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.

So he laid on the horn, tried to maneuver his tiny Renault through the crowd, and prayed desperately to a God he did not believe in that he wouldn’t run anyone over.

* * *

Ahmed smiled, for he did not know the dangers just ahead.

He dutifully put on his seat belt, and someone shut the door. The motorcade started moving again. As they left the camp, they took a right and then a quick left, and he could soon see the gigantic steel-and-glass stadium rising before them. Ahmed pressed his face against the window, fascinated by the sights and sounds of helicopters hovering overhead, of police motorcycles—lights flashing and sirens wailing—leading the motorcade and bringing up the rear, of well-armed Beirut policemen and Hezbollah militia members blocking off every street and providing a secure corridor. No longer were they surrounded by regular people. No longer was the Promised One being mobbed by commoners or refugees. Now he was being treated like a president, like a prince, like royalty, Ahmed thought, and he had never been more excited.

The side street they were on now was narrow and lined on both sides with small homes and parked cars and trucks. Ahmed realized he had never been this far away from the camp, and he began to wonder what the rest of Beirut looked like. He had heard there were beaches. He had heard that the Mediterranean lapped gently along the shoreline and that the waters were warm and tasted salty, and he wondered what that must be like.

Ahmed’s attention was drawn to a silver Mercedes, old and somewhat rusted and parked just a few yards ahead of them on the left. He didn’t know why it caught his eye. It just did. At that moment, the Mercedes exploded in a massive fireball. Flames shot high into the air. Shards of glass and twisted, molten metal flew in all directions. Ahmed’s arms instinctively covered his head, and he leaned right, away from the blast. But just then a green Volkswagen they were passing on the right exploded as well. Then so did the SUV ahead of them and the one right behind them.

The enormous force of the four blasts in rapid succession rocked their own SUV, lifted it, and sent it soaring through the air, flipping it completely over. They landed hard. Every one of the bulletproof windows blew out, and the roof scraped along the pavement, sparks and tongues of flame flying everywhere.

Thick, black, acrid smoke filled the interior. Covered in blood, his own and others’, and choking uncontrollably—gasping frantically for oxygen—Ahmed wanted to scream for his mother but couldn’t. He tried to turn to see her and his father, but he couldn’t move. He strained to hear them but the crackle of the flames and the screams and shouts of people on the streets nearby made it impossible. He was hanging upside down, tied in by his seat belt, which he couldn’t unfasten. He could feel the searing heat. Through his tears he could see the flames licking around the edges of their vehicle. He could see the driver hanging limply, blood pouring from his head. He could see the bodyguard in the front passenger seat shaking violently, an engine part driven deep into his chest. He knew he had to get out of this car as fast as possible or he was going to die. So he tried to turn and see if the Twelfth Imam could help him, but as he did, a pain more intense than anything he had ever felt before went shooting through his neck and down his spine like a thousand volts of electricity. Then everything went silent and black, and little Ahmed lost consciousness.

* * *

Miroux slammed on the brakes and bolted from his car.

His camera and notebook in hand, he began running toward the Twelfth Imam’s SUV. What he found when he got there and would relay to the world minutes later was a horror show unlike anything he had ever witnessed before.

The stench of burning human flesh was overpowering. The entire street seemed to be covered in blood, and yet oddly it also seemed like autumn, he noticed. Most of the trees lining the narrow street were now in flames, but the force of the explosions had stripped them bare, and leaves lay scattered everywhere, as if it were October or November and they needed to be raked.

Policemen, militia members, and ordinary citizens came running from everywhere. A crowd started forming, making it difficult for fire trucks and ambulances to reach the scene. Women were sobbing. Several of the men standing nearby looked dazed and confused. Miroux tried to ask people questions about what they had just seen and heard, but few could bring themselves to speak. He started shooting pictures until a soldier ripped the camera from his neck and smashed it to the ground. Then suddenly there was a loud gasp from the crowd, almost in unison.

Miroux turned quickly to see what everyone else was seeing. He couldn’t believe it. Someone was actually emerging from the wreckage. To his shock, he realized it was Muhammad Ibn Hasan Ibn Ali, covered in soot but apparently uninjured. In his arms he held a small boy, no older than ten or eleven, Miroux figured. The child, too, was alive, though badly bloodied. No one else, it seemed, from the Mahdi’s vehicle had survived. Nor had anyone in the SUVs in front of or behind his.

At first the crowd erupted in applause and cheers that seemed like they were going to go on and on. But then, without warning, everyone grew quiet. One by one, they got down on their knees and bowed to the Mahdi. Miroux tried to write it all down but felt a cold shiver run down his spine. The hair on the back of his neck was standing. Something bizarre was in motion, he told himself. It finally dawned on him: this was not a political story.