David pulled back one of the tattered curtains and stared out a window that needed to be washed. The sun was beginning to set on a gorgeous spring day, with the temperature in the midseventies, a light, warm, westerly breeze, and perfectly blue skies marred only by the contrail of a jet plane to the east. All the trees were budding, the red roses — Iran’s national flower — were in bloom, as were tulips of a dozen different shades, and the yards were all green, thanks to the generous winter rains. How sad, he thought, that this dear man spent his life cooped up in this damp, creaky house. How sad, too, that he had even more bookshelves here, lining the walls, sagging with the weight of hundreds if not thousands of dog-eared books, none of which the man would ever read.
In one corner, Birjandi’s desk was piled high with mail that couldn’t be read, while in another corner stood a television that couldn’t be watched. In some ways, it all seemed a testament to the brilliance of the man but also his irrelevance. What hope was there for a scholar who could not read and had no one to help him study, write, or publish his ideas? What more was there for a man who had lost the wife of his youth, the love of his life, and now lived alone in utter darkness?
Yet the more David thought about that, the more he realized just the opposite was true. Birjandi was certainly blind, but wasn’t he seeing more clearly than anyone else in the country? He was without question a widower, but he certainly wasn’t alone, was he? He had experienced devastating losses in his life, but hadn’t he found hope that was transforming his life? In fact, David couldn’t think of a single person in his life who seemed to have more joy, more insight, more wisdom or zest for life than Birjandi. Certainly not his parents or his brothers. Certainly not Zalinsky or Eva or Tom Murray. Only Marseille had that same spark in her. Why? What was it they had that he didn’t?
Breathless, Najjar Malik finally made it to the BBC’s studios.
He’d had to park several blocks away and had to run for fear of being late. He was met at the door by a young production assistant and an armed security guard, who quickly whisked him directly into a studio where a cameraman, sound technician, and makeup artist were waiting to put him on the air.
“Put this in your ear,” the sound guy said, handing Najjar a wire with a little rubber nub at the end.
“What is it?” Najjar asked.
“An IFB.”
“A what?”
“It lets you hear… It doesn’t really matter — just do it fast. You’re about to go live.”
Najjar stuck in the little earpiece, and the technician showed him how he could increase or decrease the volume with a small knob by his seat.
“Dr. Malik, can you hear me?”
Surprised, Najjar looked up to see where the voice was coming from.
“This is Nigel Moore, in London. We spoke earlier.”
“Oh yes, of course. How are you?”
“I’m fine and glad you’re with us. But more importantly, how are you?”
“A little nervous.”
“First time on live television?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Well, there’s nothing to worry about. I’ll be talking you through the entire process. Now I want you to look straight into camera one, that one right in front of you.”
Najjar complied.
“Good, now just keep looking straight into that camera. Our anchor will come on in a few minutes. You won’t see him, but you’ll be able to hear him through your IFB. Don’t look around the studio. Don’t let anything distract you. Just keep looking straight into the camera, and it will look just right, like you’re looking right at the anchor. When we break, I’ll let you know. Then you can have some water or look around or whatever. Okay?”
“Yes, thank you.”
The production assistant called out, “Sixty seconds.”
“Now, just a few more things before you’re on. How would you like to be identified on-screen?”
“What do you mean?”
“Can we use your name, your title? We can certainly not mention your name, or we could give you a pseudonym, but of course anyone in Iran who knows you will recognize you. You didn’t ask that we electronically disguise your voice or put your face in shadow.”
“Thirty seconds.”
“No, no, that’s fine. You can use my name, my title, anything — just please don’t say where I am.”
“Agreed. Now, I know you want to talk about your faith, and we’ll get to that, but we’re going to start with your work as a nuclear scientist, why you’ve chosen to defect to the US…”
“Twenty seconds.”
“No, please say ‘to the West.’”
“Fine, ‘to the West.’ And then the anchor will ask you why you believe war is coming soon — what you base that on, and how soon is ‘soon.’”
“Yes. Thank you for having me on.”
“Thanks for doing this.”
“Ten seconds.”
“Oh, one more thing,” Najjar blurted out.
“Yes, what’s that?”
The theme music for the BBC Persian special report swelled, and out of the corner of his eye, Najjar could see a monitor with the network’s distinctive graphics and video opening sequence.
“Five seconds.”
“Can you post my Twitter account on the screen below my name?”
“Satellite photos show increased activity at Iranian air bases.”
Zalinsky, having just been summoned to Murray’s office, slid the latest reconnaissance photos across the desk to show his boss. “We’re also seeing increased activity at Iranian missile bases,” he added.
Tom Murray carefully reviewed the photos with a magnifying glass. “Did I tell you Marseille Harper dropped by to see me?” he asked without looking up.
“What? Charlie’s daughter? You’re kidding.”
“No, she just left a half hour ago.”
“How did that come about?”
“It’s a long story; I’ll tell you later,” Murray said, sliding the photos back to Zalinsky. “But she asked about you, actually.”
“Me? Really?”
“Yep.”
“Why? We’ve never even met.”
“She’s heard stories.”
“From who? Charlie always said he didn’t want her to know he’d worked for the Agency.”
“He didn’t, but David told her a little, and she found an old commendation letter that I once wrote to—”
Eva burst into Murray’s office.
“Eva, what are you doing?” Murray snapped, unaccustomed to staff coming in without an appointment or his personal summons.
“I’m sorry, but you’re not going to believe this, either of you,” she exclaimed, turning on the television, punching in the coordinates for the BBC Persian channel, and letting Najjar Malik do her explaining for her.
“What worries me most,” Najjar was saying, “is that too many world leaders — including in the US, Great Britain, and throughout the EU — don’t seem worried enough. I am the highest-ranking Iranian nuclear scientist who is still alive. I know the program inside and out. I’ve spent all of my professional life inside it. My father-in-law, Dr. Mohammed Saddaji, ran the weapons side. I ran the civilian energy side. And I can tell you categorically that the Twelfth Imam is telling the truth when he says that the Islamic Republic of Iran has tested a nuclear weapon. I can tell you that warhead was operational. I can tell you there are eight more just like it. And I can tell you there are detailed plans to use those warheads and a dozen more that are currently in production to attack the United States and Israel in the coming days.”
“Are you telling this to the government officials where you’ve sought political asylum?” the anchor asked.