Joel Rosenberg - The Twelfth Imam

David did some more poking around the Internet to double-check his memory on the Comprehensive Nuclear Test Ban Treaty. Sure enough, Iran was one of the 182 signatories to the pact. By signing, it had agreed with all the other signatory states to two central provisions.

First, “Each State Party undertakes not to carry out any nuclear weapon test explosion or any other nuclear explosion, and to prohibit and prevent any such nuclear explosion at any place under its jurisdiction or control.”

Second, “Each State Party undertakes, furthermore, to refrain from causing, encouraging, or in any way participating in the carrying out of any nuclear weapon test explosion or any other nuclear explosion.”

By way of enforcement, David knew, the International Monitoring System (IMS) and International Data Center (IDC) had been established. These networks included over three hundred primary and auxiliary seismic monitoring stations worldwide specifically tracking all seismic events and determining whether they were natural or triggered by a nuclear explosion. The difference was fairly simple for experts to discern. In an earthquake, seismic activity was slow at first and then steadily intensified as tectonic plates scraped against one another. But when a nuclear blast occurred, the seismic activity would be incredibly intense at first and then would slow down over a few minutes.

Which one had just happened at Hamadan? David didn’t know, but he had to get Langley checking. Taking a risk, he decided to use his Nokia to send an encrypted message back to Zalinsky and Fischer. There was a slight chance that the encrypted message would be picked up-not read but noticed-by Iranian intelligence, since it was being sent from an area so close to the epicenter of the quake. But it was a risk he had to take. He typed quickly.

FLASH TRAFFIC-PRIORITY ALPHA: Request immediate focus on Hamadan earthquake. Stop. Possible nuclear test. Stop. Check IMS/IDC data. Stop. Request immediate CP pass. Stop. Possible link to death of Saddaji. Stop. Also: indications that TTI recruiting army of 10,000 mujahideen. Stop. Source close to TTI says plan is to “annihilate” Tel Aviv, DC, New York, and LA. Stop. Working to get more details. Stop. Will call secure when I can. Stop. Out.

Dubai, United Arab Emirates

Zalinsky was getting frustrated again.

The Saddaji news had been useful. But was David Shirazi actually suggesting the Iranians had just conducted a nuclear test-the first in the country’s history-in Hamadan, of all places? The notion was ridiculous. The Iranians had their Shahrokhi Air Base about thirty miles north of the city. But they certainly didn’t have nuclear facilities in or around Hamadan.

Then came the audacity of Zephyr’s suggestion that the United States Air Force dispatch its high-tech WC-135 “nuclear test-sniffing plane”-code-named CP for Constant Phoenix-over Iran. Did he really think the secretary of defense and the joint chiefs of staff were going to authorize an expensive flyover of a hostile country amid such a delicate diplomatic dance with the Iranians? Based on what? speculation? guesses? gut instincts? Zalinsky could just imagine the dressing-down he’d receive from the higher-ups within the CIA, at the Pentagon, and at the White House when the air sample data sent from Constant Phoenix to the Air Force Technical Applications Center at Patrick Air Force Base in Florida came back negative. No radiation. No evidence of a nuclear test whatsoever. He’d be a laughingstock.

What’s more, “Reza Tabrizi’s” interest in TTI, presumably the Twelfth Imam, was a distraction. It worried Zalinsky, and it disrupted the controlled and careful tone with which he wanted this operation to be carried out. The kid seemed to think this religious fervor was going to boil over into drastic events any minute, but Zalinsky wasn’t convinced anything new was happening in the hearts of these madmen. They were on a steady course to develop nuclear weapons, and his team needed to remain on a steady course to stop them, not to act rashly.

It was almost 10 p.m. when Birjandi’s door finally opened.

David, devouring his third book on Shia eschatology from the old man’s shelves, watched him make his way slowly to the kitchen.

“Would you like some help?” he asked, setting a hefty tome aside.

“Yes, son, that would be very kind.”

Together, they made a pot of tea and set out a plate of naan, Iranian bread that was a favorite of David’s. He was anxious to ask his host about the Twelfth Imam, the earthquake, Iran’s weapons program, and a thousand other things. But as David carried the tray to the study and the two sat down together, he sensed the man was not quite ready to talk about such things. He had to be patient, he reminded himself. He had to pace himself. This was a source and a potentially high-value one at that. He needed to build a relationship, some camaraderie, some trust. Above all, he had to be careful not to offend the man. Birjandi had been described by many as a recluse. David needed to find a way to open him up.

He smiled as Dr. Birjandi popped a sugar cube in his mouth and then began sipping his tea. It was just the way his father used to drink tea. He hadn’t seen his father do it in many years, but somehow watching Birjandi made David feel homesick. He missed his father, worried for his mother, and felt a sudden hunger for home that surprised him. He looked out the window at the quiet suburban street and saw a young family walking past, the man a few strides ahead of the woman and several children running around them. They sat in silence for a while, and Birjandi seemed to enjoy the quiet. And then, as David took a piece of bread and began to chew it slowly, he had an idea.

“May I ask you a question, sir?” he began.

“Of course,” the old man said. “What’s on your mind?”

“Were you ever in love?”

Dr. Birjandi cleared his throat in surprise. “That was not a question I was expecting when Abdol said you wanted to come over to meet me.”

“I’m sorry. It’s just that-”

“No, no, it’s a good question,” Birjandi interrupted, “and an honest one. I appreciate a young man who is not all business.”

David had been taught at the Farm not to throw fastballs straight down the center of the plate. Curveballs and the occasional slider tended to work better, throwing the batter off a bit. It didn’t always work. But this time, he sensed it just might.

“I will tell you the truth, son,” the old man said between sips of tea. “I was in love with the same girl for sixty-seven years, and I’m still in love with her. She passed away six months ago, but I think about her every moment of every day. I have an ache in my heart that will not leave.”

“I’m so sorry,” David said.

“It’s okay,” Birjandi responded. “It hurts now, but soon enough we will walk hand in hand in paradise, reunited forever. I cannot wait.”

David was moved by the man’s devotion to his bride. “What was her name?”

“Souri.”

“A red rose,” David said. “That’s a beautiful name.”

“As was she,” Birjandi said. “Her heart, anyway. Her voice. The touch of her hands. The smell of the flowers she would pick in the morning. I never had the joy of seeing her. But then again, I didn’t need to see her to know her. All I could do was listen to her speak, but the more I listened, the more I knew her, and the more I knew her, the more I loved her. Someday, when we meet in paradise, I will finally get to see just how beautiful she really is. That will be something, won’t it?”