“Could they go nuclear themselves, against Iran?” Torres asked.
“They might,” David replied. “They really might.”
There was a long and sober pause as everyone in the room processed the implications of what David was saying.
“So what would that mean for us?” one of the guys finally asked.
And there was another long pause.
“I don’t know,” David admitted. “But I have more bad news.”
“What’s that?” Torres asked.
“Zalinsky just called from Langley,” David said. “It seems they intercepted a call from the Iranian high command. Somehow — and I don’t know how — the Iranians still have two more nuclear warheads. At the moment, no one knows where they are, but Washington has two fears. The first is that both of the warheads are being attached right now to Iran’s remaining Shahab missiles, about to be fired at Israel. The second is that only one of the warheads is going to be fired at Israel, and the other is being shipped to South America, to be transported up to Mexico and smuggled into Arizona or Texas and detonated in any of three hundred American cities.”
A deathly quiet came over the room.
“Our new mission — and this comes straight from the top — is to find both of those warheads and destroy them before they leave Iran,” David explained. “The good news: we’re authorized to use any force necessary to accomplish our mission. The bad news: we have no leads, no sources, and very little time. So here’s the plan: we’re going to Qom.” He quickly explained why.
“Sir, with all due respect, that’s crazy,” Torres said. “The Israelis have attacked the Fordow nuclear site just outside Qom over and over again. From what I hear, a radioactive cloud is building over the city. People are hiding in their homes. The government isn’t telling them what to do. No one in his right mind would—”
“I get it, Marco; you’re not for it,” David replied, cutting him off. “But this isn’t a discussion. This is our new mission. We’ve been wasting away around here for the last three days, and it’s getting us nowhere. No, the ante has just been raised, and we need to get into this fight. So get your gear, and let’s move.”
Deputy Director Tom Murray buttoned his brown corduroy sport coat and straightened his maroon cloth tie. He checked to make sure he didn’t have any crumbs on his blue oxford shirt or his khaki trousers and prepared to swallow a mouthful of humble pie. Then he boarded the elevator and headed down into the bowels of the building. A moment later, he stepped off the elevator, three floors below street level, showed his ID badge, signed in, and asked to be taken to Eva Fischer’s cell.
He was surprised by how quiet it was down there. But then, of course, there weren’t likely to be more than a handful of people being held at the moment, and most of them were probably asleep. One armed guard turned on the fluorescent overhead lights while another pushed a button, electronically opening the door to Detention Wing Two. Murray was led down a long, freshly mopped hallway until they reached the designated cell. He heard a series of electronic locks releasing; then the door opened, and he cleared his throat.
“Good morning, Agent Fischer. Sorry to wake you, but it’s time to get you out of here. Come on, grab your things, and let’s go upstairs where we can talk.”
“Well, I think that’s everything,” Marseille said, turning the dishwasher on after she had finished tidying up the kitchen. “Guess I’m going to call it a night.”
Azad had just come in from the garage after taking out the last of the garbage. He washed his hands in the kitchen sink and thanked Marseille for her help. “I don’t know how we would have made it through the last few days without you, Marseille,” he said with genuine warmth she’d rarely seen from either of the older Shirazi boys. “You remind me a little of Nora — tireless and full of hospitality. I wish you two could have met.”
Nora was Azad’s wife, who had missed the funeral because she was home in Philly, still bedridden after giving birth to their first child. From Azad, this was high praise, Marseille knew, and she was grateful.
“Well, Nora and I are becoming good e-mail and Facebook pals. I look forward to meeting her someday as well. How are she and little Peter doing?”
“Pretty well — thanks for asking,” Azad replied. “I mean, she feels guilty not being here, but Peter is certainly keeping her hands full.”
“I’m sure she’s going to make a great mom.”
“She will,” Azad said, his voice catching. “She’s a lot like my mother. They certainly were the glue that held this family together.” He exhaled and added, “I was really stressed about coming up here and not having Nora at my side to help. I really didn’t know what I was going to do. You can see Saeed is no help. Part of me is surprised he came at all. I mean, he has barely talked to anyone. He’s only said a few sentences to Dad. He’s… well… whatever. Let’s just say I’m really grateful you showed up.”
Marseille smiled. “Well, I hope it was helpful at the margins.”
Saeed came in from the back deck, finished his work on his BlackBerry, and headed upstairs, presumably to bed, without saying a word.
“Good night to you, too,” Azad said sarcastically after Saeed was gone.
Marseille smiled again but said nothing. The two of them stood in the kitchen together for a few more moments, neither quite sure what to say next. This wasn’t the time or place to talk to Azad about spiritual things, Marseille knew. But she wondered, if it were a few hours earlier and they weren’t so exhausted, how that conversation might have gone. And that made her think of David again. She wondered where he was spiritually and whether she’d ever get the chance to talk to him about Jesus.
“It’s been good to see you again, Marseille,” Azad said at last. “It was a surprise when you showed up, but you know… a good surprise. I’m just sorry my pathetic excuse for a brother couldn’t be here to say thank you too.”
“Which one?” Marseille joshed.
Fortunately Azad smiled.
“Either of them,” he whispered. “But I meant David.”
“I know,” Marseille whispered back. “It’s okay.”
“No, actually it’s not okay,” Azad protested. “I mean, how could he not come home for his own mother’s funeral? How could he not even call or write or anything? I want to wring his neck.”
“I’m sure he has his reasons,” Marseille offered.
“Reasons? What reasons could he… I mean, even Saeed came back.”
“I know, but I’m just praying David is okay,” said Marseille. “You never know. Maybe he’s ill. Maybe he’s in the hospital. He’s not the kind of son who has a track record of not loving or respecting his mom, right?”
Azad looked quizzically at Marseille. “You still like him, don’t you?” he finally asked.
Marseille immediately blushed. “What? Why — what are you talking about?” she stammered.