The Twelfth Imam (17 page)

36

Syracuse, New York

David parked at Hancock Field and raced into the terminal.

He was intrigued by the letter from Portland and its bizarre timing, but that would have to wait. David was devastated by news of his mother’s cancer. He couldn’t imagine his mother not being there for him. Nor could he imagine his father living all alone. He rued all the years he had missed spending time with them both—summers, birthdays, holidays. They were all gone now, and he could never get them back.

First things first, he called a local florist and ordered two dozen yellow roses—his mother’s favorite—to be sent to the house with a note asking for her forgiveness for not being able to stay longer. Next, he dashed off an e-mail to Zalinsky’s administrative assistant, informing her that he was leaving the Agency’s car at the Syracuse airport. Then he checked his bags, got his boarding pass, and cleared security just in time to catch the flight to Atlanta.

Finally, sitting on the plane, he steadied his breathing and reached for the letter in his briefcase. But fear got the better of him, and he put it back unopened.
It might not even be from her,
he realized. Even if it was, it might not be friendly. A thousand scenarios raced through his mind, and David wasn’t sure he was ready for any of them.

Once in Atlanta, he quickly identified the NOC waiting for him. With a lightning-fast “brush pass” near a newsstand in the domestic terminal, David was given a Nokia N95 smart phone. Moments later, he crushed the SIM card for his current phone and discarded it in a trash bin near the food court. A few minutes after that, he discarded his BlackBerry in a trash bin in the men’s room.

Now that his company, Munich Digital Systems, was working with Nokia Siemens Networks, he needed to play the part and carry the tools of the trade. The N95 was Nokia’s top-of-the-line 3G phone, functioning more like an iPhone than like a BlackBerry. Nevertheless, the N95 he now held in his hands was not a normal one. Rather, this was a special version that had several features embedded by the techies at Langley.

First, a proprietary GPS function allowed Zalinsky and the Agency to track David’s location in real time without anyone being able to detect that such tracking was going on.

Second, the phone was preloaded with the names and contact information of people David would be expected to know in his consulting role. More importantly, any new names, phone numbers, and e-mail addresses he added to his contact directory would be instantly and clandestinely uploaded to Langley and the NSA’s mainframe computers. This would alert both agencies to hack in and begin monitoring those phone numbers and e-mail addresses as new high-priority targets.

Third, and perhaps most importantly, while the phone typically operated on standard frequencies, allowing foreign intelligence agencies to listen in on his calls and thus to be fed disinformation, a proprietary encryption system could be activated to enable the user to make secure calls to Langley or to other field agents. This was only for rare cases and extreme emergencies, because once the software was activated, those monitoring David’s calls would know immediately that he had “gone secure,” potentially risking his cover as a consultant for MDS.

As he headed for concourse T, David surfed the Web, trying to get familiar with the phone. As he did, he came across the latest diatribe by Ayatollah Hosseini, Iran’s Supreme Leader, given in a speech in Tehran at a conference of terrorist leaders from Hezbollah, Hamas, and Islamic Jihad.

“Like it or not, the Zionist regime is heading toward annihilation. The Zionist regime is a rotten, dried tree that will be eliminated by one storm. And this is just the beginning. Today, the time for the fall of the satanic power of the United States has come, and the countdown to the annihilation of the empire of power and wealth has started. Get ready for a world minus the U.S.”

Maybe he should bring home
this
guy’s head in a box, David mused. At least they knew where to find him.

Upon reaching concourse T, David finally looked at his itinerary.

For the first time he realized that on this upcoming flight to Dubai, he had a middle seat in economy on a fourteen-hour flight. That wouldn’t do, he decided. He set his sights on an upgrade to business. Waiting until he could get a few moments alone with the attractive young woman at the Delta counter, Yasmeen, he asked if there was anything she could do to take pity on him. Anything would be better than a middle seat.

“Are you a SkyMiles member?” she asked.

“No—how can I sign up for that?” he replied.

“Well, Mr. Tabrizi, I can give you the form to fill out, but I’m afraid I’ve only got one seat left in business, and that’s typically reserved for members with Diamond Medallion status.”

“That doesn’t exactly sound like a no,” he whispered.

“Well, I really shouldn’t,” she said, her eyes darting around the lounge.

“Of course you shouldn’t,” David said, smiling and continuing to keep his voice low. “But I’d never tell.”

She bit her lip.

Then David had a thought. “Are you working this flight?” he asked.

“Yes, why?” she replied.

“In business?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.”

“Well, maybe I could return the favor when we’re in Dubai,” he offered.

“What do you mean?” She was intrigued.

“Ever been to the top of the Burj Khalifa?” David asked, referring to the world’s tallest building, the glamorous monument to man’s engineering genius that had recently opened in the heart of the business capital of the United Arab Emirates.

“To the observation deck?” she asked, looking disappointed. “Of course; everyone has.”

“No, no, above that,” he said. “There’s a private suite no one knows about. The owner uses it for exclusive dinners with his best clients.”

“Really?” Yasmeen asked, her beautiful brown eyes growing large. “I’ve never heard that.”

“Actually, I know the owner,” David said. “His son and I went to college together at Yale. He said I could use it the next time I’m in town, and I was thinking, how about we have dinner up there Wednesday night, just you and me?”

And that was that. David was suddenly holding a ticket for seat 5A, the last available seat in business. But his conscience was killing him. He didn’t know the owner of the Burj. He hadn’t gone to Yale. He had no intention of taking Yasmeen to dinner in Dubai. He’d simply done what they’d taught him at the Farm—win friends and influence people and use them for his own purposes. At the beginning, he’d been surprised at how easy it was for him, convincing people to do things they didn’t want to do. Now he was surprised at just how terrible he felt for lying to this woman. What was wrong with him?

He sat down in the business lounge and waited for the flight to be called. He was anxious about his mom. He was also anxious about what lay ahead in Iran. He had studied al Qaeda and the Taliban and the Pakistanis inside and out. He knew their history. He knew their culture. He knew the language and the protocols. But though he had Persian blood running through his veins, he had done precious little homework for this assignment. There hadn’t been time. He knew Zalinsky and Fischer would do their best for the rest of the week to get him ready, but he feared it wouldn’t be enough. He needed a month, not a week, and probably more.

Desperately needing to get his mind off his mother, Yasmeen, and Iran, David found his thoughts drifting to the letter from Portland and the rest of the mail he was carrying. He couldn’t exactly travel into Dubai—much less Iran—on a German passport bearing the name Reza Tabrizi while carrying U.S. mail for David Shirazi. Which meant he had a decision to make. Should he read all of the notes and letters—mostly Christmas and birthday cards from old friends in central New York—then throw them away here in the Hartfield-Jackson airport? Or should he find a post office or UPS store and ship them all to the flat in Munich that the CIA leased for him, the flat where his parents actually thought he lived?

Agonizing over the question a bit longer than he should have, David finally chose to ship the mail to Munich. He would keep only the letter from Portland with him. Was it really that much of a risk taking just one letter with him to Dubai? CIA protocols forbade it. But U.S. Homeland Security certainly wasn’t going to be looking for a Dear John letter on him. There weren’t going to be any security checks upon
arriving
in Dubai. And he would certainly ditch the letter, whomever it was from, before heading into Iran. So that was that. He had his plan.

37

Delta Flight 8

They were now at thirty-nine thousand feet, halfway over the Atlantic.

David skipped dinner and waited for the dishes to be cleared and the cabin lights to be dimmed. Once that happened, he looked around to make sure the flight attendants were busy and that the passengers around him were going to sleep, watching movies, listening to their iPods, or otherwise occupied. Then he removed the small, cream-colored envelope from his briefcase.

It was not a Christmas card. This was expensive stationery. Judging from the delicate cursive of his name and address, it was definitely a woman’s writing. Sure enough, the envelope bore a postmark from Portland, dated December 13, almost two months prior. There was no name or return address in the top left-hand corner or on the back. But given the city of origin, there was little doubt whom it was from. The only question was what it contained and why it was sent.

David couldn’t help but be struck by the timing. How long had it been—a day? not even?—since he’d begun to consider for the first time in nearly a decade actually letting his memories of Marseille go and wondering if anything might happen between him and Eva? And now, in all likelihood, he was holding a letter from Marseille Harper. What did it mean? It was a sign, he was certain, but what did it portend?

Despite all that had happened and all the time that had passed, the truth was, David had missed Marseille every day since the funeral. The realization embarrassed him, but it was the truth. He loved her, and no matter what happened, he guessed he always would. Every year on her birthday, June 20, he had tried to picture what she might look like one year older. He had wondered how she was celebrating, whom she was celebrating with. How was her father doing? Had he ever remarried? Did Marseille now have stepbrothers and -sisters? Were they one big happy family? He had wondered what growing up in Oregon was like for her without her mother, without the beloved Jersey Shore of her youth, without her childhood friends, and it always made him sad.

Spring Lake, New Jersey, he imagined, would have been an idyllic place to grow up. He had read about it at the library and researched it on the Internet and had even driven through the town one day last summer—without ever telling Zalinsky or his parents, of course. With fewer than four thousand year-round residents, the tiny but picturesque seaside village had more seagulls than citizens, though in the summer, tourists from Manhattan, Long Island, Philly, and points west and north caused the population to swell to seven or eight thousand.

She had told him with glee how much she loved to get up early and ride her bike to the beach before dawn, while it was still quiet and peaceful, and watch the sun rise over the crashing waves before the crowds came to sunbathe and build sand castles. On lazy, hazy Sunday summer afternoons, she loved to fish off the pier with her dad and then get chocolate-chocolate-chip ice cream cones at Hoffman’s on Church Street.

But in an instant, it had all been stolen away, and even though David tried not to, he couldn’t help but wonder what she had done instead. Did she and her father live close enough to the Pacific for her to ride her bike down to the shore at dusk to watch the sun set over the crashing waves? Did she still go fishing with her dad? Did they find an ice cream place to go to again?

Carefully, David opened the envelope and pulled out the small, handwritten note. He took a deep breath, braced himself for what was coming next, and began to read.

Dear David,

Hi, how are you? I hope you are well, and your parents and brothers, too. I realize this note may come as a bit of a shock. Please forgive me for not writing before now. I wanted to. I started to write several times but never finished or never sent them. Things have been difficult and complicated, and honestly, I wasn’t quite sure what to say. But two things have prompted me to write now.

First, as it happens, I’m going to be a bridesmaid in a wedding near Syracuse on the first weekend of March. Why in the world my friend Lexi chose to get married in the bone-chilling snows of “Siberacuse”—isn’t that what you used to call it?—I have no idea. Maybe it will truly be beautiful and balmy and springlike by then, but with my luck, I seriously doubt it. That said, Lexi and I have been friends since our freshman year in college, and she really is head over heels in love with this guy, and she grew up out there in a town called Fayetteville (I hear it’s really nice), so I just couldn’t say no.

Of course, as soon as I learned the wedding would be out there, I couldn’t help but think of you. The only other time I was ever in Syracuse was when my family visited yours and we stayed at your house. I think I was seven or eight. Do you remember that?

The second thing that prompted this note is that my father recently passed away. It has been very hard and painful in ways that I would rather not write in a letter. I’d prefer to tell you in person.

So, anyway, the real reason I’m writing, I guess, is that I wondered if you might like to get a cup of coffee together, or something, when I’m out there. It’s been a long time, so much has happened, and there are things to say.

I arrive on Thursday, March 3, around dinnertime. I don’t have plans that night or on Friday morning until around 10 a.m., when all the bridesmaids are getting together for brunch with Lexi and her mom. The rehearsal is at the church at 4 p.m. There’s a dinner at 6, so the rest of that day is probably out. The wedding is at 2 p.m. on Saturday, so I’m probably not going to be free at all that day. Sunday morning might be another possibility if you’d like to come to church with me. Lexi says it’s an awesome church. I’d really love it if you came. After that, I’ve got to race to the airport to catch a 1 p.m. flight back to Portland.

If you can’t get together, or if you don’t want to, I’ll certainly understand. And I’m sorry for rambling on like this. I didn’t mean to. I just meant to say I’d like to see you again if possible. It would be good to catch up and tell you things I should have said earlier, if you’re okay with that. Thanks, and please say hi to your folks for me.

She closed the letter by including her mobile number and her e-mail address, then signed her name. No “Your friend, Marseille” nor “Sincerely yours, Marseille.” And there was certainly no “Love, Marseille.”

Just “Marseille.”

Still, she had written. And her letter was actually friendly. She didn’t seem to be trying to drive the knife deeper into his heart, which came as no small measure of relief. To the contrary, she wanted to see him again. David could hardly believe it.

He read the letter again and then a third time, though he had memorized it after the first pass. He was glad to hear she’d gone to college, glad she had a dear friend she cared so much about that she was willing to travel across the country to be with her on her special day. But he felt terrible for the loss of her father. Marseille and Mr. Harper had been so close for so long. Now she was all alone in the world. She didn’t sound bitter, though she did say her life had been “difficult” and “complicated” and “painful” in ways too hard to write about. David wondered what other sadnesses had befallen her in the years since he’d seen her last.

It was hard to describe his own emotions at that moment. He turned and looked out the window at the darkness below and felt a lump forming in his throat. He had missed Marseille for so long, and he had eventually given up hope of ever hearing from her, much less seeing her again. To suddenly know that she was alive, that she was as well as could be expected under the circumstances, that she thought of him fondly and even that she missed him meant the world to him.

It was all good, amazingly good, except for one problem: Marseille was coming to Syracuse in less than a month, and as far as she knew, he had completely blown her off. He hadn’t known about the letter or the invitation or the visit. But she didn’t know that. All she knew was that he hadn’t even had the decency to write or call or e-mail back and say, “Good to hear from you, but I’m afraid I’ll be in Iran that weekend.” Or “Thanks for the note, but I wouldn’t want to see you again if there was a gun to my head.” Or “You’ve got to be kidding me. You blow me off for how long, and now you want to have coffee?” Or “Thursday works for me, and by the way, are you seeing anyone?”

Something—
anything
—would have been better than nothing. But she hadn’t heard from him at all in nearly two months. He felt terrible. He had to fix this, and fast.