Damascus Countdown Read Online Free PDF

Revolution in the early, chaotic months of 1979, the Shirazis feared for what their country was becoming. They couldn’t bear to see the growing bloodshed and the tyranny that was engulfing their homeland, so they fled, helping an endangered American couple escape as well. Eventually the Shirazis received asylum in the United States as political refugees, and later they achieved full citizenship. They settled in central New York and established an entirely new life.
    No one in David’s family—not his parents and not his two older brothers—could ever have predicted what he was doing now. Indeed, only David’s father knew his youngest son worked for the Agency and was operating deep inside Iran. David had told him only recently, swearing him to secrecy.
    With short-cropped jet-black hair, olive skin, and soulful brown eyes, David may not have been born in Iran, but he was straight out of central casting. He seemed to instinctually understand the culture and the rhythm of Iranian society, and it hadn’t been difficult for him to appear a devout and increasingly fervent Shia Muslim, even a devotee of the Twelfth Imam. And the cover story his handlers at Langley had cooked up for him had been effective. None of his contacts or sources imagined for a moment that he was an American, much less a spook.
    But no matter how well-bred or prepared David was for this mission, it had now come to a screeching halt. Israel was under attack from multiple directions, and the Israelis were fighting back with overwhelming force. David was safe, at least for the moment, but he had no idea what to do next.
    He picked up his phone and dialed again. But for the thirty-sixth call in a row, no one answered. Another voice mail, another dead end. A moment later, he dialed a thirty-seventh number and waited. Again no one answered. He tried the thirty-eighth and thirty-ninth but got voice mail each time. Slamming down the phone, he continued pacing around his tiny room, seething. Indeed, it was all he could do not to throw the phone against the wall or out the window. Where were all the sources he had so carefully cultivated? Where was Daryush Rashidi, the president of Iran Telecom? Where was Abdol Esfahani, Rashidi’s operations deputy and closest ally in the country? Where was Dr. Alireza Birjandi, who despite his age and blindness had been by far David’s most helpful source? Why weren’t they answering their phones? Why weren’t they feeding him information? He hadn’t even been able to reach Javad Nouri, the man he had rescued just three days before. He needed a breakthrough. He needed a miracle. He couldn’t just sit around doing nothing. There had to be more he could do. But what?
    Against enormous odds, David had done everything the Agency had asked of him over the past few months. He had taken enormous risks. He had gambled his own life—indeed his own soul. But what good had it really done? He hadn’t been able to stop Iran from building a single nuclear warhead—they’d built nine. He hadn’t sabotaged Iran’s nuclear facilities to at least slow down their progress. He hadn’t stopped the warfrom starting. Now the entire Middle East was on fire. The American economy was at risk of plunging back into a recession, as was the global economy, if the war continued. Oil prices had already shot past $325 a barrel, and gasoline back home was now $7 a gallon and certain to go higher. Israel’s skies were raining rockets. Iran’s skies were raining bombs. And here he was, holed up in Safe House Six just outside Tehran.
    David had a first-rate CIA paramilitary unit that had come to help him. But he had no new information, no new leads, and no idea what to do or where to go next. For three days they’d been sitting around making calls and sending e-mails and text messages and making pot after pot of coffee but effectively twiddling their thumbs. David couldn’t stand it any longer. They had to move. They had to take action. They