The Twelfth Imam (10 page)

20

Dawn broke on Friday morning.

David awoke in his own cabin, all alone. His father and brothers were nowhere to be seen, but he didn’t mind. He’d been dreaming about the previous night with Marseille, dreaming about where it all would lead next. But suddenly he heard the sound of a floatplane coming across the lake.

David jumped out of his sleeping bag, threw on a sweatshirt, and stepped out into the frosty morning air. Everyone else, it turned out—including Marseille—was already awake and down by the docks as Old Man McKenzie landed his de Havilland first, followed by the others. David ran down to meet them, half-fearing the men might lynch the pilots when they finally taxied over to them.

But before any of them could say a word, McKenzie climbed out of his cockpit and apologized profusely, promising to refund all of their money just as soon as they got back to Clova. It worked. The men were grateful and surprisingly forgiving. What they really wanted to know was what in the world had happened and why McKenzie and the others hadn’t shown up on Tuesday morning, as planned. But no one was prepared for McKenzie’s answer.

“Believe me, gentlemen, we were all suited up and ready to come get you guys when we got word that morning that the Canadian government had just issued a no-fly order for the entire country. And it wasn’t just Canada. All commercial and civilian flights throughout North America were grounded. No one could take off, and everyone in the air had to land immediately.”

“Why? What happened?” David’s father asked.

“A group of terrorists hijacked four commercial jetliners—two from Boston’s Logan Airport, one from Newark International, and one from Washington Dulles,” MacKenzie explained.

David gasped.

“Two of the planes plowed into the World Trade Center,” McKenzie went on. “Another flew right into the Pentagon. The fourth went down in a field in Pennsylvania. Everyone on the planes was lost. No one knew if there were more hijackers on more planes out there, so the entire air transportation system was simply shut down. Believe me, we wanted to come get you guys. But the Air Force was threatening to shoot down any unauthorized plane in the sky. The only planes in the air were F-15s and F-16s, all armed with air-to-air missiles and ready for action. I’ve never seen anything like it. But again, I apologize for what you’ve been through. If there had been any way to get you—or get word to you—please know we would have done it.”

The group stood there in stunned silence. And then it got worse.

“Was anyone in the towers hurt?” Marseille asked.

David noticed that she was ashen, and her hands shook.

“I’m afraid the towers don’t exist anymore, young lady,” McKenzie replied.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“I mean the towers collapsed not long after the planes hit them.”

“Both of them?”

“I’m afraid so,” McKenzie said.

“Was anyone hurt?”

“Are you kidding?” McKenzie asked. “At this point, they’re saying almost three thousand people have died, but there may be more.”

“Three thousand?” David’s father asked.

McKenzie nodded. “There’s a big gap in the middle of Manhattan where the towers used to stand. There’s smoke rising as far as the eye can see. Whole thing took less than two hours, and whoosh, they were gone, both of them.”

Marseille collapsed to the ground and began to sob uncontrollably. David looked to Mr. Harper, expecting him to comfort her. But Marseille’s father just stood there, the blood draining from his face.

Scared and confused, David cautiously knelt by Marseille’s side and gingerly put his arm around her shoulder. “It’s okay, Marseille. You’re safe. We’re all safe, right? Really, it’s going to be okay.”

But Marseille didn’t respond. She couldn’t speak. Neither could her father. They tried, but the words would not form. She was disintegrating, and her father was standing there like a zombie.

“David,” Dr. Shirazi said softly, his voice faltering.

“Yeah?”

“It’s Marseille’s mother.”

“Mrs. Harper?” David asked. “What about her?”

His father’s eyes welled up with tears. He took a deep breath and said, “She works for a bank, David. She works in the South Tower.”

David couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“Mrs. Harper works
in
the World Trade Center?” he finally asked.

Reluctantly his father nodded.

David sank to the ground and sat for a long while, not knowing what to say.

“Maybe she got out,” he finally said, his lower lip trembling.

21

Spring Lake, New Jersey

The last time David saw Marseille was the day of the funeral.

Charlie Harper simply couldn’t bear the loss of Claire, his beloved wife of twenty-three years. He had no idea how to take care of himself, much less his only daughter, under these circumstances. He wasn’t eating. He was losing weight. He rarely spoke. He was clinically depressed and failing to take his medication. So he resigned his job, put the family house on the market, packed up their belongings, and—unable to bear the thought of boarding a plane—drove Marseille across the country from New Jersey to Oregon, where his folks had a farm near Portland.

And just like that, Marseille Harper disappeared from David’s life.

She accepted a hug from David at the funeral home. But she was so overcome with emotion that she couldn’t talk. She could barely even look him in the eye at the memorial service. After she moved, he wrote her letters. They went unanswered. He called and left her messages. She never called back. Once, her grandfather answered the phone and said Marseille was out and that she’d call back. She never did. He even sent her a box of Junior Mints. There was still no reply. David finally got the message and stopped trying.

Marseille Harper had been his first love. He had given her his body, heart, and soul, and she had given him hers. But in an instant of time, it had all been torn away. The feelings she’d stirred in him had changed him forever, but it was all for nothing. Marseille was lost to him now, and he had no idea how to get her back. He grieved for her but did his best not to blame her. He had no idea how he would have reacted if his mother had been murdered by terrorists and his father had lost his will to function—and perhaps to live. And while he and Marseille had spent an amazing week together, the truth—painful though it was—was it had been only a week. He had no real claim on her. He had no right to expect that she would stay in touch with him, and clearly, wishing wouldn’t make it so.

Quietly, privately, alone in his room—or on the bus, or alone with his thoughts during a study hall or at his locker—he would pray for Marseille and her father. He begged Allah to comfort them and heal them—and him, too. He beseeched Allah to let Marseille somehow find a measure of peace and some good friends who would stand by her and encourage and protect her. He asked Allah to let Marseille remember him and to move her to write back to him.

But as fall turned to winter, David began to lose hope. It was as though his words echoed back from the ceiling of his room, useless and ridiculous. He might as well be praying to the rug on his floor or the lamp on his desk, he concluded, and this only accelerated the tailspin.

His grades plummeted from straight A’s to straight D’s. His parents were worried about him. So were his teachers. But nothing they suggested seemed to help. The only good news was that both of his brothers were off at college and not there to tease him.

If all that weren’t enough, David began getting into fights at school. A group of seniors on the varsity football team kept calling him a “camel jockey,” and “the son of a Muslim whore.” He went ballistic every time. It didn’t matter that he was Persian, not Arab. Or that his family was from Iran, not Afghanistan or Pakistan, where the 9/11 attacks originated. It didn’t matter that he and his family were Shia Muslims, not Wahhabis like Osama bin Laden or Sunnis like Mohamed Atta, the leader of the 9/11 hijackers. Or that David himself had been born and raised in America and was rooting for the American forces battling al Qaeda and the Taliban more than anyone else in his school. None of it mattered to the losers who baited him, and he unleashed every time.

Though David was younger than his tormentors, he was at least as tall and possessed a killer right jab and an increasingly volcanic temper. In January 2002, he was put into detention six times and twice briefly suspended for fighting in the halls. When he broke the nose of the school’s star quarterback and broke the arm of the state’s leading wide receiver in the same fight, however, the principal called the police, and David Shirazi was arrested, fingerprinted, and locked up overnight, pending arraignment and a bail hearing.

It was a quiet night in the Onondaga County juvenile detention center, and David was put in a cell by himself. His parents stayed with him for as long as the rules allowed, and though they were loving, they were firm. David’s father said he hoped a night in this place might bring David to his senses, and then they left.

For more than an hour, David paced the floor and cursed anyone within earshot. At one point he punched the cinder block wall so hard, he feared he had broken his hand but refused to call out for help. He collapsed on the bed, stared at the ceiling, and began to grow scared. He knew he was rapidly losing altitude emotionally, spiritually, even physically.

How had he slipped so far, so fast? And what was he supposed to do now? The prospect of actually going to jail for several months made him physically ill. But even if he could plead his way out of jail time, he was still going to be expelled from school. He was going to have a criminal record. How was he going to get into college? How was he ever going to get a decent job?

Lying there in the cell, he thought back to the anticipation he’d had about going up to Canada with his father and brothers for that fishing weekend. He tried to recall just how much he had looked forward to that weekend and how his life had been dangerously unraveling ever since. He’d fallen for a girl who wasn’t even supposed to be there, a girl whose mother had been killed in the towers, a girl who now lived on the other side of the country, a girl who didn’t love him and wouldn’t talk to him and apparently couldn’t care less that he even existed.

How had it come to this? He’d gone to Canada to go fishing. But in those few short days, the whole world had come crashing down. One day, no one he knew cared that his family was from the Middle East. Now they treated him like a murderer and a terrorist. One day, no one cared that he was Muslim. Now they treated him like he was part of some sleeper cell, with suicide bomber belts hanging in his closet, ready to be activated by Khalid Sheikh Mohammed and sent into a mall on Christmas to blow himself to smithereens and take as many people as he could with him. It wasn’t true. It had never been true. But no one seemed to care.

David closed his eyes and tried to forget the last few months. He tried to remember Marseille’s face. He tried to recall her eyes, her smile, the feel of her body against his. He tried to imagine himself back on that island, back in that cabin, before this nightmare had begun. But every time he tried to conjure up such images, all he could see was the twisted, demented face of Osama bin Laden staring back at him. Sickened by the connection, he’d shake it off and try again to dream of Marseille. But he couldn’t. It was bin Laden’s vacant eyes on which he found himself fixated again and again.

David seethed with a toxic level of anger he had never before experienced and didn’t recognize. It wasn’t Marseille’s fault all this had happened, he reminded himself. Nor was it her father’s. This was all the doing of Osama bin Laden, period. It was bin Laden who was the leader of al Qaeda, the terrorist organization behind the 9/11 attacks. It was bin Laden who had recruited the nineteen hijackers, facilitated their training, funded them, and deployed them to seize the four American jetliners and turn them into missiles. It was bin Laden who had murdered Mrs. Harper.

The irony was palpable, David thought. Here he lay in prison, while Osama bin Laden roamed free through the mountains of Kandahar or the streets of Islamabad.

22

Tehran, Iran

January 2002

Hamid Hosseini still couldn’t believe his good fortune.

The world was fixated elsewhere. On the hunt for Osama bin Laden and the war in Afghanistan. On a possible war in Iraq. On the North Koreans’ effort to build nuclear weapons. On soaring oil prices and a weakening global economy. And all this was good, for it kept the world distracted from developments in Iran, developments very near and dear to his heart.

In the wake of the death of one of their dear colleagues, the Assembly of Experts—the ruling council of eighty-six religious clerics—had earlier that day unanimously named Hamid Hosseini  . . . Supreme Leader of the Islamic Republic of Iran. It was an honor he had never sought or expected. But it had come nonetheless, and now he of all people was the highest religious and political authority in the country.

The world would little note nor long remember his transition to the role, he was sure. Few people knew who he was or cared. Hosseini had carefully maintained a somewhat-moderate public image, at least on the international stage. But he knew without a shadow of a doubt why Allah had chosen him. It was his calling—indeed, it was his destiny—to avenge the death of his master and prepare the way for the coming of the Twelfth Imam. This, he knew, required him to bring about the annihilation of the United States and Israel, the Great and Little Satans, respectively. It would take time. It would take careful planning. He would have to recruit the right people and groom them for key positions of leadership. But it was possible. And he couldn’t wait to get started.

After a long day of ceremonies, speeches, and meetings, he arrived home late and collapsed into bed next to his wife, who was already asleep. He was exhausted, but his mind swirled with the plans he was making to confront the arrogant powers of the West. Then suddenly, he realized what day it was, what anniversary it was, and he found himself thinking back eighteen years earlier to the day when he’d knelt down with his three sons and prayed a final prayer with them.

“O mighty Lord. I pray to you to hasten the emergence of your last repository, the Promised One, that perfect and pure human being, the one who will fill this world with justice and peace. Make us worthy to prepare the way for his arrival, and lead us with your righteous hand. We long for the Lord of the Age. We long for the Awaited One. Without him—the Righteously Guided One—there can be no victory. With him, there can be no defeat. Show me your path, O mighty Lord, and use me to prepare the way for the coming of the Mahdi.”

He recalled opening his eyes and gazing upon those three beautiful and innocent gifts, the pride of his life.

“Come, boys,” he said, opening the car door for them. “It is time.”

“Where are we going?” asked Bahadur, who at the age of twelve was his oldest, and certainly the tallest, and whose name meant “courageous and bold.”

“We’re going on a mission,” he replied.

“A mission!” said Firuz, his eleven-year-old. “What kind of mission?”

“It is a secret mission,” Hosseini said. “Come quickly, and you will see.”

As the two older boys scrambled into the backseat, he lifted up his youngest, Qubad, and held him even longer. Kissing him three times, and receiving three joyful kisses back, he finally put Qubad in the back with his brothers, shut the door, got into the driver’s seat, and started the engine.

It was a beautiful winter day, sunny, cool but not cold, with a slight breeze blowing from the east. The boys waved good-bye to their mother, whose eyes were filled with tears, and soon they were off.

“Why is
Madar
crying?” Qubad asked.

Hosseini glanced in the rearview mirror and saw that the two youngest also had tears in their eyes. They were sensitive boys, and he loved them even more for it.

“She misses you already,” he said as calmly as he could. “You know her.”

“She loves us,” Qubad said quietly.

“Yes, very much,” his father replied.

“She tucks us in every night and sings us the songs of Persia,” the little boy said.

“She buys us pomegranates—the sweetest in the world,” Firuz chimed in.

Then Bahadur spoke up as well. “She knows the Qur’an almost as well as you do,
Pedar
.”

“Better,” Hosseini said, glad he had not brought her, for she would never have survived this trip.

After an hour on the road, the boys were getting antsy, poking each other, quarreling, and whining to stop and get something to eat. They still had another thirty or forty minutes to go, and Hosseini wasn’t yet ready to pull over for food.

“Who wants to play a game?” Hosseini asked.

“We do! We do!”
they all yelled.

“Wonderful,” he said. “Here’s how it works. I’ll say a Sura from the Qur’an, and you must recite it to me precisely. For this you will receive a point. Whoever gets the most points,
Madar
will make a special cake just for him.”

The boys cheered with glee. They had all been memorizing the words of the Prophet since before they could read, in school and with the help of their mother. They each had to recite a whole chapter of the Qur’an to their mother before they could go out to play every afternoon. And once, when they had been invited to meet the Ayatollah at the palace, their father had made them memorize all of Sura 86 and the story of the Nightcomer so they could recite it to Khomeini.

“Let me go first; please, please, let me go first,” Firuz shouted.

“No, no. We will go in order, oldest to youngest. Are you ready?”

They all were. The pokings were finished. The quarreling was over. Hosseini had their rapt attention now.

“Okay, Bahadur, you’re first. Sura 4:52.”

“Thank you,
Pedar
,” the boy replied. “That is an easy one. ‘Jews and Christians are the ones whom God has cursed, and he whom God excludes from His mercy, you shall never find one to help and save him.’”

“Excellent, Bahadur. You get one point. Now, Firuz.”

“I’m ready.”

“Good. Can you tell me Sura 5:33?”

Firuz’s face darkened. For a moment, he looked as though he might panic. Then suddenly his face brightened. “Yes,
Pedar
, I remember that one. ‘The recompense of those who fight against God and His Messenger, they shall either be executed, or crucified, or have their hands and feet cut off alternately, or be banished from the land.’”

“Very good, my son,” Hosseini said. “I was worried there for a moment.”

“So was I, but
Madar
taught that one, and I didn’t want to disappoint her.”

“She would be very proud. I will be sure to tell her you remembered.”

“Do I get a point?” Firuz asked.

“Absolutely. It’s one to one. And now it’s Qubad’s turn.”

“I am ready!” Qubad yelled with such enthusiasm they all burst into laughter.

“Okay, here’s one I taught you myself, Qubad—Sura 60:9.”

“Oh, oh, I know that!” Qubad shouted. “‘For those who disbelieve, garments of fire are certain to be cut out for them, with boiling water being poured down over their heads, with which all that is within their bodies, as well as their skins, is melted away.’”

“No, my son, I’m sorry,” Hosseini said. “What Sura is that, Firuz?”

“That’s 22:19-20.”

“Correct,” Hosseini said, beaming with pride. “That’s another point for you.”

“Hey, that’s not fair!” Bahadur said.

“Yeah, that’s not fair!”
little Qubad squealed.

“My game, my rules,” their father replied. “But I’ll tell you what, Qubad. I will give you another chance. What is Sura 60:9?”

Qubad closed his eyes and scrunched up his face. He thought and thought, but it was not coming. Finally he said, “‘Fight against those among the People of the Book who do not believe God and the Last Day’?”

“Good try, Qubad,” Hosseini said. “Who knows where that verse is found?”

This time Bahadur shouted out the answer first. “That is Sura 9:29,
Pedar
!”

“Very good, my son; another point for you.”

Bahadur beamed. Qubad looked like he was about to burst out in tears. They were all very competitive boys, and none of them liked to lose, least of all Qubad.

Firuz now spoke up. “I know Sura 60:9. May I recite it,
Pedar
?”

“Of course.”

“It’s regarding our enemies—Jews and Christians and those who call themselves Muslims but are not faithful to the Qur’an—isn’t that right?”

“It is,” Hosseini said. “But to get the point, you must say the verse.”

There was a long silence.

“Are you sure you know it?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Okay, go ahead.”

“‘God forbids you . . . ,’” Firuz began.

“Forbids you to what?” Hosseini asked.

“‘. . . forbids you to take them . . . for friends and guardians. . . .’”

“Go on.”

There was another long pause.

“I can’t,” Firuz said. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” his father said. “Bahadur, can you finish it?”

“Yes,
Pedar
. ‘God forbids you to take them for friends and guardians. Whoever takes them for friends and guardians, those are the wrongdoers.’”

“Very impressive, Bahadur,” Hosseini exclaimed. “Okay, you get half a point, and Firuz gets half a point.”

Both boys cheered, but Qubad began to sniffle and wipe his nose.

“And what do I get,
Pedar
?” he asked, his eyes red and watery.

“A chance for redemption,” Hosseini said.

“What does that mean?” Qubad asked, fighting hard not to cry in front of his brothers but about to lose the fight.

“It means I will ask you three questions, and if you get them all right, you will be ahead of your brothers.”

Qubad’s face brightened. “Really?”

“Really.”

“Okay, I’m ready,
Pedar
! I’m ready!”

“Good. Here we go,” Hosseini said. “What does the Ayatollah say is the ‘purest joy in Islam’?”

“I know that! I know that!”
Qubad shouted.
“‘The purest joy in Islam is to kill and be killed for Allah!’”

“Very good, Qubad,” his father said. “One point for you!”

Qubad was ecstatic.

“Next question.”

“Yes, yes, I’m ready,
Pedar
!”

“What happens to those who become martyrs in the cause of jihad?”

“I know that one too! Sura 47:4-6 says, ‘As for those who are killed in Allah’s cause, He will never render their deeds vain. He will guide them. He will admit them into paradise that He has made known to them.’”

Hosseini and the older boys cheered. Qubad was radiant now, his tears gone. He was on top of the world.

“Final question. Are you ready, Qubad?”

“Yes, I’m ready.”

“Very well. Does a martyr feel pain when he dies?”

“No, he does not,
Pedar
! A martyr will not feel the pain of death except like how you feel when you are pinched.”

Seeing his father’s pride, Qubad beamed. But he was not finished. “I know more! I know more!” he shouted.

“Go ahead, my son.”

“The shedding of the martyr’s blood will forgive all of his sins! And he will go directly to paradise! And he will be decorated with jewels! And he will be in the arms of seventy-two beautiful virgins! And he will . . .”

Qubad stopped. The cheering died down. A puzzled look came over the little boy’s face. He cocked his head to the side.

“What is it, Qubad?” his father asked.

There was a long pause.

Then Qubad asked, “What is a virgin, father?”

Hosseini smiled. “That, little man, is a lesson for another day. Who is ready to eat?”

“We are! We are!”
they yelled.

They were now far from the city limits of Tehran, heading southwest along Highway 9 toward the holy city of Qom. Hosseini pulled over at a roadside stand and bought the boys some bread and fruit, along with some candy bars as special treats. Then they kept driving, talking and singing along the way.

When they pulled off onto a side road on the outskirts of Qom, Bahadur asked, “Where are we going, Father?”

“To an army base, boys,” Hosseini replied.

“Really?” Qubad asked, his eyes wide, chocolate all over his face. “Why?”