the people and all the hushed conversations and all the memories this home brought flooding back.

  She took several tissues from the flowered box on the vanity, dabbed away the tears, and closed her eyes. All she could see was David. She missed him so much it was like a physical ache. She longed to hear from him, to talk with him, to know at the very least that he was alive and well. It felt so strange to be here in David’s house, with his father and his brothers and friends of their family, but without him around. She’d never been here without him. Why would she have been? Was she wrong to have come this time? Maybe the Shirazis were just being polite. Maybe they were wondering why in the world she was here and why she didn’t leave. The very thought made her wince, and tears once again began to push their way to the surface.

  Fighting her mounting doubts, she silently prayed the Lord would give her the grace to finish this trip well and get back to Portland, where she belonged. She didn’t want to be a burden. She wanted to be a blessing somehow to this grieving family she loved so much.

  Marseille opened her eyes and took a hard look in the mirror. She wasn’t happy with what she saw. She decided she didn’t like her hair down, so she reached into her small purse, took out a clip, and pulled her hair into a twist. She wished she’d worn a different outfit, like a warm sweater—this house was freezing, despite all the guests—and black slacks and more comfortable shoes. These pumps she’d chosen instead were killing her feet. She looked at her hands—no rings, short nails, clear nail polish—and realized they were shaking. She turned on the faucet until the water w
as good and warm but not too hot. Then she put her hands under the running water and closed her eyes again. Something about the warmth soaking into her hands seemed to give her comfort. At least for now. What she really needed was a long, hot bath.

  It had been a brutal week. Gentle flurries were falling throughout most of central New York. The forecast was calling for a major lake-effect snowstorm to swoop in by dawn, but in the Shirazi home, the emotional storm had already hit hard, and Marseille Harper knew its devastating effects would be felt for a long time to come.

  On Wednesday, David’s mom, Nasreen, had succumbed to the stomach cancer that had appeared without warning just a few months earlier and ravaged her petite body. Her husband was devastated. Her two eldest sons were grieving too, each in his own way, though they had barely spoken to one another, at least not in Marseille’s presence or in her sight. On Friday evening, the family had endured the viewing at a funeral home on Grant Boulevard—though it wasn’t truly a viewing, for Dr. Shirazi didn’t want his wife remembered as gaunt and nearly emaciated and had, therefore, insisted the casket be closed. David’s unexplained absence had been whispered about by some who attended, a fact not lost on Dr. Shirazi and one that to Marseille seemed only to make more painful the wounds he already had to endure. Earlier this morning, at eleven o’clock sharp, they had all gathered again for the memorial service. Marseille had felt certain David’s noticeable absence would be explained by someone, but it wasn’t, adding an unintended but distinctly awkward feel to an already-somber mood, at least for Marseille.