The Twelfth Imam (23 page)

50

Shahrak-e Gharb, Iran

Little Roya was turning ten years old.

And she knew exactly what she wanted. For weeks, she had been writing her parents little notes to remind them, strategically placing them in her father’s briefcase, by her mother’s sewing basket, on their napkins at dinner, or in other places where they would invariably find them, read them, and consider her request one more time. She pleaded with them not to give her candy or a doll or a book or a pretty new scarf. All she wanted was one thing, and she’d been begging for it for each of the past three years. She wanted them to take her to the Jamkaran Mosque so she could write down her prayer, drop it into the well with all the others, and make her request of the Twelfth Imam.

Growing up in a well-to-do suburb of Tehran, Roya had almost everything she wanted. Her father was a senior translator for the Foreign Ministry and occasionally traveled abroad with high-ranking Iranian officials. Her mother was a renowned botanist in the biology department at Tehran University, who, with Roya’s eager help, was cultivating the most gorgeous rose garden in their backyard. Her grandparents were successful in business. She was even distantly related to Ayatollah Hosseini and had met him twice. But while Roya was sweet and devout and brilliant in every respect, she had also been mute from birth. She longed to be able to talk with her parents and sing with her friends. She hated to be thought of as “special.” She wanted to be normal. Was that too much to ask?

Maybe it was.

The Jamkaran Mosque, located about six kilometers outside the holy city of Qom, was at least a three-hour car ride each way, not counting however much time they might spend there in prayer. Taking a day off from work would be an enormous imposition on her parents. But Roya simply couldn’t help it. She’d seen on TV a news story about the well, and it had completely captured her imagination. One man interviewed said, “If you ask in the right way, your prayers will be answered.” Another said, “I don’t come here just to pray for myself. I also ask the Mahdi to take care of my family and their needs.”

Roya was particularly struck by an interview with a little boy who had brought his flashlight, convinced that the Twelfth Imam was hiding at the bottom of the well reading all the prayer requests people were dropping down there. “I was looking into the well with my flashlight, hoping to see the Mahdi,” the boy had said. “But not tonight.”

The reporter noted that according to Shia tradition, “if you come to Jamkaran forty weeks in a row, you will see the Mahdi.”

The morning of her birthday, Roya awoke early. The house was quiet—her parents must not yet be awake.

Suddenly Roya heard footsteps in the hall outside her bedroom. Maybe her parents were up after all. She glanced at the clock on her nightstand. It wasn’t quite six in the morning. Then the door opened slowly, and her parents came in and sat on her bed.

“Happy birthday, sweetheart,” her father whispered. “We’re leaving in five minutes. Think you can be ready by then?”

Ecstatic, Roya jumped up and threw her arms around her father, then her mother, kissing them both profusely.

The trip was more special than even she had pictured. They didn’t drive as a family to Qom. They flew—first-class. They didn’t race to the well and then back to the airport. They stayed overnight in a five-star hotel and went out for a fancy dinner. They took a thousand pictures of everything they saw and did, from Roya scribbling her prayer request on special stationery her mother had given her that day as a gift, to Roya pointing her own flashlight—another unexpected gift from her father—down into the well.

But as special as all that was, it did not prepare the little girl for what happened when they all got home the following night. Roya was upstairs brushing her teeth and getting ready for bed when she heard a knock at the door. It seemed a little late for company, and Roya was surprised when she overheard her father talking to a man and then inviting him to come inside. She didn’t recognize the man’s voice, and when she peeked downstairs, she could see only the back of his head, but she was fairly certain she had never seen him before.

“It would be an honor if you would allow me to pray a blessing on you and your home,” said the stranger, who was dressed as a cleric or a mullah.

Roya, hiding on the stairs and careful to remain unseen, heard her father agree, and the man prayed a very beautiful prayer, asking Allah to bring “peace and tranquility to this lovely home” and “bless all who live here now and all who will live here in the future, so long as they submit to you, O Lord.”

Not wanting to risk being discovered by her parents, Roya was about to go back to her room and climb into bed when she heard the man ask if he could see their little girl and pray for her as well. Roya froze. How did the man know about her?

“I’m sorry. How do you know we have a daughter?” her father asked. “There are no pictures of her in this room. I haven’t mentioned her, and we have never met.”

“Do not fear or be alarmed in any way,” the stranger said. “The answer is simple. Allah has sent me to your home to heal little Roya.”

Roya’s heart started racing, but she could see her father tense.

“How do you know her name?”

“I know all about your daughter,” the stranger said. “She was born with aphonia, preventing her ability to speak. In her case, it was caused by a genetic disorder that damaged her vocal cords. She has been to nine doctors in eight years and has had three surgeries. None of them have worked.”

Astonished, Roya waited for her father to respond, but he didn’t. Or couldn’t. The room was silent for a moment, and then the man continued.

“Yesterday you flew to Qom. You went to the Jamkaran Mosque, and together you wrote out a prayer and tossed it into the well.”

“Who are you?” her father finally blurted out. “And how do you know all this?”

“Roya asked for the Mahdi to heal her.”

“Yes . . . yes, she did, but . . .”

“Her request has been granted. That is why I am here.”

Roya feared that her father might throw the man out of the house. But what if the stranger really had been sent from Allah? What if he was . . . ?

Suddenly she found herself walking down the stairs and into the living room, where she stood by her father and held his hand.

She pointed at the stranger, in awe of his striking good looks and piercing black eyes. She now thought she recognized him from a dream she’d had a few weeks before.

The man began praying in a language Roya didn’t know and had never heard before. When he stopped, Roya fell backward and began writhing on the floor. Her mother screamed. Her father was at her side but could not help her. Her body shook wildly. She felt like she was choking. For a moment she thought she was losing consciousness. Then the stranger began praying again, still in some unintelligible language. Immediately her convulsions ceased.

She opened her eyes again and stared at the ceiling. Her parents’ faces were pale. She saw the man come over and kneel beside her. He took her by the hand, pulling her gently to her feet. She felt a cold chill ripple through her body, and then to everyone’s astonishment she began to speak. Then she began to sing. Soon she began to shout praises to Allah. She was delirious with happiness. She spun and twirled and hugged her parents and wept with joy.

And then they all turned to thank the stranger, but he was gone.

51

Tehran, Iran

Five full days had gone by, and still nothing had happened.

Beside himself with frustration, David got up early. He showered but once again skipped shaving. He was trying to grow a beard to fit in better, and it was coming in quite well now. He headed to the mosque for morning prayer.

There was a message waiting for him at the front desk when he got back to the hotel. He took it upstairs, closed himself in his room, and opened the envelope, letting out a sigh of relief. It was an invitation for a dinner party at the home of Daryush Rashidi, the president of Iran Telecom. The note said a car would pick him up in front of his hotel at precisely seven o’clock that night, and a phone number was provided for his response. David immediately entered the number into his mobile directory and called to confirm his attendance. He just hoped the NSA system would enable Zalinsky and Fischer to compile a list of the others who would be there.

Fischer.

He hoped Zalinsky had gone easy on her. None of this had actually been her fault. It had been Zalinsky’s decision—not hers—to make her project manager and send her to Tehran. Doing so had put their entire mission in jeopardy. But all things considered, Eva had handled things quite well. David barely knew her, but what he knew, he liked. She was smart. She was tough. She was loyal to the Agency. Her Farsi was impeccable. She was not Marseille, but truth be told, she looked rather fetching in a headscarf.

At seven, a black sedan pulled up in front of the Simorgh Hotel. David got in and was driven to a swanky apartment building in an upscale section of Tehran, where he was led by a security guard to a suite on the top floor. But it wasn’t the kind of affair David had pictured. There were no servants in tuxedos bringing in trays of food. There were no flower centerpieces or music. There were no other guests at all. Just Daryush Rashidi and Abdol Esfahani.

“Mr. Tabrizi, welcome,” the tall, graying CEO said, shaking David’s hand. “It is an honor to finally meet you. Abdol has told me good things about you.”

“Please, Mr. Rashidi, call me Reza, and the honor is mine,” David replied, surprised and relieved. “You are most kind to meet with me at all given the events of the last days, let alone inviting me to your home. Thank you—both of you—very much. Your hospitality is most gracious.”

“Say nothing of it, Reza,” the CEO said. “Come in.”

Rashidi, who David guessed was around sixty, motioned for his guests to follow him from the foyer. As they moved deeper inside what turned out to be a gorgeous penthouse apartment, David realized it had to take up at least half the top floor of this high-rise. The view of the capital and the Alborz Mountains in the distance was absolutely breathtaking, and David said so.

“It is sometimes embarrassing to me to bring people up here, but the views are spectacular,” Rashidi said. “I must say, I grew up quite poor. I never imagined anything like this as a child, and I certainly don’t need it now. But Iran Telecom wants me to use it for entertaining clients, and who am I to say no?”

He laughed and snapped his fingers. A servant, a man probably about Rashidi’s age, smartly dressed but without a tuxedo, stepped out from the kitchen.

“Drinks,” the CEO said, “and some snacks.”

“Very good, sir,” the man said.

Rashidi sat down in an ornate, upholstered chair, evocative of a throne one of the shahs might have used in ancient times. Then he turned to David, who settled on the couch beside Esfahani.

“First of all, Reza, allow me to apologize for Abdol,” he began. “He is a dear friend and trusted advisor. But he is not always as diplomatic, perhaps, as a senior executive at Iran Telecom should be.”

David glanced at Esfahani, who was staring out at the Tehran skyline, stoic and unrepentant.

“I wanted you to hear it directly from me,” Rashidi continued. “I am grateful for your professional conduct through this whole matter. Personally, I would not have asked Ms. Fischer to leave the country. We are a free nation. We have great respect for all people, regardless of their race or gender or station in life. We don’t want to frighten off those who have come to genuinely help us. That is not our standard operating procedure and certainly not my heart. But I respect your decision and hope all this hasn’t dampened your desire to work with us.”

“Not at all, Mr. Rashidi,” David replied. “Ms. Fischer is very able. She is an asset to our company. But I believe she will be much more useful to MDS and Iran Telecom back in Dubai and Munich than here. We should have realized it sooner. Please forgive us.”

“All is forgiven,” Rashidi said, looking pleased. “Let us not think of it again. We have far more important matters to discuss.”

David breathed a sigh of relief and couldn’t wait to let Zalinsky know they were back in the game.

The servant stepped back into the room, pushing a cart carrying all kinds of treats, including a large ceramic bowl filled with a variety of fresh bananas, oranges, apples, strawberries, and blackberries, which he set on the large glass coffee table in front of them. He also set out a dish of small cucumbers and a saltshaker beside it, along with small dishes of pistachios, cashews, and walnuts. Then he retrieved a variety of freshly squeezed juices and steaming pots of tea and coffee from a small counter.

David immediately felt at home. His parents had held countless dinner parties over the years that had begun precisely the same way. In the summer, he would have expected sweet cherry juice, as well as grape, cantaloupe, sweetened blackberry, and watermelon. Given that it was only February, however, the options were a bit more limited.

“Apple, orange, or pomegranate, sir?” the servant asked.

Rashidi chose apple, as did Esfahani. David wondered if the protocol was to follow the boss’s lead, but he took a risk and asked for pomegranate juice. He hadn’t had any in years, and it brought back memories of his childhood.

“Three times more antioxidants than red wine,” David said with a smile as a glass was poured for him.

A glance between Rashidi and Esfahani made David immediately realize his faux pas.

“Which is good,” he quickly added, “since I don’t drink wine.”

“Good for you,” Rashidi said, visibly relieved. “You strike me as a very pious, earnest young man. Were your parents devout Shias?”

And so began the interrogation. It didn’t feel harsh. To the contrary, David found both men—but Rashidi in particular—more warm and engaging than he had expected. But it was clear that they wanted to know everything about him. It was a social ritual, to be sure, a rite of passage. It was also another test that David was determined to pass. Helping himself to a handful of pistachios, he launched into his cover story, suddenly grateful for all the time he’d had to practice over the past few days.

He told the story of growing up in Alberta, Canada, as his father worked in the oil sands industry and his mother begged him to take them back to Iran. His eyes grew moist as he shared how his parents died when their Cessna stalled out and crashed just outside of Victoria, British Columbia, when he was only seventeen, and how a policeman had come to his high school to tell him the news. It was, he realized, the first time he had actually spoken the cover story out loud, and he was struck by how much his pain over his mother’s cancer now helped him tap the emotions he needed to make his lies sound real.

Both men offered their condolences for David’s loss.

“It was a long time ago,” he replied, using a napkin from the coffee table as a tissue to wipe his eyes.

“It obviously still affects you a great deal,” Rashidi said with a tenderness David would not have expected. “I lost my parents when I was very young as well. It was a boating accident. I was only seven, but I know what you’re going through.”

David nodded with identification.

Esfahani then asked if he had any siblings. David looked down and said no. He was the “miracle” child in the family, he explained, the only one born after several miscarriages and multiple fertility treatments. When Rashidi asked why he went to college in Germany, David explained that he had never felt comfortable in Canada, that it was too influenced by the immorality and godlessness of the Americans. “What I really wanted to do was come to Iran.”

“Why didn’t you?” Rashidi asked.

“I didn’t know anyone,” David said. “All my grandparents passed away before I was born. And I was offered a scholarship to a school in Germany.”

“Your family, they were all from Tabriz?” Esfahani inquired.

“Yes,” David confirmed, “but I had never been here before. I had no money. It just seemed like first I ought to get some schooling, develop some skills, and make a little money. Then I hoped I could find a way to come back here and reconnect with the land of my fathers and see if there was something I could do to . . . you know, to help.”

Rashidi looked at Esfahani and then back at David. “I hope I’m not the first to say it, but welcome home, young man.”

“Actually, Mr. Rashidi, you are, and thank you,” David said. “I can’t explain what a joy it is to finally be here and what heartache it has been for me for the past few days to think that rather than being a blessing to you and your great company and this great country, somehow I might have brought dishonor.”

“No, no,” Rashidi said. “No more of that. It was a simple mistake, and it is all behind us now. We must move forward.”

“Thank you, sir,” David said. “I would like that very much.”

Before long, David’s mouth was beginning to water as the aromas of all kinds of dishes began emanating from the kitchen. Fortunately, within a few minutes, it was announced that dinner would be served. Rashidi guided David around the corner to a beautifully appointed dining room with a large table set for three with fine china and pressed linens. To one side of the room there was another table perhaps three or four meters long, covered with a variety of dishes, far more than they could possibly eat in one night. There was an entire roasted lamb on a silver tray in the center of the table, surrounded by pots of all kinds of stews—pomegranate, eggplant, herb, okra, and celery—and a fava bean rice dish with sheep shank.

But best of all, and much to David’s surprise, there was a large bowl of
Shirin Polo
, one of his favorites and his mother’s specialty. It was a beautiful, colorful dish of steaming basmati rice adorned with sweetened and slivered carrots, almonds, pistachios, orange rind, and saffron. David couldn’t wait to dive in.