Shay had been called out to attend to the still-fluid post-earthquake
crises that continued to harrow the city. Christian and Kim, finding
themselves alone in Shay’s apartment, together performed an
enthusiastic deep dive into the pool of mutual attraction, which new
lovers are wont to do. Not just a dive, but an Olympics-caliber spin
and twist and flip maneuver that sliced through the merry waters of
love and earned their collective sighs of approval.
Eventually Christian stumbled out into the hallway, a bit afflicted
with the mild hangover that comes with sexual overexertion. “I better
make some coffee and snap out of this,” he thought.
Kim was still in bed, working off her own fatigue with a well-deserved nap.
Christian had time to reflect. He was happy that Kim hadn’t asked him
where he had been when he showed up at Shay’s apartment. The assumption
was that he had gone to his apartment to attend to the post-temblor
mess, but he had in fact spent most of the two hours away from Kim
focused on the central reason for his stay in San Francisco, namely
keeping to a scheduled meeting with his Mossad handler to discuss his
target, Sadegh Zahedi, the Iranian Undersecretary of Foreign Affairs
and Expatriates.
His journey from Midwest Jewish kid to his current profession had been
unusual. He grew up as a bit of an oddity, a member of a rather exotic
group amounting to maybe 1% of the inhabitants of Omaha, Nebraska.
Seeking more information about his roots, he decided to attend
university in Israel, where his Hebrew became fluent and his interest
in Israel became acute. He attended the Israeli College of Security and
Investigations, earning a BA with Specialization in National Security
and Counterterrorism, for which he had concentrated on Iran. He
lived and breathed all things Iran, learning Farsi and following the
political machinations there, where byzantine maneuverings were an
important part of the political process. He even wrote a poem,
originally in Farsi but translated into English, which he submitted for
extra credit in his Persian Culture course. It was about the Iranian
revolution, when the crowds surged and chased out the old regime of the
Shah. He called it “The Latest Rage”; it won an award at school. He
still remembered it word for word:
In print we read of acts atrocious,
Methodical in spirit, in deed ferocious.
Incensed with rage, the people surge
On power, dishonored, intent to purge
The imagined wrongs of the elected few.
When all’s complete, what goods accrue?
The order passes and power’s changed;
Past power’s puissance is thus estranged.
The mob, cajoled, believes they’ve bettered
The state of things that had them fettered.
But time may kill new hope’s procession;
The mob clamors loud—a new obsession!
Pollsters and bureaucrats and academes sage
See the mob’s screams—it’s the latest rage.
The unfolding of time in its circular motion
Makes We and They a disheartening notion;
Why is it the people in power don’t see
That, like They before, the mob is We?
Indeed, thought Christian, what is it about power that presupposes its
own demise? The pendulum swings to and fro, and as it does it knifes
through the sinewy necks of the old order.
Christian grabbed a biscotti from the cupboard and drowned it in his coffee.
After he graduated with his security degree he worked on a kibbutz,
mostly to goof off, but while there he learned krav maga and attracted
the attention of the Mossad. With his pure American accent they wanted
him to work undercover as a typical American male, so they killed off
his birth name, Ben Gold, and bequeathed him the ironic Christian
Townsend.
Christian had worked hard on the Zahedi case. In many ways Zahedi was
an interesting man. A graduate of MIT, he was urbane, intellectual, a
great raconteur, an admirer of the United States, and a hit with the
ladies. Although there were many politicians in Iran whose religiosity
was intense, albeit sometimes for show, Zahedi was viewed as a special
case. He was not motivated by religion, although he did go through the
motions. Clearly intellectually gifted, he was allowed to work for the
betterment of Iran so long as he maintained a semblance of respect for
those more religious than he.
His Mossad handler had told Christian that Zahedi was regularly meeting
with two Iranian-Americans whose knowledge of the American nuclear
industry would be valuable to the Iranian cause, if he could persuade
them to return home. The Mossad had eliminated a few of Iran’s highly
placed scientists, with the result that some of the smarter nuclear
engineers in the country had been less than eager to step up to replace
them. A paucity of intellectual power had begun to hinder the nuclear
effort.
Zahedi’s motivation was purely political. He wanted to see Iran regain
the luster of a bygone age. The country’s nuclear ambitions were a
stepping stone that, while difficult, needed to be taken in order to
enter a select group of nations. Once in, it would be hard to kick them
out.
In truth, and rather guiltily, Christian admired Zahedi, and felt that
if they could ever sit down together they would have a great
conversation. Christian realized that his own motivations were also not
religious and were also entirely political. He wanted to see the state
of Israel succeed, and so far, he felt, it wasn’t in a position to
declare success. There are many more miles to go yet, he thought
distractedly, as he stirred his biscotti.
======================
Kim awoke, meanwhile, bestride two cottony pillows, which, in the
netherworld that exists just before the firing of full consciousness,
she interpreted as Christian having yet another go at it. She smiled at
the thought and hugged the pillows, but as she did her mind carried her
away to a place of dread, a place ruled by fear and subject to the one
fact that has dominion over us all: death. Kim, so awash in love that
she hurt from its overabundance, could never completely escape the
awful hindrance to her happiness that was caused by her body betraying
her--renal cell carcinoma, burrowing away within her.
Distracted and suddenly upset, she got up and wandered into the bathroom.
She had opted for chemotherapy, not surgery, which was an unusual
decision, but the early results had been encouraging. She had been
miserable for a few months, but her oncologist had eventually declared
that her short-term prognosis looked good--the chemo seemingly had
routed the disorder. But renal cell carcinoma being what it is, the
doctor couldn’t make any promises. He told her to watch carefully for
any symptoms and visit him regularly following the schedule they had
worked out.
The symptoms included low back pain, which she had been having lately,
and blood in the urine, which now, looking down, she saw had come back
to haunt her.
Oh Christ, she thought. “Chris,” she yelled from the bathroom, “are there any more Pabsts? I could really use one.”
