24

Langley, Virginia

Zalinsky answered the call on the first ring.

“Jack, it’s Eva.”

“What do you have?”

“David was right—the cell is Iranian.”

“You’re positive?”

“One hundred percent. The dead guy is Rahim Yazidi, Iranian national and member of the Revolutionary Guard Corps. The guy we have in custody is Navid Yazidi, his younger brother. Also Iranian. Also part of the Revolutionary Guard. The guy we’re looking for, the head of the cell, is named Firouz Nouri. His father is Mohammed Nouri, a leading Twelver mullah in Qom, Iran, author of several books on the Twelfth Imam. I’m sending you all the paperwork by secure e-mail as we speak. But there’s more.”

“What?”

“The name Nouri—does that ring a bell?”

“Vaguely. Why?”

“I’m pretty sure this guy Firouz is related to a guy named Javad Nouri.”

“It’s still vague. Keep talking.”

“Remember David delivered a bunch of satellite phones to a guy we suspected was close to the Supreme Leader?”

“That was Javad Nouri?”

“Yes.”

“You’re sure?” Zalinsky asked.

“I’m sure his name was Javad Nouri,” Eva said. “Was it the same Javad Nouri? Is he related to Firouz? I’m going to need some more time to pin all that down for certain. But it fits—the father’s a true believer, his older son is a senior government aide, his younger son on a mission for the Supreme Leader. It’s still circumstantial, but it definitely doesn’t point to al Qaeda or the Brotherhood running this attack. This came from Tehran, Jack. David was right.”

It appeared he was, Zalinsky realized. He thanked Eva for her work and ordered her to catch the next flight back to DC. He needed her back at Langley, for things were about to get very difficult. Then he speed-dialed Murray’s office.

“I have something for you, Tom, and we need to get it to the director and the president immediately.”

* * *

Oakton, Virginia

“Dr. Malik?”

The agent, making his hourly check on the doctor, stopped pounding on the door of the master bedroom for a moment. He could hear the shower running, but there was no response.

“Dr. Malik? Can you hear me?”

Still nothing.

He radioed downstairs to the watch commander and explained the situation.

“Go in,” the commander said.

“You’re sure?”

“Absolutely.”

“Very well.” The agent tried the handle, but it was locked. So he drew his pistol, put his shoulder to the door, and broke it down. Then he pounded on the bathroom door and called out a few more times. When there was still no reply, he gave one last warning, then broke down that door as well.

To his astonishment, Najjar Malik was not to be found.

* * *

Jerusalem, Israel

Roger Allen arrived at the Knesset building early.

He cleared security and was taken directly to the prime minister’s office, only to learn that Naphtali was not going to be available for another hour. There was no explanation from the PM’s chief of staff other than that dinner wasn’t going to work any longer, that Naphtali had been “unavoidably detained” and “would appreciate Mr. Allen’s patience.” He also said that when the meeting did occur, it would take place with principals only. Staff, even senior aides, were not invited.

Allen was furious but did his best to keep his legendary temper in check. He knew exactly what was happening. Naphtali was trying to send him a message that he didn’t take orders from the United States, least of all from a man who ran the very agency that had failed to detect or prevent an attempt on his life and was doing precious little, in his view, to punish the country he considered directly responsible. Allen was tempted to thank the PM’s chief of staff, say he had other business to attend to, go check into the King David, and get some work done until the leader of the Jewish State could deign to meet with a senior representative of Israel’s only serious friend left on the planet.

But now was not the time for a diplomatic temper tantrum. That would surely get picked up in the Israeli media—and then the Arab and Iranian media—and cause more harm than good. So he sat alone in an electronics-clean anteroom down the hall from Naphtali, unable to make calls, unable to use e-mail, and without any of his staff.

* * *

Oakton, Virginia

Najjar knew he didn’t have much time.

He climbed out the bathroom window of the safe house, then lowered himself onto the garage roof and jumped to the ground. Then he sprinted through the backyard of the safe house and into the side yard of the neighbors who had just gone on vacation, crouching behind a row of shrubbery and praying that he couldn’t be seen. He’d fully expected to be caught. The fact that he hadn’t been, he hoped, had to be the hand of Providence.

Glancing around to make sure no one was looking or within earshot, he wrapped a hand towel he had taken from the master bathroom around his fist and smashed through a basement window of the neighbors’ house. Then he scraped away all the remaining glass and climbed inside.

Najjar landed in a sea of Barbie dolls and toy cars. He paused for a moment, wondering if a security alarm was about to go off. When it didn’t, he started breathing again and hastily proceeded to the main floor.

Staying low and away from any of the windows along the back of the house, he found his way to the laundry room and through it to the garage. Sure enough, the subcompact he’d seen drive in and out every day was still there, right beside the empty space for the minivan. Now all he needed was the key. He checked the wall by the door but found only rakes and tools. So he moved back through the laundry room and into the kitchen, furiously riffling through drawers and cabinets but finding nothing. Next he headed into the main foyer. Unfortunately, though there was a small table with a vase of roses by the front door, there were no keys. Nor were there any hanging near the door.

Najjar’s heart was racing. He’d never broken into anyone’s house. He had certainly never borrowed anyone’s car without their permission. He was terrified of getting caught.

He raced upstairs, past the children’s rooms to the master bedroom at the end of the hall, grateful that the layout of the house was exactly the same as the one from which he had just come. And there, to his relief, on the nightstand by the bed he found a spare set of keys—along with a cell phone. He grabbed both, found a pad of paper and a pen on the dresser, and scribbled out a short message—a thank-you—and his name. He was ready to go to jail for this if need be. He wasn’t going to hide what he had done. He just hoped he could stay ahead of the CIA and the police long enough to do what he had to.

Najjar raced downstairs, through the laundry room, and back to the garage. He unlocked the driver’s-side door of the red Toyota Corolla, got in, and quickly acclimated himself to the dashboard. Then he adjusted the mirrors, turned on the engine, hit the garage door opener clipped to the visor, and backed out as carefully as he could, half-expecting the house to be fully surrounded by American agents by that point. But it wasn’t. He could hear a siren in the distance, making his heart beat even faster. Then he put the garage door down again and pulled out of the neighborhood, not exactly sure where he was headed but determined not to look back.

* * *

En Route to Tehran

David couldn’t wait to get on the ground in Tehran.

Having been cooped up on one flight after another for nearly twenty-four hours, he was eager to get to his hotel, take a shower, and get an early start on the day. In the meantime, he made a mental checklist of his next moves.

His top priority was hunting down Jalal Zandi and Tariq Khan. His best shot, he figured, was to reconnect with Dr. Alireza Birjandi, code-named Chameleon. Thus far his most useful asset, Chameleon was essentially a mole inside the upper echelons of the Iranian regime. It was from Birjandi he had learned that Iran now had eight operational warheads, and it was Birjandi who had pointed him to Najjar Malik, an absolute treasure trove of intel for Langley. Perhaps the eighty-three-year-old professor, scholar, author, and leading expert on Shia eschatology—widely described in the Iranian media as a spiritual mentor or advisor to several of the top leaders in the Iranian regime, including Ayatollah Hosseini and President Darazi—could help him track down Zandi and Khan as well.

Birjandi regularly met with both Hosseini and Darazi, and he’d been willing to share with David information from these meetings—information that had proven invaluable. If David remembered correctly, Birjandi was scheduled to have lunch with one of the leaders the following day. He was determined to be the last person Birjandi talked to before going into that lunch and the first person Birjandi spoke to when it was over. At the very least, he hoped he could gain critical insight on the regime’s latest thinking, especially after the assassination attempt on the Twelfth Imam. Whom did they hold responsible—the US, Israel, or someone else? How were they planning to respond? How quickly were the Iranians—or the Mahdi—planning to use the eight warheads in their possession? Was Israel the first target? Had they truly been unable to attach the warheads to ballistic missiles yet? Would the Iranian missile boats heading through the Suez Canal in the next few days be carrying nuclear warheads? The list of questions David needed answers to was growing by the hour.