Damascus Countdown

  She blushed and looked at the embers growing cold in the fireplace. “I cannot imagine what it must be like to lose someone so dear.”

  Dr. Shirazi saw the tears immediately well up in her eyes. He knew what she meant, but he couldn’t let the moment pass.

  “Sure you do, my dear,” he replied. “Twice.”

  Marseille just nodded, unable to speak, her bottom lip quivering and a tear streaking down her cheek. After a few moments, she regathered herself. “Dr. Shirazi, is this an okay time to talk together? I don’t want to bother you, but there are just a few things before I leave.”

  “Marseille, please, you are certainly no bother. We have never had enough lovely young ladies in this house. Our sons have not spent enough time at home. My beautiful Nasreen had to fill this place with loveliness all on her own. Happily, she had no trouble doing that. But you are a breath of fresh air to me. And you are practically family. Please, what is on your mind?”

  “Well,” she began, dabbing her eyes with a tissue scrunched up in her hand, “for starters, Azad asked me to listen to all the messages on your voice mail and make a list of the people who have called to express their care and sympathy for you and the family. There were dozens of voice mails to go through. It was actually amazing. You are both so dearly loved.”

  “That is all Nasreen. She had a way with people.”

  “It’s both of you,” Marseille replied. “There were some very nice calls. I saved them all so you can listen when you have time. But did you want to look at this list? Or I could read through it for you. I’m not sure what Azad meant for me to do with it.”

  “Oh, I’m not sure I can go over it now. But that is very kind. If you just set the list here next to me, I’ll look over it later. I suppose eventually I’ll start calling people back, maybe in a few days, when I’m left all alone in the quietness of this house. I’ll need to talk to someone!”

  Marseille smiled warmly at him, and he was grateful. She had a pleasant, calming way about her, and he wished she weren’t leaving. She was like the daughter they’d never had but always wanted, and he wished she didn’t live so far away.

  “Dr. Shirazi, there was another call I wanted to tell you about.”

  “Of course,” he said. “From whom?”

  “Well, I have to admit, I rather felt like I was doing something wrong, listening to messages meant for you. But again, it was Azad who insisted that it would be helpful, and I—”

  “Oh, Marseille, I’m so grateful. For everything I’m grateful. I don’t know what we would have done without you. Nora is usually the one who keeps things working around here. Well, Nora and Nasreen. But like I said, you were an angel sent from God to us just when we needed you most.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Shirazi. That’s very kind.”

  “So who called that has you so . . . I don’t know . . . so ‘sensitive,’ if that’s the right word?”

  Marseille said nothing. He looked into her eyes, filling once again with tears, and suddenly he knew. “Oh, goodness,” he said. “It was David, wasn’t it?”

  She nodded.

  He sat up immediately and leaned forward. “Is he okay?”

  “Yes, yes,” she told him. “It’s a beautiful message, meant just for you, of course, and not for me. But I admit, I cried when I heard it. He’s safe. He wanted you to know that. And he loves you. And he feels terrible not to have been here for you and for his mom and for the memorial service.”

  “Would you play it for me?” he asked, putting the pipe back in his mouth, the aromatic smoke curling around his head.

  Marseille looked surprised. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, let’s listen to it together.”

  So they did, then sat in silence for several minutes.

  “He’s a good boy,” Dr. Shirazi said finally.

  Marseille nodded.

  “I’m not angry with him,” he continued. “His business—his work—it made it impossible for him to return to the United States. I know how deeply he loves his family, and I know he feels guilty. But he shouldn’t. I am a very proud papa, and I can’t wait to tell him when he gets home.”

  Marseille nodded, but there was something in her eyes that struck him as strange. What was it? Surprise? Curiosity? No, it was different from that. She seemed . . . knowing. It was a strange word to use in the circumstances, and yet, oddly enough, it fit.

  “Proud of him for being a businessman, hard at work in Europe?” she asked quietly.

  Why was she asking that? he wondered. And why was she asking that way?

  “I’d be proud of him whatever he was doing,” he replied.

  She seemed to shrug a little.

  “I have no doubt you would love him no matter what,” she said at last. “But your standards were always very high, Dr. Shirazi. Somehow I don’t think you’d be proud of any old thing David was doing.”

  “Perhaps,” he said, drawing on his pipe some more. “What are you trying to say, Marseille?”

  She waited for a few moments, looking deeply into his eyes.

  “I think you . . .” And then she stopped herself.

  “You think I what?” he asked.

  She looked away, down at the floor, and then back in his eyes. “I think you know where David really is and what he’s really doing,” she said. “I think that’s why you’re proud, and I know you can’t say it. But then again, neither can I.”

  His eyes widened. “What are you saying?” he asked again, wondering if he was hearing her right.

  “I’m saying I know.”

  “You know?”

  She nodded.

  “He told you?”

  “No,” she said. “He told me he was a businessman going to Europe, and of course I believed him. But I found out.”

  “How?”

  “I’m sworn to secrecy too, Dr. Shirazi. So I need to be careful about what I say. And you must understand that David doesn’t know that I know. But I do.”

  “But I don’t understand. I—”

  “I realize that, and I’m sorry,” said Marseille. “It’s just that . . . how can I put this?” She looked into the fireplace, searching for the right words. “The thing is, Dr. Shirazi . . . well, the thing is that I recently found out my father didn’t work for the State Department.”

  “He didn’t?” Dr. Shirazi asked, genuinely perplexed and wondering what that had to do with David.

  “Well, officially he did,” she clarified, “but in reality he didn’t.”

  “Then who did he work for?”

  “He was a NOC, Dr. Shirazi.”

  “A what?”

  “A nonofficial cover operative.”

  “A NOC?”

  “Right.”

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t understand.”

  “Sir, my father wasn’t really a political officer for the State Department. That was just his cover. In reality, he was a spy for the Central Intelligence Agency,” Marseille said bluntly.

  “No, that’s not possible,” Dr. Shirazi insisted. “I knew him. We were the best of friends. He would have told me such a thing.”

  “He never told me, either. But after he died, I was taking care of his papers, and I stumbled upon a safe in the back of his bedroom closet. When I finally got it open, I was stunned. Flabbergasted, really.”

  “Why? What was in it?”

  “Pay stubs from the CIA. The ID he used to get into Langley. A file of correspondence between him and a man named Jack Zalinsky, all on CIA stationery. I found other correspondence, too, between him and a man named Tom Murray. Do you know who he is?”

  Dr. Shirazi slowly shook his head.

  “He is now the CIA deputy director for operations,” Marseille explained. “I even found a letter of commendation from the CIA, praising my father for his work inside Iran during the Revolution. And part of that work was helping get you and Nasreen out of the country and saving my mother’s life when she was having a miscarriage.”

  “She told you about tha
t?”

  “No,” Marseille said. “Neither of them did. I didn’t find out until my father died. I found all the medical records and a bunch of journal entries. I’ve learned a lot about my family in the last few months, things I never imagined before.” She paused for a moment, then added, “In the last few days, I’ve learned a lot about David, too, things I never knew either. Maybe that’s why I’ve come to love David so much, Dr. Shirazi. Because I loved my father so much. I couldn’t have been more proud of my dad, and I miss him so much it hurts. And, well . . . maybe that’s why it hurts so much to think about David. It turns out they were an awful lot alike.”

  Dr. Shirazi was too stunned to speak. But she was right. She knew. And she not only knew about David; she knew things he didn’t know about his own dearest friend. His eyes began to fill with tears. He reached for her hand, and she came over and gave him a hug as they both started to cry.

  “It’s nice to be able to share a secret with an old friend,” she whispered.

  He held her closer and nodded. “It is indeed.”

  15

  QOM, IRAN

  Torres and Crenshaw saw the roof collapse. They saw flames licking out of every second-floor window. They had seen Esfahani run out the back door with his mother, and now, from their vantage point in a neighbor’s backyard, several houses south of the plane crash, they could see Esfahani giving his mother mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. But they did not see David emerging from the inferno.

  Glancing nervously at his watch, Torres could see that it had already been more than three and a half minutes—almost four—since David had gone into the house. He couldn’t wait any longer. This was not the mission. They were here to stop nuclear warheads, not rescue elderly Iranians from burning buildings. He sprinted for the back door, shouting for Crenshaw to follow but radioing the other men to head back to the car and get it running.

  The entire bathroom ceiling had collapsed on top of them.

  Everything that could burn was burning. Ironically, though, with Mr. Esfahani on his back so David could save his life, the elderly man had actually saved David’s by protecting him from the immediate impact of the falling timbers and the flames. Even so, he had to move fast, or they were both going to die.

  Still holding his breath, his lungs screaming and about to burst, David pushed up with his forearms and got to his knees. Though he couldn’t see through the smoke, he cleared away some of the debris in front of him and was able to pull himself to his feet. Then, knowing he was mere moments away from blacking out, David again heaved the old man onto his back and pushed his way into the hall. He bolted down the stairs and got to the living room just as Torres and Crenshaw reached him. He couldn’t have been more stunned to see their faces, and he had never felt more grateful. They moved to take Mr. Esfahani, but David shook his head. Gasping for air, he hoisted the old man again and ran out the back door, with Torres and Crenshaw close on his heels as the entire building began to rock and sway. They were no more than ten or twelve yards away when the second floor collapsed into the first and the entire home was consumed by flames.

  David didn’t look back. He kept running until he reached Esfahani, then gently set the man’s father down on the grass, not far from a fire engine that had just pulled up. Emergency crews raced to their side, dousing the old man with water and then giving him CPR. Another crew worked on the man’s wife.

  Five minutes went by. Then ten minutes, fifteen. After twenty minutes, the EMT chief stopped his work and told his colleagues to stop as well. He looked up, then rose and walked over to Abdol Esfahani, who stood covered in soot and drenched with sweat but emotionless.

  “These were your parents?” the man asked.

  Esfahani nodded.

  “I’m so sorry. We did the best we could.”

  Esfahani nodded again but still showed little emotion. He didn’t cry. He didn’t tear up. He stood stone-faced until the medic and his team stepped away.

  “I need to go,” he said, glancing at his watch.

  “No, it’s okay,” David said. “We’ll stay with you. I’m so sorry, Abdol. I only wish we’d gotten here sooner.”

  “I have to be in Damascus,” Esfahani replied as though he hadn’t heard a word David said.

  “Damascus? Why?” David asked.

  “It’s for the Mahdi,” he said. “I can’t say more. I’m just supposed to go there. But I don’t have any . . . I guess I can . . . well . . .”

  He was becoming incoherent.

  “Look, Abdol, you can’t go anywhere right now,” David said. “You need to stay here. You need to finish this.”

  “No. They’re dead,” Esfahani shot back. “I can’t bring them back. I’m alone now, and I must do what I can to serve Imam al-Mahdi. This is my calling. I cannot disappoint him.”

  “What does he want you to do?” David asked.

  Esfahani looked into his eyes, then around at David’s men. “Who are they?”

  “Part of my technical team.”

  Esfahani shook his head. “I’ve never seen these men.”

  “You never met my entire team.”

  “I thought I had.”

  “You hadn’t, but never mind,” David said, trying to change the subject. “I trust them. You can too.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Esfahani, still shaking his head. “Rashidi swore me to secrecy.”

  “Even from me?”

  “Well, I don’t know, but I . . . I have to go.”

  “Can I go with you?” David asked, determined not to let this man out of his sight without extracting actionable intelligence from him. “I can help you. What do you need?”

  “No, I sent a crew ahead this morning,” Esfahani said, patting his pockets as if in search of his car keys. “I have to join them. It’s very important. I’m sorry.”

  David grabbed him by the arm and pulled him close. “But, Abdol, my friend, I came here to help you,” he said. “This is my war too, you know. I want to help. That’s why I haven’t fled the country. I have Persian blood. You know me. I want to serve the Mahdi. I want to know what he knows and make a difference in this country. Tell me—how can I help? What can I do?”

  Esfahani looked into David’s eyes for a moment. His were dull, lifeless, drained of all color and emotion. He pulled away and started walking toward the street. “I cannot help you, Reza. Call Mina. Have her find Mr. Rashidi. Maybe he can help you. But I cannot.”

  And then he broke into a sprint, disappeared around a corner, and was gone.

  David stood there for a moment, looking at the burning homes before him, looking at the two dead bodies at his feet, and not believing that Esfahani had just left.

  “What just happened there?” he asked, as much to himself as to his team.

  “I have no idea, boss,” Torres replied. “Do you want us to stop him?”

  “And do what?”

  “I don’t know,” Torres said. “Maybe we grab him, take him back to Karaj, interrogate him, and find out what the Mahdi has him doing.”

  “No, no, we can’t do that,” David said.

  “Why not?” Crenshaw asked. “You said it yourself—he’s our only lead.”

  “Then we have to find another one, and fast,” said David. “Come on. This was a complete waste of time.”

  “Where are we going?” asked Torres.

  “Back to the safe house,” David replied, “before we get caught.”

  HAMADAN, IRAN

  Ali was a desperate man. Well, perhaps desperate was not the right word, but he was a young man in a hurry. He wanted to save his country. He wanted to make a difference. He wanted to know everything Dr. Birjandi knew and how to articulate it with the same power and authority and clarity so that it would have the same impact. But how could he ever catch up?

  He never ceased to be amazed by how many books Dr. Birjandi had. Every room of the house—except the kitchen—was lined with bookshelves, and every shelf was jam-packed with the most interesting books on theolog
y and eschatology and history and poetry, and it went on and on and on. There were stacks of books in piles everywhere—on the couches and on chairs and in the corners of every room. And it wasn’t just books. There were magazines and journals and more things to read than any human being could possibly handle, even if he could see. And Birjandi could not.

  It was Birjandi’s late wife, Souri, who had read it all to him, Ali had recently learned from Ibrahim, who’d had the temerity to actually ask the old man why he had so many books he couldn’t read. According to Ibrahim, Souri had been fluent in five languages. She had memorized the entire Qur’an. And when they got married fresh out of high school, Souri had helped her husband memorize the entire Qur’an as well. When he went to seminary, Souri had helped him every step of the way. She had read his textbooks to him. He had dictated his homework to her. She had typed all his papers. She had even walked him to class. And apparently, so the story went, when he graduated from seminary, he was actually first in his class. And then they started writing books together, including his doctoral thesis, which was eventually published in 1978 as his first book, The Imams of History and the Coming of the Messiah.

  Ali wanted to put a memory stick in the man’s head and download everything he knew. But how?

  Dr. Birjandi stirred a bit of honey into yet another cup of hot tea Ali had just placed in his hands. Then he returned the spoon to Ali and carefully took a sip.

  “Ah, excellent, my son—just like Souri used to make it.”

  Ali laughed. The man said the same thing every single time Ali made him a cup of tea, and he had already said it three times today. Nevertheless, Ali thanked his mentor and poured a cup each for Ibrahim and himself. Then he checked his phone and noticed a new Twitter message from Dr. Najjar Malik. “Dr. Malik just sent another tweet—actually two.”

  “What do they say?” Ibrahim asked.

  “The first reads, ‘Anyone notice spike in Syria killings? Not normal brutality. Something new. Pray 4 God 2 remove Mustafa from power b4 more innocents die.’”