The Twelfth Imam (43 page)

90

Munich, Germany

David landed in Munich around noon on Thursday.

He was booked on a flight to Newark with a connection to Syracuse later that afternoon. But for now he sat in the Lufthansa business lounge, sending e-mails to his father and to Marseille and watching live coverage of the Twelfth Imam’s address in Mecca.

The imagery was overwhelming. Saudi police estimated more than 14 million pilgrims had descended upon a city whose normal population was fewer than 2 million. Commentators were describing the event as the largest gathering of Muslims in history, larger even than the funeral of Ayatollah Khomeini, which had drawn nearly 12 million to Tehran in June 1989. To maintain order, a quarter of a million Saudi soldiers and police officers were present, and an estimated five thousand journalists and producers were there to capture the moment and transmit it to the world.

The Saudi king arrived first, cloaked in his standard white robes but with none of the pomp and circumstance that typically accompanied the monarch. To David’s eyes, the man looked ashen. His hands trembled slightly as he read from a prepared text off a single sheet of paper.

The introduction was short and unmemorable. What would be remembered and discussed for quite some time, David was certain, was the image of the king of the House of Saud finishing his remarks, backing away from the microphone, and then bowing down to the point of lying prostrate, together with two dozen other Sunni and Shia emirs, clerics, and mullahs.

Then the Twelfth Imam emerged and took center stage. He was younger than David had expected—he looked to be around forty—and in contrast with the other men on the stage, he wore a black robe and a black turban, denoting that he was a descendant of Muhammad.

The crowd in Mecca erupted with an intensity David had never witnessed in any public event. The roar of the applause and cheering and the unabashed weeping was surprisingly intense, even coming through the TV speakers. He could only imagine what it sounded like in person.

And it went on and on. Sky News cut away after several minutes to a roundtable of three commentators in their London studio discussing the significance of the Mahdi’s reemergence. But even then it was another ten or twelve minutes until the crowd calmed enough for the Mahdi to speak, and when he did, the people seemed transfixed.

“It is time,” the Twelfth Imam said with a strong, booming voice that instantly seemed to command both reverence and respect. “The age of arrogance and corruption and greed is over. A new age of justice and peace and brotherhood has come. It is time for Islam to unite.”

Again the crowd went wild.

“No longer do Muslims have the luxury of petty infighting and division. Sunnis and Shias must come together. It is time to create one Islamic people, one Islamic nation, one Islamic government. It is time to show the world that Islam is ready to rule. We will not be confined to geographical borders, ethnic groups, and nations. Ours is a universal message that will lead the world to the unity and peace the nations have thus far found elusive.”

David pulled a pad and pen out of his briefcase and made notes. The Mahdi was calling for the re-creation of the caliphate, an Islamic empire ruled by one man, stretching from Pakistan in the east to Morocco in the west. It would never happen, but it made good theater.

“Cynics and skeptics abound,” the Mahdi said. “But to them I say, it is time. Time for you to open your eyes and open your ears and open your hearts. It is time for you to see and hear and understand the power of Islam, the glory of Islam. And today, let this process of education begin. I have come to usher in a new kingdom, and today I announce to you that the governments of Iran, Saudi Arabia, and the Gulf States are joining together as one nation. This will form the core of the caliphate. My agents are in peaceful, respectful discussions with all the other governments of the region, and in short order we will be announcing our expansion.”

David was stunned. The Saudis and the emirates both hated and feared the Iranians. But just as he wondered how they could possibly join forces, the Twelfth Imam explained.

“To those who would oppose us, I would simply say this: The caliphate will control half the world’s supply of oil and natural gas, as well as the Gulf and the shipping lanes through the Strait of Hormuz. The caliphate will have the world’s most powerful military, led by the hand of Allah. Furthermore, the caliphate will be covered by a nuclear umbrella that will protect the people from all evil. The Islamic Republic of Iran has successfully conducted a nuclear weapons test. Their weapons are now operational. They have just handed over command and control of these weapons to me. We seek only peace. We wish no harm against any nation. But make no mistake: any attack by any state on any portion of the caliphate will unleash the fury of Allah and trigger a War of Annihilation.”

91

Syracuse, New York

David needed to walk a little to clear his head.

He had spent Friday and Saturday with his parents in the hospital and had promised his father that he’d be back when visiting hours began at noon. But now, to his amazement, he was actually about to meet Marseille face-to-face. The thought both excited and terrified him at the same time.

Anxious to be on time, he got up early and drove his rental car to the hill where Syracuse University perched, finding the campus largely still asleep on this cold, quiet Sunday morning. He found a parking space on Crouse Avenue right away, got out, and began a brisk stroll through streets whose memories echoed from his past. Marseille would meet him in about forty-five minutes for an 8 a.m. breakfast at the University Sheraton, where she was staying. Then she’d be leaving to meet up with some friends from the wedding party for a 9:30 church service in the eastern suburb of Manlius. Her flight back to the West Coast left at one that afternoon. That gave them about an hour to talk.

It had been a long time since David had been on an American college campus. Marshall Street, the students’ main drag, wasn’t exactly charming, but somehow it had a worn-in feeling that seemed rather comforting to him at this moment. It was a slice of the familiar world he’d left long ago, though it wasn’t really one that belonged to him anymore.

As he stepped over a break in the sidewalk and around a pile of trash—beer bottles and fast-food wrappers apparently left over from the night before—he flashed back to scenes of the delirious chaos in Syracuse whenever S.U.’s basketball team won a key game. He remembered once or twice when the school made it to the Final Four and his brothers took him to eat pizza with them at the Varsity and buy sweatshirts at one of the many shops on M Street. He used to love hanging out there with Azad and Saeed. It made him feel older, cooler, than he was.

As he walked the few short blocks toward the Sheraton, he tried to savor these memories, in part because he didn’t want to think about a world on the edge of war. He wished he could dial back the clock to a time that was simpler and happier. Maybe that’s why he was headed to breakfast with a woman whose memory had such a strong hold on him, a woman with whom he had longed to reconnect since he was only an adolescent.

David still had another fifteen minutes before breakfast, so he stepped into the Starbucks on the corner. The place was quiet but for the Wynton Marsalis jazz music playing in the background. He ordered a triple-shot latte and sat at a table in the corner, thankful it was too early for the place to be filled with students. He found himself wishing he’d brought a book, something to occupy him as he waited. He certainly didn’t want to be early.

Finally it was time. He took a deep breath, crossed the street, entered the lobby of the Sheraton, and was soon sitting by himself at a table in Rachel’s Restaurant with a new cup of coffee. He was starting to worry that he might get a little too jumpy with all this caffeine.

And suddenly, there she was, carrying a red scarf and black wool coat and sporting a turtleneck sweater to ward off the late-winter chill. Wearing faded jeans with a leather backpack thrown over her shoulder, she could have been a graduate student herself. She was even more beautiful than he remembered, especially those large green eyes.

She walked in, spotted him, and gave him a shy smile. He stood to greet her and was grateful when she gave him a quick hug.

“David, it’s really you!”

“Hello, Marseille,” he replied with a warm smile.

In another few minutes they had ordered—eggs Benedict for him, blueberry pancakes for her. She had settled in across from him with her own cup of coffee and was looking suddenly hesitant. He glanced around the warmly lit room, noticed the waitstaff beginning to set up the tables for Sunday brunch, and was glad they were in a quiet corner, away from the preparations.

He spoke first. “It’s really good to see you, Marseille. I was sorry to hear about your father.”

“It’s been a difficult year. But you know, things have been difficult for a long time. How’s your mom doing?”

“She’s a fighter, but I’m not sure how much longer she has. Thanks for sending her flowers, by the way. It meant a lot to her—and my dad, too.”

Neither of them spoke for several moments. Then David said, “It must have been hard on you, losing your dad. What happened?”

She smiled sadly and looked away for a moment before meeting David’s eyes again. “I guess he never really recovered from my mom’s death. You know we moved to Oregon right away. He believed he’d never be able to raise me alone. He wanted me to have at least a grandmother in my life, and he was wise in that. A girl needs a woman’s touch as she goes through life. My grandma helped me through a lot. . . .”

She trailed off, and David remembered reading that her grandmother was suffering from Alzheimer’s and living in a nursing home.

He shifted back to her father. “Did your dad end up teaching out there? He was so brilliant. He’d been a professor at Princeton, right?”

“He was, but no, he never taught in Portland. He tried to write articles for some newspapers and Middle Eastern journals. But he couldn’t ever keep up with the deadlines. He’d spend months researching and then quit after writing half an article. He seemed haunted. He’d tell me he was a cursed man, that everyone was against him somehow. In the last few years, he lived in another world. He’d mutter things in Farsi even, and he’d look at me as though he was wondering who I was.”

“That must have been awful for you.”

“It was sometimes. But on other days, my dad seemed his old self, and we’d go for long walks or bicycle rides. Those were wonderful, but he was unpredictable. Lots of days he’d simply stay in his room. But I didn’t want to talk about my dad right away. I wanted to apologize first and try to explain.”

“You don’t need to apologize, Marseille. It’s been a long time. We were just kids.”

“I know, but we had a real connection; I’ve always believed that.”

She paused and looked at him as if hoping he wouldn’t contradict her. He didn’t, and when she spoke again, she seemed to have a bit more strength in her voice. “I wanted to reach out to you. You have no idea how much I wanted to talk with you and see you again. But my father absolutely forbade it. He was furious with you, David.”

“Why?”

“Because of what happened between you and me in Canada. He would rant against the Iranians—all Iranians—that they’d caused him nothing but heartbreak all his life. What you and I did . . . we shouldn’t have let ourselves go so far. I don’t blame you, but my father did. He blamed you for ruining my life.”

“Why did you tell him? I mean, I agree, it was wrong. But wouldn’t that be hard for a father to hear?”

Marseille looked down at her hands resting on the table. She seemed to be gathering courage again. “I didn’t tell him about us, David. Not at first. I didn’t have to. After a few months, it became kind of obvious.”

92

“I was pregnant.”

David couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You have a child?”

She shook her head. “The pregnancy was difficult from the beginning. I was so young. . . . Anyway, I lost the baby when I was three months along.”

David was silent.

“I know this must be shocking for you. And I know that saying I’m sorry now for not telling you—for not being in touch at all—can’t make up for it. It’s just that my world fell apart, you know? I was living on the other side of the country with a dad who was spinning out of control. I had lost my mom, and I had lost you, and then I was sick all the time. Then when I lost the baby, too . . . These are all just excuses, I know. But by then so much time had gone by, I was afraid to reach out to you. I told myself it wasn’t as important as it was.”

David didn’t move as the words poured out from Marseille. He wasn’t sure what to say. He noticed she had tears in her eyes and her face showed a hint of fear. He didn’t want that.

“I’m not upset with you, Marseille. I just . . . I can’t believe you’ve gone through all this alone. I wish I could have helped you somehow.”

“Thank you. That means a lot. But I don’t expect you to forgive me so easily. It wasn’t right to keep you in the dark. You must have been hurting too, wondering why I wouldn’t respond. But you are very kind.”

Some light seemed to return to her eyes. He was still puzzled by a lot, but at least he could understand now why she had cut off all contact. She had to because her father had lumped him and his family into the growing list of Iranians who had supposedly poisoned his life. But he wondered what Marseille wanted from him now. Just to reconnect? to be forgiven?

The food arrived, but he couldn’t eat, and neither could she.

“Is there any way I can help you now, Marseille? Is there anything you need?”

She was quiet for a while, picking at her food. “When Dad died, it took me a while to go through his things,” she said at last. “His office was a disaster, and I was tempted to just gather it all up and take it to the trash heap. But I knew somehow that I should go through everything slowly and read carefully. There was so much about my parents that I didn’t know. Dad never spoke about my mom after 9/11, and I never even got the chance to tell him what I’d learned from you about their escape from Iran with your parents.”

David noticed she still hadn’t told him how her father had died, though he certainly didn’t blame her.

Marseille reached into her bag and pulled out an envelope, unwrapping the string around it and setting it on the table. “My dad kept journals—did I ever tell you that? He wrote a lot of journals over the years. Even though there were large gaps over time, I learned a lot. My parents were pack rats, and their files went back into the sixties. Look, this is a medical record from their time in Iran. See, it’s issued from the Canadian Embassy. My mom miscarried their first child during the Revolution.”

“I never knew that,” David said.

“The records are incomplete, but I think she was badly injured before they escaped. It doesn’t seem like it was a normal miscarriage. I think that’s why they never wanted to tell me about Iran. It was too painful for them.”

David remembered the quiet, normal home on the Jersey Shore that he had visited so long ago. What a difference it must have seemed to the Harpers from the craziness of Tehran.

“It makes sense now,” she continued. “That’s why they stayed at the Canadian Embassy so long. It wasn’t just to come up with an escape plan. My mom had to heal enough to travel. I wish I could have talked to them about it all. I wish I could hug my mother. I feel like, in some ways, I never really knew them. You know?”

Marseille looked so wistful and seemed so fragile; David wanted to hold her, to protect her. But he had no right to do it. And anyway, he couldn’t go back to those days when life was normal. Things weren’t normal anymore. Not for him. And soon, maybe not for anyone. Right now, here in this place with Marseille, he could almost forget what his task really was. Then she interrupted his thoughts, and he realized he’d been silent for too long.

“David? Are you okay? This is strange, isn’t it? My just showing up and dumping all this information on you. I’m sorry. It’s just that my friend insisted I come here to be in her wedding. It’s so . . . I don’t know, random that she grew up near Syracuse. I couldn’t imagine coming to your hometown without looking for you. And with my father’s death and everything I’ve been reading in his files . . . I just . . . needed to see you.”

“I’m glad,” he said. “I’ve thought about you often, even when I didn’t want to. I always wished things had turned out differently between us. But I thought it was all gone. Those few days were so amazing, and then everything just caved in. I went home, back here, back to high school, and you were gone, and the world was a different place. It’s never been the same again.”

“I know,” she answered quietly. Now it was her turn to seem lost in her thoughts, lost in old memories.

David wasn’t sure what else to say or where to go from here. Their food was cold, and it was almost time for her to go. But he didn’t want her to leave. He wanted to find a way to ask her to stay longer in Syracuse. He wanted to pick up where they had left off and pretend everything that had happened in between hadn’t happened at all. He wanted to forget Iran, forget MDS, forget Eva Fischer and Jack Zalinsky, forget Esfahani and the Twelfth Imam and the threat of world war. He wanted to call his mother and tell her he was ready to settle down, stay in central New York, marry Marseille, and give her some grandchildren. She’d be thrilled. Maybe it would give her a new reason to fight for life and survive. Was it all so impossible?

Suddenly Marseille came back from her daydream and interrupted his. “David?”

“Yes?”

“There’s one other thing I wanted to tell you about my father. I guess it’s okay to tell you. I haven’t said anything to anyone about it yet, and somehow it seems like you’re the only one in the world who might care.”

“What is it?” David asked. He was half-listening and half desperately scrambling to come up with a way to run off with her. Would she go with him if he asked?

“I always thought my dad worked for the State Department—you know, a political analyst or whatever. He spoke Farsi, and I thought he translated and analyzed news reports for our government. But I found something in his papers that makes me believe he never worked for the State Department at all. I don’t even think my mom knew. David, he was in the CIA all along. Look at this.”

She moved her chair next to his and showed him a document on CIA stationery. It was a letter of commendation for Charles Harper for valor under fire in Iran. It mentioned the crisis of 1979 and thanked him for his crucial work for the Agency. And it was signed,
Tom Murray, Director of the Near East Division
.

“Wow, this is really something,” David said.

“It is, isn’t it?” Marseille said. “It’s been so long, and now that he’s gone, I suppose it’s okay for people to know. Nobody back in Oregon ever really knew my dad. There’s no one to share this with. But you knew him. Your family was part of our past—a crucial part—which is why I wanted to tell you. I don’t know if he continued with the CIA when he came to the States. I find myself trying to remember long trips he took when I was growing up. ‘Research trips,’ he called them. I thought they were for his books and lectures at the college. I just wonder what my dad’s life was really like.”

David wondered too, intrigued by this striking new connection between the two of them and feeling terrible that he couldn’t tell her what he was doing and why. But at that moment, his phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out and recognized Zalinsky’s number on the caller ID.

“Sorry; it’s my boss,” he said and took the call. “Hey, it’s me. Can I call you right back? I’m in the middle of something.”

Zalinsky’s voice was somber. “David, you need to get somewhere private and call me in the next five minutes. Do you understand?”

“Absolutely. I will.”

David clicked the phone off and glanced apologetically at Marseille. He hated to lie to her, but he had no choice. “That was my boss; things are not good. I’m afraid I have to go.”

“Seems like a very stressful job.” She smiled. “I think I’ll stick to my first graders.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not always like this. It’s just a particularly urgent moment for us. I can’t believe the timing of all this.” David ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. “Marseille, I’m going to take a risk here. I want you to know that I’d like nothing more than to sit here with you for hours, take a long walk with you, even fly back to Oregon with you, for that matter. I don’t want to be cut off from you again. I’m not sure how to even put it into the right words. But believe me, I’m going to wrap up this business in Europe and then, if it’s okay with you, I’d like to come to wherever you are. There’s so much more to talk about, wouldn’t you say?”

“I would,” Marseille said, clearly moved by his earnest words. She reached out and touched his hand, and his fingers closed around hers.

“I’ve hardly even asked anything about you,” she said. “I’ve been just talking nonstop, I’m afraid. There are so many questions I have about you and your work and your family.”

He held her hand tightly for a moment, then gave her a slight squeeze and let go. He stood, and she did too. “I have to go.”

“I know. It’s okay.”

He slid some cash under his water glass to pay for the meals, and she thanked him for breakfast.

“I’m not sure how long I’ll need to be over there. It’s going to be a bit all-consuming for a while. But I’ll be in touch as soon as I can. I promise.”

“I look forward to it.”

And then he gave her a long hug and walked away from Marseille Harper, out of the restaurant, through the lobby, and into the crisp morning air.

Zalinsky got right to the point.

“I just got back to Washington. We need you back in the game. The Israelis want to talk, and I want you in that meeting. Plus, Najjar Malik has given us some critical leads that someone needs to follow up on quickly. How is your mother?”

“Jack, my mother is dying right now. I need to sit with her, at least for a few more days, and then there may be a funeral. I owe her that. You said so yourself.”

“Listen, you can probably get back there in a day or two. But right now, you are needed here for some things.”

“What things?”

“I can’t talk about it on the phone. You need to be in Washington by noon tomorrow.”

“Jack, please, don’t make this harder than it is.”

“David, this isn’t a request. It’s an order.”

“From who? Tom Murray?”

“No.”

“The director?”

“No.”

“Then who?”

“The president.”