Joel Rosenberg - The Twelfth Imam

“Go to the car,” he whispered to Eva when he was certain Mina was not looking. “Have the driver take you back to the hotel. I’ll try to salvage this.”

“No, I’m fine,” Eva said curtly, clearly embarrassed but trying hard to regain control.

David didn’t have time to argue. He could tell from Eva’s tone and stiff body language that her shock was turning to anger. But he couldn’t take the risk that she would try to undo the damage and in so doing end up making things worse.

“This wasn’t your fault, Eva,” he whispered back. “But you can’t fix it. Not now. I don’t know if I can either, but for now you need to go back to the hotel.”

“And then what?”

“Just wait there. Don’t call anyone. Don’t do anything. I’ll call you as soon as I know something, and then we’ll regroup.”

Eva’s eyes said it all. She didn’t like being managed by a man, much less a younger one, especially when Zalinsky had put her in charge of this mission. They stared at each other for a moment. David didn’t back down, and Eva finally relented. She knew he was right. There was nothing she could do. But she wasn’t happy and wanted him to know it. Sixty seconds later, the elevator arrived. Fortunately, it was empty. Eva stepped in, her jaw set, her eyes down. She was still resolutely avoiding David’s gaze when the doors slid shut.

David checked his watch. It was nearly eight. At any moment, he expected the floor to be flooded with dozens of other secretaries and operations staff. In fact, he was surprised they weren’t there already. If there was any chance of making this right, it had to be now. He ducked his head into Esfahani’s spacious and impressive corner office. It was far larger and more ornate than he would have expected for a “deputy director of technical operations,” with an expansive view of the smog settling over the Tehran skyline. Mina was still sitting on the floor, wiping her eyes and picking up the pieces of what had been a lamp.

“May I help you?” David asked gently.

He didn’t wait for an answer but stooped and picked up some of the smaller pieces of glass and put them in the small trash bin beside Mina.

“I’ll be fine,” she said halfheartedly, continuing to avert her eyes from his. “It’s probably best for you to go.”

David continued picking up the smaller pieces. “Will Mr. Esfahani be back soon?” he asked, trying to buy time and goodwill.

Mina said nothing, but shook her head.

“Did he have another appointment?”

Again she shook her head.

“I am so sorry,” he said. “My colleague and I should have known better. I should have, at least. With a name like Reza Tabrizi, obviously my relatives were all originally from Tabriz. But my parents grew up here in Tehran. They actually met just a few blocks from here in 1975, not long after my dad finished medical school. But you probably guessed Ms. Fischer isn’t from here. I mean, she actually speaks Farsi really well for a foreigner, but she’s German, and she’s-”

“It’s okay,” Mina said. “You don’t have to say any more.”

“She meant no harm,” David added. “Neither of us did.”

“I know.”

“Living in Europe, well, it’s…”

“Different,” Mina offered.

“A lot different.”

Mina nodded but looked away again. They were quiet for a moment. David could see she was lowering her defenses ever so slightly. But just then the elevator bell rang, and several associates stepped off chatting and laughing. They were out of time. It was improper for them to be found together. David’s mind raced. Then he reached for another piece of glass and purposely cut his finger.

“Oh, my goodness,” Mina said, noticing him wince, “you’re bleeding.”

“It’s okay,” he said, stepping back into the reception area. “I’ll get something for it at the hotel.”

“No, no,” Mina said, rushing to her desk and pulling out a first aid kit. “You could get an infection. Here, use this.”

She handed him a tube of antibiotic ointment, and as she did, she actually looked him in the eye, if only for a moment. He smiled and thanked her. To his amazement, she smiled back. The poor woman looked like she never got out of the office. She was small and pale and somewhat frail, but she was sweet and he felt bad for her, trapped in a job she had to hate, verbally abused by a boss who was impossible to respect.

“Again, I’m so sorry for the trouble we caused you today,” he said, finishing with the tube of ointment and giving it back to her.

“The error was mine,” she said softly. “I should have called ahead and gotten all of the details. It’s just that the meeting came up so fast, and, well… anyway, it was my fault.”

She looked at him again, and when she did, David shook his head and whispered, “It wasn’t your fault, Mina. It was all mine. And I’m probably going to get fired for it.”

“No,” she whispered back, sounding pained at the prospect. “Would they really fire you?” She handed him an adhesive bandage.

“If I blow this contract, they will,” he said. “Unless…”

“Unless what?”

“Unless you could help me.”

Mina looked away, terrified of being caught doing something else wrong. David suspected she would be severely punished for her transgressions today, and his heart went out to her.

The elevator bell rang again. More staff stepped off and headed to their cubicles. Mina greeted several of them, backing away from David as she did. He slowly put on the bandage, trying to buy as much time as he could, but it didn’t seem to matter. They had passed the point of no return. He really had to go.

He nodded good-bye, then stepped to the elevator, pushed the button, and silently begged Allah for mercy. The wait seemed like an eternity. He tried to imagine the coming conversation with Zalinsky, trying to explain how he and Eva had blown a mission that offered the last shred of hope of averting an apocalyptic war between Israel, Iran, and the rest of the region. But it was too painful.

The bell rang. The door opened. Still more of Esfahani’s staff poured out, and David stepped in. He hit the button for the ground floor and smiled at Mina one last time. The elevator doors began to close, but just before they did, a woman’s hand came through and held the doors ajar for a moment. It was Mina’s hand, holding a business card. Startled, David took the card, and Mina withdrew her hand. The doors closed. The elevator began to descend to the ground floor.

David looked carefully at the card. It was Esfahani’s, showing two different mobile numbers, plus his direct office line, general office line, fax number, and telex number. On the back was a handwritten note.

Imam Khomeini Mosque, it read, Naser Khosrow Avenue.

David couldn’t believe it. He had one more shot.

Outside the Iran Telecom building, David tried to hail a taxi.

But in Tehran’s cacophonous morning rush hour traffic-bumper to bumper for blocks on end-that was nearly impossible. He suddenly understood why one of the city’s recent mayors had been elected after boasting of having a doctorate in traffic management.

Once again he found himself begging Allah for mercy. He was desperate and reasoned that this wasn’t a selfish prayer. This was a battle of good versus evil. He was trying to stop a catastrophic war and the deaths of millions, and he needed all the help he could get, divine or otherwise.

David had no idea how far away Naser Khosrow Avenue was, but he was determined to get to the mosque before Esfahani left. His heart raced. But he knew he had to look calm, for he was not alone. And the delay in finding an available cab, he concluded, was good in the grand scheme of things. It gave the Iranian surveillance detail assigned to trail him-half of whom had already been forced to follow Eva back to the Simorgh Hotel-enough time to prepare for his next move.