The Twelfth Imam

by Joel C. Rosenberg

  “But if they find out you were connected to me, they will kill you.”

  “That is why I have to stay.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Najjar, I could tell you, but then I would have to kill you,” David said, smiling. “The things you don’t know about me will have to remain unknown. But believe me, you and your family will be very happy in the U.S.”

  Najjar was quiet for a moment. “Sheyda would have liked to have met you,” he said finally.

  “I would have liked that too.”

  “Someday?” Najjar asked.

  “Perhaps.”

  Najjar shook David’s hand and held it for a moment, then got out of the car, duffel bag in hand, and ran for the plane.

  David watched him go. He wished he could stay and watch the plane take off as the sun rose brilliantly in the east. But he couldn’t afford the risk. He had to dispose of the Renault, steal another car, and get back to Tehran before Esfahani, Rashidi, or his team realized he was missing.

  89

  Tehran, Iran

  David’s phone rang as he approached the outskirts of Tehran.

  It was Esfahani, finally. “It’s been a nightmare here. Have you heard about the manhunt for this traitor Malik?”

  “I’ve been glued to the coverage. I just hope they catch him.”

  “And the man who was with him,” Esfahani added. “They both deserve to be hanged.”

  David winced but played along. “Exactly.”

  “It’s despicable what they’ve done. But that is not why I called. Things are moving very rapidly right now, as you can see. The Twelfth Imam’s plane just took off for Riyadh a few minutes ago.”

  “I thought he was going to Mecca.”

  “He is, but I’m told he’s going to meet with the king first. Then the two of them will go to the holy city tomorrow morning for the Mahdi’s address to the world.”

  “I wish I could be there,” David said.

  “Me, too,” Esfahani agreed. “But there’s much work to be done. That’s why I’m calling.”

  “What do you need?”

  “The Mahdi wants an update on the satellite phones. Rashidi said he asked about them just before his flight took off. They want to know how quickly you can get them.”

  David hesitated. Again he knew Zalinsky and Eva could have the phones for him in a few days, but he couldn’t let it seem too easy, or it might raise suspicion. “Mr. Esfahani, I’ll do my best,” he said, “but I can’t make any promises. It was hard enough to get twenty, but you’re asking for almost three hundred more.”

  “It’s not me who is asking,” Esfahani reminded him.

  “I know, I know, and I promise you, I will do my best. But I’m going to need some time. And it’s going to cost a lot of money.”

  “Don’t let the cost be your concern, young man. Just get the phones, and I will make sure you get the money, plus a generous bonus for your troubles.”

  David knew the CIA wasn’t going to let him keep any money, but he saw an opportunity, and he seized it. “No, I cannot take any more,” he said. “You were too generous before, and I shouldn’t have taken the money then.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You earned it.”

  “But I don’t want it,” he insisted. “Please, I want this to be a pure act of worship for the Promised One, peace be upon him. Nothing else.”

  Esfahani paused, clearly taken aback by David’s declining what would amount to a payoff north of a quarter of a million dollars.

  “Allah will reward you, my friend.”

  “He already has.”

  With that, Esfahani explained that Mina had already booked David on a 6:45 Emirates flight that night to Dubai and then a 7:45 direct flight to Munich the following morning on Lufthansa.

  “It was the best she could do on short notice,” Esfahani apologized. “Everything else was booked. But at least we put you in first class.”

  “That’s really not necessary. And I could have made my own arrangements.”

  “Believe me, I know,” Esfahani said. “But it was Mr. Rashidi’s idea. In fact, he insisted.”

  David thanked Esfahani and asked him to thank Rashidi. Then he hung up the phone and found a safe place to ditch the stolen car he was driving. He walked a few blocks to distance himself from the car, then caught a cab back to the Simorgh Hotel to pack. He didn’t seem to be under any suspicion from Esfahani.

  Meanwhile, he knew Eva and her team were tracking the satellite phones as well as the police radio traffic in Tehran. They weren’t picking up any indications he was in danger either. If all continued to go as planned, he’d be sitting with Zalinsky and Fischer and briefing them by ten that night.

  That was the good news. The bad news was that it was now Wednesday, March 2. It was becoming painfully obvious to David that there was no way he was going to make it back to Syracuse to see Marseille that weekend, much less by the following night. Even if he could physically make it there before the wedding was over, Zalinsky would never let him go. There was too much at stake. He had to be in Germany to get the phones and then head straight back to Tehran. There was no way around it. It was his job. It’s what he had dedicated his life to doing.

  But something in him grieved.

  Dubai, United Arab Emirates

  The moment he landed in Dubai, David found a pay phone.

  It was a depressing thought that he would have to call and let Marseille know he wouldn’t be there. But it would be unforgivable to just stand her up, so he determined to contact her now before it became impossible.

  Unfortunately, he got her voice mail. He wanted to talk to her, to hear her voice, to let her know how truly sorry he was. But she was probably teaching, and he didn’t know when he’d get another chance to call. He had no choice. He left a message.

  “Marseille? Hey, it’s David. Look, I’ve only got a moment, but I’m calling to apologize. I feel terrible about this, but I’m not going to get back to Syracuse in time to see you. I’m very sorry. I’m in Budapest, working on a deal that’s critical to my company, and let’s just say, it’s not going well. The client’s asking for extensive revisions to the contract. We’ve been over it a million times. But my boss is pressing me to get this thing done. My company desperately needs the business, so, anyway, all that to say, I’m going to have to stay until it’s done. I feel terrible—I really do. I’ve been looking forward to seeing you again and catching up with you and just telling you in person how sorry I am for all you’ve been going through. But I’m afraid it’s not going to happen this weekend. I’ve got to go right now, but I promise to call you again the moment I can. I hope you’re well. Bye.”

  David hung up the phone, wincing at all the lies he had just told. But at the moment, he honestly had no idea how to do it better. As he got his luggage, he checked his phone for e-mails. The first one he opened was from his father. His mother was going downhill fast.

  Twenty minutes later, David stepped out of a cab at the regional office of Munich Digital Systems. The place was dark. All the staff had gone home for the day. But in a back office, Zalinsky and Fischer were waiting for him. Eva welcomed him back with a hug. To his surprise, Zalinsky did as well. They had a long night of debriefing ahead of them, but Zalinsky made it clear they were proud of him and were glad he was once again out of Iran safe and sound.

  “Are Najjar and his family okay?” David asked as Eva poured each of them a cup of coffee.

  “They’re all fine,” Zalinsky said, glancing at his watch. “In fact, they should be touching down in the U.S. in just a few minutes.”

  “Did you get all the files off Saddaji’s laptop?”

  “Absolutely,” Eva said, taking her first sip. “It was a gold mine. We’ll go over all that in a few minutes.”

  David sighed and slumped in a chair. His eyes felt gritty, and he’d definitely lost some weight.

  “You must be exhausted,” Zalinsky said.

  “No—well, yeah, but it’
s not that,” David said. “It’s just . . .”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Spit it out,” Zalinsky ordered.

  “No, it’s nothing; let’s just get started. We’ve got a lot to cover.”

  “David, what’s the matter?”

  So David took a deep breath and confessed, “It’s my mom.”

  “Nasreen?” Zalinsky asked. “Why? What’s wrong?”

  “She has cancer. It’s pretty serious. She’s had it for a while.”

  Zalinsky and Fischer were quiet. David never talked about his personal life. They’d had no idea. But Zalinsky’s relationship with the Shirazis went back more than thirty years.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said. “How long have you known?”

  “Just a few weeks,” David said. “They decided to tell me when I went back there to visit. But I just got an e-mail from my dad. He says she’s taken a turn for the worse, and they don’t know how long she’ll be able to hang on.”

  Eva reached for David’s hand.

  “You need to get home,” Zalinsky said.

  “Yeah, right.”

  “No, you have to, David.”

  “Jack, how can I? Look at what’s happening.”

  “It’s your mother, David. You only get one. Go. It’s okay.”

  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.”