34

Syracuse, New York

The weekend was bittersweet.

It began Saturday morning with a breakfast of pancakes and lies. David couldn’t tell his parents the truth about why he was in the country. Instead, he told them he had suffered through a series of mind-numbingly dull business meetings in Chicago. Then he lied about where he was heading next, telling them he was flying to Frankfurt, then driving to Wiesbaden for more meetings. He lied about whether he would be home for Mother’s Day, saying, “Absolutely,” then silently cursed himself for the rest of the day. He had no way of knowing where he would be or what he would be doing in three months. It wasn’t fair to lead his parents on. But he didn’t know what else to do, and he felt terrible.

Deception was central to his life in the CIA. But that didn’t make it any easier, and a brooding conscience, growing anxiety about the mission ahead, and a serious lack of sleep after driving all night from Washington proved a depressing cocktail. David tried to catch a few hours of sleep in his old room after breakfast but kept tossing and turning. Finally he gave up and joined his father for an afternoon of cross-country skiing across the back nine of the golf course at Drumlins Country Club.

That night, over dinner with his parents at their favorite Italian place on Erie Boulevard, David asked about his brothers. He was just trying to be polite, but the very question made his mother wince.

Azad, his father explained, was thriving as a cardiologist in Philadelphia, and yes, the rumors were true: he and his wife were expecting their first child. But no, they never visited; no, they never called; no, they hardly ever e-mailed. Once the baby was born, the Shirazis planned to drive down and visit Azad and his wife, but they honestly weren’t sure how long they’d be welcome.

Saeed, meanwhile, showed no signs of settling down. He was dating a dancer—or was it a cellist? At any rate, he was dating someone new—always someone new—in Manhattan. He still seemed to be married to his job with Merrill Lynch and was convinced he was well on his way to making his first million. But no, he hadn’t been home in ages, and no, he hadn’t gone fishing with his father in years. Not long before, the Shirazis had visited Saeed for a long weekend, but Saeed spent most of the weekend in the office and had made little time for his parents, who had returned to Syracuse brokenhearted.

After dinner, David tried to shift gears. Talking about family wasn’t doing them any good, so he suggested they rent one of the Lord of the Rings films and watch it together. His mother had never seen it and insisted on making popcorn, pulling out some afghans, and having her husband make a fire in the fireplace. They all got comfortable in the family room to watch The Return of the King, but within the first few minutes, David’s mother fell asleep. Within half an hour, so did his father. David didn’t bother to watch the rest, though it was one of his favorite films. Instead, he turned off the TV, went up to his room, and surfed the Web for the latest headlines from Iran and the Middle East.

Several caught his eye.

Israeli PM Naphtali at Dachau Says World Must Stop Iran, or He Will

Israeli Defense Minister Says Someone Must Hit Iran’s Nuclear Sites “Before It’s Too Late”

President Jackson Warns Against Israeli Strike on Iran’s Nuclear Facilities

U.N. Security Council Considers New Round of Iran Sanctions

Iranian President Darazi Warns Israel “Doomed” If Zionists Attack

David’s stomach churned along with his thoughts. Exhausted, he eventually went to bed but couldn’t sleep. Around four in the morning, he got an e-mail from Eva, whose subject line read, “You up?” He eagerly opened it, hoping it might be personal. It wasn’t.

EF: Something’s afoot in Yemen

She was right, of course. He recalled the phone call DDO Murray had taken in his office. But why did it matter at 4 a.m.? Eva included a link to a recent Agence France-Presse story she had found on the Internet. David opened it and quickly scanned the article.

“Before the Twelfth Imam appears on earth to establish his global kingdom, we will see a series of signs,” said Dr. Alireza Birjandi, author of The Imams of History and the Coming of the Messiah, at a conference Friday in Qom sponsored by the Bright Future Institute. “The first sign is the rise of a fighter from Yemen called the Yamani. He will attack the enemies of Islam, and in so doing he will help pave the way for the end of days.”

Birjandi, widely considered the world’s leading expert on Shia eschatology, declined to comment on whether the recent attacks against Christians in Yemen represented the fulfillment of that sign. But other scholars gathered for this three-day conference speculated that this could, in fact, be the case.

The Bright Future Institute is a theological think tank established in the city of Qom in 2004 by Shia scholars to study Mahdism in depth and to prepare Shias for the return of the Islamic messiah, known as the Mahdi or the Hidden Imam or the Twelfth Imam.

Puzzled, David sent a text message to Eva’s phone.

DS: don’t know what 2 make of that

A moment later, Eva wrote back.

EF: i don’t know either

DS: ever hear of birjandi?

EF: can’t say i have

DS: me neither . . . on amazon now . . . ordering his book

EF: good idea . . . i’ll look into the bright future institute

DS: thnx—let’s compare notes on mon . . . how R U? where R U?

EF: i’m good . . . thnx 4 asking . . . hanging out w/ my parents and sisters in berlin . . . how about U? surfing in cancun? sunbathing in san juan?

David smiled as he replied.

DS: lol—i wish. actually visiting my folks in syracuse . . . but can’t wait 2 get started

EF: me 2. . .  see you soon—looking fwd 2 it . . . how about *$ in DXB?

It took a moment for David’s sleep-deprived brain to decipher that last one, until he realized she was suggesting they go to Starbucks when they got to Dubai. He typed a final message.

DS: Yes—SYS—OAO

See you soon. Over and out.

He plugged his phone back into its charger and finished ordering Dr. Birjandi’s book online, directing it to be shipped to his apartment in Munich. Then he shut down his laptop, lay back down in the darkness, and stared out the window at the moonlight falling on the snow-covered backyard.

So, Eva wasn’t with a boyfriend for the weekend. Interesting. It didn’t mean she didn’t have one, of course. But if she did, she hadn’t chosen to spend the weekend with him. She was with her family, instead. And thinking of him. He liked that, and in the privacy of his childhood bedroom, he admitted—if only to himself—that he found Eva a little more than just interesting, against his better judgment.

He hadn’t dated much in college, and not at all since, in part because most of the German girls he knew were too brusque for his liking and because—his falsified passport notwithstanding—he wasn’t really German. He didn’t like sauerkraut. He couldn’t stand Wiener schnitzel. He could barely choke down German chocolate cake. But something about Eva was different. Maybe, he thought, it was finally time to let go of Marseille’s hold on him.