Damascus Countdown (13 page)

LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

This was longer than the “quick discussion” Murray had expected. It was more of a negotiation, actually, and when it was over, he had what Director Allen wanted: a document signed by Eva Fischer absolving the Central Intelligence Agency of all culpability in unfairly detaining her and denying her access to even a phone call, not to mention a lawyer.

Eva, in turn, got what she wanted:

• a $100,000 settlement—twice what Allen had initially offered;
  
• a letter signed by Murray apologizing for “unfair treatment” of her; and
  
• a transfer to the National Security Agency in Fort Meade, Maryland, where she would be promoted to senior Iran analyst.
  

On this last point, Murray had resisted, but Eva had made it clear she wanted no part of working under Jack Zalinsky’s supervision. For her, this was nonnegotiable. Given the fact that the Middle East was in a hot war, she told Murray, she wasn’t inclined to leave government service altogether. But she wanted to work directly for the NSA, translating intercepts of Iranian satellite phone calls and providing analysis of the most important transcripts. In that capacity, she would be willing to interface with the CIA and, when needed, talk to Zalinsky—though she made it clear she preferred to work through Murray—but she wasn’t going to work directly for Zalinsky, she didn’t want to see him, and the less she could hear his voice, or even his name, the better.

In the end, Murray capitulated to every demand. He was under orders from the director of Central Intelligence to get this deal done, and fast. So he swallowed his pride and signed on the dotted line, and it was finished.

CAPE MAY, NEW JERSEY

Another grisly story out of Syria caught Najjar’s attention. On the website of the German magazine
Der Spiegel
, he found an article headlined “Inside the Syrian Death Zone,” detailing the brutality of the Mustafa regime.

The article described the horrific scene as Syrian government agents picked off pedestrians with sniper rifles during a busy shopping time. People doing nothing more dangerous than trying to buy a loaf of bread were being shot down in the street. Hundreds of thousands of people in Homs, Syria’s third-largest city, were essentially being held hostage, afraid to leave their homes for fear of becoming targets.

Tears filled Najjar’s eyes as he read. He knew of the evils committed by his own government in Tehran. He had seen such sadism, such unspeakable horrors in his own country. But the press in Iran never reported the crimes of Iran’s neighbors and allies. Overcome by gratitude that he and his family had escaped such barbarism and were safe and free, but also overcome with grief for those still trapped as slaves of evil regimes, he fell to his knees and began to pray.

“How long, O Lord?” he cried. “How long until you bring justice to such wicked men? How long until you liberate such dear, innocent children? How long until you reveal Jesus to all of them, rich and poor, young and old, men and women, powerful and powerless? How long, O Lord? How long?”

SYRACUSE, NEW YORK

Mohammad Shirazi started to get up, but Marseille insisted that he remain seated, and finally he acquiesced.

“May I sit with you for a moment?” she asked.

“Of course, dear,” he said. “Please sit right over there.”

He pointed to the slightly worn blue-and-red plaid couch directly across from his recliner, and she nodded and sat down. It was a couch Nasreen had picked. He had never been a fan of the pattern, but he had learned long ago not to interfere in matters of interior design. Shaking his head, he looked up from the couch at Marseille and noticed that her eyes were puffy and a bit bloodshot.

“What a lovely thing, to have a member of the Harper family in this home again,” he said. “You are a sweet girl, Marseille. You always have been, ever since your dear mother bore you. Nasreen and I fell in love with you the moment we saw you at the hospital. And now look at you; you’ve been an unexpected angel in our time of sorrow. I cannot thank you enough.”

They were silent for a time, and then he said, “Your mother would have been very proud of you, Marseille. I know your father was.”

“Thanks, Dr. Shirazi,” she replied. “I hope you’re right.”

“I know I am,” he said. “You forget I knew them a long, long time.”

“How could I forget?” Marseille asked, smiling somewhat wistfully. “You and Mrs. Shirazi were their best friends in this world. Look, I didn’t want to bother you. I didn’t expect to stay this long. I just wanted to say again how sorry I am for your loss. You two had one of the most special and, dare I say, magical marriages I’ve ever personally had the privilege to witness. I hope someday I’ll have a marriage like that.”

She suddenly looked embarrassed for saying it, but he was glad she had. He and Nasreen had always wanted to see David and Marseille get married and raise a family together. To him, it was their destiny. They were just taking their own sweet time to realize it. “I have no doubt you will,” he said gently.

She blushed and looked at the embers growing cold in the fireplace. “I cannot imagine what it must be like to lose someone so dear.”

Dr. Shirazi saw the tears immediately well up in her eyes. He knew what she meant, but he couldn’t let the moment pass.

“Sure you do, my dear,” he replied. “Twice.”

Marseille just nodded, unable to speak, her bottom lip quivering and
a tear streaking down her cheek. After a few moments, she regathered herself. “Dr. Shirazi, is this an okay time to talk together? I don’t want to bother you, but there are just a few things before I leave.”

“Marseille, please, you are certainly no bother. We have never had enough lovely young ladies in this house. Our sons have not spent enough time at home. My beautiful Nasreen had to fill this place with loveliness all on her own. Happily, she had no trouble doing that. But you are a breath of fresh air to me. And you are practically family. Please, what is on your mind?”

“Well,” she began, dabbing her eyes with a tissue scrunched up in her hand, “for starters, Azad asked me to listen to all the messages on your voice mail and make a list of the people who have called to express their care and sympathy for you and the family. There were dozens of voice mails to go through. It was actually amazing. You are both so dearly loved.”

“That is all Nasreen. She had a way with people.”

“It’s both of you,” Marseille replied. “There were some very nice calls. I saved them all so you can listen when you have time. But did you want to look at this list? Or I could read through it for you. I’m not sure what Azad meant for me to do with it.”

“Oh, I’m not sure I can go over it now. But that is very kind. If you just set the list here next to me, I’ll look over it later. I suppose eventually I’ll start calling people back, maybe in a few days, when I’m left all alone in the quietness of this house. I’ll need to talk to someone!”

Marseille smiled warmly at him, and he was grateful. She had a pleasant, calming way about her, and he wished she weren’t leaving. She was like the daughter they’d never had but always wanted, and he wished she didn’t live so far away.

“Dr. Shirazi, there was another call I wanted to tell you about.”

“Of course,” he said. “From whom?”

“Well, I have to admit, I rather felt like I was doing something wrong, listening to messages meant for you. But again, it was Azad who insisted that it would be helpful, and I—”

“Oh, Marseille, I’m so grateful. For everything I’m grateful. I don’t know what we would have done without you. Nora is usually the one
who keeps things working around here. Well, Nora and Nasreen. But like I said, you were an angel sent from God to us just when we needed you most.”

“Thank you, Dr. Shirazi. That’s very kind.”

“So who called that has you so . . . I don’t know . . . so ‘sensitive,’ if that’s the right word?”

Marseille said nothing. He looked into her eyes, filling once again with tears, and suddenly he knew. “Oh, goodness,” he said. “It was David, wasn’t it?”

She nodded.

He sat up immediately and leaned forward. “Is he okay?”

“Yes, yes,” she told him. “It’s a beautiful message, meant just for you, of course, and not for me. But I admit, I cried when I heard it. He’s safe. He wanted you to know that. And he loves you. And he feels terrible not to have been here for you and for his mom and for the memorial service.”

“Would you play it for me?” he asked, putting the pipe back in his mouth, the aromatic smoke curling around his head.

Marseille looked surprised. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, let’s listen to it together.”

So they did, then sat in silence for several minutes.

“He’s a good boy,” Dr. Shirazi said finally.

Marseille nodded.

“I’m not angry with him,” he continued. “His business—his work—it made it impossible for him to return to the United States. I know how deeply he loves his family, and I know he feels guilty. But he shouldn’t. I am a very proud papa, and I can’t wait to tell him when he gets home.”

Marseille nodded, but there was something in her eyes that struck him as strange. What was it? Surprise? Curiosity? No, it was different from that. She seemed . . .
knowing
. It was a strange word to use in the circumstances, and yet, oddly enough, it fit.

“Proud of him for being a businessman, hard at work in Europe?” she asked quietly.

Why was she asking that?
he wondered.
And why was she asking that way?

“I’d be proud of him whatever he was doing,” he replied.

She seemed to shrug a little.

“I have no doubt you would love him no matter what,” she said at last. “But your standards were always very high, Dr. Shirazi. Somehow I don’t think you’d be proud of any old thing David was doing.”

“Perhaps,” he said, drawing on his pipe some more. “What are you trying to say, Marseille?”

She waited for a few moments, looking deeply into his eyes.

“I think you . . .” And then she stopped herself.

“You think I what?” he asked.

She looked away, down at the floor, and then back in his eyes. “I think you know where David really is and what he’s really doing,” she said. “I think that’s why you’re proud, and I know you can’t say it. But then again, neither can I.”

His eyes widened. “What are you saying?” he asked again, wondering if he was hearing her right.

“I’m saying I know.”

“You know?”

She nodded.

“He told you?”

“No,” she said. “He told me he was a businessman going to Europe, and of course I believed him. But I found out.”

“How?”

“I’m sworn to secrecy too, Dr. Shirazi. So I need to be careful about what I say. And you must understand that David doesn’t know that I know. But I do.”

“But I don’t understand. I—”

“I realize that, and I’m sorry,” said Marseille. “It’s just that . . . how can I put this?” She looked into the fireplace, searching for the right words. “The thing is, Dr. Shirazi . . . well, the thing is that I recently found out my father didn’t work for the State Department.”

“He didn’t?” Dr. Shirazi asked, genuinely perplexed and wondering what that had to do with David.

“Well, officially he did,” she clarified, “but in reality he didn’t.”

“Then who did he work for?”

“He was a NOC, Dr. Shirazi.”

“A what?”

“A nonofficial cover operative.”

“A NOC?”

“Right.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t understand.”

“Sir, my father wasn’t really a political officer for the State Department. That was just his cover. In reality, he was a spy for the Central Intelligence Agency,” Marseille said bluntly.

“No, that’s not possible,” Dr. Shirazi insisted. “I knew him. We were the best of friends. He would have told me such a thing.”

“He never told me, either. But after he died, I was taking care of his papers, and I stumbled upon a safe in the back of his bedroom closet. When I finally got it open, I was stunned. Flabbergasted, really.”

“Why? What was in it?”

“Pay stubs from the CIA. The ID he used to get into Langley. A file of correspondence between him and a man named Jack Zalinsky, all on CIA stationery. I found other correspondence, too, between him and a man named Tom Murray. Do you know who he is?”