Put simply, Jazini’s job had been to build Iran’s nuclear weapons program and make it viable while also giving Iran a terrorist network capable of striking deep inside enemy territory, and he had succeeded beyond anyone’s most fervent prayers. Faridzadeh’s job, on the other hand, had been to protect Iran’s nuclear weapons program from sabotage and external attack, and Faridzadeh had failed disastrously.
It was Faridzadeh who had failed to stop the Israelis — or perhaps the Americans, or possibly a coordinated effort by both — from assassinating Dr. Mohammed Saddaji, ostensibly the deputy director of Iran’s Atomic Energy Organization but clandestinely Iran’s chief nuclear physicist running the weapons-development program. It was Faridzadeh who had failed to stop the defection to the United States of Dr. Najjar Malik, Saddaji’s son-in-law and chief deputy on the weapons program. Not only was Malik now apparently cooperating with the CIA, but he was claiming on satellite television and through his wildly popular Twitter account that he had renounced Islam and converted to Christianity. And now Faridzadeh was systematically losing this war against the Zionists. Any one of these crimes would have been abominable enough, but combined they were unforgivable sins.
The Twelfth Imam had no intention of litigating any of this in front of Hosseini and Darazi. This was not a democracy. Allah forbid! Faridzadeh was not presumed innocent until proven guilty. This was no time to reprimand or demote or arrest the man. He was not, after all, merely incompetent. He was not simply a bumbler or a fool or a failure. He was a traitor to the Islamic people, a betrayer of the Caliphate. He was apostate. He was guilty of treason against Allah, and thus he was worthy only of the eternal fires of damnation.
Realizing this gave the Mahdi a great peace about what Allah required of him. Without warning, he drew a small gun from underneath his robe. Darazi’s eyes went wide. Hosseini immediately recognized the pistol as his own but clearly couldn’t imagine how the Mahdi had gotten hold of it. But neither of them could speak, and Faridzadeh, his forehead still bowed to the floor, had no idea what was coming.
The Mahdi aimed and pulled the trigger. The shot itself, especially in such a confined space, sounded like a cannon being fired. Guards immediately burst into the room, guns drawn, but stopped in their tracks at the grisly sight, as if unsure what to do. On the floor lay the lifeless carcass of Ali Faridzadeh, surrounded by a rapidly growing pool of crimson. In the Mahdi’s hand was a pistol, which he now calmly laid on the table. No one else in the conference room was injured, though everyone in the war room was now on his feet. Sirens were going off. Security was rushing to their location from all directions.
The Mahdi, however, told all of them to go back to work, all but those necessary for removing the body and cleaning up the mess. Without saying a word to the Ayatollah or the president, the Mahdi picked up one of the phones in front of him and asked to be patched through to General Mohsen Jazini, whom he was about to name the new defense minister of the Caliphate. Then he asked to be connected to the personal line of Gamal Mustafa, the president of Syria.
6
Marseille Harper needed a few moments to herself. She needed to catch her breath and pull herself together. She stepped into the powder room in the Shirazi home, just off the kitchen by the door to the garage, to hide herself away from all the people and all the hushed conversations and all the memories this home brought flooding back.
She took several tissues from the flowered box on the vanity, dabbed away the tears, and closed her eyes. All she could see was David. She missed him so much it was like a physical ache. She longed to hear from him, to talk with him, to know at the very least that he was alive and well. It felt so strange to be here in David’s house, with his father and his brothers and friends of their family, but without him around. She’d never been here without him. Why would she have been? Was she wrong to have come this time? Maybe the Shirazis were just being polite. Maybe they were wondering why in the world she was here and why she didn’t leave. The very thought made her wince, and tears once again began to push their way to the surface.
Fighting her mounting doubts, she silently prayed the Lord would give her the grace to finish this trip well and get back to Portland, where she belonged. She didn’t want to be a burden. She wanted to be a blessing somehow to this grieving family she loved so much.
Marseille opened her eyes and took a hard look in the mirror. She wasn’t happy with what she saw. She decided she didn’t like her hair down, so she reached into her small purse, took out a clip, and pulled her hair into a twist. She wished she’d worn a different outfit, like a warm sweater — this house was freezing, despite all the guests — and black slacks and more comfortable shoes. These pumps she’d chosen instead were killing her feet. She looked at her hands — no rings, short nails, clear nail polish — and realized they were shaking. She turned on the faucet until the water was good and warm but not too hot. Then she put her hands under the running water and closed her eyes again. Something about the warmth soaking into her hands seemed to give her comfort. At least for now. What she really needed was a long, hot bath.
It had been a brutal week. Gentle flurries were falling throughout most of central New York. The forecast was calling for a major lake-effect snowstorm to swoop in by dawn, but in the Shirazi home, the emotional storm had already hit hard, and Marseille Harper knew its devastating effects would be felt for a long time to come.
On Wednesday, David’s mom, Nasreen, had succumbed to the stomach cancer that had appeared without warning just a few months earlier and ravaged her petite body. Her husband was devastated. Her two eldest sons were grieving too, each in his own way, though they had barely spoken to one another, at least not in Marseille’s presence or in her sight. On Friday evening, the family had endured the viewing at a funeral home on Grant Boulevard — though it wasn’t truly a viewing, for Dr. Shirazi didn’t want his wife remembered as gaunt and nearly emaciated and had, therefore, insisted the casket be closed. David’s unexplained absence had been whispered about by some who attended, a fact not lost on Dr. Shirazi and one that to Marseille seemed only to make more painful the wounds he already had to endure. Earlier this morning, at eleven o’clock sharp, they had all gathered again for the memorial service. Marseille had felt certain David’s noticeable absence would be explained by someone, but it wasn’t, adding an unintended but distinctly awkward feel to an already-somber mood, at least for Marseille.
That said, the service itself was well attended and beautiful. Dozens of stunning floral arrangements were on display, adorned with hundreds of yellow roses, Mrs. Shirazi’s favorite. Two professional violinists from the local philharmonic orchestra, apparently longtime friends of the Shirazis, played several pieces during the service, including during a slide show that featured photographs of Nasreen as a swaddled infant being held by her parents in Tehran; Nasreen standing in front of a mosque as a young girl of about ten wearing a beautiful yellow headscarf; Nasreen and Mohammad beaming on their wedding day; Nasreen holding her firstborn son; Nasreen and Mohammad being sworn in as American citizens at a courthouse in Buffalo, New York; Nasreen standing beside David when he was about ten or twelve years old in his Little League uniform, holding a baseball bat over his shoulder; and so many more.