Joel C. Rosenberg - The Twelfth Imam

Americans

David Shirazi (aka Reza Tabrizi)CIA operative, Tehran

Dr. Mohammad Shirazi father of David Shirazi; cardiologist

Nasreen Shirazi mother of David and wife of Mohammad Shirazi

Charlie Harper political officer, Foreign Service Office, Iran

Claire Harper wife of Charlie Harper

Marseille Harper daughter of Charlie and Claire Harper

Jack Zalinsky senior operative, Central Intelligence Agency

Eva Fischer field officer, Central Intelligence Agency

William Jackson president of the United States

Iranians

Ayatollah Hamid Hosseini Supreme Leader

Ahmed Darazi president of Iran

Dr. Mohammed Saddaji nuclear physicist, deputy director of the Atomic Energy Organization of Iran

Farah Saddaji wife of Dr. Saddaji

Najjar Malik physicist, Atomic Energy Organization of Iran

Sheyda Malik wife of Najjar, daughter of Dr. Saddaji

Abdol Esfahani deputy director of technical operations, Telecommunication Company of Iran (Iran Telecom)

Daryush Rashidi president and CEO of Iran Telecom

Dr. Alireza Birjandi preeminent scholar of Shia Islamic eschatology

Ali Faridzadeh Iranian minister of defense

Mohsen Jazini commander of the Iranian Revolutionary Guard Corps

Tehran, Iran

November 4, 1979

Charlie Harper was still five or six hundred yards from the compound, but he was alone; even if he could fight his way through the rapidly growing mob, he still had no plan to rescue those trapped inside.

He could hear gunfire. He could taste the acrid stench of thick, black smoke rising into the crisp, early morning air. He could feel the searing heat of the bonfires as American flags and tires and someones overturned car were being torched all around him. He could see the rage in the eyes of the young menthousands of them, maybe tens of thousands, bearded, shouting, screaming, out of controlsurrounding the embassy and threatening to overrun its grounds. He just had no idea what to do.

It was the twenty-six-year-olds first assignment with the State Department. He was the most junior political officer in the country and had no field experience. He and his beautiful, spirited young bride, Claire, had been married only a year. Theyd been in Tehran since September 1barely two months. He didnt even know the names of most of his colleagues behind the compound walls. But though he increasingly feared for their safety, he still refused to believe that he was personally in mortal danger.

How could he be? Charles David Harper loved Iran in a way that made little sense to him, much less to his bride. Growing up on the South Side of Chicago, he hadnt known anyone from Iran. Hed never been here before. Hed never even been close. But inexplicably he had fallen in love with the Persian people somewhere along the way. He loved the complexity of this ancient, exotic culture. He loved the mysterious rhythm of modern Tehran, even filled as it was with religious extremists and militant secularists. And he especially loved the food khoroshte fesenjoon was his latest favorite, a savory stew of roast lamb, pomegranates, and walnuts, which the Shirazis, their next-door neighborsGod bless themhad already made for him and Claire twice since they had arrived at this post.

The language of Iran had been a joy for Charlie to absorb and master. Hed picked up Farsi quickly as an undergraduate at Stanford. Hed sharpened it carefully in graduate school at Harvard. When he joined the State Department upon graduation, hed been placed immediately on the fast track to become a Foreign Service officer, was rushed through basic diplomatic training, and was sent to Tehran for his first assignment. Hed been thrilled every step along the way. Thrilled with using Farsi every day. Thrilled with being thrown into a highly volatile political cauldron. Thrilled with trying to understand the dynamic of Khomeinis revolution from the inside. And convinced that the sooner he could get his sea legs, the sooner he could truly help Washington understand and navigate the enormous social and cultural upheaval under way inside Iran.

The violent outbursts of the students, Charlie was convinced, were spasmodic. This one would pass like a summer thunderstorm, as all the others had. The dark clouds would pass. The sun would come out again. They just needed to be patient. As a couple. As a country.

Charlie glanced at his watch. It was barely six thirty in the morning. Since hearing on the radio back at his apartment the initial reports of trouble, hed been running flat out for nearly nine blocks, but that was no longer possibletoo many people and too little space. As he inched his way forward, he could see the top floors of the chancery, not far from Roosevelt Gate, the embassys main entrance, but he knew hed never make it there from this side. Hed have to find another way insideperhaps through the consulate offices in the compounds northwest corner.

Winded, his soaked shirt sticking to his back, Charlie shifted gears. He began trying to move laterally through the mob. His relative youth, dark hair, and dark brown eyesa gift from his mothers Italian heritageseemed to help him blend in somewhat, though he suddenly wished he had a beard. And a gun.

He could feel the situation steadily deteriorating. The Marines were nowhere to be seen. They were no longer guarding the main gate or even patrolling the fence, so far as he could tell. He assumed they had pulled back to defend the buildings on the compoundthe chancery, the ambassadors house, the house of the deputy chief of mission, the consulate, and the warehouse (aka, Mushroom Inn), along with various other offices and the motor pool. Charlie wasnt a military man, but he figured that decision was probably wise tactically. He could feel the mass of bodies surging forward, again and again. It wouldnt be long before these wild-eyed students burst through the gate.