The Twelfth Imam

“Please, Mr. Esfahani, I beg of you. Hear me out. Just for a moment. My company, MDS, we’re very good at what we do. We can do the work you need. We can do it fast. And we’re discreet. We can help you in other ways, whatever you need. That’s why NSN turned to us. But the MDS executives are . . . well . . . how shall I put this? They’re imbeciles when it comes to Iran. They’re Germans. They’re Europeans. They don’t mean any harm, but they don’t understand our beautiful country. They don’t understand Islam. They try to, but they’re simply clueless. But I’m an Iranian. I’m a Muslim. I may not be as pure as others, but I try. So I begged them not to make Ms. Fischer the project manager. I told them it was an insult. I told them I was offended and you would be too. But they didn’t listen. They told me just to shut up and do my job and help Ms. Fischer with anything she needed. I knew it was going to be a disaster. But there was nothing I could do—then. Now there is.”

  The mea culpa seemed to be working. Groveling had its advantages sometimes. Esfahani was listening.

  “How so?” he asked, glancing at his watch.

  “Now I can go back to the MDS board and tell them that putting a German woman over this project is going to cost our company fifty million euros and shut down this market to us forever,” David continued. “Now they’ll listen to me, because believe me, Mr. Esfahani, they can’t afford to lose this contract. The global economy is too weak. The telecom market is too soft. Our stock price is down. Our shareholders are edgy. We need your business, sir, and we’ll do everything we can to make this work. And with all due respect, you need us, too.”

  “Why is that?” Esfahani asked.

  “Because your bosses want this telecom overhaul to be done yesterday. Text traffic is exploding. Less than a decade ago, there were barely four million mobile phones in the entire country. Today, there are over fifty million. You’re trying to handle a hundred million text messages a day. Soon, it will be a billion. Your current software is going to crash unless we help you upgrade fast. You know that. That’s why your boss approved NSN’s deal with us. So please don’t let all that work go down the drain, Mr. Esfahani. We’re all yours. Whatever you need, we’ll do it for you. And you don’t have to work with Ms. Fischer. I’ll send her back to Dubai. Heck, I’ll send her back to Munich, if you’d like. Just, please—please—give us another chance. I promise you I’ll be here to make sure MDS does everything you want in a way that honors our faith and our traditions. Please, sir. We want to help. I want to help. I would consider it a great honor to help Iran become the leading power in the region. Our teams are on standby. You give the word, and they can start installing the software tomorrow.”

  Esfahani seemed to relax a bit. “You really want this to happen, don’t you, Mr. Tabrizi?” he said, stroking his closely trimmed salt-and-pepper beard.

  “You cannot even begin to imagine,” David replied, worried he was laying it on a bit thick but certain he had no other options.

  Esfahani looked him over for another moment. “I must say, I am impressed at your humility and tenacity, young man,” he said finally. “Give me a few days. I’ll think about it and get back to you. Does my secretary have your contact information?”

  “She does,” David said. “But here’s my card and my personal mobile number in case you need it.”

  He pulled out one of the freshly minted MDS business cards Eva had given him on the flight from Dubai. He scribbled his cell number and hotel information on the back and handed it to Esfahani.

  “May Allah bless you, sir,” he said as Esfahani walked to the street. “You won’t regret this.”

  He watched Esfahani get into a waiting black sedan and drive off. It was only then that he remembered Mina had given him Esfahani’s business card as well. He quickly fished it out of his wallet, entered the contact information into his Nokia, and smiled. But instead of calling Behrouz and heading straight to the hotel, he surprised his handlers by turning around and heading back into the mosque.

  Maybe Allah really was listening to his prayers. Maybe David should thank him.

  47

  Back at the hotel, Eva opened her door wide on the first knock.

  “Please tell me you found him,” she asked, the apprehension showing in her eyes.

  “I found him.”

  “What happened?”

  “Meet me in the lobby in ten minutes,” David suggested. “I’ll tell you over tea.”

  It wasn’t ideal. He knew they would be tailed. But he also knew full well he couldn’t be seen lingering in front of a woman’s room, much less going in. They couldn’t talk on hotel phones that were certain to be bugged. Somehow, they had to act normal. For the moment, therefore, tea in public in the restaurant next to the lobby would have to suffice.

  As he headed back to the elevator, David again pulled out his phone and checked his e-mail. The first was another sent by Zalinsky. It had a link to a story on the Reuters newswire, datelined from Beijing, which described ongoing talks between Iran Telecom’s president, Daryush Rashidi, and the board of China Telecom, mainland China’s third-largest mobile phone service provider. As David scanned the story, he realized Zalinsky was providing a none-too-subtle reminder of just how critical it was to strengthen and deepen the relationship between Munich Digital Systems and Iran Telecom. The Iranians were now fishing in other waters. Should anything with the MDS deal go south, Iran Telecom was actively looking for other options. David winced at the thought of having to brief Zalinsky on the events of the last few hours. They were already hanging by a thread.

  Soon he and Eva were sitting across from one another at a small table for two, sipping chai and careful to keep their voices low and professional but not conspiratorial.

  “So where are we with Esfahani?” Eva asked.

  “It’s not good,” David said. “We made a serious mistake. We both should have known better.”

  “Can it be salvaged?”

  “Honestly, it’s too soon to say.”

  “What do you recommend?”

  “We need to cut our losses.”

  “Meaning what?”

  David chose his words carefully. He liked Eva. He respected her. And he very much needed her help. But she had suddenly become a liability in Iran.

  “You have to understand,” he began. “Abdol Esfahani is a very religious man.”

  “Meaning he doesn’t think I should be in charge of this project.”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “What do you think?”

  “That’s not my call.”

  “That’s not what I asked,” Eva said. “Do you think I’m capable of this job?”

  “Absolutely. But that’s not the point.”

  “What is?”

  “An awful lot is riding on this deal, Eva.”

  “You think I don’t know that?”

  “Of course you do. So why worry about it? Let’s just do what’s in the best interest of the project and the company, and go from there.”

  “You’re saying you want me to go back to Dubai?”

  David took a deep breath and another sip of chai. “I think we need to give Esfahani and Iran Telecom exactly what they want.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Eva said, incredulous.

  “Look, you and I both know this is neither the time nor the place to challenge fourteen hundred years of culture and religion over a software upgrade.”

  Eva held her tongue for a few moments, but David could see it wasn’t easy. If there hadn’t been at least two Iranian agents sitting at nearby tables, he suspected she really would have unloaded on him.

  “If I go back to Dubai, Esfahani will let us keep the contract?” she asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  There was another long pause.

  “But if I stay here, he’s guaranteed to cut us loose,” she said.

  David nodded.

  “Then there’s not much to discuss, is there?” she asked, taking her napkin, wiping her mouth, and getting up from the table.


  David leaned toward her and looked her in the eye. “Listen to me,” he said, speaking in character for the benefit of nearby listeners. “You and I are going to make a killing on this deal, okay? Then we’re going to go back to Europe and make boatloads of money there, too. Our bosses are going to love us. They’re going to give us big raises and bonuses. And then we’re going to come up with ways to blow all our money and really live it up. I promise. And just between you and me, I’m really looking forward to working with you every step of the way. So don’t let this throw you, okay? This, too, shall pass.”

  Eva’s expression suddenly softened. David even thought he detected a modicum of gratitude in there somewhere.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  “Don’t mention it.”

  “Okay. I’m going to pack up, check out, and head to the airport.”

  “Call me when you get to Dubai.”

  “I will. And thank you, Reza. You’re an impressive young man. I hope Mr. Esfahani realizes what’s he got.”

  And with that, she was gone.

  David stayed, finished his chai, and caught up on a few more e-mails. That hadn’t gone as badly as he’d feared. But only time would tell, for he was fairly confident that the transcript of this conversation would likely be in Esfahani’s hands by the end of the day.

  48

  Dubai, United Arab Emirates

  Zalinsky was furious.

  But he tried not to show it. It had been his decision to send Eva Fischer in as the project leader. He hadn’t had any indications that the senior executives at Iran Telecom were so religious. Clearly, he and his team knew far too little about Abdol Esfahani, for starters. Still, the trip wasn’t a complete loss, he told Eva over coffee in the Dubai safe house. Thanks to Zephyr, they now had Esfahani’s private cell phone number, and it was already bearing fruit.

  He slid the laptop over to Eva so that she could look at the most interesting of several transcripts.

  > > > > > >000017-43—NSATXTREF: ZEPHYRINTERCEPT—EYES ONLY

  CALL BEGAN AT 0209/21:53:06

  ESFAHANI [98-21-2234-5684]: Hello?

  CALLER [98-21-8876-5401]: You up?

  ESFAHANI: I am now.

  CALLER: Take this down.

  ESFAHANI: This had better be important.

  CALLER: It is.

  ESFAHANI: Hold on.

  CALLER: Hurry up. I’ve got to get back in.

  ESFAHANI: Where are you?

  CALLER: The Qaleh.

  ESFAHANI: Still?

  CALLER: Something happened.

  ESFAHANI: What?

  CALLER: I wish I could tell you, but I can’t. Not on an open line.

  ESFAHANI: Give me a hint.

  CALLER: I can’t. . . . I . . .

  ESFAHANI: What? What is it?

  CALLER: You won’t believe it. It’s miraculous, but . . .

  ESFAHANI: But what?

  CALLER: I will tell you more when I see you. But I really have to go. Are you ready?

  ESFAHANI: Yes, I’m ready.

  CALLER: We need twenty SSPs.

  ESFAHANI: Did you say twenty?

  CALLER: Yes; two-zero. Twenty.

  ESFAHANI: How soon?

  CALLER: Yesterday.

  ESFAHANI: Why? What’s happening?

  CALLER: It’s big, but I can’t say right now. Will call you again when I can.

  CALL ENDED AT 0209/21:56:23

  “Interesting,” Eva said. “Not every day you read the word miraculous in an intercept.”

  “My thought exactly,” Zalinsky said.

  “What do you think it means?”

  “I have no idea. So let’s start with the more mundane. What’s an SSP?”

  “I thought you knew everything, Jack,” she teased.

  Zalinsky was in no mood for jocularity. “Just answer the question.”

  “I’m guessing they’re referring to secure satellite phones. But why twenty? They need thousands.”

  Zalinsky took another sip of black coffee and mulled that for a bit. They both knew that the Iranians had recently bought thousands of satellite phones from a Russian company. The Iranian high command was building an alliance with Moscow and buying billions of dollars’ worth of arms and nuclear technology from the Russians. Why not communications equipment as well? There was just one problem. The Iranians eventually discovered the phones had been tampered with in a way that allowed the FSB, the Russian intelligence services, to monitor their calls. When the bugs were discovered, every Russian-made satellite phone in the country belonging to an Iranian military or intelligence commander had been recalled and destroyed.

  The Iranians still had fairly secure landline communications for their military and intelligence organizations, but Iranian officials knew they were vulnerable due to the lack of secure, encrypted mobile communications. This was the very reason the NSA was having success intercepting calls from Esfahani’s cell phone and anyone else’s phone for which Zephyr was able to get a number. It wouldn’t last long. The Iranians had proven themselves incredibly resourceful in the past. But for the moment, the NSA and CIA had caught a break, and they were exploiting it as best they could.

  Eva was right. The Iranians needed thousands of secure satellite phones, not twenty.

  “Maybe they simply want to test a new supplier and see if they can get a phone the Russians can’t bug,” Zalinsky mused.

  “Or maybe they’re setting up a new unit of some kind,” Eva said.

  “What kind of unit?”

  “Could be anything—suicide bombers, missile operators, something we should be worried about.”

  “That’s encouraging,” Zalinsky said. “Okay, then, what’s the Qaleh?”

  “It’s Farsi,” Eva said. “It means fortification or walled settlement. But the question is, what do they mean by it?”

  “I have no idea,” Zalinsky conceded. “But you’d better find out.”

  Tehran, Iran

  Waiting for word from Esfahani, David had been going to prayer five times a day, often at the Imam Khomeini Mosque, though not always. He still wasn’t sure what he believed, but he wanted to believe in a God who would hear his prayers. So he prayed for his parents. He prayed for his brothers. He prayed for his country and Zalinsky and the president. He prayed most of all for Marseille. He asked Allah to bless her, to take care of her, to heal her heart and ease her pain. Yet he doubted any of it was getting through. Sometimes there were “coincidences” that seemed like answers to his prayers. But most of the time he still felt he was talking to the ceiling.

  When he wasn’t at the mosque maintaining his cover, he went for long walks. He got to know the city. He visited shops that sold mobile phones, asked lots of questions, and then asked some more. Back in the hotel, he tracked business headlines on his laptop. He sent e-mails to colleagues at MDS. Mostly, he reviewed his cover story, again and again, meditating on every tiny fact until it had truly become a part of him.

  But he was dying. For too much of the day, he was sitting in a hotel room in the capital of a country feverishly trying to build, buy, or steal nuclear weapons. It was his mission to find a way to stop it, and he was stuck. Alone and out of ideas, he could only wait. He couldn’t talk to Zalinsky. He couldn’t talk to Eva.

  The worst part, however, was not the isolation. Or the boredom. Or the feeling of helplessness and frustration at not being able to do more—do anything—to advance his mission, protect his country, and care for his family and friends. The worst part was trying to pretend he was a good Muslim. Deep in his heart, David Shirazi—aka Reza Tabrizi—knew he was not. He believed in God, or at least in some form of divine being in the universe known as “God,” or at least “a god.” He believed this God was a creator, that He had created the heavens and the earth and mankind and him personally. Beyond that, however, he wasn’t sure what he believed.

  A shudder ran down his spine. To let such thoughts cross his mind—even if they remained unspoken—was tantamount to apostasy for a M
uslim. They were an eternal death sentence, a fast pass to eternal damnation.

  Yet how could Islam be true? The purest practitioners of the religion, he reasoned, be they Shia or Sunni, were the ayatollahs and the mullahs. His experiences in Pakistan, Afghanistan, Iran, and elsewhere had taught him that these “holy men” were the most unholy men on the planet. Their minds were filled with thoughts of violence and corruption. The leaders of Iran were the worst of all. They actively denied the Holocaust while planning another. They were trying to obtain weapons capable of incinerating millions upon millions of people in the blink of an eye, and to do so in the name of their god. How could that be right? How could a religion that taught such things be true?

  49

  David sat up in bed in the dark.

  It was 3:26 in the morning. He had not slept a wink. Three full days and nights had now gone by, and he had still heard nothing from Abdol Esfahani. But he couldn’t stop thinking about a particular line in his rant to his secretary the day David and Eva showed up for breakfast.

  “Don’t you know how close we are, you fool?” Esfahani had shouted. “Don’t you know how pious we must be? He’s coming at any moment. We must be ready!”

  What did Esfahani mean by that? Who was coming? When? And what did it matter? Why did they have to be ready? Why did they have to be more pious?

  Could Esfahani be referring to the coming of the Islamic messiah? On the face of it, it seemed unlikely, David thought. Maybe Esfahani had been talking about an Iran Telecom executive or a board member, or perhaps a top official in the Iranian Revolutionary Guard Corps—a possibility, given that they had just bought a major stake in the company.

  Still, David had just gotten an e-mail from Amazon telling him that Dr. Alireza Birjandi’s book, The Imams of History and the Coming of the Messiah, had been shipped to his apartment in Germany. It reminded him of how little he knew about Islamic End Times theology, but he was getting the sense it was becoming a bigger deal in the dynamic of the region than anyone at Langley—Zalinsky included—was considering.