“But I didn’t get discouraged. I asked them about Tom Murray.”
“Who’s that?” David asked, not wanting to lie but so caught off guard he was simply reverting to his training back at the Farm when he’d first joined the Agency.
“Thomas A. Murray — he was the guy who signed the letter of commendation for my dad, the one I showed you at breakfast.”
“Right, right. So did you find him?”
“You wouldn’t believe it,” Marseille said. “He still works there.”
“Wow.”
“In fact, he’s been promoted several times. Guess what he does now?”
Deputy director for operations, David wanted to say but didn’t. “I give up,” he said instead.
“He’s the deputy director for operations.”
“Who knew?”
“And guess what else?”
David couldn’t even begin to imagine. “What?”
“I’m meeting with him at Langley — that’s what they call CIA headquarters, you know — anyway, I’m meeting him tomorrow morning at nine. I told his secretary I want to learn as much as I possibly can about what my dad did when he worked for them. She told me to bring the letter. David, I’m so excited. I don’t know where it’s all going to lead, but I’ve been searching for answers about my parents for as long as I can remember. And ever since my dad took his life…”
David heard her voice catch and wished he could be there to comfort her. Instead, the Lufthansa lady was calling for all passengers to board. He had only a few moments left to talk with Marseille, and he genuinely had no idea what to say. He didn’t want to keep lying to her. He wanted to tell her everything, like he’d told his father. He wanted her to know that he knew Zalinsky and Murray, that he’d love to help her learn everything she could about her father. But that was impossible. Not here. Not now. Which meant maybe not ever. There were no guarantees he was ever coming out of Iran alive, much less making it all the way to Portland. And that’s what hurt him most — not risking his life for her sake but being unable to tell her he loved her.
“Marseille?”
“Yes, David?”
“I’m afraid I have to catch this plane.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have been jabbering on all this time.”
“No, no, it’s good. I wish I could listen all day. I love to hear your voice. I love that you’re trying to figure out your dad’s past. That’s good. You should. It’s the right thing to do. I just…”
“What, David?”
He was tongue-tied. His heart was racing, but he couldn’t find the words, and he didn’t dare miss this flight. The Lufthansa rep was giving a final call, saying all ticketed passengers needed to be on board as the door to the Jetway was going to be shut in one minute.
“Is everything okay, David?”
“Yeah, I just wish we had more time to talk.”
“It’s okay. Just call me when you land.”
If it were only that easy. David sighed. “Marseille?”
“Yes?”
“It may be a while until I can call you again. Not because I don’t want to. It’s just the way my business works. It’s hard to explain. But I want you to know how much I enjoyed seeing you yesterday. It really meant a lot to me. And I meant what I said. I can’t tell you how much I’d like to up and quit my job or take a few weeks of vacation and spend some time with you and catch up. It’s hard for me to say because… well… it’s embarrassing, but I miss you. I have to go, but… well, I just wanted you to know that.”
Tuesday
March 8
23
The Airbus A310-200 touched down in Tehran without fanfare.
To the casual observer, it was a typical IranAir flight. But while the twin-engine, wide-body jet typically carried more than 230 passengers, this particular inbound flight from Beirut carried just eight — the Twelfth Imam, his personal aide, and six Iranian intelligence agents, now doubling as a personal security detail after the death of all the Mahdi’s bodyguards.
No crowds were on hand to greet the Mahdi. No press. No official welcome delegation. In fact, the Ayatollah’s office had issued a statement that the Mahdi was going to stay in Beirut for at least another day and hold a series of private, off-the-record meetings with Hezbollah party leaders and senior military commanders. It was a lie, but it had been issued at the Mahdi’s direct command, and it bought them time to get him back safely and quietly to Iran, where he could regroup with his most trusted servants.
From Imam Khomeini International Airport, the Twelfth Imam and Javad were taken by a Bell 214 Huey military helicopter to the Qaleh, the Supreme Leader’s heavily guarded retreat complex on Mount Tochal, one of the highest peaks in the Alborz mountain range, far above all the smog and noise and congestion of the capital. Waiting for them were his closest advisors: the Ayatollah Hosseini, President Ahmed Darazi, Defense Minister Faridzadeh, and General Mohsen Jazini, commander of the Iranian Revolutionary Guard Corps.
They all fell prostrate the moment the Mahdi walked into the main dining room. Each one praised him lavishly and thanked Allah that he had not suffered from the attack.
The Twelfth Imam warmly welcomed their worship. Indeed, to Hosseini it seemed he reveled in it, gained strength from it. Then the Mahdi instructed them to once again take their seats and proceed with the briefing for which he had come. Javad, meanwhile, sat against the wall in the back of the room and took notes.
The Ayatollah cleared his throat and assumed command of the meeting. “First, as you directed, we are selecting deputies to form a group of twenty. You said they must be men of honor and courage, men willing to die for your sake and for the sake of Allah. This is almost complete. We now have seventeen of the twenty. A copy of the names and bios for each is in the folder in front of you. We hope to have the other three on board within the next few days.”
The Mahdi nodded but said nothing, looking neither pleased nor disappointed.
“Inshallah, we will hold our first meeting — quiet, discreet, without any press attention — of this high command next Monday. We would be honored, of course, if you chose to join us. Meanwhile, we have directed the seventeen to begin recruiting their quota of a total of 313 disciples. Some are mullahs that we implicitly trust. Most are military commanders and leaders of business and industry, and most are Iranian, though we have some well-trusted Arab members, a few Turks, and a handful of Pakistanis. As you requested, they are extraordinarily gifted in the areas of organization, administration, and warfare. We will be careful not to ever gather this Group of 313 in one place but are instead creating a cell structure. None of the members will know that there are 313 of them in total. None of them will be privy to any details except those that are necessary for completing their own operations. This should all be in place by the end of next week.”
Again the Mahdi nodded. Hosseini waited for a moment, hoping for something clearer, more demonstrative, but it was not forthcoming, so he proceeded with his briefing.
“Now, with those basic details out of the way, it is with great pleasure that I inform you that our first operation — the one to assassinate Egyptian president Ramzy — was highly successful,” Hosseini continued. “While I wish I could say that the American president and the leader of the Zionist entity were also killed in the attack, some of the events were beyond our control. Still, we proved how vulnerable the Americans and the Zionists are, and we have put them on the defensive without their tracing the attack back to us.”
“Foolishness!” the Mahdi shouted. “Pathetic and childish!”