62

Karaj, Iran

David spent the day forcing himself not to call home.

He had returned all the e-mails from his family. He had told his brothers and Nora the best lie he could come up with, and he prayed to God his father could read between the lines and forgive him.

As for Marseille, he hadn’t written her at all. He didn’t want to lie to her. He would rather say nothing than deceive her. But having no contact whatsoever was more painful than he thought he could bear. Did she know about his mother? Had anyone in his family thought to tell her? What would she think of him when she learned he hadn’t gone to the funeral, that he hadn’t even been in touch? What could he possibly say to her to make it right?

Going stir crazy in the safe house, he called Zalinsky to check in. The news from Langley was mixed. Aside from the administration’s denunciation of the Israeli strikes and the president’s threat to support a UN Security Council resolution condemning the Jewish State for unprovoked and unwarranted acts of aggression, the early evidence suggested the Israeli operation had been far more effective than the Agency would have believed possible. It would still take days if not weeks to assess, but initial Keyhole satellite photography indicated that all of Iran’s major nuclear sites had been destroyed, as had most of their missile production sites. The Patriot missile batteries had worked better than expected in defending the Israeli homeland. In fact, what the media didn’t know yet, but the CIA had just confirmed, was one of the missiles shot down by a Patriot over Jerusalem had, in fact, been carrying a nuclear warhead. Fortunately, the missile had been destroyed before the warhead could arm itself, and recovery crews had been successful in locating the warhead’s uranium trigger before significant radiation could be released. What was more, it appeared the rest of the warheads had been taken out in the air strikes.

Also remarkable, Zalinsky said, was that Israeli losses had been so low. Director Allen had told the president that Agency analysts envisioned the Israelis losing forty to sixty planes if they ever embarked on a preemptive strike—one of the reasons Jackson didn’t think Naphtali, in the end, would actually authorize such a mission. Actual planes downed, however, were far less. Only six F-16s had been shot down by ground-to-air missiles in Iran. Two more were lost to mechanical failures. A KC-130 tanker and an F-15 had suffered a midair collision over northeastern Syria during a refueling operation. But not a single Israeli plane had been shot down in combat.

That said, the Twelfth Imam had ordered a full-scale retaliation.

More than two hundred Israeli citizens had already been killed in the first twenty-four hours of missile attacks from Iran, Hezbollah, Hamas, and Syria, Zalinsky said, and the death toll was expected to keep rising. The injured were many multiples of that number, and Israeli hospitals were rapidly approaching their breaking point. Millions of Israelis had been forced into bomb shelters. All flights into and out of Ben Gurion International Airport had been canceled, yet thousands of tourists were still streaming to the airport, not knowing what else to do.

“The Israelis have launched massive air attacks against their neighbors,” Zalinsky said. “And they seem to be gearing up for major ground campaigns within the next few hours.”

“What do you want me to do?” David asked, his anger rising in proportion to his sense of helplessness.

“Nothing,” Zalinsky said. “Just hunker down and stay safe until we figure out how to get you and your men out of there.”

It was precisely what David didn’t want to hear. He hadn’t signed up to hunker down or retreat. He wanted a new mission. He wanted to make a difference, to stop the killing. But how?

* * *

Syracuse, New York

Saturday morning’s memorial service was beautiful.

It was in a quiet and lovely room at the back of the funeral home, with Persian area rugs over green carpet and white upholstered chairs set in place. In the center of the room were several huge flower arrangements set around a framed portrait of Mrs. Shirazi. Marseille had been welcomed with open arms by David’s father and brothers, and sitting in the room filled with coworkers and neighbors, she knew it was right to have come. She belonged.

She was grateful for her connection to this warm family, grateful for the memories of infrequent but memorable visits paid back and forth between Syracuse and New Jersey during her childhood before her own mother had died. Marseille remembered the vibrant, passionate Mrs. Shirazi from those years and smiled. Somehow, being here made her feel closer to her own parents. Azad stood with tears in his dark eyes and spoke of the faithful, loving mother Mrs. Shirazi had been. Saeed read from a book of Persian poetry. Then he translated the poem into English, and Marseille found the words strange yet beautiful.

Could be I know you for years,

As if You have been with me for centuries,

For Your strong presence,

Your now and then smiles,

Your gentle Heart,

Your sweet Voice,

Yet are touchable for me!1

The Persian words were so evocative and fascinating. The land of Iran intrigued her, and her thoughts turned to David, as they had a thousand times that day. Was he okay? When would she hear from him again? How would he react when she told him what she knew? Would the Lord help her heart loosen its grip on thoughts of him? Marseille prayed for David as she had for years, that he would search for God and that Jesus would reveal Himself, that her old friend would open his heart to the Savior, and that Jesus would be at home in the heart of David Shirazi.