Damascus Countdown

by Joel C. Rosenberg

  David’s satphone rang. He apologized to the team for the interruption and encouraged them to keep working. Then he put on a Bluetooth headset rather than hit speakerphone and answered on the fifth ring.

  To his shock, it was not Eva.

  “David, is that you?” came a completely unexpected voice—and in a whisper, at that.

  “Dr. Birjandi?”

  “Yes, yes, it’s me, but I only have a moment.”

  David motioned for his team to be silent as he turned up the volume and pressed the Bluetooth receiver closer to his ear.

  “Can you speak up, Dr. B.? I can barely hear you.”

  “I have to whisper, David. I am in grave danger. But you must listen to everything I say because I may not get another chance to call you.”

  “Where are you? You don’t sound like you’re at home.”

  “I’m not,” Birjandi said. “I’m in Syria, at the Al-Mazzah air base. Do you know it?”

  David couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

  “Of course, on the edge of Damascus.”

  “Yes, that’s the one,” Birjandi said. “The Mahdi summoned me here. He sent a helicopter to get me. I arrived last night, and now I’m at a breakfast with General Jazini and a Syrian general named Hamdi.”

  “How close are they to you?”

  “I am alone for the moment and near a window, which is how I have the satellite connection. The others are just outside the room. That’s why I must whisper, and I must be quick. Now listen carefully. There is much I must tell you.”

  TEHRAN, IRAN

  Three military choppers shot low and fast across the skyline of the capital, hoping to make it unclear which one carried President Darazi and confuse any enemy planning to take down his helicopter. As the three approached the Imam Khomeini Mosque near the heart of the city, however, the two decoy choppers peeled off and flew in circles around the mosque, their doors open and sharpshooters looking for any suspicious movement on the ground. Darazi’s helicopter hovered for a few minutes over the mosque’s enormous courtyard before slowly touching down.

  A moment later, despite the fact that the engines were still running and the rotors spinning, the side door of the chopper opened, and a set of steps was lowered to the pavement. Two IRGC security men stepped off first, followed by a military aide to the president and the official government spokesman. Only then did Darazi himself appear in the doorway, and that’s when the Mossad’s man fired.

  The rocket-propelled grenade exploded from the shoulder-mounted tube and sliced across the morning sky, its contrail creating a damning route back to the window of the high-rise apartment building from which it came. But the RPG found its mark. In a millisecond, it ripped off the head of the Iranian president, then detonated inside the helicopter. The result was a monstrous fireball that incinerated everyone within five hundred meters and took the Revolutionary Guards in the other two helicopters completely by surprise.

  Both Mossad agents—the spotter and the shooter—grabbed their equipment, including the video camera that had captured the entire event, and bolted out of the apartment as a burst of .50-caliber bullets sprayed into the apartment and shredded everything in sight. The two men raced down the stairwell. When they reached the ground floor, they sprinted out the back door, jumped on separate motorcycles, threw on their helmets, and tore off in opposite directions. Neither one was convinced he would actually make it to safety, but both were already speed-dialing the Mossad ops center in Israel to report the success of their operation.

  42

  AL QA’IM, IRAQ

  David hung up the phone but said nothing.

  “What was that all about?” Torres asked. “Is Dr. Birjandi all right?”

  Every man in the SUV was on pins and needles, but David remained quiet for another long moment.

  “Hey, man, is everything okay?” Torres pressed. “Talk to us. What’s going on?”

  David took a deep breath and nodded at a road sign. They were finally entering the area of Al Qa’im that was adjacent to the Syrian border, now just a kilometer or so ahead. That meant they had only a minute to talk, but David was still trying to make sense of what he had just heard.

  “You’re not going to believe this,” he began, “but President Darazi has just been assassinated.”

  “What? How?” Torres asked.

  “A few minutes ago, in Tehran,” David said. “Apparently a Mossad team in Tehran fired an RPG at Darazi’s helicopter. It exploded on impact and killed everyone on board.”

  “How does Birjandi know this?”

  “General Jazini just got the news from Tehran and told Birjandi. Everyone’s in shock.”

  “Birjandi is in Syria?” Fox asked.

  “Yeah, he’s at Al-Mazzah.”

  “What on earth for?”

  “The Mahdi summoned him.”

  “I thought Birjandi had refused,” Crenshaw said.

  “That’s what I thought too,” David confessed. “I guess the Mahdi wouldn’t take no for an answer this time. He sent a chopper for Birjandi last night. The old man was having breakfast with Jazini and some senior staff at Al-Mazzah when they got the news that the Israelis had taken Darazi out. But there’s more.”

  “What?”

  “The Mahdi is due to arrive there at noon.”

  “That’s barely two hours from now,” Torres said.

  “Right,” David agreed. “Both warheads were definitely there on the base this morning, but one is already moving. An Iranian nuclear scientist named Zandi is overseeing a Syrian team that is presently attaching one of the warheads to a Syrian Scud-C missile. Birjandi says the original plan was that by no later than three this afternoon, Damascus time, the unattached warhead was going to be moved, along with Zandi and his team, to Aleppo, where it, too, would be attached to a Scud-C. But Jazini is terrified the Israelis are about to attack Damascus and Aleppo, especially now that they’ve taken out Darazi. So he started the transport early—but I don’t think he ever planned to send the warhead to Aleppo anyway.”

  “Why do you say that?” Torres asked.

  “Because now it’s headed to a small air force base outside Dayr az-Zawr. The Syrians have several dozen Scud missiles positioned there, but generally it’s not a base that attracts much attention.”

  “Dayr az-Zawr?” Torres repeated.

  “Right.”

  “That’s not far from us,” Torres said. “We’re actually headed right through there. How are they sending it, by air or by ground?”

  “Jazini thought it was too risky to move it by air,” David replied. “He’s convinced that any aircraft that takes off from a Syrian military base, especially one in Damascus, would be shot down. So they’ve got it on a Red Crescent ambulance.”

  “The same way they got Jazini to Damascus,” Fox said.

  “You got it,” David said. “Now look, we’re coming to the border crossing. I’ll take the lead. The rest of you start thinking through how we’re going to intercept this ambulance.”

  “How long did Birjandi say it would take to transfer the warhead to the other base?” Crenshaw asked.

  “An hour and a half,” David said. “How soon can we be to Dayr az-Zawr?”

  “Maybe a little less than that,” said Torres. “It all depends on how fast we get through this checkpoint.”

  “Okay, boys, look sharp,” David said. “This is it.”

  David didn’t say any more, but he knew everyone on his team was thinking the same thing he was. Had Omid’s body been found? Did the Mahdi’s forces know his computer had been hacked and his IRGC uniforms had been stolen? Had the Syrian border guards been alerted?

  JERUSALEM, ISRAEL

  Naphtali was just about to dash outside his residence and board an IDF helicopter to make the short hop to the war room in Tel Aviv when an emergency call came in from Zvi Dayan.

  “Mr. Prime Minister, don’t get on that chopper,” Dayan shouted, already hearing the roar of the rotors.

 
“Don’t worry, Zvi,” Naphtali shouted back. “I’ll be there in a few minutes. Whatever you have can wait till then.”

  “No, it can’t, sir. We heard from one of our teams in Tehran. They just took out Ahmed Darazi.”

  “Did you say Darazi is dead?” Naphtali replied, wondering if he had heard his Mossad chief clearly.

  “Yes, sir, not ten minutes ago.”

  “How? What happened?”

  “My team took out his helicopter, Mr. Prime Minister,” Dayan said. “I’ll e-mail you the details in a few minutes. But that’s why I suggest you stay out of the air—at least for now.”

  IRAQI-SYRIAN BORDER

  This wasn’t going as planned. There was an enormous traffic jam at the border crossing. Ahead of their SUV were at least thirty or forty 18-wheel cargo trucks, and for whatever reason, the Syrian border guards were subjecting each to a thorough inspection—and taking their sweet time.

  David looked at his watch. It was just after 10 a.m. By the looks of things, they weren’t likely to cross the border for at least another hour. And they were at least a good hour away from the air base. That meant if things didn’t change quickly, they were going to miss their only opportunity to intercept the warhead before it entered the base and was too secure to be reached.

  Suddenly the phone rang. Frustrated but hoping it was Birjandi with more news, David turned on his Bluetooth headset again. But it wasn’t Birjandi; it was Eva.

  “Hey, it’s me,” she said. “Can you talk?”

  “For a moment.”

  “Good. I found it.”

  “Really?” he asked. “You’re sure?”

  “Hundred percent. You want me to read it to you?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes, go.”

  “Okay,” she said. “Here goes.”

  First, Eva gave David the phone number that the mole had used to call the Mossad headquarters. David scribbled it down on a sheet of paper while waiting in this horrendously long line. Next she gave him the number of the satphone from which the mole had called, and he wrote that down too. Then she gave him the exact coordinates in longitude and latitude from which the satphone call originated and the precise coordinates of where the call was received.

  “Why would I need any of that?” he asked.

  “I have no idea,” she conceded. “I’m just giving you everything I have.”

  “Fine. Keep going.”

  Eva read the short transcript, translated from Farsi.

  RECEIVER: Code in.

  CALLER: Zero, five, zero, six, six, alpha, two, delta, zero.

  RECEIVER: Password?

  CALLER: Mercury.

  RECEIVER: Authentication?

  CALLER: Yes, uh, this is Mordecai. I have very important information to pass on, and I have only a few minutes.

  RECEIVER: Go ahead. I’m recording.

  CALLER: Eight nuclear warheads being prepared for imminent launch. Repeat: eight nuclear warheads being attached to missiles for imminent launch. Stop. The following are the precise GPS coordinates for each of the warheads. Stop. Can only guarantee these locations as of this call. Stop. Warheads could be moved at any time. Repeat. Time-sensitive information. Stop. Will change soon, and I won’t have access to their locations once they are moved. Stop.

  Eva asked if he needed her to read the locations of the warheads at the time.

  “No, skip that part. Does he say anything else?”

  “A little bit, yes. Here it is.”

  CALLER: Please, I’m imploring you—don’t kill me like you killed Dr. Saddaji and like you’ve killed Dr. Khan. I don’t want to end up like the others. That’s not what I signed up for. I’m trying to help my country and help you. I’ve done everything that you have asked. I have risked my life and that of my family. Now I’m begging you to show mercy to us.

  RECEIVER: Calm down, Mordecai. Relax. Take a deep breath. We’re not going to kill you. Just the opposite. We told you if you helped us we would spare your life and your family’s, and we will keep our word.

  CALLER: Then what about Saddaji and Khan?

  RECEIVER: I cannot give specifics. But I can tell you this: both of those men were working to destroy us. You, on the other hand, offered to help us. We told you if you worked against us that your life could be measured in days, not years. But you have helped us, and we have helped you. Now, I need you to call again in one hour and give us an update on the locations.

  CALLER: No. I have done all that I can. I can guarantee you the warheads are where I say they are as I speak. But I can make no guarantees where they will be even a few hours from now. Events are moving rapidly here. I fear I will soon be exposed. This will be my last communiqué. I have done all that I promised, but I cannot do more.

  Eva paused.

  “And then?” David asked.

  “That’s it,” Eva said. “The call ends. The guy sounds terrified.”

  “Wouldn’t you be?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “The question is, who is this guy, and is he still alive?”

  “I just listened to your call with Dr. Birjandi,” Eva said. “Didn’t he say he was at Al-Mazzah with an Iranian scientist who is going to transfer to the military base where the second warhead was moved?”

  “That’s right; he did,” David said. “What was his name?”

  Eva rechecked the transcript. “Zandi.”

  “That has to be Jalal Zandi,” David said. “He and Tariq Khan were deputies to Dr. Saddaji before the Mossad took out Saddaji in the car bombing a few weeks ago.”

  “Do you think Zandi is Mordecai?”

  “I don’t know,” David confessed. “It’s a good question.”

  “Who else could it be?” Eva asked.

  “I’m sure there are several candidates.”

  “But think about it,” Eva pressed. “With Saddaji, Najjar Malik, and Khan out of the picture, Zandi’s got to be the most senior nuclear scientist the Iranians have.”

  “That doesn’t prove Zandi is Mordecai,” David pushed back. “Dr. Saddaji wasn’t a double agent. Neither were Najjar or Tariq. In fact, Najjar only had a change of heart when he had a vision of Christ. Do you think Zandi had a vision too?”

  “I don’t think you need a vision of Jesus to become a double agent against the Iranians.”

  “But these men were chosen for their supreme loyalty to the regime and to the Mahdi,” David noted. “No, I think it’s unlikely Zandi is the mole. It’s probably someone a bit lower on the food chain.”

  “Why else would Zandi be with Jazini working on the final two bombs?”

  “Precisely because he’s most trusted.”

  “But wouldn’t the most trusted people be the only ones with access to the precise locations of the warheads?” Eva asked. “How many people do you think knew the exact locations of each and every warhead on that Thursday? I’d bet the Mahdi himself didn’t know. I’m telling you—it has to be Zandi.”

  Eva made a compelling case, but David remained skeptical. Two other questions puzzled him at the moment. How had the Mossad found Mordecai, whoever he was? And how had they recruited him?

  DAMASCUS, SYRIA

  “Dr. Birjandi, you must come with me right away.”

  The voice was that of Abdol Esfahani. It was stern and dark, and Birjandi’s stomach tightened. Esfahani was in charge of all the on-site communications for Jazini, the Mahdi, and the rest of the Iranian team. Was he also assisting the Revolutionary Guards with counterintelligence? Had he intercepted Birjandi’s call to David? Birjandi knew the risks and was prepared to suffer the consequences, but he was praying that at the very least he would have the opportunity to speak the Word of God directly to the Twelfth Imam before they executed him.

  Esfahani took Birjandi by the arm and began moving him swiftly down a long corridor. In the wake of the news of Darazi’s assassination, the entire dynamic on the base had changed. The tenor of every conversation was anxious and edgy now in a
way that had not been the case only minutes earlier. Birjandi, constrained by the need for his cane, could barely keep up with Esfahani’s pace, but eventually, after numerous twists and turns, various corridors, elevators, and stairs, they entered a room that Birjandi sensed immediately was a power center. He had no idea how many people were in the room or who they were, but he wondered if the Mahdi had arrived early, and if so, whether that meant the launch against Israel was being sped up, as was his own death sentence.

  “Alireza, it is good to see a friend amid such sorrow.”

  To Birjandi’s surprise, it was an old and very familiar voice, that of the Grand Ayatollah of Iran, Hamid Hosseini.

  “Hamid, is that you?” Birjandi replied, using the Supreme Leader’s first name—a rare occurrence since Hosseini had been elevated by the Assembly of Experts to such a lofty position.

  “It is, indeed,” Hosseini replied, coming across the room, embracing Birjandi, and giving him a Persian kiss on each cheek.

  “This is a surprise,” said Birjandi. “I understood I was summoned by Imam al-Mahdi, but I had no idea that you would be here as well.”

  “Forgive me for the secrecy, but obviously we cannot be too careful about broadcasting our movements these days, even to friends.”

  “Obviously.”

  “You must be horrified by this news about our friend Ahmed,” Hosseini said.

  “It is a very dark day,” Birjandi said, choosing his words ever so carefully.

  “But not for long,” said Hosseini. “The Zionists will pay dearly for stooping so low. May Allah rain fire from heaven on these descendants of apes and pigs before the sun goes down.”