Joel Rosenberg - The Twelfth Imam

For the rest of the day, they hung out together, playing hearts, reading novels, or trying to nap and forget their troubles. But when the sun began to set and the temperature began to drop and still no floatplanes had come, they realized they had no choice. The men and older boys unpacked again, and David and Marseille were sent out to gather more firewood.

“What do you think is going to happen, David?” Marseille asked as they headed back into the woods.

“It’ll be okay,” David reassured her. “Old Man McKenzie will come for us.”

“What if he doesn’t?”

“He will.”

“Then why hasn’t he?”

David stopped, turned to her, took her hands. “We paid a lot of money for this trip. McKenzie has every incentive to make us happy. There’s just some mechanical problem or something. But he’ll be here.”

“You’re sure?” she asked.

“I promise.”

Thunder began to rumble and boom above them. Confident they were alone, David stepped close to Marseille and put his arms around her small frame. She stepped in closer and held him tight. Suddenly they were kissing again, and for those few moments, all other thoughts melted away. Despite the chill, he felt warm all over. He wondered if she could feel his heart pounding so intensely. And then it began to pour.

Wednesday passed, and still no planes.

The rain didn’t stop. The card games inside the damp cabins were getting old fast. It was now Thursday, still gray and growing colder, and no planes. For most, anger had turned to fear. They were stranded in the middle of nowhere. Their provisions were nearly gone. The men debated whether they should use the fishing boats to try to find help, but the truth was, they were hundreds of miles from the nearest human being. They had no maps. They had no compasses. They had little fuel, and the thought of running out of diesel somewhere on the reservoir finally ruled out that possibility.

Everyone was on edge, and David could tell his dad was feeling worse by the hour. How had they misjudged McKenzie’s ability to fulfill his obligations so badly? What could possibly be keeping him? In six years, nothing like this had ever happened. Surely their wives and secretaries would be calling the outfitter’s offices in Clova or the police or someone. Send in the Mounties for goodness’ sake!

But for David and Marseille, the days were a gift. They brought their blankets, music, and books to the A-frame and let go of the rest of the world. They covered every imaginable topic, amazed that their conversations never seemed to become tired.

“Do you believe in God?” Marseille asked at one point.

“I don’t know,” he said. No one had ever asked him that before.

“Aren’t you a Muslim?” she asked.

“Yeah, I guess.”

“You guess?”

“Okay, yeah, I’m a Muslim-a Shia, actually.”

“A what?”

“That’s a kind of Muslim,” he explained. “The kind from Iran.”

“So you believe in God,” she clarified.

“I don’t know what I believe,” David admitted.

“Why not?”

“Because my father’s an atheist,” he explained, “and my mom’s an agnostic.”

“Aren’t they Muslims too?”

“Technically,” David said. “But after all they saw during the Revolution, they decided Islam couldn’t be true.”

“Why not?”

“They didn’t know how to believe in a god who would command people to kill and maim and torture so many innocent people.”

Marseille said nothing for several long minutes. Then she asked, “What do you think about Jesus?”

David shrugged. “I believe he existed. Muslims say he was a prophet. But I don’t know.”

“Do you believe if we pray, God will answer us and get us out of here?”

He shrugged and said he didn’t know, but he didn’t think so.

“It couldn’t hurt, though, could it?” she asked.

“Praying?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“I guess not,” he said, unconvinced.

But she didn’t pray. Instead, she lay down on the bed and stared out the window. Within a few minutes, she was sleeping. David covered her with a blanket to keep her warm. He lay down beside her and slept too.

Several hours later, David woke up. Marseille turned over and faced him. Her eyes held a sudden purpose as she stared into his, and her request was irresistible.

“David, I need you to tell me the story of our parents,” she whispered. “Please. Don’t say no.”

He couldn’t refuse her now.

So with mesmerizing detail, he explained how Marseille’s mother had vetoed at least three plans the CIA and the State Department had drawn up, schemes-in her view-ranging from impracticable to suicidal. Then he explained how Marseille’s father had devised the plan that was finally accepted and executed. The Harpers, the Shirazis, and the other American FSOs would be given false Canadian passports. This, however, would take a special, secret act of the parliament in Ottawa, since the use of false passports for espionage was expressly forbidden by Canadian law. They would also be given false papers that identified them as film producers from Toronto working on a new big-budget motion picture titled Argo , set in the Middle East, in conjunction with a major Hollywood studio. Their cover story would be that they were in Iran scouting locations. The CIA would set up a front company in Los Angeles called Studio Six, complete with fully operational offices, working phone lines, and notices in the trade papers announcing casting calls and other elements of preproduction. The Americans and the Shirazis would then further develop and refine all the details of their cover stories, commit them to memory, and rehearse them continually. Eventually, the CIA would send in an operative named Jack Zalinsky to go over the final details and to see if they were ready for any interrogation they might encounter. When the time was right, Zalinsky would take the team to the airport and try to get them through passport control without getting caught-and hanged.

“You’re saying my father came up with this idea?” Marseille asked when David was finished.

“Actually, your mom helped quite a bit,” David replied.

“That doesn’t make sense,” she protested. “How would my parents even know…?”

Her voice trailed off. The wind rustled through the pines. Once again, dark clouds were gathering overhead. Another storm front seemed to be brewing, and it was getting colder. David glanced at his watch. They needed to get back to the camp before people got worried about them.

But Marseille urged him not to leave. “Just a few minutes more,” she said, taking his hand and squeezing it gently. “I want to know the rest of the story.”

“Marseille, it’s getting late.”

“I’ll make it worth your while,” she smiled.

“How?”

She reached into her knapsack and pulled out a box of Junior Mints.

“I can’t believe you have any left,” David said.

“This is the last one.”

“And you’re actually going to share them with me?”

“Only if you finish the story.”

David’s stomach growled. It was an offer he couldn’t refuse, so he didn’t.

“Okay, now we’re talking,” he said, as one of the mints melted on his tongue. “D-day was set for January 28, 1980. There were a bunch of regional elections going on. Ayatollah Khomeini’s people were trying to maintain control. The secret police had their hands full murdering dissidents and killing the opposition, so this Zalinsky guy believed they might have a window where the police might be distracted somewhat. It was a long shot, but it was the best they could do. So Zalinsky got the team to the main airport in Tehran. They were going through passport control, and my parents were absolutely terrified. Your parents were cool as cucumbers, but my parents-not so much. They don’t exactly look Canadian, after all, and they were never convinced your parents’ plan was going to work. But your father and Mr. Zalinsky kept insisting that if the tickets and passports said they were Canadians, then the guards at the airport would accept it. And they did.”