Farah was disappointed that the fact of her husband’s arrest had not deterred him. With her head down she said, “Several years now, unfortunately.”
“How many years, my dear?”
Farah looked at him with tears glinting in her eyes. She knew what he was driving at and didn’t want to aid his cause.
“Of course,” he said quietly, you know that, according to Islamic law, a separation of eighteen months is the same as a divorce.” He smiled broadly to hide his lack of certain knowledge in her case.
She parried his lunge and thrust quickly, “Only if the separation was initiated by the husband.”
Kharazzi paused as if wondering whether she had a better grasp of the details of family law or if, like him, she was covering her uncertainty with outward confidence. They had been walking, and he motioned for her to sit on a bench as he regrouped.
“Or if the husband is dead,” he said directing his glance toward the fountain.
“Is my husband dead? Do you know that?”
“We can legally assume his death in view of the time frame.”
“Mr. Kharazzi. Have you come here to talk about my husband? Please tell me, what is the real purpose of this visit?” He looked down at her, which made her feel at a disadvantage. Before he spoke again, she stood up.
“Farah,” he said softly, “I no longer have a wife. Unfortunately, we never had children. I have come of an age when career advancement and material wealth mean little. I have sufficient standing among my peers, although Allah, the Most Blessed and Merciful, may favor me in the future with increased responsibilities and authority. I have more than enough wealth to care for a rather large family. Since you yourself are no longer young,” Farah’s mouth became a thin line at this comment, “I propose a temporary marriage, a sigeh.”
Farah knew that Islamic law permitted sigeh marriages for as briefly as an hour or as long as ninety-nine years. This was also the law that made prostitution legal. In a book written by the Ayatollah Khomeini, if the woman was a known prostitute, copulation must be done with displeasure. Afterward, the man must advise her to choose another profession. Under sigeh, any children from a temporary marriage would be the wife’s responsibility. The expression, “like the child of a temporary wife,” had come to mean that something or someone was no one’s responsibility.
With the utmost restraint, Farah said, “Mr. Kharazzi, you may mean to honor me by asking, or you may mean otherwise. Under Jemshid’s roof, I will assume the first possibility. You must understand that I cannot enter into such a contract as you propose because I am married, even if I have not seen my husband for over two years. I am not aware,” she said firmly, “that there is a time limit on love.”
“Farah,” he looked into her eyes, his angular face and domineering eyes pointed at her like a foil, “I have it on excellent authority; your husband is dead. You are free to remarry.” This time, there was no smile.
She sat down heavily, her legs refusing to do their job with any confidence, her eyes cast down. She had privately often thought Amir was dead even if the State refused to admit it, since there was no legal evidence against him other than the interpretation of any act as disloyal to the State. Her only response was to retreat and try to buy time. She felt weak but realized she must appear resolute. “Mr. Kharazzi,” she said with righteous but calm anger, “Islamic law may permit a temporary marriage. It does not obligate anyone to enter into such a contract. What you are suggesting is repugnant to me.”
She paused an instant and before Kharazzi could reply, said in a more subdued tone, “On the other hand, your news of my husband causes me great pain. I hope you can excuse me, that you can give me time for my thoughts.”
They stayed without speaking for a moment. Farah realized that Kharazzi had used his contacts to investigate her through her father’s name, well known to the authorities. Finally, Kharazzi pulled a newspaper page from his pocket, unfolded it and handed it to Farah. “Here, think about this. It might help make up your mind.”
She took the paper from his hand. As she stared at the front page of Etelaat, which featured the passport photo of the man she knew as Christopher Breton, Kharazzi added, “I have also learned that an Iranian woman is helping him. Could that possibly be you? The police have the name, but I haven’t obtained it yet. I will. I do have a description. It fits you well. As of now, I have not shared my knowledge with the authorities. A sigeh will not save you entirely but it will give you time. Time, dear lady, is the best that you can hope for right now.”
Farah felt fear grip her stomach as she looked silently at the newspaper. Then she took it from him, willing her hand not to tremble. The article quoted Mousavi’s overheated rhetoric.
The acknowledged presence in our country of a spy from the Great Satan is an affront to our sovereignty, to our rights as a people to live our own lives. This is another example of the arrogance of the Great Satan, and further proof, as if we needed it, that America has not stopped interfering into our internal affairs. We can see the American hand in the wanton murders of our officials by a band of criminals that seeks justification and power by calling itself the political opposition. The drug problem, the poverty of a few, the unnatural acts of some of our citizens -they are all caused by the unseen hand of the Great Satan who is inserting his influence and his money wherever it can to cause problems for our people. The arrest and punishment of this Satan’s Spy will be rewarded and is the duty of all law abiding citizens.
The article then provided phone numbers to call. Farah looked up, willing her face to register puzzlement.
“I will be back tomorrow for an answer,” Kharazzi said simply. “Of course, you understand that our temporary marriage will be confidential, between the two of us. Your life would be in serious danger as soon as you registered officially. All the countries’ agencies are on the lookout for you and your friends. In view of your family’s history—your father was after all the first of the Shah’s men to be executed—I doubt that the State will have the stomach for leniency. Please thank Jemshid for his hospitality for me.”
Farah didn’t get up or watch him go. Paralyzed by fear at this confirmation that she and her friends were in mortal danger, her mind raced. She must warn Kella and Christopher. They had to leave today. What about Jemshid? He could also be arrested for his role. What of herself, should she run with her friends? Did she have a choice?
Her earlier confidence was gone. How had she arrived at this moment when the control of her life was no longer in her hands? What Kharrazi was demanding for his silence was nothing short of prostitution. He would throw her to the wolves when her name became publicly associated with Christopher Breton. His only interest was to bed her.
She felt vulnerable, frustrated, and powerless.
51. Persian Gulf: U.S.S. Dulles
Sitting in his cabin, Captain Brian Navarre reread Thérèse LaFont’s email. It reflected her personality, very much alive, interested in the world, smart and ambitious, somewhat impatient, not one to suffer fools gladly, and always focused. What he didn’t see was a lot of emotional attachment. She was responding to his note that he had reached his destination, which, conscious of security, he had not spelled out any further. She already knew from the Langley briefings that the Dulles was on its way to U.S. Naval Forces Central Command, U.S. Fifth Fleet, in Manama.
He wasn’t sure what he had expected. They had met only three times, including the official briefings at CIA Headquarters. They were friends. Were they more than that? He thought so but what did she think?
He realized he was tentatively poking his way out of his self-inflicted solo life since the death of his wife, not that he hadn’t had romantic interludes, but none lasting more than two or three months. He hoped that his relationship with Thérèse would be different. Brian was in his early forties, and, perhaps unconsciously, his long suppressed desire for a family was struggling to the surface. Thérèse had two children from her marriage. He had met them, and he felt th
e chemistry had been good. In fact, he thought the chemistry with Thérèse was more than just good; fantastic as far as he was concerned.
Brian was careful not to put himself out there too early and set himself up for rejection, for failure. So far, failure had not marred his professional life. He had no desire to invite failure in his private life. He considered that the absence of failure in his personal life could be explained by the fact that he really had no personal life and, further, that this vacuum was a failure in itself.
Brian looked at his watch and was relieved to note that he had no time to pursue these thoughts as he headed up to the bridge. The Ronald Reagan Carrier Strike Group was taking its turn in the international effort to suppress pirates off the coast of Somalia. The Dulles was scheduled to pull what was essentially sentry duty to keep the problem from escalating. He had planned preliminary briefings on transiting the Strait of Hormuz again, which would be within the next seventy-two hours.
52. The Qanats
“So, if I have this straight, Kharazzi is a horny politician who’s lusting after your body,” Steve said. Steve, Kella, Farah, and Jemshid sat around the dining room table with tea and pastries in the half light of early evening.
Farah’s depression from her meeting with Kharazzi had transformed to fury at his demand. With lightning in her eyes, she said, “I can’t believe the nerve, the total absence of any principles, of morality. He wants me to whore for him before he turns me over to the police.”
She took a breath and added with less fire, “And he requires my answer tomorrow, or he’ll turn us all in to the police,” Farah said, her apologetic gaze resting on Jemshid.
“When can we leave? If we all leave, what is the danger to you from Kharrazi?” Kella asked looking at Jemshid.
“Either we leave tonight,” Steve said, “or we have to do something about Mr. Kharazzi’s mouth,” he looked at Jemshid who took a sip of tea, letting the silence grow. Then, resting his cup on the table, he stood, and walked to the light switch to turn the lights on.
When Jemshid was seated again, he said, “There is no need for violent action, my friends. I have read that Americans are influenced by too many violent movies. Now you, Farah, are also leaning in this direction?”
Quietly, as though deeply examining her own beliefs, Farah said, “At the time, I didn’t know how to react. I was surprised, I really felt extreme hostility. God would have pardoned me, under the circumstances, if...” Her voice trailed off, and she left her thought unspoken.
Jemshid looked at his watch. “Let’s remain calm and speak no more about violence. My son Naurouz will be home soon and he will lead you out. You must leave tonight. Except for Farah, there is no evidence that anyone has been here. I will simply explain to Kharazzi tomorrow that Farah returned to Tehran on the morning bus, and I can deny any knowledge of spies. He will not dare challenge my word.”
Rising, Jemshid told them, “My wife is preparing some food that you can take with you. You will be walking most of the night. Travel light and wear good shoes.”
He paused then added, “My daughter Leila noticed a group of men at the bottom of our road, where it joins with the main road. I don’t know if they are from the government, but they are not wearing uniforms. Maybe they are Kharazzi’s men. He is a man who does not like others to say no to him. He would not want to let his prize get away.” He laughed silently. “There is nothing to do now until Naurouz arrives. Get your rest. You will need it.”
“What about you?” Steve asked. “Are you certain that Kharazzi will not denounce you and get you arrested?”
“I don’t think so,” Jemshid assured him. “We have known each other too many years. He knows that putting me on trial might surface many things of which he is not proud.”
To answer Steve’s skeptical look, he added, “My house is surrounded by roving patrols and sensors that we ordered from Israel. We may look rustic, and we are I’m happy to say, but we are not defenseless.” He looked pleased as a boy with a new electric train.
How many more layers were there in Jemshid’s complex life?
* **
Two hours later, they met again. Kella had sent a short message, now that their hiding place was all but revealed, informing CIA Headquarters of their impending departure, of the Kharazzi issue, and that Steve’s photo was in the paper below the caption, WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE.
In the dining room, Jemshid introduced them to a bald, clean-shaven man. “This is my son Naurouz,” he said. “He is named for a Zoroastrian holiday, which has become the Iranian holiday for the new year.”
Naurouz was shorter and stockier than his father. His smile announced that he looked forward to leading this escape and evasion attempt with people he didn’t know and for which he would not be rewarded; on the contrary, failure meant death. His hooded eyes, Steve noted, lent ambiguity to his cheerful countenance.
Thanks for your willingness to help us,” he said. “Your entire family has been hospitable to us, and was a great treat.”
Naurouz laughed. In basic English, he said, “Whatever my cousin Yazdi wants is good, no? Now you want the plan, yes? It is to leave immediately through the qanat to get beyond the city limits. The objective is Shiraz, four hundred and fifty kilometers.”
“Oh yes,” Kella said, “the underground aqueducts.”
“Kharazzi is a big investor in qanats,” Jemshid said. “Tonight you will use one that irrigates his properties.”
“You are about to become experts on the qanats.” Naurouz added. “According to legends, there is a treasure at the source of every qanat, and one day a year the largest fish in each qanat wears a golden crown borrowed from this treasure hoard. Maybe we’ll find it,” he suggested cheerfully. “Ready?”
They said their goodbyes to Jemshid and Maryam and followed Naurouz to a back door where he spoke to Leila briefly. He looked back at them to say, “We’re going to start out walking in the qanats to get past the road controls around the city. Then Leila will be waiting for us with the car.”
Each carried a small backpack with fruits and kebabs from Maryam. They all wore jeans or khakis. Neither Kella nor Farah wore a hijab since they did not expect to be in the public eye. Naurouz had a large flashlight in one hand. They went through a gate in the back wall of the garden and walked through an empty lot.
A group of six men met them. The leader and Naurouz exchanged a few words, and Naurouz led Steve and the women another one hundred yards to the side of a hill from which water issued from an underground tunnel into an irrigation ditch. Next to a five by three foot entrance were several pairs of rubber boots.
“Help yourselves to the boots. Here,” he passed out flashlights.
“They are much too big,” Farah said. “I don’t know if I can walk in these.”
Naurouz produced a pair of socks that she stuffed in her boots before putting them back on.
While they put the boots on, Naurouz said, “This is like the metro. We’ll take this qanat for a short distance to get to another qanat that will take us beyond the road blocks. Then we’ll come out and meet Leila.”
Naurouz faced away from them, lowered his head and seemed to say a prayer. Then, they all followed the powerful beam of his flashlight into the tunnel entrance, the first ten to fifteen feet of which were reinforced with stone. They had to stoop, and after a few minutes, Farah said, “This was made for midgets. I ache already.”
“Try to bend your knees more and keep your back straight,” Naurouz told her.
The channel was straight and moderately inclined. They waded through the water except where a narrow path a few inches higher than the water occasionally flanked the narrow stream of the qanat. The tunnel was higher in the middle and they soon preferred to walk in the water.
After an hour, Naurouz stopped at a ladder going up about ten feet. Beyond it was the sky. “This is a ventilation shaft. We’re going to change metros here. We’ll have to walk through a farming village. Keep quiet. Don’t talk,” he wa
rned them.
Naurouz went up first. They emerged near an unlit road and walked along the side, passing several houses recessed from the road twenty or thirty feet. Their lights were on, and the travelers could hear voices and music and see the occasional reflection of TV screens through open windows. Cars went by in both directions, but there were few pedestrians.
Farah called out, “I’m going to take off these boots. Go ahead. I’ll catch up.”
The cars’ headlights outlined her against the dark sky, and the houses on the side of the road. Standing on one foot, she tried to pull one boot off when she started to lose her balance.
When she tried to steady herself, she tripped over the loose bottom half of the boot and fell toward the road. At the same time, a car approached in her direction and nearly struck her before she could move away.
The sound of the tires as the car came to a screeching halt, and an involuntary scream from Farah prompted Naurouz, Steve, and Kella to stop and look back. As they all ran back, the car door opened, and the driver stepped out.
More embarrassed and angry than hurt, Farah got up brushing herself off and looked up to see Kharazzi staring at her down his hawk-like nose.
“Farah?” he called out while taking stock of her without hijab to cover her tousled black hair or chador to hide her curves. Her face was flushed, making her look even more desirable than the first time he had seen her in town.
“Come, I will drive you to my house. I live nearby, and you can explain to me what you’re doing out here like this,” he said like a stern but patient father.
“You!” she shouted in surprise and frustration. The emotions she had controlled during their last meeting came pouring out. By then, Kella, Steve, and Naurouz had reached them.
Kharazzi stepped back and smiled. “So, I was right. You are helping the American. Naurouz? You, too? So Jemshid is in on this? The Zoroastrian Mafia! I will save you time. All of you get in my car, and I will take you to the police.”
Satan's Spy (The Steve Church saga Book 2) Page 24
