Munich, Germany
David was startled by the knock on the door.
He rubbed his eyes and checked his watch. It was almost 9 p.m. He wasn’t expecting anyone. He hardly even knew anyone in the city. Grabbing his Beretta from the drawer of the nightstand by his bed, he disengaged the slide-mounted safety with his thumb and moved cautiously and quietly down the hallway, through the dining room, and to the front door.
Aside from cleaning it, weeks had passed since he had held the pistol in his hands, and his palms were perspiring. He pressed himself against the wall by the door and quickly looked out the peephole. A moment later, he reengaged the safety, though more confused than relieved.
What in the world is Eva doing in Munich?
He opened the door a crack.
“Delivery girl.” She smiled.
“I wasn’t expecting to see you,” he replied.
“I couldn’t resist,” she said. “May I come in?”
“Of course.”
She was toting several large boxes. He hoped they were satellite phones. The first box she handed him upon entering, however, was already open. It was from Amazon and contained Dr. Birjandi’s book. Fully awake now, he flipped through it quickly and noticed it was already heavily marked up with yellow highlighter and notes in pen in the margins.
“I stole your book for a few hours,” Eva confessed. “It’s fascinating. You should read it.”
David laughed. “I was hoping to.”
“I’m doing some research on Birjandi, working up a profile on him,” Eva said. “He’s an interesting guy. Noted professor, scholar, and author. He’s 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. They have dinner once a month. But at eighty-three, the guy is pretty reclusive; he’s rarely heard from in public anymore. Until that conference a couple weeks ago, he hadn’t given a sermon or speech in years.”
“Why the reemergence?” David asked.
“Turn to page 237,” Eva replied.
David did and began to read aloud the underlined passage.
“The Mahdi will return when the last pages of history are being written in blood and fire. It will be a time of chaos, carnage, and confusion, a time when Muslims need to have faith and courage like never before. Some say all the infidels-especially the Christians and the Jews-must be converted or destroyed before he is revealed and ushers in a reign characterized by righteousness, justice, and peace. Others say Muslims must prepare the conditions for the destruction of the Christians and the Jews but that the Mahdi will finish the job himself.”
David looked up, his heart pounding. “Birjandi thinks he’s here.”
“That’s my guess.”
“We need to get this to Zalinsky.”
“It’s not enough,” Eva said. “We need more.”
“You said it yourself-Birjandi is Hosseini’s advisor. If this is what Birjandi believes, it’s got to be what Hosseini believes. Darazi, too.”
“I agree,” Eva said. “This is what’s driving them to get the Bomb. But that’s just us guessing. We need proof.”
“What kind of proof?”
“I don’t know,” she conceded. “But more than this.”
David sighed. She was right. He looked at the boxes.
“Tell me those are satellite phones,” he said.
“They are. Twenty. Government-issue. Military-grade.”
“And our friends back at Langley have toyed with them all a bit?”
“Actually, no. Jack was worried the Iranians would find any chip we put into the phones. These particular satphones are the product of a joint venture between Nokia and Thuraya.”
“Thuraya-the Arab consortium?”
“Based in Abu Dhabi, right. Long story short, I have people on the inside at Thuraya. They gave me the encryption codes and all the satellite data. I gave them a boatload of money.”
“And you’re sure the phones all work?”
“My team and I personally tested them this afternoon,” she said. “Langley heard everything, loud and clear. We’re good to go.”
“You’re amazing.”
“That’s true,” Eva said, smiling, “but that’s not all. I have another gift for you.”
“What’s that?”
“I booked you on the next flight back to Tehran,” she said. “I just e-mailed the itinerary to your phone. It’s time to pack, my friend. You’re going back in.”
64
Hamadan, Iran
“I am Jesus the Nazarene,” came the man’s deep voice.
Najjar felt the sound of it rattle in his chest, as though the words went through him.
“You have come?” Najjar cried. “The lieutenant to the Twelfth Imam has actually revealed himself to me?”
But at these words, the ground below Najjar shook so violently that he feared it would open and swallow him. Rocks skittered across the road from ledges above. The wind picked up strength. Najjar flattened himself on the ground, covering his head with his hands.
“I AM first and last and the living One,” Jesus said. “I am the Alpha and the Omega, who is and who was and who is to come, the Almighty. I was dead, and see, I am alive forever after, and I have the keys of death and of hades. Come and follow me.”
The first sentences were uttered with authority such as Najjar had never heard before, not from any mullah or cleric or political leader in his entire life. Yet the last four words were spoken with such gentleness, such tenderness, that he could not imagine refusing the request.
Shaking, Najjar cautiously looked up. Though he was wrapped in a thick parka over his blue jeans and sweater, he felt completely naked, as if all of his private sins were exposed to the light and the elements. For as long as he could remember, he’d had a deep reverence for Jesus. Like his father and his grandfather and his great-grandfather before him, going back fourteen centuries, Najjar believed Jesus was born of a virgin. He believed Jesus was a doer of miracles and a speaker of great wisdom and thus a prophet. But not God Himself. Never. And yet…
Jesus stretched out His hands and motioned for Najjar to come closer. Part of him wanted to run and hide, but before he knew it, he was taking several steps forward.
As he drew closer, Najjar was astonished to see holes where spikes had been driven through Jesus’ hands. He looked away for a moment, but then, unable to keep his head turned, he looked back and stared at those hands. As a devout Muslim, Najjar had never for a moment in his life even considered the possibility that Jesus had been crucified at all, much less to pay the penalty for all human sins, as the Christians taught. He had never believed that Jesus had actually died on a cross. No Muslim believed that. It was sacrilege. To the contrary, Najjar (and everyone he had ever known) believed that at the very last moment, Allah had supernaturally replaced Jesus with Judas Iscariot, and Judas had been hung on the cross and crucified instead.
Questions flooded his mind.
How could Jesus be appearing to him as a crucified Messiah?
If the Qur’an were true, wouldn’t it be impossible for Jesus to have nail-scarred hands?
If the ancient Islamic writings about the Twelfth Imam were true, then how could Jesus, who was supposed to be the Mahdi’s lieutenant, have hands scarred by the nails of crucifixion?
Najjar kept staring at those hands. It didn’t make sense. Then he looked into Jesus’ eyes. They were not filled with anger and condemnation. They spoke of love in a way Najjar couldn’t even comprehend, much less express. And Jesus’ words echoed in his heart. He wasn’t claiming to be the second-in-command to the Mahdi. He claimed to be God Almighty.
“Forgive me; please forgive me,” Najjar said, bowing low. “But how can I know the difference between Muhammad and You?”
“You have been told, ‘Love your neighbor and hate your enemy,’” Jesus replied. “But I tell you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.”