Joel Rosenberg - The Twelfth Imam

Charlie feared the worst.

He crouched beside the woman he loved, the woman who had swept him off his feet the moment they’d first met at a Harvard Crimson football game. She wasn’t moving.

Charlie’s eyes blurred as he carefully rolled her onto her back, wiped blood from her mouth, and pushed strands of her brown hair from her eyes. His hands trembled as he held his breath and checked her pulse. Finding one startled him and gave him a shot of adrenaline. She wasn’t dead. He scanned the suddenly deserted street. He could still see a huge crowd of students demonstrating on the campus. But that was a ways off. Everyone in the immediate vicinity was gone-except the bodies of the two he had shot. The gunfire had scared everyone away.

Then he saw the VW bus. It was still running.

He scooped his wife up in his arms, carried her to the VW, and set her carefully on the floor in the back. Then he jumped into the driver’s seat, locked the doors, slammed the vehicle into reverse, and gunned the engine just as the Skylark exploded into the sky.

Charlie knew fire trucks and ambulances would be there soon. So would the police.

Still driving backward, he got a safe-enough distance away from the raging wreckage of their Buick, then carefully slowed to a stop, did a three-point turn, jammed the VW into second gear, and sped away from the scene of the crime. He was now convinced that Claire was having a miscarriage. He needed a hospital and knew he was just blocks away from Sayeed-ash-Shohala hospital, one of the city’s best. But he couldn’t possibly take her there now. No hospital or medical clinic was safe. He couldn’t run the risk of being exposed and captured by forces loyal to Khomeini. Especially now that he’d just gunned down two student radicals. They’d hang him or put him in front of a firing squad, either of which would be merciful compared to what they’d do to his wife.

Panicked and helpless, Charlie drove aimlessly through the streets of Tehran. He had no idea what to do, where to turn. He passed Shahr Park, one of his favorites, where he and Claire had often strolled and taken picnic lunches. He passed the Golestan Palace, one of the oldest and most beautiful complexes of historical monuments in the capital, dating back to the sixteenth century. But all the joy of being in this exotic country was now gone.

As he drove, Charlie cursed Iran. He cursed the Ayatollah. He cursed the Revolution. His wife was dying. The fanatical followers of the imam were trying to kill him, too. Everything he believed about the efficacy of diplomacy and “building bridges of friendship among the nations of the world” had just gone up in the flames of his government-issued sedan.

But then the name Mohammad Shirazi came to mind.

Charlie immediately tried to banish it from his thoughts. It was crazy. The man might be his neighbor, but he was an Iranian. He was a Muslim. The man’s wife, Nasreen, might be a fantastic chef, and she seemed to have taken a real liking to Claire-even caring for Claire sacrificially on some of the worst days of her morning sickness-but the Shirazis were Shias. They were enemies now.

Still, Mohammad was a doctor-an impressive cardiologist. He was young, to be sure-no more than thirty, Charlie guessed-but highly regarded throughout the city. His practice was not far away. Charlie and Claire had actually been there just a few weeks earlier for a little party celebrating the grand opening of Mohammad’s new, state-of-the-art medical clinic. Perhaps he should head there and ask for help. It was risky, but what choice did he have? The Shirazis might be his only hope.

Charlie eased off the gas, downshifted, slowed to a safe speed, and did an illegal U-turn. Six blocks later, he pulled into the parking lot beside Dr. Shirazi’s clinic. He saw only three cars, one of which he knew to be his neighbor’s. Charlie glanced in his rearview mirror. A truck filled with soldiers was passing and slowed as it did. Charlie put his head down and held his breath. The truck stopped for a moment. Charlie wasn’t sure he even believed in God, but he said a silent prayer anyway, begging for mercy for himself, for his wife, and for the little life in her womb. A moment later, the soldiers sped away.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Charlie pulled the VW close to the clinic’s back door and turned off the engine. Then he slipped inside the clinic and found himself face-to-face with a woman receptionist who was veiled and clearly devout. In the waiting room, the TV was on. Regular programming had been interrupted by news of the latest developments at the American Embassy.

“May I help you?” the receptionist asked in Farsi.

“I need to see Dr. Shirazi,” Charlie replied in kind.

“Do you have an appointment?” she asked.

“I’m sorry, I don’t,” he stammered. “But I’m a friend-a neighbor, actually. And it’s a bit of an emergency.”

“What kind of an emergency?”

Charlie didn’t want to say. Not to this woman. Not now. But he didn’t know what else to do. He hadn’t thought that far ahead.

Charlie glanced at his watch. He had to move fast. Claire needed serious medical attention and quickly-before the secret police tracked down the VW. He glanced around the room. There was just one older man sitting in the waiting room to his left, watching the TV coverage and shaking his head. He didn’t look religious. He didn’t look angry. Perhaps Charlie could take a chance, he thought. Perhaps he could…

Just then Charlie heard Dr. Shirazi’s voice calling to his receptionist. “Who is my next patient?”

Charlie turned his head and saw his neighbor stepping out of his office, and surprise registered on the man’s face.

“Charlie Harper?” he said. “What a pleasure to see you, my friend.”

The doctor greeted Charlie with a traditional Persian hug and a kiss on both cheeks.

“Is everything all right, Charlie?” Dr. Shirazi asked, looking at the bloodstains on his shirt and pants.

“I must speak to you privately,” Charlie blurted out.

The office phone started ringing.

“Yes, of course. Is this blood? What happened?”

Charlie shook his head and lowered his voice, hoping neither the receptionist nor the old man in the waiting room would be able to hear him, though he couldn’t help but notice the receptionist’s intensifying curiosity. The phone kept ringing.

“It’s not me, Dr. Shirazi. It’s Claire.”

“What’s wrong? Where is she?”

“She’s in the car, right outside,” Charlie whispered. “Could you come for a moment and take a look at her?”

Dr. Shirazi readily agreed, telling his receptionist to go ahead and answer the phone and take a message, and he would be right back. She finally picked up the phone as the two men moved quickly to the door.

A moment later, Charlie watched the horrified expression on Dr. Shirazi’s face as he opened the side door of the VW bus and found Claire soaked in blood.

Charlie quickly explained what had happened.

“We need to get Claire to the hospital,” the doctor said.

“No,” Charlie said. “That’s not possible.”

“You have no choice,” Dr. Shirazi said.

“Haven’t you been watching the coverage of the embassy this morning?”

“No,” the doctor said, shaking his head. “I’ve been with patients all morning.”

“The embassy has been overrun. The staff is being held hostage. Some may have been killed. The rest of us are being hunted.”

Shirazi’s face paled. “I’m so sorry, Charlie. I had no idea. But your wife needs a blood transfusion or she’s going to die. She needs an ob-gyn. That’s not my specialty. I can’t help her.”

“You have to,” Charlie insisted. “And then we’re leaving the country.”