The Tehran Initiative, Page 24

  Marseille smiled shyly. He was right about that.

  She pulled out the yellowed, slightly ripped letter of commendation that Murray had once written to her father and slid it across the desk.

  “My goodness, that was a long time ago. But he deserved this. He was a real asset to us.”

  “Why? What did he do?”

  “Well, I’m afraid most of that is classified. But yesterday I checked with our personnel office and with our ethics officer to see what I could tell you. There are a few things.”

  He opened his desk and pulled out a manila folder, which he slid over to her.

  As Marseille leafed through it, she found a copy of her father’s original application to join the Agency, copies of his college transcripts, his original background check, his pay records, a stack of performance evaluations (some of which contained redacted classified material that was blacked out), three other letters of commendation for his work in France, Italy, and Switzerland in the early 1980s, and various other pieces of paperwork. “Am I able to keep these?” she asked.

  “I’m afraid not,” Murray replied. “But after our meeting, I can put you in a room and let you take however long you need to read through it all. I know it’s a lot to absorb, but I think you’ll find it fascinating. I skimmed through a lot of it last night, and it brought back good memories.”

  Marseille set the folder down and looked around the office. Books lined the shelves. There was an array of framed photographs of Murray and various presidents and Agency directors. What was missing, she noticed, was any evidence of Murray’s family.

  “May I ask you a personal question, Mr. Murray?”

  “Of course, Marseille. But again, please call me Tom.”

  “Are you married?”

  “Why? Are you looking?” He laughed, then seemed to realize she didn’t find it funny. “Sorry. Well, uh, I was—twice. But no, I’m divorced. Why do you ask?”

  “I imagine it’s hard to be married and work a job like this—long hours, all the secrecy, all the danger and stress.”

  “Yes, I’m afraid it is. Some guys handle it well. Your dad seemed to. I guess I never did.”

  “I’m just wondering what it was like for my mom to be married to my dad and never know he worked for the Agency.”

  “It’s a good question. My first wife didn’t know. Still doesn’t. My second wife was my secretary. She worked here. We . . . She knew the stresses, but she . . . Well, anyway, your mom was a saint, Marseille. She loved your dad very much. She talked about him constantly. He talked about her constantly. They were like high school kids. Always holding hands. Sending each other little notes. You obviously don’t remember, but I was at your mother’s funeral.”

  “Really?” she said. “You were there?”

  “Of course. Jack and I went together.”

  Marseille was startled. “Jack who?” she asked cautiously.

  “Jack Zalinsky,” he replied. “The two of us and your parents were quite close.”

  “And Mr. Zalinsky worked for State as well?”

  “Well, officially, yes, but . . .”

  “But what?”

  “I really can’t say more about it.”

  “Because it’s classified?”

  “Something like that.”

  “But Mr. Zalinsky was the one who helped organize my parents’ escape—and the Shirazis’ escape—from Tehran, wasn’t he?”

  “Uh, look, I really can’t say, Marseille.”

  “Why not? It happened three decades ago.”

  “I just . . . I can’t.”

  “But David told me all about it—the fake film company, the office in Hollywood, the Canadian passports, everything. David said Mr. Zalinsky and my father masterminded the whole thing.”

  “David told you that?”

  “Yes.”

  “David Shirazi?”

  “Yes, we’ve been friends since we were kids. My parents never talked about their time in Iran. It was all too painful, especially with my mom’s miscarriage. But David . . .” Marseille stopped talking when she saw the perplexed look on Murray’s face. “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing, I just . . .”

  “Just what?”

  “I just wouldn’t have . . .” His voice trailed off again.

  “Wouldn’t have what, Mr. Murray?”

  “When was the last time you saw David?”

  “Sunday morning. We had breakfast in Syracuse.”

  “And did you talk about any of this?”

  “Of course,” Marseille said. “I showed him your letter. We talked all about it.”

  Murray turned and stared out the window, shaking his head.

  “What’s the matter?” Marseille asked.

  “That’s not good.”

  “What’s not? What’s the problem?”

  Murray turned back and looked her in the eye. “The problem is I thought David knew better,” he said with an edge of annoyance, or perhaps even anger, in his voice. “The problem is I thought he was a professional. I thought I could trust him. I certainly never expected him to tell you about your father being in the CIA or working for me, or why he joined the Agency himself and the irony of him working for me as well. But maybe I should have seen it coming. You’re a big part of the reason he’s doing all this, after all. I guess he couldn’t help himself, but it’s still a major security breach, and I . . .”

  Murray suddenly stopped talking, and Marseille wondered if she looked as stunned as she felt. “Excuse me,” she said, desperately trying to process what she thought she had just heard, “did you just say that David works for the CIA?”

  * * *

  Cairo, Egypt

  Javad Nouri had never been to Cairo.

  He knew that with some nineteen million people, the metropolitan area was one of the largest in the world, as well as the political and economic capital of the Republic of Egypt. A proud and historic city, it was also the home of Al-Azhar University, the Harvard of the Middle East, and it was the intellectual epicenter of the entire region. This was the place where the vast majority of the Middle East’s books were published, films produced, and TV programs created and distributed. He also knew full well that Abdel Ramzy had ruled this city and this country for decades with an iron fist and that an enormous political vacuum had now been created by his death. Javad had no doubt that the man he was traveling with was the man to fill it, but it would not be easy.

  In so many ways, Egypt and Iran could not be more different. Egypt was ethnically Arab and religiously Sunni. Iran, by sharp contrast, was ethnically Persian and religiously Shia. Traditionally, Arabs and Persians hated each other. So did Sunnis and Shias. They had warred against one another throughout the ages. But as the Mahdi had explained it to Javad en route to Cairo, this was a different moment. This was the dawn of an Islamic Awakening. Now Egypt and Iran had to come together for two strategic reasons: first, to surround Israel, destroy the Jews, and capture Jerusalem for Islam; and second, to surround the Arabian Peninsula, finish bringing down the apostate Saudi regime, and solidify control of the holy places of Mecca and Medina.

  “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, lo
cated 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.”

  * * *

  Langley, Virginia

  “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.”

  “You’re welcome. But listen—you cannot tell anyone what you suspect about David.”

  “I won’t. I promise.”

  “Seriously, I can’t even tell you how much danger he’s in now or how much worse it would be if anyone found out what he’s doing. I could never forgive myself if something happened to him because of a mistake I made, however innocent.”

  “I understand,” Marseille said.

  “I hope you do.”

  “May I just ask you one question?”

  “You can ask. I can’t promise that I’m allowed to answer it.”

  “Fair enough. It’s just that . . .”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know. It’s just . . . well, a moment ago you said that I was the reason David was doing all this. And you said you guessed he couldn’t help himself from telling me. But the thing is, Mr. Murray, when we were growing up, I didn’t know my dad worked for the CIA, so I never could have discussed it with David. And he certainly hasn’t told me about it since, nor has he even hinted about it. So I’m just wondering what you meant by that. How could I possibly be the reason for him to work for you? It doesn’t make any sense to me.”

  Murray sighed. “I’ve said too much already, Marseille. You want my recommendation? Ask David next time you see him.”

  “But that’s what scares me most, Mr. Murray,” she said, her eyes filling with tears. “I’m afraid I’m never going to see him again.”

&nb
sp; 36

  Hamadan, Iran

  David finally arrived.

  He pulled up in front of Dr. Birjandi’s little bungalow on the outskirts of Hamadan but was surprised to see several other cars parked out front. He debated going in, but the truth was he had nowhere else to go and no time to come back. Deciding he had nothing to fear—it was Abdol Esfahani, after all, who had first connected the two men and encouraged David to learn everything he could about the Twelfth Imam from the nation’s foremost expert on the subject—he scooped up the two bags of groceries he had brought as a gift, strode up the steps, and knocked. Moments later, the octogenarian sage came hobbling around the corner with his dark sunglasses and white cane and opened the door.

  “Dr. Birjandi, it’s me, Reza Tabrizi,” he said, using his alias mostly for the benefit of whoever else was in the house, since the old man knew his real name.

  “Reza, is that really you?”

  “Yes, it is. And I’ve brought you some fresh bread and rice and vegetables.”

  “Thank God. I have been thinking about you all day and praying for the Lord to reconnect our paths. Please, please, my friend, come in.”

  Birjandi headed into the living room, and there David found himself struck once again, as he was the other time he visited, by what a voracious scholar Birjandi was. The walls were lined with shelves so packed with books that they appeared bound to collapse at any moment. Books were stacked up on the floor and piled on chairs, together with boxes of scholarly journals and other publications. Birjandi had once told David that his late wife, Souri, had read all of these books to him, marked them up, and taken copious notes on all of them, as they discussed them for “hour after blessed hour.” Now Souri was gone, but the books remained.

  Sitting on the floor of the living room were a half-dozen young, robed clerics—all apparently in their late twenties and early thirties—surrounded by still more piles of open books, talking animatedly and scribbling furiously in their notebooks.

  Birjandi cleared his throat and got the young men’s attention. “Gentlemen, allow me to introduce a surprise visitor but a wonderful young friend, Reza Tabrizi.”