“What about Syria?” the vice prime minister asked. “What about Jordan?”
“We have contingencies for both,” Shimon said. “At the moment, I’m not worried about Jordan. We are in close contact with the king and his officials. They don’t want a war with us. If they’re toppled, that’s a whole other story. But that’s not my immediate concern.”
“What is?”
“Damascus. If the Syrians choose to join in, we are going to have a real problem. Their missiles are much more powerful and precise than anything Hezbollah and Hamas have. We’ll use air power, but I must warn you — we may have to move the IDF into Syrian territory as well if the missiles keep coming.”
“You’re talking about an invasion of Syria?”
“I’m talking about stopping Syria’s rockets and missiles if they fire. I don’t want to do it. We are privately sending messages to the Syrians not to get involved if a war does start. I just don’t want any of you caught off guard. It is a real possibility. We have planned for it. Let us pray it doesn’t come to that.”
Now the minister of internal security had a question. “Any danger from Egypt now that they have joined the Caliphate?”
Shimon looked at Naphtali.
“Egypt is the wild card,” the prime minister said. “The last forty-eight hours have been very troubling. They don’t have a significant rocket or missile force. But they do have a decent air force. They’ve got 240 advanced American F-16 fighter jets, after all. So we’ll have to keep a close eye on our southern skies. It’s another reason we’re not launching four hundred planes at Iran. We need enough in reserve to stop an Egyptian air assault.”
Then Naphtali had a question of his own. “Any word from Mordecai?”
The head of the Mossad simply shook his head.
The waves of the Atlantic lapped rhythmically upon the shore.
But Najjar Malik paid them no attention. He was riveted to the Twelfth Imam’s speech, and he burned with anger. He needed to write. He needed to send a new message to his Twitter followers — more than 647,000 of them, nearly all Farsi speakers — in Iran and around the world. But first he had to calm down, get his mind focused back on the Lord, and ask the Lord what He wanted him to say. For if it were up to Najjar, he would have unleashed a thousand bitter rants against the Mahdi, 140 characters at a time.
He needed to walk. He needed to clear his head. So despite the late hour, he got up, put on his jacket, and stepped out the back door of the gorgeous, two-level, five-bedroom beach house. As he walked past the pool and down to the beach, he was overwhelmed by God’s gracious provision. When the producer of the Persian Christian Satellite Network said he had a friend who loved to make his home available for missionaries on furlough, pastors on sabbatical, and secret believers escaping from persecution, Najjar hadn’t even really understood the first two categories. But he recognized that he fit into the last category and accepted the offer without hesitation.
He had been thinking of a couch in someone’s basement or a cot in someone’s attic, not a multimillion-dollar beach house all to himself on the Jersey Shore. It was off-season, to be sure, and Cape May was freezing cold and largely depopulated — though he heard it was a madhouse in the summer — but it was honestly more than Najjar could have hoped for or even imagined. But of course, he felt guilty for being there without Sheyda and Farah and his sweet little daughter.
Najjar walked for a while, staring out at the dark and endless ocean and asking the Lord for guidance. He listened to the waves and felt the bitter-cold winds on his face.
Then the words came to him, as they always did. He ran back to the house, powered up the laptop the producer had lent him, logged on to his Twitter account, and wrote the following: Don’t be deceived, dear friends. The Mahdi is a false messiah. He wants not peace, but war. Turn to Jesus Christ while there is time.
54
David’s heart was racing.
Two large vans pulled up and stopped abruptly. The back doors of both burst open, and heavily armed men jumped out and took up positions around the cabins, forming a perimeter. At first he counted six, but soon he had revised his count upward to eight, plus the two drivers, who were now turning the vans around and backing them into position, clearly preparing to make an escape. None of the men wore fatigues — they had on street clothes instead — but each carried an AK-47 and a backpack David had no doubt contained grenades, tear gas, and plenty more ammunition. They didn’t look like typical Revolutionary Guard Corps members. They had to be al-Quds commandos. How had they found him? Then again, what did it matter? They had. They were coming for Khan and for him.
He had a choice to make and only seconds to make it.
Javad Nouri made certain the Mahdi was not in need of anything.
Then he moved quickly down the hall to find a quiet place. He stepped out onto the large stone porch overlooking the mountains and the city of Tehran in the valley below. He pulled out his satellite phone and speed-dialed the defense minister, trying in vain to stay calm. “It’s Javad,” he said when the man answered. “What do you mean he’s missing?”
“I just talked to Zandi,” Faridzadeh said. “There’s been some kind of ambush.”
“Where?”
“The hotel in Khorramabad. Details are still sketchy. But there are dead bodies and one missing bodyguard, and Khan is missing too. There’s a report of a large explosion east of Khorramabad too. The local police have some leads. They’re moving on them now. But that’s all I know.”
“And the…?”
“They’re safe.”
“All of them?”
“Yes.”
“You’re sure?”
“Believe me, we are taking precautions.”
“Because I cannot go in there and tell the—”
“I know. I know. Don’t worry. The cakes are safe.”
“What about Zandi?” Javad asked. “Is he safe?”
“He is for now. But he’s scared.”
“Wouldn’t you be?”
“Of course.”
“We should move him,” Javad said. “Bring him here. He’ll be safer.”
“No, that is not wise,” the minister countered. “Not right now.”
“Why not?”
“The Zionists are here. Or the Americans. Or both. We’re doing everything we can to hunt them down. We’ll know more soon. But right now we’re not entirely sure whom we can trust. And we cannot proceed without Zandi. We need to keep him locked down.”
“I want to talk to him.”
“Javad…”
“I will ask Imam al-Mahdi how he wants to proceed, but I need to talk to Zandi immediately. The base commander there has one of the satellite phones, doesn’t he?”
“Yes, but—”
“Then get it to Zandi and have him call me within the hour.”
Najjar followed his first message with a second.
Jesus said, “I am the door; if anyone enters through Me, he will be saved… I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly.”
What kind of eternal impact were his messages having? He had no idea. He could only keep praying and fasting and trusting the Lord to move in His might and His sovereignty, as He had done in Najjar’s own life. But Najjar couldn’t help but be amazed by how many people around the world were tracking every word he said and by how many were passing them along to others, especially inside Iran.