Joel Rosenberg - The Twelfth Imam

He closed his eyes and tried to remember the poetry he’d memorized as a youth. The great scientist and poet Ibn Sina, whose tomb was one of the proudest possessions of their city, had written, “Up from Earth’s Centre through the Seventh Gate, I rose, and on the Throne of Saturn sate, and many Knots unravel’d by the Road, but not the Master-knot of Human Fate.”

He had just begun to drift off when he felt a deep shudder beneath him and the car rising up and lurching forward. His eyes now wide open, Esfahani saw the earth outside his window moving like the waves of the sea. He saw an apartment building to his left rock and sway and then collapse before him.

“Hold on, sir! I don’t know what is happening! Oh, save us, Allah!” the driver cried, calling out to heaven and trying to reassure his wealthy passenger at the same time.

The Mercedes pitched and heaved on the writhing pavement and then slammed down violently, crashing headlong into a telephone pole. As if in slow motion, Esfahani saw the pole snap in two and start falling back toward the car. There was no time to run and nowhere to hide. Esfahani covered his head and face with his arms, and an instant later, the pole slammed down across the front of their car, crushing his driver and sending glass and blood everywhere.

Terrified, Esfahani scrambled out of the backseat of the car, only to hear the rumbling of the massive earthquake intensifying. The road shook violently. People were running and screaming everywhere. Esfahani searched for a place to take cover but found none. He looked to his left and saw more houses and office buildings collapsing. To his right he saw a long cement wall, roughly two meters high, gyrating wildly as if alive. And then, as he watched in horror, helpless to do anything, he saw the wall collapse atop a woman and her baby.

Finally, after what seemed like several minutes, the ground stopped shaking. But the screaming from all sides of him grew louder and wilder. The air was rapidly filling with debris and clouds of dust. People were running through the streets, crazed with panic. They looked like ghosts, covered in white powder. Esfahani pulled out his cell phone, but there was no signal. What was he supposed to do?

He felt dizzy as he walked slowly toward the side of the road and the fallen wall, choking on dust. He slumped to the ground and closed his eyes tightly to shut out the chaos around him.

“Save me, Allah, most merciful!” he cried. “Show me what to do, where to go!”

When he opened his eyes again, he saw several men from a nearby construction site trying desperately to move massive slabs of concrete off the woman and her screaming child. They were calling for help to anyone who could hear them, calling for people to help move the rubble and try to save these people’s lives.

At that moment, Esfahani felt a strong hand on his shoulder. He prayed it was a medical worker, a policeman, someone of use to him, but as he looked up, he met the eyes of a young mullah. The man had an urgency in his expression, but not fear, not confusion.

“I am here,” he said.

The mullah quickly joined the workers heaving pieces of cement and rebar from the sidewalk, and as they did, they were able to pull the baby out first and then her mother. Remarkably, the child was relatively unscathed, but Esfahani turned away in disgust when he saw the woman’s legs twisted gruesomely behind her and covered in blood. Yet the young holy man did not turn away. Rather, Esfahani watched in shock as the mullah knelt next to the woman while she wept with despair.

“You are a righteous daughter,” he said.

“Help me!” she cried. “I can’t move! I can’t feel anything below my waist!”

The mullah began to speak in what sounded to Esfahani’s ears like an ancient language, in a mesmerizing tone that seemed almost like poetry. Then the mullah took the woman’s hands in his and lifted her gently to her feet. A crowd had formed, but now-stunned-people began to back away.

“She’s walking!” someone exclaimed.

“He healed her!” another yelled.

Realizing it was true, that her crushed legs had suddenly been restored to normal and that even the bleeding had stopped and the ugly gashes had disappeared, the woman began crying all the more. Then she fell at the man’s feet, praising him and thanking him for saving her.

“Walk in righteousness, daughter,” the young man said, kissing her baby on the head and giving the child back to the woman. “And tell everyone you know that I am come, the long-awaited One, the Miraculous.”

“Praise to the Prince of Mercy!” the woman cried out in ecstasy. “It is our Imam! The Twelfth Imam! The Mahdi has come, blessed be he!”

Esfahani stared at the scene in awe. He had come. He was standing right before them. Esfahani began to shout praises as well, and then the Mahdi unexpectedly turned to him, smiled, and placed his hand upon Esfahani’s head, causing him to bow low in prayer. But when Esfahani lifted his eyes again, the Twelfth Imam was gone.

Munich, Germany

Just before dawn, David’s mobile phone rang.

He was still awake, reading Dr. Birjandi’s book cover to cover. He took the call and found Eva on the line asking him if he’d heard about the massive earthquake that had just hit northwestern Iran. David hadn’t but immediately turned on his TV.

The epicenter of the quake, he soon learned, was not far from the city of Hamadan in the north of the country. Already, officials for Iran’s Red Crescent emergency relief services were estimating at least three thousand people were dead and more than twenty thousand wounded. Yet just by watching the devastation in the early video images being beamed out of the ancient city, it was clear to David that the casualty figures were going to climb throughout the day. Eva said she was already in touch with the MDS technical crew in Tehran. None of them had been affected, and her team at the MDS operations center in Dubai was in the process of contacting their families to reassure them that they were all right.

“I have an idea,” David said.

“What’s that?”

“Find out if the muckety-mucks upstairs would be willing to set up a relief fund to care for families of the survivors in Hamadan. Maybe if Iran Telecom does something, we could provide matching funds.”

“That’s a great idea,” Eva said.

But David wasn’t done. “What if we let Rashidi and Esfahani know that if they’d be willing to run the fund-set it up, decide who gets the money, that kind of thing-that they can keep 10 percent as an administrative fee?”

“That could be hundreds of thousands of dollars,” Eva said.

“Exactly.”

“Can they be bought that easily?”

“I think they can, as long as they don’t think that they’re being bought,” David said. “They have to think it’s simply money they’re due for a job well done. What do you think?”

“It’s brilliant,” Eva said and hung up.

An hour later, she was back on the phone. She had reached the CEO of Munich Digital Systems at a conference in Singapore. He loved the idea and had already committed to put five million euros into the account. David was impressed with her persuasiveness.

Then it was David’s turn. It took several attempts, but after a few hours he reached Esfahani on his cell phone. The man seemed out of breath with what David perceived as excitement rather than the stress he had anticipated.

“Most systems are down,” Esfahani explained. “We’ve got crews working on things already, but I’m still amazed you got through. You must come to Hamadan immediately. I have seen him-he is here!”

“Who is here?” David asked cautiously.

“The Mahdi, of course! Who else? Reza, I tell you I saw him with my own eyes. He touched me; he spoke to me. I saw him do a miracle! Where are you right now?”