Those few Western press agencies that had taken notice had hailed the end of Iran’s theocracy in terms of the demise of radical Islam in Iran.
The Ayatollah’s lip curled upward in a sneer of disdain at the memory. The fools! Had they bothered to investigate Shirazi and his compatriots, their blood would have run cold. Despite his apparent interest in increased openness to the West, Mahmoud Shirazi was odds-on the most radical leader Iran had ever seen.
The twelfth imam. To some Iranians the concept was more figurative than literal, just as some in the Christian world regarded the revelations of John to be allegorical in nature.
Others saw him as their messiah, who would return in the midst of apocalypse to save true believers. And still others believed that they must bring about that apocalypse to usher in his return…
Isfahani sighed at the reflection. It was a theological debate that traced its roots back to the very foundations of the Islamic faith. The world of Islam had begun to fracture before the body of its Prophet had even cooled.
On the one hand, there were those who believed that in the absence of a directly appointed successor, one should be elected from among their ranks. Their name, Sunni, clearly indicated that they felt they had chosen the “Right Path”.
On the other hand, however, a minority faction of Mohammed’s close followers and kin put forth the idea that a close relative of the Prophet should succeed him and named Hazrat Ali, a cousin and son-in-law of Mohammed, as successor.
Looking back, the ayatollah thought, the debate seemed trite, but it had split Islam in two. In the midst of a bloody civil war, Hazrat Ali, the “Lion of God”, had been slain by Sunni assassins, who then replaced him with one of their own luminaries. The partisans of Ali withdrew in defeat, to become a persecuted minority, known as the Shiah, a name taken from the Arabic word for partisan.
But they had kept the bloodline pure, through the ravages of war, persecution, and assassination. Over the following two centuries, eleven men carried the title of imam in the Shiite world. Eleven men-warriors, scholars, and theologians. Descendants of Hazrat Ali and pure of both blood and faith.
And then there were twelve.
What mark this twelfth imam might have left on the world was unknown-or rather, as Shirazi and his followers believed, yet to be seen.
He had been a lad of four years old when he disappeared down a well in the year A.D. 874, never to be seen again. But what might have been written off as a tragic accident took a different shape in the Shiite mind. The twelfth, and last, of the imams had not fallen to his death. Nay, rather, he had been occultated or hidden away by Allah until his return at the end of the world, when he would return in a flaming vengeance to cleanse the earth of unbelievers.
He heard the helicopter before he saw it, the steady drumbeat of the rotor intruding itself upon his thoughts.
The old man’s eyes brightened. “That should be Major Hossein now,” he said, turning to his attendant. “Bring him to me as soon as he lands.”
10:20 A.M. Local Time
C-141 Starlifter
Final approach to Ramstein Airbase, Germany
The small knot of men in Air Force uniforms near the back of the Starlifter’s cargo hold bore no resemblance to the men that had just spent two days deep inside hostile territory.
Hostile territory, Harry mused, running a hand over his smooth-shaven chin. Completing the job had been necessary to once again pass himself off as an Air Force colonel, despite the lack of time.
With Rebecca Petras in the picture, he very much fancied himself still in hostile territory. Or at least less than friendly.
From the looks on the faces of his fellow team members, he knew they were thinking the same thing. Such was the world of an operator. Caught on the knife’s edge between the cold, hard facts of life in the field and the political maneuvering of bureaucratic desk jockeys more interested in advancing their own careers than protecting their country’s interests.
Not that it mattered in the end. Going in, they had known the score. They had done the job they had been given to do. Now the trick was to survive the fallout.
“What’s our play, boss?” Hamid asked.
Harry smiled. It was sometimes difficult to imagine the football-crazed Zakiri as a kid growing up in Saddam Hussein’s Iraq. As with most of those who’ve learned English as a second language, Hamid’s speech was very proper and correct, but when slang slipped in, it was invariably sports-related.
The question remained. “Keep our mouths shut,” Harry replied, answering it. “Answer everything they ask-volunteer nothing more.”
“It’s our duty to help them in any way we can,” Davood blurted out, a look of surprise on his face as he glanced up. “We’re all on the same side.”
Harry and Tex exchanged a quiet smile, then Harry responded. “You think so? Get a few more missions under your belt before you go drawin’ those conclusions. We’re a team. We think like a team, we act like a team, we depend on each other. Why? Because no one’s on our side-and don’t fool yourself into thinking any different. Each other-that’s all we can count on. Do you understand?”
Davood looked from one team member to another, then responded with a quiet, “Yes.”
With the same grim smile on his face, Harry reached out and clapped a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Good. Let’s stick together on this. We’re a team.”
Yet even as he said the words, Harry could see the doubt in Davood’s eyes. He was young, he was inexperienced, and perhaps worst of all, trusting.
Just above them, the “Fasten Seatbelts” light came on and the men retreated to their seats to prepare for landing. Harry watched the young agent out of the corner of his eye as he collected his personal effects. Recognizing the danger there.
Trust. It was the currency of human relationships, perhaps the most basic and sacred element of personal life. Extended to the wrong people, he had seen it kill. Often enough to question whether there were any “right” people.
Harry turned away, looking out the window as the Starlifter’s wheels touched down on German soil. These were his people. His team. And he would do whatever it took to protect them. They would do the same for him…
12:23 P.M. Tehran Time
The Holy Shrine of Hazrat-e Ma’sumeh
Qom, Iran
The last echoes of the muezzin’s call had scarcely died away when an attendant scurried forward to retrieve the prayer mat. Isfahani rose, looking toward the golden dome of the shrine.
He cast a sidelong glance at the man rising next to him, a cool appraisal. The ayatollah had long prided himself in his ability to take the measure of a man in a single glance.
Major Hossein was proving measurably more difficult. He was a tall man, his features undeniably Persian.
Farshid. His name too was Persian, not Islamic, taken from the secular Shahnama saga, and meaning “bright as the sun”.
Bright as the hope flickering in the ayatollah’s heart.
They made a strange couple as they, flanked by Isfahani’s bodyguards, walked across the square toward the mural-bedecked cemetery of the Martyrs.
The holy man and the warrior.
“You understand why I have brought you here, do you not?” The ayatollah asked a few short moments later, gesturing to a mural of a slain fighter, fallen, like all the rest in this cemetery, during the Iran-Iraq War.
The major nodded, his face well-nigh expressionless, the only trace of nervousness visible in the twisting of the coral beads between his fingers.