75

It was almost 10 p.m. when Birjandi’s door finally opened.

David, devouring his third book on Shia eschatology from the old man’s shelves, watched him make his way slowly to the kitchen.

“Would you like some help?” he asked, setting a hefty tome aside.

“Yes, son, that would be very kind.”

Together, they made a pot of tea and set out a plate of naan, Iranian bread that was a favorite of David’s. He was anxious to ask his host about the Twelfth Imam, the earthquake, Iran’s weapons program, and a thousand other things. But as David carried the tray to the study and the two sat down together, he sensed the man was not quite ready to talk about such things. He had to be patient, he reminded himself. He had to pace himself. This was a source and a potentially high-value one at that. He needed to build a relationship, some camaraderie, some trust. Above all, he had to be careful not to offend the man. Birjandi had been described by many as a recluse. David needed to find a way to open him up.

He smiled as Dr. Birjandi popped a sugar cube in his mouth and then began sipping his tea. It was just the way his father used to drink tea. He hadn’t seen his father do it in many years, but somehow watching Birjandi made David feel homesick. He missed his father, worried for his mother, and felt a sudden hunger for home that surprised him. He looked out the window at the quiet suburban street and saw a young family walking past, the man a few strides ahead of the woman and several children running around them. They sat in silence for a while, and Birjandi seemed to enjoy the quiet. And then, as David took a piece of bread and began to chew it slowly, he had an idea.

“May I ask you a question, sir?” he began.

“Of course,” the old man said. “What’s on your mind?”

“Were you ever in love?”

Dr. Birjandi cleared his throat in surprise. “That was not a question I was expecting when Abdol said you wanted to come over to meet me.”

“I’m sorry. It’s just that—”

“No, no, it’s a good question,” Birjandi interrupted, “and an honest one. I appreciate a young man who is not all business.”

David had been taught at the Farm not to throw fastballs straight down the center of the plate. Curveballs and the occasional slider tended to work better, throwing the batter off a bit. It didn’t always work. But this time, he sensed it just might.

“I will tell you the truth, son,” the old man said between sips of tea. “I was in love with the same girl for sixty-seven years, and I’m still in love with her. She passed away six months ago, but I think about her every moment of every day. I have an ache in my heart that will not leave.”

“I’m so sorry,” David said.

“It’s okay,” Birjandi responded. “It hurts now, but soon enough we will walk hand in hand in paradise, reunited forever. I cannot wait.”

David was moved by the man’s devotion to his bride. “What was her name?”

“Souri.”

“A red rose,” David said. “That’s a beautiful name.”

“As was she,” Birjandi said. “Her heart, anyway. Her voice. The touch of her hands. The smell of the flowers she would pick in the morning. I never had the joy of seeing her. But then again, I didn’t need to see her to know her. All I could do was listen to her speak, but the more I listened, the more I knew her, and the more I knew her, the more I loved her. Someday, when we meet in paradise, I will finally get to see just how beautiful she really is. That will be something, won’t it?”

“It will indeed,” David said. “May I ask how old you were when you met?”

“I was sixteen; she was seventeen. My mother hired her to tutor me in Arabic, because her family was originally from Najaf, in Iraq. We married the following year.”

“It was an arranged marriage?”

“Of course, though we did our best not to seem happy about it.”

“Why’s that?”

“We were afraid if our parents knew how in love we were, they would force us to marry someone else!”

David began to laugh but quickly covered his mouth.

“It’s okay, son. I still laugh about it myself. I still savor each and every memory with that woman. I can remember our entire first conversation, the day we met. And I can remember our last. I can tell you how her hand felt as I held it at the hospital, sitting beside her cancer-ravaged body. I can tell you what it felt like the moment she breathed her last breath and slipped into eternity, leaving me all by myself. I’m not going to, but I could.” The old man’s voice had grown thick as he was overcome with emotion.

Moments passed slowly in silence. Then Dr. Birjandi asked an unexpected question. “Her name is Marseille, right?”

David’s heart stopped. “Pardon?” he said, hoping he hadn’t heard the man right.

“The girl that you love,” the old man continued, “her name is Marseille; am I right?”

In shock, David didn’t know what to say.

“Your real name is David,” Birjandi added. “David Shirazi.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about,” David stammered. “You must have mistaken me for someone else.”

“So you’re not the David Shirazi who fell in love with Marseille Harper on a fishing trip in Canada, who was arrested for beating up a boy who thought you were an Arab? You weren’t recruited by a Mr. Zalinsky to be an agent for the Central Intelligence Agency?”

Stunned, David rose to his feet without thinking. “Who are you?” he demanded. “Why are you accusing me of such lies?”

“You know they’re not lies,” Birjandi said gently. “And I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m just telling you what God told me to tell you.”

David’s mind was reeling. “The Twelfth Imam told you all this?”

“No.”

“Then I don’t understand.”

“I don’t follow the Twelfth Imam,” the old man said.

David was more confused than ever. “What are you talking about? No one knows him better than you.”

“That’s why I don’t follow him.”

David scanned the empty room, looking from side to side and listening carefully for any sign that they were not alone. What was going on? His mind scrambled to think how best to handle such a bizarre and dangerous breach of identity. What options did he have? If he’d been compromised at levels this high up and was about to be seized by Iranian intelligence, there wasn’t much he could do. He had no weapon, and the old man didn’t seem like a promising hostage. It was unlikely he could successfully run. In the absence of another viable alternative, maybe he should find out as much as he could and try to control his emotions. He needed to think clearly for whatever came next.

“Now, just sit down,” Birjandi said. “Take a deep breath. Be patient. You are in no danger from me. And I’ll explain everything. It will take some time, but it is vitally important that you listen until the end. I will give you the information you seek and point you in the right direction. But first I need to tell you a story.”