“No Iranian leader in history has been able to persuade the Egyptians to unite with Iran and rebuild the Caliphate,” the Mahdi had told Javad. “That is because, by definition, every Iranian leader has been a Persian. I, on the other hand, am an Arab. I come from Mesopotamia. I have a great love for the Egyptian people. I speak their language. I love their culture. I see their plight. And I have come to liberate them from their oppressive masters. Watch and see, Javad. A new day is dawning.”
Had that day truly arrived? Javad hoped so, but privately he battled skepticism and cynicism, though he felt terribly guilty for such feelings and feared they were dangerously close to apostasy in and of themselves.
The Mahdi and his security entourage — nearly double in size since the attack in Beirut — arrived at Abdeen Palace, the sumptuous official headquarters of the Egyptian president and his most senior advisors, located on Qasr el-Nil Street in historic downtown Cairo. Javad had never seen anything like it, with its nineteenth-century French architecture, five hundred rooms and parlors, expansive and exquisite gardens, and solid gold fixtures, clocks, and assorted adornments. But he and his boss weren’t there for the grand tour. Instead they gathered in the state room, where they were greeted by Vice President Fareed Riad and Field Marshal Omar Yassin — the commander in chief of the Egyptian military — and the other nineteen members of the Supreme Council of the Armed Forces. As per protocol, Javad hung back and let the principals connect, but he was stunned to see the vice president merely shake the Mahdi’s hand and not bow, as every other leader had in Javad’s experience. Field Marshal Yassin, on the other hand, showed far greater deference, as did the generals at his side, not only bowing, but keeping their faces to the ground until the Mahdi thanked them and expressed what an admirable job the field marshal was doing keeping order in the wake of the president’s untimely death. At that point, everyone took a seat around a massive, ornately decorated conference table.
“I will not waste your time, gentlemen,” the Mahdi began. “Allah invites you to join the Caliphate. I am not here to discuss terms. A simple yes or no will suffice.”
“Well, that is very kind, Your Excellency,” Vice President Riad said. “I imagine we all have some questions.”
Riad looked to Yassin, who shook his head. He then looked around the rest of the room but found no one interested in asking a question. So he took it upon himself. “Very well, then; I have many questions.”
“I have one as well,” the Mahdi said. “Why did you not bow to the ground in my presence?”
From Javad’s angle, though he was halfway across the room, it seemed the blood drained from Riad’s face. His hands began quivering, and he stammered when he replied. “I… Well… we just met, and I thought that…”
“You will bow to me, or you will cease from my presence,” the Mahdi said.
“But I… You have come to… We are colleagues. We are…”
Riad never finished the sentence. Suddenly his eyes glazed over. He began vomiting uncontrollably. Then he collapsed to the ground, twitched several times, and went limp. A moment later, he was dead. But no one rushed to his side. No one called for help. For several minutes no one moved. No one spoke. No one made a sound. And then all of the generals in the room suddenly fell to their knees and worshiped the Twelfth Imam. All of them loudly and repeatedly pledged to follow him forever.
“I will take that as a yes,” the Mahdi said when it was over. “Welcome to the Caliphate.”
“Mr. Murray, you’re not answering my question.”
“Marseille, I’m sorry; I can’t say anything else.”
“What are you talking about?” she countered. “You have to. You can’t say something like that and then let it drop.”
“Look, I’ve obviously made a mistake here — a serious mistake — and I apologize. But I—”
“No, that’s not good enough,” Marseille said, cutting him off. “You just said David Shirazi works for you, for the CIA, just like my father did. And you thought I knew that, right? You thought he’d told me that, right?”
There was a long, uncomfortable silence, but Marseille could see in Murray’s eyes that she was right. “Well, just so you know,” she continued, “he didn’t.”
Her mind was reeling. She thought David worked for some company in Europe, traveling constantly. They’d never really talked about it. Now that she thought about it, she hadn’t really even asked him for any specifics. There had been too much else to talk about and too little time.
“I was talking about my dad,” she said, looking down at the folder in her hands. “I was telling David how shocked I was to find your letter as I went through my dad’s personal papers, wrapping up his affairs and everything. I was going to ask him for his advice, whether I should try to track you down, or Mr. Zalinsky, when he got a phone call from his boss and suddenly had to leave right away.”
She looked up at Murray, who appeared increasingly uncomfortable.
“Was that you who called?”
Murray didn’t reply.
“Not that it really matters, I guess. It’s just that… well, David said he had to go back to Europe and would be gone indefinitely. But given all that’s going on… I mean, he’s in Iran, isn’t he?”
Murray looked down, cleared his throat, then walked around the desk and sat next to Marseille. “Listen, your father was a good man,” he told her gently. “One of the best operatives we ever had while he served in the Clandestine Service, and perhaps an even better analyst when he left the Agency full-time and became a consultant. Few people understood Iran or Shia Islam better than your dad, which was particularly amazing to me since he’d never even been there until he and your mom went to work in our embassy in Tehran just as the Revolution was building steam. But as good as he was — and like I said, we were very close friends and remained so pretty much until the end — I’d have to say one of the most important things he ever did for our country was help rescue the Shirazi family out of Tehran. He and your mom didn’t do it because I asked him to or because Jack did. They didn’t do it as part of their jobs. In fact, to be completely honest with you, Marseille, it would have been a lot easier for them to have left the Shirazis behind, to use them as assets and then cut them loose, but they couldn’t. It just wasn’t in their nature. The Shirazis saved their lives, and they felt obligated to save theirs. Your father couldn’t possibly have known that one of the Shirazis’ boys would grow up to join the Agency, to do what he did. Nor could he have possibly known that same boy would turn out to be the single most effective undercover operative the Agency has ever had in Iran. But life is funny that way, Marseille. Sometimes you do the right thing — sometimes you take a huge risk — when everyone else tells you you’re crazy, and sometimes it pays off big. That’s what your father did. I think he was too distraught about your mom’s death to see all that he had accomplished — for this Agency, for this country, and for you. But I agreed to see you because I’ve always loved your family, and now you’re all that’s left of it. And I wanted you to know as much as possible about who you are and where you come from. I thought maybe it would be helpful as you decide where to go from here. I shouldn’t have let slip the information about David. I’ve been in this business for far too long. But maybe you were meant to know.”
“Maybe,” Marseille said. “Thank you.”