“It’s not just Zephyr and Khan, Mr. President. There’s Chameleon as well.”
“Chameleon is secondhand. It’s hearsay.” Jackson sniffed. “Khan might be legit. I’ll grant you that. But there’s another scientist, too, isn’t there? What’s his name?”
“Jalal Zandi.”
“Right, Zandi—isn’t he just as important as Khan?”
“We believe so, yes.”
“Then get him, too. Get them both. Let’s see if their stories match. Only then will I decide if there are going to be any air strikes.”
The president said good night and walked out, and Murray stood there alone, looking over the South Lawn and at the Washington Monument, lit up in the distance. He had no words to explain how disoriented and alone he felt at that moment. He and his team had risked their lives to give the president the best chance at stopping a nuclear holocaust, and the man had kicked the can down the road. What’s more, he had now given them a near-impossible task that would put more American lives at risk, not to mention all of Israel. How had the character of American leadership sunk this low?
* * *
Lashkardar Protected Area, Iran
“Mr. Shirazi, my name is Torres. I’m your ride home.”
Marco Torres broke out in a wide grin and shook David’s hand. David gave the special forces team leader a bear hug in return and started breathing again. The two men stood in front of the cabin and compared notes, while a medic attended to Khan inside the cabin.
Torres was six foot three, twenty-nine years old, and a former Marine sniper from San Diego. He’d joined the CIA after two tours in Afghanistan. Torres apologized for how long it had taken him and his team to get into the country from Bahrain, link up with their Agency contacts, and track him down, but for David, there was no need for apologies and no time for small talk. He was glad to see so many friendly faces and so much firepower, and it was time to get moving.
“Our orders are to get you and Mr. Khan to the safe house in Karaj and then fly you out in the morning,” Torres said.
“Well, your orders have changed,” David replied. “Have your second squad take Khan, fix him up, and get him out of the country for further interrogation. The rest of you need to hustle. We’re going to Qom.”
* * *
The Qaleh, Iran
The Twelfth Imam gathered with his inner circle.
Javad had made certain they were all assembled on the porch of the Qaleh. Now they were sipping tea and discussing what might have happened to Tariq Khan and what this meant for the rest of their war plans, but when the Mahdi came out, they all bowed to worship him until they were released.
“Gentlemen, as I told Javad here, I am not worried about Mr. Khan,” the Mahdi began. “He was expendable. Allah’s plans cannot be thwarted. So you needn’t worry. Mr. Khan is not why I have gathered you. The bigger issue is Jerusalem. Namely, what shall be done with it?”
Javad noticed the surprise in each of the men’s eyes. He saw Darazi look to Hosseini and then over to Faridzadeh. As he expected, however—indeed, as the Mahdi had privately predicted to Javad just moments earlier—Hosseini was the first to speak, and he took no position at all.
“It does not matter what we believe, my Lord. What is Allah’s will concerning the future of Jerusalem?” the Supreme Leader said.
“I’m not asking for your advice or your recommendations,” the Mahdi said. “I’m asking for your understanding from all the ancient writings about the future of Jerusalem.”
The men seemed taken aback by the question, but at the Mahdi’s urging, they took a few minutes to discuss it among themselves. When they were finished, Hosseini spoke again.
“Well, of course, Jerusalem is not spoken of directly in the noble Qur’an,” the Ayatollah said, looking weary and heavy laden with the magnitude of events now unfolding around them. “But we do see it alluded to in the blessed Night Vision, when the angel Gabriel took the Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him, on the winged, horselike beast for a journey unlike any other. In Sura 17, verse 1, we read, ‘Glory to God, who did take His servant for a journey by night from the Sacred Mosque to the Farthest Mosque whose precincts we did bless, in order that we might show him some of our signs: for He is the One Who hears and sees all things.’ The ancients clearly taught that the Sacred Mosque—Al-Masjid Al-Haram—was the holy Kaaba located in Mecca, while the Farthest Mosque—Al-Masjid Al-Aqsa—was the ‘mosque in the corner,’ or the holy house in Jerusalem, where today stands the Al-Aqsa Mosque alongside the Dome of the Rock. That is the location where Muhammad, peace be upon him, knelt twice and prayed to Allah, and then he was taken up to the Seven Heavens to confer with the saints.”
“Very good,” the Mahdi said. “Continue.”
“Not all of the ancients, however, believed that the Al-Aqsa Mosque was in Jerusalem. Some said it was actually in heaven.”
“Who?”
“The Sixth Imam, Ja’far Ibn Muhammad Al-Sadiq, for one.”
“Precisely. And what did he say?”
“Well, he was once asked, ‘What about the Al-Aqsa Mosque?’ And someone said, ‘They say it is in Jerusalem.’ But his response was curious. He said the mosque in Kufa was superior to the mosque in the corner.”
“Was it superior?” the Mahdi asked.
“Only you would know, my Lord; aren’t you going to reign from Kufa? Isn’t that where we are all eventually going, not long from now?”
“Very good, my son,” the Mahdi said to Hosseini. “A very discerning answer. The rest of you would do well to learn from your brother Hamid. He is a good man and a good student. Now, I ask you, Ahmed, what are the implications of such truths?”
To Javad, the president looked petrified. He boasted of being a great scholar of Islam, but he was quaking now under the Mahdi’s tutelage.
“We are to conquer Jerusalem, are we not?” Darazi said. “Are we not to reclaim it for Islam and rule it forever?”
“No,” the Mahdi said with a vehemence that sent a chill through all of the men, Javad included. “You were not listening, Ahmed. You were not paying attention. Jerusalem means nothing to me, nor to my forebears. It was never the center of Shia Islam. It was never even the center of Sunni Islam. It is holy only to the Jews and the Christians, not to us. We conquered it once but never again. Jerusalem must be crushed, not conquered. It must be vanquished, not reclaimed. Islam was born in Mecca and Medina, but it came to full glory in Kufa in Iraq, the apple of Allah’s eye. Jerusalem has been infected forever with the stains of the Zionists. Those who have taught otherwise have been misled or were misleaders themselves. The future of Jerusalem, gentlemen, is fire and bloodshed, and now we are just hours away.”
56
Tel Aviv, Israel
An aide slipped a message to the director of the Mossad.
He glanced at the heading, then immediately handed the note to Levi Shimon, who sat back in his chair with an astonished expression.
“What is it, Levi?” the prime minister asked.
“You’re not going to believe this,” Shimon said.
“What?”
“It’s from Mordecai. It’s everything we asked for.”
“What does it say?”
Shimon read the message in its entirety, slightly less than two pages. In it, Mordecai provided precise details—including GPS coordinates—on all the warheads’ current locations and what kind of missiles they were attached to or about to be attached to. Then he begged for mercy for himself and his family, saying he did not want to end up “like the others” and that “that’s not what I signed up for.” He concluded by warning them in no uncertain terms: “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 any more.”
Naphtali looked around the table. Every man was as stunned and sobered
as he was. Most concerning was the report of two nuclear cruise missiles on some of the five Iranian vessels just off of Israel’s shores. They’d known it was a possibility but had no direct evidence of it, nor any indication from the Americans, who had far more sophisticated means to determine if a ship was carrying nuclear material. He turned to Shimon. “Levi, I need your assessment.”
“This is deeply disturbing, Mr. Prime Minister,” Shimon said, scanning the message again. “If this is disinformation planted by the Iranians, then they have to know they are inviting a preemptive attack. But I don’t believe that. Far more likely this is the real thing. It was clearly communicated by a man under extreme stress. He’s cutting off all contact, which suggests he’s either going into hiding or thinks they’re onto him. We’re not going to get another chance like this. I think it is time to go. I don’t see that we have a choice now.”
“Any dissent?” Naphtali asked the others.
He got none. They were all in agreement.
“Then this is it, gentlemen,” Naphtali said, his voice calm and firm. “We have supported American and European diplomacy toward Iran. We’ve supported multiple rounds of international economic sanctions against Iran. We’ve encouraged our allies to take covert operations against Iran’s nuclear program, and to their credit, several of them have taken significant action. We have launched multiple covert operations of our own, some of them successful, some of them less so. I think history will show we did everything we could. We forced the Iranians to take almost three decades to build the Bomb, when it took us less than eight years. We urged the world to do more to stop Iran. We especially urged the Americans, up to and including the last few days. But there comes a time in every nation’s destiny when it must act alone for its own survival. This is one of those times. I say this with neither joy nor malice. It is simply a fact. We are out of other options, and we are out of time. We must act in defense of the Jewish people and in defense of all of humanity. The world will hate us for what we are about to do, but I for one will be able to lay my head on my pillow every night in peace until I rest with my fathers, knowing I did the right thing. I hope you will too. I hereby authorize the commencement of Operation Xerxes. May the God of Israel be with us.”
* * *
The Qaleh, Iran
“My Lord, may I say something?”
Mohsen Jazini lowered his head and did not make eye contact until he was called upon.
“Yes, of course, Mohsen,” the Mahdi said. “What is it?”
“I realize that you are not concerned about the disappearance of Tariq Khan, and of course I fully respect—and agree with—your reasons, Your Excellency,” Jazini said. “Still, until we know more, it would be safer if you were in one of the fully secure underground command centers in Tehran rather than up here.”
“You mean you would feel more secure,” the Mahdi said without expression.
“Allah is with you, without question, my Lord,” Jazini replied. “But I am concerned that we pose too great a target all together and exposed like this. It doesn’t strike me as prudent, but of course I completely defer to you, Your Excellency.”
“Isn’t the Qaleh unknown to the Zionists and the Americans?”
“Hopefully,” Jazini said. “But we thought Dr. Saddaji and Dr. Khan were too. I just don’t want us to take any chances. Moreover, I no longer think it is a good idea to bring all of the air force and missile commanders together up here on Saturday. It would take only one cruise missile and—”
“Very well,” the Mahdi said, holding up his hand for Jazini to stop. “You have a missile command center north of Tehran, do you not?”
“Yes, we do, my Lord.”
“Then let us go there. But don’t tell the commanders about the change in plans. Give the chopper pilots the new location at the last possible moment.”
“Yes, my Lord. Very good.”
The men bowed again and were dismissed to get their personal possessions and head to the helicopter pad. Javad took the Mahdi aside and asked what he should do about the satellite phones.
“You are scheduled to get more tonight, are you not?” the Mahdi said.
“Yes, another hundred. Won’t we need them for the commanders?”
“We will. Call your contact. See if you can meet him in an hour. Then come meet us at the command center.”
* * *
Route 56, En Route to Qom, Iran
David and Captain Torres were racing for Qom.
With them in the van were five of the CIA’s most experienced paramilitary commandos. David brought them up to speed on some of the events of the last few days and what he had learned from Khan. Torres, in turn, briefed him on the kind of tools the team had with them, from electronic eavesdropping equipment to ground laser target designators. Then David’s mobile phone rang. He checked the caller ID. It wasn’t Zalinsky. It was Javad Nouri. He quieted everyone down, waited a beat, and took the call.
“Are you alone?” Javad asked.
“Yes,” David lied.
“Change in plans.”
“Whatever you need.”
“Do you have the phones?”
David hesitated. He was tempted to lie and say yes. But what if something had happened to the shipment? What if Eva’s package had never arrived? With everything else that had happened, he had forgotten to call the hotel and confirm he had a package waiting for him.
“No, not yet.”
“What? Why not?”
“I had to make a stop in Hamadan. It got later than I thought, so I stayed overnight. But I’m on my way now.”
“How long?”
“I should be to the hotel in a half hour.”
“Fine. Call me when you have the phones, and we’ll plan a new place to meet.”
* * *
Aboard the Leviathan, Persian Gulf
Tension was high in the Combat Information Center.
Captain Yacov Yanit stepped into the blue-lit chamber and cross-checked data on multiple computer screens before him. He had just confirmed his new orders with the head of naval operations in Tel Aviv. Sonar had no contacts. So this was it. He and his men had trained hard for such a time as this. But it was hard to believe the time had actually come.
Yanit desperately needed a cigarette. Why had his wife made him promise to quit? He pulled a stick of nicotine gum from his pocket and stuffed it in his mouth. Then he turned to his XO and ordered the 1,900-ton Israeli Dolphin-class diesel submarine to periscope depth. He quickly scanned the surface in every direction. As expected, there were no ships visible, so Yanit ordered the XO to take the German-built Leviathan to the surface. They would be there for less than five minutes, but that’s all he and his crew would need to fire all eight Popeye Turbo cruise missiles.
“This is the captain. All engines full stop.”
“All engines full stop, aye.”
“Kill track 89014 with Popeye.”
“Kill track, aye.”
“Mark time to launch.”
“Mark time to launch, aye.”
“Twenty seconds to launch.”
“Twenty seconds to launch, aye.”
The CIC grew deathly quiet.
“Five seconds to time of launch—five, four, three, two, one. Fire.”
On cue, Yanit’s fire-control officer turned his ignition key from Off to Fire.
“Boosters armed. Missiles enabled. Popeye One away. Popeye Two away.”
Suddenly the entire submarine shook violently. Two cruise missiles exploded from their launch tubes with a deafening roar and rocketed into Iranian airspace. Thirty seconds later, two more missiles screamed into the heavens, carrying conventional payloads but enormous firepower into the heart of Persia. Then a third time. And a fourth.
And as rapidly as the Leviathan had come, she sank back into the ink-black waters of the Persian Gulf without a trace.
* * *
Hatzerim Air Base, Israel
Captain Avi Yaron steadied his emotions.
r /> He wasn’t scared. He was exhilarated. But he needed to stay calm and focused and not let the spike in adrenaline cloud his judgment.
Like he had done before every training mission, he muted his radio, closed his eyes, and prayed, “Barukh atah Adonai Eloheinu melekh ha olam, she hehiyanu v’kiy’manu v’higi’anu la z’man ha ze.”
Blessed art Thou, Lord our God, King of the universe, who has kept us alive, sustained us, and enabled us to reach this season.
Behind him sat Yonah Meir, his weapons systems officer, who tapped him on the shoulder to let him know he was ready to roll. As he had done on a thousand training missions, Avi throttled up his engines and carefully veered his F-15 out of its underground bunker, then taxied onto the tarmac and waited for clearance. Behind him, a half-dozen flight crews in Israeli-modified F-15s and F-16s also maneuvered across the Hatzerim Air Base toward the prime runway, not far from the city of Beersheva, the town where Avi had been raised. But this was no training mission. This was the real thing.
Operating under strict radio silence, the ground crew used hand signals to give him the go sign. Immediately Avi gunned his two engines and put his Strike Eagle in the air.
Rather than rocket to forty-eight thousand feet in less than a minute as he typically did, Avi—flight leader for Alpha Team—shot low and fast across the Negev Desert. Six other heavily armed fighter jets were right behind him. He prayed the Gulfstream 550 electronic warfare jet was already in place. He prayed the Israeli efforts to jam the Jordanian, Egyptian, and Saudi radars had worked. It wasn’t clear to him what the Jordanians would do if they picked up his scent. The king had given private assurances he would not interfere in this mission. But he had no doubt the Saudis and the Egyptians, now that they were on board with the Mahdi, would alert Tehran instantly if they detected Israeli planes moving through the southern route.
Weaving low through the mountains and wadis of the Sinai Peninsula, Avi reached his first critical turn and banked hard to the left. Seconds later, as he crossed into Saudi airspace, his jet hit Mach 2.5. If all went well, he would be over the Iranian nuclear facilities in Natanz in a little under an hour.