67

 

Tehran, Iran

Ali bin Rahman waited patiently outside the Reverend Shahidi’s private study. He’d grown accustomed to waiting for such meetings with Iran’s Supreme Leader. It didn’t bother him. He was perfectly content to bide his time.

Everything was in place. His men were in place, and events were proceeding just as he’d hoped. All is well, he thought. It is the time of change.

It was hard for bin Rahman to believe, but years of hatred toward the apostates who ruled the Saudi kingdom were about to be rewarded with a true Day of Anger. The student uprising was a pretext for a much greater outpouring of wrath that would shake the world to its very foundations. Drawing the Kaaba into their plans had been a risk—especially considering that any attack on the shrine would have untold consequences. But it was a risk he’d been willing to take in order to create the necessary chaos.

The door to the study opened. “Please.” Shahidi beckoned to the al Qaeda leader. “Let us talk now. I have some time.”

It was just the two of them, as it often was. “The day has arrived,” bin Rahman said without preamble as he took his customary spot at the small table in Shahidi’s study.

“So I’ve been told,” Shahidi said. As always, he was more than content to allow proxies to do his bidding. In this instance, the proxy, al Qaeda, might surprise the world. But Shahidi was more than willing to enlist uncommon allies as soldiers to the greater cause. “Are your men in place?”

“They are, both in Riyadh and Mecca,” bin Rahman said. “They’ve trained for months. It is the right time, the right place.”

“And they have what they need?”

“Yes, thanks to your men at the IRGC. I have already delivered my profound thanks to General Zhubin, as well as Hussein Bahadur. We have precisely what we need for both. The portable devices have been delivered to both locations.”

“And what of our illustrious President Ahmadian?” Shahidi asked. “Were you able to give him what he requires? Is he satisfied?”

Bin Rahman laughed. “Yes, he’s beside himself, like a little schoolgirl. He has met his hidden imam. They have appeared to 200,000 pilgrims at the Jamkaran Mosque, fulfilling prophecy—though not a soul there knew who they were seeing for the first time.”

“Ah yes, Ahmadian’s prophecies,” Shahidi said darkly. “He is so concerned with fulfilling those. So he is content? And his new friend is now in place as well?”

“He is. I was told he arrived in Mecca in the past two days. He is ready for his part,” bin Rahman said.

Shahidi sighed. “I will say this for our president. He certainly has a feel for what the people like. This new find of his—of yours, actually—will certainly make things interesting. But I must confess that I’m still puzzled by one thing. Where, exactly, is this man from, this hidden imam? What is his true nationality? What nation does he claim as his own?”

“In truth, Reverend Shahidi, it is a mystery,” bin Rahman said. “In all of our discussions with him, I must confess that I do not have a satisfactory answer…”

“To either question?” Shahidi asked, somewhat surprised.

“To either question,” bin Rahman answered. “He claims no nation as his own, and his true identity, his parentage, his history—it is all still unknown. My men can find no record of his childhood, his birth, any semblance of a life on earth. It is, seemingly, as if he has emerged from occultation, or was born anew just recently.”

“That must please Ahmadian,” Shahidi said. “It would confirm what he wishes to believe already. But you and I, we will need to discover the truth for ourselves. I, for one, am not content with the absence of an answer to these questions. It matters little to me if we find that this man was an orphan from the streets somewhere, but we still need to know this.”

“Absolutely,” bin Rahman said. “But all in time. He is quite useful to us, for now. He will move the rest of the world in our direction. And for that I am grateful—regardless of who he is and where he came from.”