The reporter noted that according to Shia tradition, “if you come to Jamkaran forty weeks in a row, you will see the Mahdi.”
The morning of her birthday, Roya awoke early. The house was quiet-her parents must not yet be awake.
Suddenly Roya heard footsteps in the hall outside her bedroom. Maybe her parents were up after all. She glanced at the clock on her nightstand. It wasn’t quite six in the morning. Then the door opened slowly, and her parents came in and sat on her bed.
“Happy birthday, sweetheart,” her father whispered. “We’re leaving in five minutes. Think you can be ready by then?”
Ecstatic, Roya jumped up and threw her arms around her father, then her mother, kissing them both profusely.
The trip was more special than even she had pictured. They didn’t drive as a family to Qom. They flew-first-class. They didn’t race to the well and then back to the airport. They stayed overnight in a five-star hotel and went out for a fancy dinner. They took a thousand pictures of everything they saw and did, from Roya scribbling her prayer request on special stationery her mother had given her that day as a gift, to Roya pointing her own flashlight-another unexpected gift from her father-down into the well.
But as special as all that was, it did not prepare the little girl for what happened when they all got home the following night. Roya was upstairs brushing her teeth and getting ready for bed when she heard a knock at the door. It seemed a little late for company, and Roya was surprised when she overheard her father talking to a man and then inviting him to come inside. She didn’t recognize the man’s voice, and when she peeked downstairs, she could see only the back of his head, but she was fairly certain she had never seen him before.
“It would be an honor if you would allow me to pray a blessing on you and your home,” said the stranger, who was dressed as a cleric or a mullah.
Roya, hiding on the stairs and careful to remain unseen, heard her father agree, and the man prayed a very beautiful prayer, asking Allah to bring “peace and tranquility to this lovely home” and “bless all who live here now and all who will live here in the future, so long as they submit to you, O Lord.”
Not wanting to risk being discovered by her parents, Roya was about to go back to her room and climb into bed when she heard the man ask if he could see their little girl and pray for her as well. Roya froze. How did the man know about her?
“I’m sorry. How do you know we have a daughter?” her father asked. “There are no pictures of her in this room. I haven’t mentioned her, and we have never met.”
“Do not fear or be alarmed in any way,” the stranger said. “The answer is simple. Allah has sent me to your home to heal little Roya.”
Roya’s heart started racing, but she could see her father tense.
“How do you know her name?”
“I know all about your daughter,” the stranger said. “She was born with aphonia, preventing her ability to speak. In her case, it was caused by a genetic disorder that damaged her vocal cords. She has been to nine doctors in eight years and has had three surgeries. None of them have worked.”
Astonished, Roya waited for her father to respond, but he didn’t. Or couldn’t. The room was silent for a moment, and then the man continued.
“Yesterday you flew to Qom. You went to the Jamkaran Mosque, and together you wrote out a prayer and tossed it into the well.”
“Who are you?” her father finally blurted out. “And how do you know all this?”
“Roya asked for the Mahdi to heal her.”
“Yes… yes, she did, but…”
“Her request has been granted. That is why I am here.”
Roya feared that her father might throw the man out of the house. But what if the stranger really had been sent from Allah? What if he was…?
Suddenly she found herself walking down the stairs and into the living room, where she stood by her father and held his hand.
She pointed at the stranger, in awe of his striking good looks and piercing black eyes. She now thought she recognized him from a dream she’d had a few weeks before.
The man began praying in a language Roya didn’t know and had never heard before. When he stopped, Roya fell backward and began writhing on the floor. Her mother screamed. Her father was at her side but could not help her. Her body shook wildly. She felt like she was choking. For a moment she thought she was losing consciousness. Then the stranger began praying again, still in some unintelligible language. Immediately her convulsions ceased.
She opened her eyes again and stared at the ceiling. Her parents’ faces were pale. She saw the man come over and kneel beside her. He took her by the hand, pulling her gently to her feet. She felt a cold chill ripple through her body, and then to everyone’s astonishment she began to speak. Then she began to sing. Soon she began to shout praises to Allah. She was delirious with happiness. She spun and twirled and hugged her parents and wept with joy.
And then they all turned to thank the stranger, but he was gone.
51
Tehran, Iran
Five full days had gone by, and still nothing had happened.
Beside himself with frustration, David got up early. He showered but once again skipped shaving. He was trying to grow a beard to fit in better, and it was coming in quite well now. He headed to the mosque for morning prayer.
There was a message waiting for him at the front desk when he got back to the hotel. He took it upstairs, closed himself in his room, and opened the envelope, letting out a sigh of relief. It was an invitation for a dinner party at the home of Daryush Rashidi, the president of Iran Telecom. The note said a car would pick him up in front of his hotel at precisely seven o’clock that night, and a phone number was provided for his response. David immediately entered the number into his mobile directory and called to confirm his attendance. He just hoped the NSA system would enable Zalinsky and Fischer to compile a list of the others who would be there.
Fischer.
He hoped Zalinsky had gone easy on her. None of this had actually been her fault. It had been Zalinsky’s decision-not hers-to make her project manager and send her to Tehran. Doing so had put their entire mission in jeopardy. But all things considered, Eva had handled things quite well. David barely knew her, but what he knew, he liked. She was smart. She was tough. She was loyal to the Agency. Her Farsi was impeccable. She was not Marseille, but truth be told, she looked rather fetching in a headscarf.
At seven, a black sedan pulled up in front of the Simorgh Hotel. David got in and was driven to a swanky apartment building in an upscale section of Tehran, where he was led by a security guard to a suite on the top floor. But it wasn’t the kind of affair David had pictured. There were no servants in tuxedos bringing in trays of food. There were no flower centerpieces or music. There were no other guests at all. Just Daryush Rashidi and Abdol Esfahani.
“Mr. Tabrizi, welcome,” the tall, graying CEO said, shaking David’s hand. “It is an honor to finally meet you. Abdol has told me good things about you.”
“Please, Mr. Rashidi, call me Reza, and the honor is mine,” David replied, surprised and relieved. “You are most kind to meet with me at all given the events of the last days, let alone inviting me to your home. Thank you-both of you-very much. Your hospitality is most gracious.”
“Say nothing of it, Reza,” the CEO said. “Come in.”
Rashidi, who David guessed was around sixty, motioned for his guests to follow him from the foyer. As they moved deeper inside what turned out to be a gorgeous penthouse apartment, David realized it had to take up at least half the top floor of this high-rise. The view of the capital and the Alborz Mountains in the distance was absolutely breathtaking, and David said so.