Joel Rosenberg - The Twelfth Imam

“That’s impossible. Even if you could get through security at the airport, your wife would never survive the flight.”

“Please, Dr. Shirazi, I need you to take care of her-privately, without anyone knowing. I’ll pay whatever it costs.”

“Charlie, you don’t understand. I’m a cardiologist. Your wife has a dying child in her womb. She is dying too. I can’t-”

Charlie grabbed the man by his shoulders and looked deeply into his eyes. “Dr. Shirazi, listen to me. I love your country. You know I do. It was once a paradise. But something evil has happened, something neither of us understands. I’m telling you, if Claire and I are caught by this regime, they will try us, and they will kill us on statewide television for the whole country and the whole world to see. That’s not going to happen. I don’t care about myself. But so help me God, I will never let one of them lay so much as a finger on Claire. Now please, I’m begging you as my friend, help me. I don’t have anywhere else to turn.”

The two men stared into each other’s eyes.

“You’re right,” the doctor finally conceded. “I’m sorry. You and Claire deserve better. So does your country. This is not the Iran I grew up in. I don’t even recognize this place anymore.”

The back door burst open. It was the receptionist, calling for her boss.

“I asked you to hold my calls,” Dr. Shirazi replied.

“Yes, sir, but it’s your wife, sir. She says it’s urgent.”

Charlie saw the conflict in his friend’s eyes. “Go,” he said. “Take the call.”

Charlie was fast losing hope, but what else could he say? He sensed a measure of warmth and compassion in Dr. Shirazi that he deeply appreciated. The doctor seemed genuinely to want to help him. Time was running out, but Charlie didn’t want to do anything that would make his friend upset.

A moment later, Dr. Shirazi came back to the VW. “Nasreen has been watching events on television. She says you’re right. You can’t go to a hospital. She says I should bring you there.”

“There?” Charlie asked, perplexed. “Where’s there?”

“The embassy.”

Charlie just stared at the man. Was he trying to make a joke? If so, it was cruel in the extreme, yet he looked earnest.

“Embassy?” Charlie finally asked. “What embassy?”

“The Canadians,” Shirazi replied. “They’re preparing to evacuate most of their staff. They’re worried they might be next.”

They heard sirens approaching.

“Your wife works for the Canadian Embassy?” Charlie asked, wondering why he’d never heard this before.

“Of course,” the doctor said. “I told you that.”

“No, you said she was a translator for the U.N.”

“Yes,” Dr. Shirazi said, “she used to work for the Foreign Ministry on U.N. issues. But she got a new job. Last month. I told you that. I’m sure I did. She began doing some contract work for the Canadians. She says there are a few more Americans who’ve just arrived. They’re hiding there now. She says if we can get there in the next fifteen minutes, she’ll have the medical unit on standby for Claire.”

“And then?” Charlie asked.

“What do you mean?”

“What happens to us after that?”

“I don’t know, my friend,” Dr. Shirazi said. “One step at a time.”

With great care, Charlie and Dr. Shirazi lifted Claire and transferred her from the VW bus to the plush leather backseat of the doctor’s roomy Mercedes sedan. Charlie then got into the VW and followed Shirazi a few blocks away to an alley behind a small manufacturing plant that made women’s shoes. There, Charlie quickly wiped down both the interior and exterior of the vehicle to erase fingerprints and any other forensic evidence as best he could, then ditched the VW. He climbed into the backseat of the Mercedes and held his wife as Shirazi sped to the residence of the Canadian ambassador.

Nasreen, six Canadian security officers, and a team of medics met them at the rear gate. Charlie had to surrender his pistol, but they were all quickly let inside, and Claire was whisked into surgery. Charlie started to follow but was asked to wait in the residence. The Shirazis waited with him. They were offered food but couldn’t eat. They were offered drinks but had no interest.

As the tense and lonely hours passed with no word about Claire’s condition, four other American Embassy employees approached, introduced themselves, and said they were praying for the Harpers. Charlie, fighting a debilitating cocktail of fatigue and depression, couldn’t recall ever meeting any of them before. They all worked in the consular section, handling visa issues, and had been able to escape in the initial moments of the morning’s drama and find a safe haven with the Canadians. Charlie was grateful for their kindness.

As the sun began to set and long shadows filled the ambassador’s personal library, where they waited, the Canadian doctor in charge of the embassy’s medical unit came in and broke the news. Claire would recover, though it would take several weeks. The baby, however, had been lost.

Charlie was not usually a man prone to tears. He’d never seen his father cry, and today was, as far as he could remember, the first time he’d cried since he had met, courted, and married Claire. But now he slumped into the nearest chair and began to sob. At first he did his best to muffle the sound of his lamentations, but he couldn’t stop them. They emanated from somewhere so deep inside his soul, he was beyond embarrassment.

The Shirazis gathered at Charlie’s side, put their arms around him, and held him. They, too, had tears streaming down their faces.

Charlie awoke as if from a nightmare.

The room was pitch-black. With a brief flash of hope, he reached for Claire, but she was not there. He rubbed his eyes and checked his Timex. It was half past three in the morning. It was Wednesday, November 7, 1979. Then a cruel realization came over him. This wasn’t a dream. All of it was bitterly true.

Three days had passed since the nightmare had begun, and he had no earthly idea how long it would last. Claire remained in serious but stable condition. She’d been conscious for only a few hours a day, and for the rest of each dark and dismal day, Charlie had never felt so alone.

Feeling famished and realizing he had barely eaten since Sunday, Charlie got up, put on a robe someone had lent him, and padded out of his guest room and down several flights of stairs to the kitchen. There he was startled to find Ambassador Taylor and the Shirazis. A Filipino steward was preparing soup and some sandwiches. Apparently Charlie wasn’t the only one who couldn’t sleep.

“It’s good to see you, Charlie,” Mohammad Shirazi said.

“Come,” Nasreen said, pulling up a chair, “sit here with us.”

Charlie nodded his thanks and sank into the chair.

The Canadian ambassador leaned toward Charlie. “You’ll be glad to know I’ve been in touch with your State Department. We’re working on plans to get you and Claire back to the States as soon as she’s healthy enough.”

“Thank you,” Charlie said. “That’s very kind.”

“We’re hoping, of course, that this whole thing blows over in the next few days,” the ambassador observed.

“That doesn’t seem likely, does it?” Charlie asked.

“Not at the moment, no. But you should hear the plan the CIA is cooking up in case this thing goes on for a while. It’s a bit… thin.”

“What do you mean?” Charlie asked.

For the next few minutes, the ambassador sketched out the craziest scheme Charlie had ever heard. From the looks on their faces, the Shirazis thought it was nuts too. Charlie didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He hoped their situation wouldn’t require a solution as cockamamy as that. It would never work, he knew. The Iranians were fanatics. The secret police at the airport would never buy it. But once again, he realized he had no other choice. Clearly his fate was not in his own hands. Perhaps he ought to resign himself to that fact, he figured, for he was simply too tired to resist.