Damascus Countdown by Joel C. Rosenberg Read Free Book Online Page B

come.
    On Wednesday, David’s mom, Nasreen, had succumbed to the stomach cancer that had appeared without warning just a few months earlier and ravaged her petite body. Her husband was devastated. Her two eldest sons were grieving too, each in his own way, though they had barely spoken to one another, at least not in Marseille’s presence or in her sight. On Friday evening, the family had endured the viewing at a funeral home on Grant Boulevard—though it wasn’t truly a viewing, for Dr. Shirazi didn’t want his wife remembered as gaunt and nearly emaciated and had, therefore, insisted the casket be closed. David’s unexplained absence had been whispered about by some who attended, a fact not lost on Dr. Shirazi and one that to Marseille seemed only to make more painful the wounds he already had to endure. Earlier this morning, at eleven o’clock sharp, they had all gathered again for the memorial service. Marseille had felt certain David’s noticeable absence would be explained by someone, but it wasn’t, adding an unintended but distinctly awkward feel to an already-somber mood, at least for Marseille.
    That said, the service itself was well attended and beautiful. Dozens of stunning floral arrangements were on display, adorned with hundreds of yellow roses, Mrs. Shirazi’s favorite. Two professional violinists from the local philharmonic orchestra, apparently longtime friends of the Shirazis, played several pieces during the service, including during a slide show that featured photographs of Nasreen as a swaddled infantbeing held by her parents in Tehran; Nasreen standing in front of a mosque as a young girl of about ten wearing a beautiful yellow headscarf; Nasreen and Mohammad beaming on their wedding day; Nasreen holding her firstborn son; Nasreen and Mohammad being sworn in as American citizens at a courthouse in Buffalo, New York; Nasreen standing beside David when he was about ten or twelve years old in his Little League uniform, holding a baseball bat over his shoulder; and so many more.
    Most of the pictures Marseille had never seen, of course, but some she had and some had been captured in the season of life when she had first met the Shirazis, when she herself was a young girl, and they brought back very poignant memories. The one that completely caught her off guard actually showed her family and the Shirazi family gathered together for Thanksgiving when she was about ten years old, sitting around the Shirazis’ dining room table. They were all so young. None of the parents had gray hair. Neither of David’s brothers had beards. David was wearing an adorable little suit and tie. Marseille was wearing a robin’s-egg-blue dress with matching blue bows in her pigtails. She was sitting next to David, and just at the moment the photo had been snapped, she was sneaking a glance at him while he was making a silly face. She still remembered that very moment vividly. The photograph itself had hung, framed, on the wall of her father’s den for years. The sight of it instantly made Marseille’s eyes well up with tears and caused a lump to form in her throat. What a sweeter, simpler time that had been, long before the angel of death had descended upon them all—before her mother was killed in the attacks on the World Trade Center, before her father committed suicide in the woods outside their home, before Mrs. Shirazi lost her battle with cancer, before David joined the CIA and was sent inside Iran.
    As she sat in that service, she’d had to grit her teeth so as not to lose her composure. Part of her had wanted to run from the room and hide and sob. Another part of her, however, had wanted to stand up and shout the truth to everyone in the room. David isn’t here because he is serving his country! He is serving behind enemy lines in Iran. Of course he loved his mother. He loved her dearly. He would have done anything hepossibly could to be in this room, but he’s probably dodging a barrage of bullets or