David was about to take one more run at the old man, however futile it appeared to be, but just then, one of the young clerics came bursting out Birjandi’s front door.
“Uncle, uncle, come quickly. There is a man on television. You must hear what he is saying!”
38
DC Metro police cars flooded the zone.
Within minutes of Zalinsky’s call, the BBC’s Washington bureau was surrounded and all roads sealed off for two blocks in each direction. Then two dozen heavily armed FBI agents — led by a counterterrorism SWAT team — stormed the offices and studios.
“Get down! Get down!” shouted the lead agent, wearing a bulletproof vest and carrying an MP5 machine gun, as one team moved through the front entryway and past the secretarial staff.
“Go, go, go,” another shouted as a second team burst through the back doors and sealed off the only other avenue of escape.
Guns drawn, they moved quickly and methodically through the five thousand square feet of rented space. But Dr. Najjar Malik wasn’t there.
David couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
What on earth was Najjar Malik doing on television? Why was he telling his story to the world? Didn’t he know how seriously this jeopardized David’s mission?
Feeling angry and betrayed, he watched Najjar’s interview on the Persian Christian Satellite Network. He tried to imagine how Eva and her team could have allowed Najjar to escape in the first place. Then he racked his brain to come up with a reason why Najjar would put himself, his family, and the CIA’s primary operation inside Iran at risk by going on worldwide television. Was Najjar going to expose the CIA’s tradecraft, how they got him out of Iran, the safe house in Karaj, the safe house in Oakton, the communications gear they used? Was he going to name names? Was he doing this out of vengeance, to settle personal scores? David was about to storm out of the house and call Zalinsky immediately and find out what in the world was going on, but he found himself struck by the young clerics, who were glued to Najjar’s every word.
“God bless him!” one of the young men suddenly shouted out.
“Yes, yes, praise God for such a brave brother as this!” another exclaimed.
“It’s incredible,” a third said. “How great is our God, that He would reach down and save such a one as this!”
As Najjar continued talking about his newfound faith and why he had chosen to renounce Islam (he promised to talk more about the Iranian nuclear program and the growing threat of war later in the broadcast), David couldn’t help but notice that the young men started taking detailed notes. They were writing feverishly. They were whispering to one another in animated tones. Occasionally one would shout, “Amen!” or erupt in applause. Then one by one, each grabbed his mobile phone and began texting furiously.
It all struck David as odd and disorienting at first. The young men looked like future mullahs and ayatollahs. Some wore white turbans; some wore black. All wore the flowing robes of Shia clerics, and all but one had full-grown beards. Yet they were, as Birjandi put it, secret believers. They were apparently true revolutionaries — of a spiritual nature, at least, if not a political. Each of them had renounced Shia Islam and chosen Jesus over jihad, and they weren’t alone. Birjandi said there were over a million in Iran just like them, and their numbers were growing every day. They had no formal leader. They had no physical headquarters. They operated in the shadows, as dissidents, as rebels with a cause. But now, all of a sudden, one of their own had broken free. He had a name. He had a face. He had a voice. He was telling his story, which, David figured, was probably much like their own. He was explaining the gospel without fear, without compromise, and in Farsi. He wasn’t an outsider. He wasn’t a foreigner or a missionary or a “tool of imperialism,” as Hosseini and Darazi liked to call Western Christians. Najjar Malik was one of them, a native-born son, and he had standing. Najjar, after all, had been helping run Iran’s nuclear program. The man’s father-in-law was the father of the Persian Bomb. And now he had turned — not on his country but on her rulers, on “the tyrants” and “the madmen,” as Najjar was putting it so passionately, who threatened the very existence of the Persian nation.
“Who are you texting?” David finally asked the group.
“Everyone we know,” one said.
“Why? What are you saying?”
“We’re telling them to turn on this channel and hear what this man is saying.”
“But don’t you risk being exposed as Christians?”
“No, of course not. I’m telling all my friends a lunatic is on television. That way they’ll tune in for certain.”
“I have a database of 150,000 current and former seminary students,” another said, explaining that his father was the head of some Iranian clerical student association. “I just sent them all a message saying an enemy of the Mahdi is on television, which is true. Believe me, right now the vast majority of them are dropping everything they are doing and tuning in, or trying to find a TV connected to a satellite dish. And I guarantee you, if they miss the show, they’ll watch the YouTube clips later tonight and tell their friends and have a debate over what this man is saying. This Dr. Malik fellow, he is going to spark a national conversation, and that is good. We don’t need to let people know that we believe what he believes. Not yet. But we can fan the flames.”
Several others said things similar, but one stood apart. “It is time.”
“Time for what?” David asked.
“To stand up and be counted as a follower of Jesus,” said the youngest of the group, a man who looked barely able to shave, much less teach or help lead a revolution. “I’m telling everyone I know that I agree with Dr. Malik.”
Every head turned.
“Why?” David asked.
“Because he’s right. And I do. And Uncle Birjandi taught us what the apostle Paul said in his letter to the believers in Rome: ‘I am not ashamed of the gospel, for it is the power of God for salvation to everyone who believes.’”
“But couldn’t saying that publicly get you in trouble?” David pressed.
“It cannot cost me more than what my Savior paid,” the young man replied. “Jesus gave me His life. Shouldn’t I be willing to give mine for Him?”
“What do you mean he wasn’t there?” Zalinsky yelled.
Murray and Fischer had been glued to the television. Now both turned to their colleague as he hollered into the phone.
“You’ve looked everywhere?… That’s impossible. Look again…. Then send a team over to the other Persian channel… I have no idea — just look it up and go there now!”
Eva’s cell phone rang. It was the Global Operations Center.
“Are you watching this?” the watch commander asked.
“On the Persian Christian station?” she asked. “Yes, of course.”
“No, no, on BBC Persian again.”
“What do you mean?”
“Switch back,” the watch commander said.
“What are you talking about?”
“Just switch back. They’ve picked up the feed from the Christian station, and they’re showing it live.”