The Tehran Initiative (52 page)

That said, his overall mission had been a total failure. By God’s grace—and there could be no other explanation for it—David had done nearly everything his superiors at Langley had asked of him. He hadn’t captured Javad Nouri or found Jalal Zandi yet. But he had nabbed Tariq Khan. He had found the locations of all eight warheads. He had gotten the information back to Zalinsky and Murray before the Iranians had launched them. And he had put more phones in the hands of the Twelfth Imam’s inner circle, which he prayed would bear more fruit in the days and weeks to come. But what had really come of any of it? At the end of the day, the president hadn’t been willing to use all means necessary to stop Iran from getting the Bomb. It had all been too little, too late. So what was he supposed to do next?

David apologized to the men and excused himself. He took a long, hot shower and changed into some clean clothes, and as he did, he tried to make sense of the risks he was taking. He was more than willing to put his life on the line to protect his country. He was even more willing now that he knew for certain where he was going when he died. But if neither the Agency nor the president were going to act quickly and decisively on any of the information he was gathering, then what was the point? If they weren’t going to take risks for peace, then why should he?

Exhausted and unable to process any more, he lay down and quickly fell asleep.

* * *

Syracuse, New York

The viewing would be that evening.

The funeral was set for the next morning at eleven. The Shirazis had offered to have her stay with them, but as much as she longed to see David’s childhood home for the first time in years, she’d insisted on staying at a hotel and not burdening the family.

Marseille rented a car and a GPS system at the airport. Then she drove back to the University Sheraton, where she had stayed for Lexi’s wedding. As she did, she pulled out her cell phone and called David’s sister-in-law, Nora Shirazi. Nora, the wife of David’s eldest brother, Azad, had been her contact point for the past few days. They had e-mailed back and forth several times, but it felt strange that Nora wasn’t even going to be able to make it to Syracuse from their home outside of Philly. Nora was the only woman in the family now, filled as it was by the strong Shirazi men. Even Nora’s newborn child was a little boy, carrying on the family name into the next generation. But it was little Peter, born only on Tuesday, who prevented Nora from attending the funeral.

Marseille had replied to Nora’s e-mail as soon as she’d received the message about Mrs. Shirazi’s passing on Wednesday night. She’d explained that she’d actually never left the East Coast and would very much like to be there for the funeral. She’d heard from Nora within the hour and several times on Thursday as the funeral arrangements were being made.

The call went through. “Hello?” a woman said at the other end.

“Nora?”

“Is this Marseille?”

“Yes, hi—I hope I’m not bothering you.”

“No, no, not at all,” Nora said. “I’m just feeding the baby. I actually thought you might be Azad. But I’m glad it’s you. Did you get in okay?”

“I did, thanks. I’m heading to the hotel right now. I just wanted to see if there was anything I could do, you know, to be helpful in some way. I feel a little like, I don’t know, like a stranger.”

“Nonsense—you’re practically family,” Nora said with a genuine warmth that touched Marseille. “Heck, you’ve known the Shirazis longer than I have, and Dad for one is really eager to see you. Honestly, when Azad told him you were coming, he said it was the first time in days when Dad’s spirits actually seemed to pick up a bit.”

Then the baby started fussing. Nora apologized and said she had to go. Marseille said she understood and hung up, but as she drove, she wished they could have talked longer. It wasn’t just that Nora was part of the Shirazi family or that Nora had to have known David far better over the last few years than she had. It was also the sinking feeling that at the moment, she really had no one else to talk to.

* * *

Karaj, Iran

David sat bolt upright in his bed.

He checked his watch. It was not yet dawn, but he couldn’t believe he’d been sleeping for so long. He rubbed his eyes, then jumped up, splashed some water on his face, and quietly went out into the living room to find a laptop and log on to the Internet.

Once online, he checked his AOL account, hoping to write a quick note to his dad and to Marseille. What he found, however, were nearly a dozen e-mails from Azad and Nora and even Saeed, and when he learned that his mother had died some forty-eight hours earlier and his brothers were angry that he wasn’t calling or e-mailing back, his heart broke.

There were e-mails about the viewing and e-mails about the memorial service and e-mails about the burial, all of them asking where he was and when he was coming.

What was he supposed to say to them? How could he possibly explain to them why he wasn’t going to be there for his own mother’s funeral or why he hadn’t even had the decency to be in touch with them? No lie would suffice. And for David, at the moment, not even the truth sufficed.

* * *

Syracuse, New York

Marseille allowed herself extra time to get to the viewing.

Not wanting to be late, she wound her way through the neighborhoods near the university, crossed Erie Boulevard, and started up the hills into the northern neighborhoods, thankful for her GPS. Carter Funeral Home was a lovely white building set away from the road. It looked welcoming. There were already several cars parked outside, though it was still thirty minutes before the visiting hours would begin.

Hoping to have some quiet moments with David’s family, yet not sure if it was appropriate to show up early, she decided to just go in. The front doors were propped slightly open, and she could see a small group at the top of a short set of stairs. She suddenly worried that no one would recognize her and felt a flutter of fear and awkwardness. But as the older man in the center of the little knot of people glanced in her direction for a moment and she saw instant recognition light up his eyes, she sighed with relief and returned his smile.

“My dear Marseille, it is so wonderful that you are here,” Dr. Shirazi said, wiping his tears and actually brightening. “I am so honored that you would come. To have such a longtime friend here with us means a great deal.”

Dr. Shirazi came to her and embraced her, and she almost lost control of her emotions. To be in a father’s arms, to smell the somehow-familiar scent of pipe tobacco and aftershave, was almost too much to bear.

“Dr. Shirazi, I am so glad to be here with you,” Marseille said, sniffling. “But I am so sorry for all the sadness you are bearing, that all of you are bearing. And I’m so sorry that David can’t be here.”

Her voice faltered just then, and she suddenly wished she had waited for him to bring up David’s name.

But Dr. Shirazi just patted her on the back. “Thank you, Marseille. The empathy of a friend is a treasure I do not take for granted. And I know you have had more sorrow than a young woman should ever be asked to bear. Thank you for sharing ours.”

His words soothed her, and in her heart she thanked God for the kindness of this dear man.

“And as for David,” Dr. Shirazi said softly and with an intensity that surprised her, “he is where he is needed most. I know it breaks his heart to miss this difficult time with the family. But my heart is not broken because he is a good son, because he sat with me and his mother for hours and cared for me, because he is a good man and this is the heart’s desire of any father. Do not judge him, Marseille. It is not vanity or riches that have prevented him from coming. He is doing his duty, and I am grateful—and I know his mother would be, too.”

Marseille was amazed by the firm words and will of Dr. Shirazi. She wondered how he could have such strength, such faith in David, unless he knew the truth about who David worked for and where he now was. But how could he?

“Come, now,” he said, taking her by the arm. “Come say hello to my other two sons. It has been a long time since you’ve seen each other, no?”

David’s father guided her over to greet Azad and Saeed, two strikingly handsome men with the same piercing brown eyes as their younger brother. They each embraced her, kissing her on the cheek, and she fell into easy conversation with them all until people began arriving and they needed to host.

62

Karaj, Iran

David spent the day forcing himself not to call home.

He had returned all the e-mails from his family. He had told his brothers and Nora the best lie he could come up with, and he prayed to God his father could read between the lines and forgive him.

As for Marseille, he hadn’t written her at all. He didn’t want to lie to her. He would rather say nothing than deceive her. But having no contact whatsoever was more painful than he thought he could bear. Did she know about his mother? Had anyone in his family thought to tell her? What would she think of him when she learned he hadn’t gone to the funeral, that he hadn’t even been in touch? What could he possibly say to her to make it right?

Going stir crazy in the safe house, he called Zalinsky to check in. The news from Langley was mixed. Aside from the administration’s denunciation of the Israeli strikes and the president’s threat to support a UN Security Council resolution condemning the Jewish State for unprovoked and unwarranted acts of aggression, the early evidence suggested the Israeli operation had been far more effective than the Agency would have believed possible. It would still take days if not weeks to assess, but initial Keyhole satellite photography indicated that all of Iran’s major nuclear sites had been destroyed, as had most of their missile production sites. The Patriot missile batteries had worked better than expected in defending the Israeli homeland. In fact, what the media didn’t know yet, but the CIA had just confirmed, was one of the missiles shot down by a Patriot over Jerusalem had, in fact, been carrying a nuclear warhead. Fortunately, the missile had been destroyed before the warhead could arm itself, and recovery crews had been successful in locating the warhead’s uranium trigger before significant radiation could be released. What was more, it appeared the rest of the warheads had been taken out in the air strikes.

Also remarkable, Zalinsky said, was that Israeli losses had been so low. Director Allen had told the president that Agency analysts envisioned the Israelis losing forty to sixty planes if they ever embarked on a preemptive strike—one of the reasons Jackson didn’t think Naphtali, in the end, would actually authorize such a mission. Actual planes downed, however, were far less. Only six F-16s had been shot down by ground-to-air missiles in Iran. Two more were lost to mechanical failures. A KC-130 tanker and an F-15 had suffered a midair collision over northeastern Syria during a refueling operation. But not a single Israeli plane had been shot down in combat.

That said, the Twelfth Imam had ordered a full-scale retaliation.

More than two hundred Israeli citizens had already been killed in the first twenty-four hours of missile attacks from Iran, Hezbollah, Hamas, and Syria, Zalinsky said, and the death toll was expected to keep rising. The injured were many multiples of that number, and Israeli hospitals were rapidly approaching their breaking point. Millions of Israelis had been forced into bomb shelters. All flights into and out of Ben Gurion International Airport had been canceled, yet thousands of tourists were still streaming to the airport, not knowing what else to do.

“The Israelis have launched massive air attacks against their neighbors,” Zalinsky said. “And they seem to be gearing up for major ground campaigns within the next few hours.”

“What do you want me to do?” David asked, his anger rising in proportion to his sense of helplessness.

“Nothing,” Zalinsky said. “Just hunker down and stay safe until we figure out how to get you and your men out of there.”

It was precisely what David didn’t want to hear. He hadn’t signed up to hunker down or retreat. He wanted a new mission. He wanted to make a difference, to stop the killing. But how?

* * *

Syracuse, New York

Saturday morning’s memorial service was beautiful.

It was in a quiet and lovely room at the back of the funeral home, with Persian area rugs over green carpet and white upholstered chairs set in place. In the center of the room were several huge flower arrangements set around a framed portrait of Mrs. Shirazi. Marseille had been welcomed with open arms by David’s father and brothers, and sitting in the room filled with coworkers and neighbors, she knew it was right to have come. She belonged.

She was grateful for her connection to this warm family, grateful for the memories of infrequent but memorable visits paid back and forth between Syracuse and New Jersey during her childhood before her own mother had died. Marseille remembered the vibrant, passionate Mrs. Shirazi from those years and smiled. Somehow, being here made her feel closer to her own parents. Azad stood with tears in his dark eyes and spoke of the faithful, loving mother Mrs. Shirazi had been. Saeed read from a book of Persian poetry. Then he translated the poem into English, and Marseille found the words strange yet beautiful.