Joel Rosenberg - The Twelfth Imam

Numb, David stared at the screen, wishing he could simply shut down the computer and make the story go away but unable to take his eyes off the words.

Why had he done it? The date of his death told part of the story, but not all of it. No matter how much pain the man was in, how could Mr. Harper have done that to Marseille? She needed him. She loved him. He was all she had in this world. How could he have abandoned her? And how would she ever erase the image of finding her father in those woods?

He hadn’t known Marseille was a teacher, but he had no doubt she was a great one, and he hoped somehow she could go on teaching despite all that had happened. He hadn’t known that the Harpers lived on Sauvie Island. He’d never even heard of Sauvie Island. A quick check of Wikipedia revealed that it was the largest island along the Columbia River and lay approximately ten miles northwest of downtown Portland. The island was made up mainly of farmland and boasted barely a thousand year-round residents. “Bicyclists flock to the island because its flat topography and lengthy low-volume roads make it ideal for cycling,” he read. It wasn’t the Jersey Shore, but it did sound like a beautiful place to live.

He had learned another thing from the article, something that had come out of left field. He had never known that Mr. Harper’s middle name was David. His father had never told him. Nor had his mother. Marseille had never said anything, and he’d never had more than a few brief conversations with Mr. Harper himself. He’d had to read it in an obituary, but in that moment it dawned on him that his parents had named him after the man who had saved their lives. There were no other Davids in the Shirazi family tree. He had been named after Charles David Harper, and now the man was dead.

Hamadan, Iran

Najjar Malik lay in bed, unable to move.

He had awoken with a fever of 104 and a head that felt like it was going to explode. Sheyda did her best to take care of him all morning. She brought him cold washcloths for his face, stomach, and chest. She fed him spoonfuls of ice chips and cold yogurt. She also contacted their doctor and asked him to come over to their apartment for a house call, which he promptly did. By noon, the doctor had already come and gone, having given Najjar antibiotics to fight off whatever infection was presently coursing through his body.

“Honey,” Sheyda said in a whisper, “I’m going to take the baby over to Mother’s so there’s no risk of her getting sick, okay?”

“You’re going to leave me?” Najjar groaned.

“Just for a little bit,” she promised. “Just to drop off the baby and have lunch with Daddy. Then I’ll be right back. Is there anything I can get you at the store?”

Najjar asked for some ice cream, then closed his eyes and drifted off again. He knew why this was happening but didn’t dare tell her. It was because he had watched that program by the Christians. Allah was punishing him, he knew, and he deserved it.

It had been too long since he’d had lunch with his daughter.

So despite the enormous responsibilities weighing on him and his team, Dr. Mohammed Saddaji took his precious Sheyda to his favorite restaurant in Hamadan. It was a cozy little place on Eshqi Street, best known for its savory chicken biryani and its intimate setting. It was the first restaurant he had taken his wife, Farah, to when they had moved to Hamadan years before, and Saddaji had loved it ever since.

“Thank you so much for having lunch with me, Daddy,” Sheyda said as they sat on thick cushions and sipped tea. “I know it isn’t easy for you, with your important schedule.”

“Come, come, sweetheart,” Saddaji replied. “I would do anything for you. You know that, right?”

“Of course, Daddy. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Saddaji said, and then his tired, haggard eyes lit up. “Now guess what?”

“What?”

“I have a surprise for you.”

“What is it?”

“I can’t simply tell you,” he insisted. “What would be the fun in that?”

“Can you give me a hint?”

“For you, of course.” He smiled broadly. “As you know, my work is going very well. The Leader is very happy with what I’m doing, and we’re about to reach a major breakthrough in the next week or so.”

He paused for a moment to let the anticipation build, and it worked. He could see it in his daughter’s eyes.

“When that breakthrough occurs,” he continued, “your father is going to be promoted, and when I am, I’m told I am going to have the honor of meeting someone you and I have always wanted to meet.”

Sheyda’s eyes went wide. “Daddy,” she whispered with tremendous excitement, “you don’t mean-”

But he cut her off before she could finish the sentence. “Yes, my dear, but you may not say it aloud, even in a whisper.”

“I promise,” she said, covering her mouth with her hands. “I’m so sorry.”

“There’s no need to be sorry, but you must be discreet. After all, you are coming with me.”

“I am?”

“Of course,” Saddaji said. “How could I keep this honor all to myself?”

“Can Mother come too? and Najjar?” Sheyda asked, barely able to contain herself.

“Yes, yes, I’ve cleared you all. But it will be just the four of us. I’m told it will be a private meeting. We won’t even know where it will be held until the last possible moment.”

Sheyda could barely contain herself. “He’s here?” she whispered. “He’s really here?”

“That’s what I’m told,” he replied. “Soon the whole world will know. But they must not learn it from us.”

“My lips are sealed; you have my word,” Sheyda promised. “And you must forgive me. I don’t even know what kind of project you’ve been working on. I hardly ever see you, and when I do, we just talk about the baby. So what is it, that you are being rewarded with such an incredible honor?”

“That I cannot tell you, my dear. Not just yet. But when he is revealed, all shall become clear. Now, how is motherhood treating you?”

Munich, Germany

David checked his phone messages.

Perhaps Marseille had called. He wanted to hear her voice again. He wanted to call her and tell her how grieved he was for her loss. But there was only one message on his voice mail, and it wasn’t from her.

“Hi, David, it’s Dad,” the message began. “I hope you’re doing well. I hope you’re not working too hard, though I realize that may be too much to ask. But listen, I’m afraid I have some bad news. Your mother’s health has taken a turn for the worse. She’s been admitted to the hospital for tests. Could you call me? I’ll fill you in then. Love you, Son. Okay, then; bye.”

The message was already several days old. A wave of guilt washed over David as he speed-dialed his father’s cell phone. Dr. Shirazi answered on the first ring. He was still at the hospital but was glad to hear from David and quick to forgive his son for not returning the call sooner. He told David his mother was resting just then and that it would still be several days until they got the test results.

“They’re going to keep her here at Upstate Medical until we know more,” he said. “But it would mean a lot to her if you could take a break from all your work and all your travels to come back and see her.”

“Dad, I was just there.”