“Please, call me Tom,” he said warmly, asking his secretary to bring back a pitcher of water and some glasses. “What a joy to meet you. I’m so sorry about your father. I was a big fan of his. He really served his country well.”
“That’s very kind of you, Mr…. um, well, sir,” Marseille replied. “I’m sorry; I don’t know why, but I’m feeling very nervous.”
“Well, you don’t need to be. You’re practically family here. I actually knew both your parents. Oversaw your father’s training at the Farm. Selected him to go to Tehran in ’79. And to be honest, had to work very hard to make sure your mom never knew I worked here but thought I was with State. She was a very bright woman. I would have loved to have recruited her to work for us too, but your father was dead set against it.”
“Why was that?”
“He said Claire — er, your mom — didn’t have a poker face. ‘The woman can’t lie,’ he said. ‘It’s like genetic or something. She just can’t do it.’ Said she couldn’t cook, either. But I never had the chance to find out.”
Marseille smiled shyly. He was right about that.
She pulled out the yellowed, slightly ripped letter of commendation that Murray had once written to her father and slid it across the desk.
“My goodness, that was a long time ago. But he deserved this. He was a real asset to us.”
“Why? What did he do?”
“Well, I’m afraid most of that is classified. But yesterday I checked with our personnel office and with our ethics officer to see what I could tell you. There are a few things.”
He opened his desk and pulled out a manila folder, which he slid over to her.
As Marseille leafed through it, she found a copy of her father’s original application to join the Agency, copies of his college transcripts, his original background check, his pay records, a stack of performance evaluations (some of which contained redacted classified material that was blacked out), three other letters of commendation for his work in France, Italy, and Switzerland in the early 1980s, and various other pieces of paperwork. “Am I able to keep these?” she asked.
“I’m afraid not,” Murray replied. “But after our meeting, I can put you in a room and let you take however long you need to read through it all. I know it’s a lot to absorb, but I think you’ll find it fascinating. I skimmed through a lot of it last night, and it brought back good memories.”
Marseille set the folder down and looked around the office. Books lined the shelves. There was an array of framed photographs of Murray and various presidents and Agency directors. What was missing, she noticed, was any evidence of Murray’s family.
“May I ask you a personal question, Mr. Murray?”
“Of course, Marseille. But again, please call me Tom.”
“Are you married?”
“Why? Are you looking?” He laughed, then seemed to realize she didn’t find it funny. “Sorry. Well, uh, I was — twice. But no, I’m divorced. Why do you ask?”
“I imagine it’s hard to be married and work a job like this — long hours, all the secrecy, all the danger and stress.”
“Yes, I’m afraid it is. Some guys handle it well. Your dad seemed to. I guess I never did.”
“I’m just wondering what it was like for my mom to be married to my dad and never know he worked for the Agency.”
“It’s a good question. My first wife didn’t know. Still doesn’t. My second wife was my secretary. She worked here. We… She knew the stresses, but she… Well, anyway, your mom was a saint, Marseille. She loved your dad very much. She talked about him constantly. He talked about her constantly. They were like high school kids. Always holding hands. Sending each other little notes. You obviously don’t remember, but I was at your mother’s funeral.”
“Really?” she said. “You were there?”
“Of course. Jack and I went together.”
Marseille was startled. “Jack who?” she asked cautiously.
“Jack Zalinsky,” he replied. “The two of us and your parents were quite close.”
“And Mr. Zalinsky worked for State as well?”
“Well, officially, yes, but…”
“But what?”
“I really can’t say more about it.”
“Because it’s classified?”
“Something like that.”
“But Mr. Zalinsky was the one who helped organize my parents’ escape — and the Shirazis’ escape — from Tehran, wasn’t he?”
“Uh, look, I really can’t say, Marseille.”
“Why not? It happened three decades ago.”
“I just… I can’t.”
“But David told me all about it — the fake film company, the office in Hollywood, the Canadian passports, everything. David said Mr. Zalinsky and my father masterminded the whole thing.”
“David told you that?”
“Yes.”
“David Shirazi?”
“Yes, we’ve been friends since we were kids. My parents never talked about their time in Iran. It was all too painful, especially with my mom’s miscarriage. But David…” Marseille stopped talking when she saw the perplexed look on Murray’s face. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing, I just…”
“Just what?”
“I just wouldn’t have…” His voice trailed off again.
“Wouldn’t have what, Mr. Murray?”
“When was the last time you saw David?”
“Sunday morning. We had breakfast in Syracuse.”
“And did you talk about any of this?”
“Of course,” Marseille said. “I showed him your letter. We talked all about it.”
Murray turned and stared out the window, shaking his head.
“What’s the matter?” Marseille asked.
“That’s not good.”
“What’s not? What’s the problem?”
Murray turned back and looked her in the eye. “The problem is I thought David knew better,” he said with an edge of annoyance, or perhaps even anger, in his voice. “The problem is I thought he was a professional. I thought I could trust him. I certainly never expected him to tell you about your father being in the CIA or working for me, or why he joined the Agency himself and the irony of him working for me as well. But maybe I should have seen it coming. You’re a big part of the reason he’s doing all this, after all. I guess he couldn’t help himself, but it’s still a major security breach, and I…”
Murray suddenly stopped talking, and Marseille wondered if she looked as stunned as she felt. “Excuse me,” she said, desperately trying to process what she thought she had just heard, “did you just say that David works for the CIA?”
Javad Nouri had never been to Cairo.
He knew that with some nineteen million people, the metropolitan area was one of the largest in the world, as well as the political and economic capital of the Republic of Egypt. A proud and historic city, it was also the home of Al-Azhar University, the Harvard of the Middle East, and it was the intellectual epicenter of the entire region. This was the place where the vast majority of the Middle East’s books were published, films produced, and TV programs created and distributed. He also knew full well that Abdel Ramzy had ruled this city and this country for decades with an iron fist and that an enormous political vacuum had now been created by his death. Javad had no doubt that the man he was traveling with was the man to fill it, but it would not be easy.
In so many ways, Egypt and Iran could not be more different. Egypt was ethnically Arab and religiously Sunni. Iran, by sharp contrast, was ethnically Persian and religiously Shia. Traditionally, Arabs and Persians hated each other. So did Sunnis and Shias. They had warred against one another throughout the ages. But as the Mahdi had explained it to Javad en route to Cairo, this was a different moment. This was the dawn of an Islamic Awakening. Now Egypt and Iran had to come together for two strategic reasons: first, to surround Israel, destroy the Jews, and capture Jerusalem for Islam; and second, to surround the Arabian Peninsula, finish bringing down the apostate Saudi regime, and solidify control of the holy places of Mecca and Medina.