The Twelfth Imam

by Joel C. Rosenberg

  “This, dear children of Persia,” he bellowed over the loudspeakers, “is your key to paradise.”

  23

  Hosseini suddenly woke from his dream.

  Beside him in their bed, his wife was weeping. He glanced at the clock on the nightstand. It was almost two in the morning.

  Every year, for eighteen years, he had endured the same ritual. Every year he dreamed about that special day with his boys and savored the memories. Every year he awoke in the middle of the night to comfort the wife of his youth and hold her in his arms. And every year he resented her for it.

  “They were good boys,” she sobbed. “They didn’t deserve to die.”

  “Yes, they were good boys,” he replied softly. “That’s why they deserved the honor of death.”

  “You had no right to send them.”

  “I had every right. Indeed, I had a responsibility. I had no choice.”

  “You did.”

  “I did not, and neither did you.”

  “How can you say that every year?”

  “How can you?” he demanded, his patience wearing thin. “Do you want to burn in the fires of hell?”

  She shook her head as the tears continued to pour down her cheeks.

  “Then stop being so foolish,” he said, holding her more tightly. “They were not ours to keep. They were Allah’s. He gave them to us. We gave them back.”

  At that she pulled away and jumped out of bed, screaming hysterically. “Gave them back? Gave them back? You sent them into the minefields, Hamid! They were children! Bahadur. Firuz. Qubad. They were my children, not just yours. You sent them to walk across minefields! You sent them to blow themselves into a thousand pieces. For what? To clear the path for our tanks and our soldiers to kill Iraqis. That is not the job of a child. Shame on you! Shame!”

  Hosseini leaped out of bed. His heart was racing. His face was red. He stormed over to his wife and slapped her to the ground.

  “You wicked woman!” he roared. “I am proud of my sons. They are martyrs. They are shaheeds. I honor their memory. But you disgrace them. You disgrace them by this weeping. To mourn them is to disbelieve. You are an infidel!”

  Hosseini began beating her mercilessly, but she would not relent.

  “Infidel?” she screamed as his blows rained down upon her. “I am an infidel? You sent little Qubad to Iraq to step on a land mine! Curse you, Hamid. He was ten. All I have left of him is a piece of that plastic key and a tuft of his hair. And what do I have of Bahadur? or Firuz? If this is Islam, I don’t want any part of it. You and the Ayatollah bought a half-million keys. You are sick, all of you. This is your religion, not mine. I hate you. I hate all of you who practice this evil!”

  Hosseini’s eyes went wide. Stunned momentarily by his wife’s words, he suddenly stopped beating her. He just stared at her, trying to comprehend the turn of events. She had never supported him in this decision. Not from day one. Every year, she wept. Every year, he comforted her. But it had been eighteen years. It was enough. Now she had gone too far.

  As she sobbed on the floor, her face bloodied and bruised, Hosseini walked over to his dresser, opened the top drawer, and pulled out the nickel-plated revolver his father had given him on his thirteenth birthday. He knew it was loaded. It was always loaded. He cocked the hammer and turned toward his wife. Hearing the hammer, his wife turned her head and looked into his eyes. She was quivering. He didn’t care. She was no longer a Muslim. She was no longer his wife. He raised the pistol, aimed it at her face, and pulled the trigger.

  The sound echoed through their modest home, and soon several bodyguards rushed in, guns drawn, ready to protect their master with their lives. They were stunned to see the Supreme Leader’s wife on the floor in a pool of her own blood. Hosseini had no need to explain himself. Certainly not to his own guards. He simply instructed them to clean up the mess and bury the body. Then he set the pistol back in his dresser drawer, washed his hands and face, walked down the hall to one of their guest rooms, and lay down on the bed, where he fell fast asleep.

  Never had he slept so peacefully, and as he slept, he dreamed of the day when the Twelfth Imam would finally come and reunite him with his sons.

  24

  Baghdad, Iraq

  February 2002

  “Excuse me, are you Najjar Malik?”

  Surprised to hear his name whispered in the central reading room of the University of Baghdad library, Najjar looked up from one of his books and found himself staring into the eyes of a swarthy older man in a dark suit. Najjar could not place the face or the voice. Cautiously, he acknowledged that he was, in fact, Najjar Malik.

  “You have a visitor,” the man whispered.

  He was attracting the attention of several students reading nearby, and Najjar was suddenly uncomfortable.

  “Who?”

  “I cannot say,” the man said. “But come with me. I will take you to him.”

  Najjar glanced at his watch. He had his next class in fifteen minutes.

  “Do not worry,” the man said. “This will only take a moment. He is right outside.”

  “What is this about?”

  “I cannot say. But he told me to tell you, ‘It will be worth your while.’”

  Najjar sincerely doubted that. He had neither time for nor interest in a wild-goose chase. He was on pace to complete his doctoral dissertation a full fourteen months ahead of his colleagues of the same age. He didn’t go to the movies. He didn’t hang out with friends. He didn’t date. Aside from the library, the lab, and his apartment, the only other place he ever went was the mosque every morning for predawn prayer.

  Yet something about this person compelled Najjar to agree. Curious, he gathered his books, slid them quietly into his backpack, and slipped out the back door of the library, following the man to a black sedan in the parking lot. The strange man hurriedly opened the rear door and nodded for Najjar to enter. The contrast between the dimly lit library and the dazzling sunshine of a gorgeous mid-February day caused Najjar momentary blindness. Squinting as his eyes adjusted, he couldn’t immediately see anyone in the backseat of the sedan, and something within him urged caution. Yet again, for some reason he could not explain, he felt strangely driven to follow the man’s instructions. Once inside, the door closed behind him and he heard a voice he recognized, a voice from the past.

  “Najjar, good afternoon,” the voice said. “What a joy to see you again.”

  “Dr. Saddaji?” Najjar replied, hardly believing his eyes. “Is that really you?”

  “It has been too long, has it not?”

  “A long time indeed, sir.”

  Najjar’s heart raced, as much with terror as with excitement. Was this really Mohammed Saddaji, famous scientist and father of Najjar’s childhood sweetheart, Sheyda? But the Saddajis had moved away from Iraq years ago; how could he be back after so long? Was Sheyda with him? Was Mrs. Saddaji? How could they be? Wouldn’t they all be killed?

  “To what do I owe the honor, sir? I have not heard from your family since you moved to Iran.”

  “No one can know that I am here—no one,” Dr. Saddaji whispered. “I don’t have to tell you that I am in grave danger and that now you are too, do I? There are many who would like to see me hang . . . or worse.”

  Najjar swallowed hard. “I understand.”

  “You will be killed if anyone learns that you and I have so much as been in contact,” Dr. Saddaji said quietly. “You do understand this, right?”

  “Yes, sir,” Najjar replied. “I will tell no one. You have my word.”

  “That is good enough for me,” Dr. Saddaji said. “Sheyda has always spoken highly of you, Najjar. Her mother and I always found you to be a good boy—trustworthy and sincere.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Najjar said, hardly believing he was hearing her name again after so long.

  “Your parents raised you well. I was heartbroken by their deaths.”

  “Thank you, again, sir. That is very kind.”

>   “I don’t have much time. I have come back for one purpose and one purpose only.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I am a Persian, Najjar. You know that.”

  “Yes.”

  “I am not an Arab—Allah forbid.”

  “Yes, sir, I know.”

  “I am a Shia and proud of it. You know this, yes?”

  “I do.”

  “You know why I left Iraq, don’t you?”

  The young man thought he did but felt it best to say nothing.

  “It was because I could not bear to see the gifts Allah has given me be used to help . . . certain people in this town.”

  Najjar knew Dr. Saddaji didn’t dare speak ill of Saddam. Not directly. Not even here, in the privacy of his car. Not now. No one dared to speak ill of Saddam, but especially not one of Iraq’s top nuclear scientists. Or rather, ex–nuclear scientists. Najjar’s heart beat faster, and despite the air-conditioning pouring out of the vents of the sedan, he could feel perspiration beginning to run down his back.

  It was still stunning to Najjar that the government had ever let Dr. Saddaji study nuclear physics at the University of Baghdad, much less graduate, much less teach and do research, given his Iranian heritage and the intense historic hatred between the Persians and the Arabs. Yet Saddam and his bloodthirsty sons had desperately wanted to build the first Islamic Bomb. Their reasons were simple. They wanted to destroy the Zionists. They wanted to blackmail their neighbors. They wanted to keep the Americans at bay, dominate the Middle East, and in time, rebuild the Babylonian Empire. Saddam had wanted the Bomb so badly that he had been willing to give this man a degree of freedom and latitude he would never have given any other Iranian during the 1980s as the deadly Iran–Iraq War raged on for nearly eight brutal years.

  Dr. Saddaji was, without question, the most brilliant nuclear scientist Iraq had ever produced. His success had provided the inspiration for Najjar to follow in his footsteps and pursue his master’s and doctorate in nuclear physics. The man had almost single-handedly rebuilt Iraq’s nuclear program after the Israelis had wiped out the Osirak reactor during the air strikes of 1981.

  But ten years later, when the first Gulf War had broken out in January of 1991 and the Americans had invaded southern Iraq and crushed the forces of Saddam’s prized Republican Guard, Dr. Saddaji had seized on the opportunity provided by the chaos and confusion of the American air strikes on Baghdad. He and his family had fled the capital, slipped across the border into Iran, and asked for political asylum in Tehran. Rumor had it that when Saddam learned that the Saddajis had defected—to Iran of all places—he issued orders for every person named Saddaji in the country to be killed, on the off chance that they were related to “the traitor.”

  Now the legendary nuclear scientist was back in Baghdad, despite the enormous risk to his life. But why? Najjar stared into the older man’s eyes, looking for clues. He saw no fear in those eyes. Just wisdom. Experience. And something else. There was a long pause. And then . . .

  “I am here because Sheyda asked me to come,” Dr. Saddaji said at last. “Every day since we left Iraq, she has prayed faithfully for Allah to keep you safe and pure and well. And in recent years she has prayed that Allah would grant her favor and let her marry you.”

  Najjar was stunned. A lump formed in his throat. His hands trembled. “This is why you have risked your life to come back to Baghdad?”

  “Yes.”

  “To get me?”

  “Yes.”

  “To take me to Iran?”

  “Nothing else could have persuaded me,” Dr. Saddaji said. “I am here to ask you to marry my only daughter—and join me on a project that will truly bring peace and prosperity to the Middle East and the entire world.”

  Najjar suddenly remembered the words of the mysterious boy back in Samarra when he was a child. “You are secretly in love with Sheyda Saddaji. . . . You will marry her before your twenty-fourth birthday.” Was this real? Could this really be happening?

  “I want you to work as my assistant,” Dr. Saddaji said, seeing Najjar’s hesitation. “I am now the deputy director of the Atomic Energy Agency of Iran. We are building the most impressive civilian nuclear power system in the world. We will be the world’s first truly energy-independent country. We won’t have to rely on oil or gasoline. We will lead the world in energy efficiency and innovation. We will change the course of history. And in so doing, we will prepare the way for the coming of the Promised One. I would value your help enormously, Najjar. I understand that you have become a first-rate physicist. This would be a huge blessing to me and my work. But most importantly, my daughter loves you and simply wouldn’t stop pestering me until I promised to find you and ask you to be part of our family. So there it is. But you must decide quickly. For I am not safe here, and now neither are you.”

  The driver gunned the engine, and at that moment, Najjar realized Dr. Saddaji wanted an answer immediately. Not tomorrow. Not a week or a month later. Right then. Dr. Saddaji wanted Najjar to leave behind all that he knew. His aunt and uncle. His dissertation and the honors that would come with completing his degree. All prospects for a good job and a secure future inside the nascent and highly clandestine Iraqi nuclear program. All for a woman and the chance to “change the course of history,” whatever that meant exactly.

  “Yes,” Najjar said finally, surprising himself with the force of his conviction. “I can’t imagine anything I would love more than to marry Sheyda and work for you.”

  Dr. Saddaji beamed. “Then what are we waiting for?” he said. “Let the adventure begin.”

  25

  Syracuse, New York

  March 2002

  “Rise and shine, Shirazi—you’ve got a visitor!”

  David heard the words but had no desire to open his eyes, much less get out of bed. He had caught a stomach flu. He’d spent much of the last few nights puking his guts out. But the guard kept rapping his nightstick on the steel bars, and just to make him stop, David leaned over, put his glasses on, set his feet on the cold tile floor, and ran his hands through hair in desperate need of a trim. It was day thirteen of a fourteen-day sentence in juvie hall.

  One more day in hell, he told himself.

  His parents visited every day, looking older and grayer each time he saw them. His father said he was working on getting him admitted into a private, all-boys academy in Alabama where he could try to salvage his education and get his life back on track. David knew he should be grateful, but he wasn’t.

  David quickly threw on his standard orange jumpsuit over his boxer shorts and slipped into the white tennis shoes he’d been given. When the guard ordered his cell to be electronically unlocked, David was led down a series of hallways to a small meeting room not far from the director’s office. He had expected to see his parents or his lawyer or both. Instead, he found an older gentleman in his late fifties or early sixties flipping through a magazine and fidgeting as if he badly needed a cigarette. As David entered the room, the man stood and smiled warmly. Sporting a gray beard, black-rimmed glasses, and an ill-fitting green suit, he was not anyone David had ever seen before, but David immediately had the impression that the man knew him from somewhere.

  “Fifteen minutes,” the guard said.

  When the guard then stepped out of the room and closed the door, the man shook David’s hand firmly and suggested that they both sit down.

  “I’ve been looking forward to seeing you again for a long time, David,” he began.

  “Have we met before?” David asked.

  “We’ll get to that in a minute. I’ve heard you’re a pretty sharp kid.”

  “And yet . . . here I am,” David said, looking down at his shoes.

  “You made a mistake, David. You’re not the first kid to beat the crap out of a couple of morons who deserved it. I don’t suspect you’ll be the last.”

  David looked up again. Who was this guy?

  “Actually, they didn’t deserve it,” David confessed,
suspecting that this might be someone from the DA’s office checking up on him.

  “Sure they did,” the man said. “Didn’t one call you a raghead?”

  “I still shouldn’t have hit them,” David answered, remembering that all their conversations were being monitored and recorded.

  “Fair enough,” the man continued. “But you clearly know how to handle yourself. I’ve seen your file. You won every fight you were in at Nottingham, even when you were outnumbered.”

  “Not exactly something you can put on your résumé.”

  “Well, that depends, son.”

  “On what?”

  “On what kind of job you’re applying for.”

  Then the man slid a magazine across the table to David. It was a recent issue of U.S. News & World Report. He pointed to a headline that read, “Not Your Father’s CIA.” Puzzled, David looked at the headline, then into the man’s eyes. The man nodded for David to begin reading.

  Cautiously, David took the magazine and scanned it quickly.

  The CIA is growing—and fast. To fend off America’s enemies and take on terrorists and other bad guys worldwide, the nation’s premier spy agency is undergoing the most rapid growth since its inception almost sixty years ago. . . . The CIA has embarked on a nationwide ad campaign, hoping to attract a new generation of spies. For a look at its new pitch to young people, check out the agency’s online rock-and-roll recruiting ads. . . . Trailers at movie theaters and posters at airports have tempted the adventurous with positions in the National Clandestine Service—the latest name for the agency’s fabled directorate of operations, which recruits spies, steals secrets, and runs covert operations.

  Suddenly, the man grabbed the magazine back from David.

  “Hey, what the . . . ?”

  But the man quickly cut David off before he could complete his sentence.

  “Finish it,” he said.

  “Finish what?”