by Jim Carroll
I returned to my government-provided apartment, more paranoid than ever. Was I being watched to an even greater degree than usual? I closed the ragged curtains on my window, turned on the lamp next to my lumpy chair in front of the TV, and switched on IRIB TV2, the station operated by the Islamic Republic. The news was on. The “public displeasure” as it was called, was mentioned briefly, with no photos. Out in the street under my window, the drums thumped incessantly, and marchers chanted “Death to the Ayatollah.” Gazing from my window, I could see that the armor-clad police did little to stop them. But looking closer I saw them – the guarantors of the disturbance – a component I had missed before. Large, thick-shouldered men with full beards in black leather jackets had positioned themselves at quadrants around the crowd. When participants in the disturbance attempted to leave, they were gently but firmly urged back into the moving mass.
How had this happened? How had ISIL/al-Qaeda goons been allowed this power? Now, I saw that Esau’s words as accurate. Where were the vaunted Revolutionary Guards and their civilian counterparts, the Basij? I could think of only one way they could be controlled: an infusion of money into their pockets. The Ayatollah and his like must be fuming over the failure of their minions to control this situation. How could Esau have such funds under his control? From the Saudis? Or were there others too?
The chanting and the stream of herded dissenters continued until 11 p.m. when the guerrillas melted away and the bedraggled crowd headed, exhausted and relieved, toward their apartments. Some with gray hair were so tired, they hung on the shoulders of their comrades. Others sprinted away, likely looking for a toilet.
I awakened cramped, having fallen asleep in my chair by the window, and flipped on the TV, expecting a full report. But the newscasters made no mention of the demonstrations, showing only the same video of clerics in photogenic inaction. Esau’s funding had not reached the state-controlled news sources yet.
My nights by the window observing the demonstrations continued for a month, until mid-March; and by this time, the state-run news agencies, although they never reported the insurrections, had failed to conceal their existence. The damage was done. The population assumed a new mood of unease. What is happening among us? This question hung in the air. Are we really in revolt against the Ayatollah? Make-believe rebellion became a rebellion in fact. The café scene changed from one of open, animated discourse to suspicious glances among former friends. Who was listening? Could she, the one in the black chador, be with the state?
But for the month, no Esau, just his shadow.
At the ministry, Khadim didn’t speak about the civil disturbances either. Nothing even close. And by this time, despite the recent cold shoulder, I had come, in a strange way, to think of him as almost a friend. But now, no eye contact, no tea together unless compelled by the nature of our business and never alone. Surely, he didn’t suspect that I might know the root of the discord. Or did he?
Then a phone call came in for me on a line at my ministry office. “Meet me tonight in the same café, 7 p.m.”
I slammed down the phone. Was he crazy? Why was he trying to get me caught up in his treachery? I was frightened and furious at the same time, just like that day in high school so long ago. But I went. Why did he make me wait again at the cafe? I knew he did this just to increase my anxiety. I fidgeted in the cold, and rubbed my face to increase circulation.
He arrived at 8. His beard was poorly trimmed, and his belly, not entirely new, but now mature in its breadth. His wrinkles had increased in number and depth. I had expected he would be ebullient about his recent success, but his lips were horizontal and tight and his eyes red. I remembered the sertraline I had seen on his desk at the high school, an antidepressant. Perhaps despondency was still a plague for him? I rejoiced for a moment at his disability, but it was fleeting.
He came alive when he took a seat across from me, sitting up straight with his fists clenched on the table. “Well, Yacoub, what did you think about the demonstrations? Rather effective, don’t you think? I hope you’re impressed by my degree of control, and I assure you it’s even greater than what you’ve seen so far.”
I shifted my weight in the cold metal chair. “Why do you care? Why is any of this important to you? You’re a Muslim, or at least you used to be.”
“All religions are evil plots. Now we’re really going to have some fun.”
He pulled out an 8” X 12” manila envelope, relishing the process, and with a flourish, flipped over the photo. “It’s a very lovely bomb, is it not?” I had seen one like it in person during my acquisition process. The armament was about six feet long and two feet in width, grey metal with a red, pointed nose and fins on the rear. No, it was not lovely. The bomb was intended for placement on a missile or for dropping from a plane. “I’m sure you’re familiar with it.” I sank into my seat on the metal chair. The bomb would need modification if it was planted in a specific location, but its very appearance neutralized any remaining confidence I might have had.
“You can’t explode that thing here in Tehran. It would wipe out the entire city.”
“That’s exactly what I intend. We’ll say the Saudis planted it.” He was getting money from the Saudis. “What better way is there to start the war that destroys the Middle East with all its so-called religious traditions? The war will spread right away from Tehran to the rest of the Gulf. My dead mother would be proud. And all that pious, holy trash on Failaka will be destroyed, along with the rest of the Gulf states.” He knew of Failaka, my father’s beloved island in Kuwait Bay, where he had fished as a young man. “But first, I have a request for you to take to Khadim. I want one billion U.S. dollars delivered to my account by June 1, the date the bomb will be exploded if there is no deposit.”
Revenge with a dose of greed. While destruction was one aim, the other was financial gain.
“It’s up to you how you carry this message, but I’ll tell you this: He already knows about me. You’d better make sure I remain safe, or my colleagues will act on June 1 on their own.”
Our coffee time was over. The cold sludge in the bottom of my cup was all that was left. Esau rose and slowly walked up the street and turned left at the next corner. Should I follow him? How was I supposed to keep him safe? Perhaps I could see his associates, but my indecision rendered that plan defunct. I would have to figure out how to engage Khadim. By the time I reached my flat, I was done, with no strength even to undress. The chair by the window became my bed and my street clothes, my pajamas.
In Psalms 16:8 David had written: “I have set the Lord always before me.” The sentence, recalled from my mother’s teaching, upset me now. No, it infuriated me. How could David do this? It was not possible for any man, certainly not me at this low ebb. I wasn’t ready.
I waited two days before confronting Khadim. There was no time for further delay, and the visit was necessary. My collar chafed my neck, and my belt impeded my breathing. What was the risk of my announcement? Would I go back to Evin, perhaps with new charges brought against me?
As Khadim’s secretary proclaimed my visit over the intercom, there was no choice. I had to go in.
“Sir, I need to speak about a matter of extreme importance to the country.” Khadim barely looked up from his computer, left me standing, no tea. Sitting for the explanation had been my source of a small comfort, and now he took that from me too.
“There is news you won’t like. I’ve been informed that a nuclear device will be set off here in the city, if we don’t pay a billion dollars. I’ve seen a photo of the bomb. It’s one of mine – ours actually.”
Finally, Khadim stopped pecking at his keyboard and whirled around to face me. “I’ve had it with you. First, I wondered if you knew something about the civil disturbances, and now I’m certain of it.” His brown face went red, the veins in his forehead jutting out.
What followed from me was a too-long explanation. Yes, my half-brother (yes, I had one) was in on it, he was after me, he had announc
ed himself as the enemy of all religions, and he was serious and dangerous. But I had had some other thoughts on the matter. My two-day hiatus had given me the chance to formulate a plan, which I delivered in double-time, due to my standing position. “We have two months to solve this,” I continued. “It’s crucial that we find the bomb. How in blazes did he get it without authorities being notified in the first place? There must be accomplices in your, yes your, system.” My voice increased in volume. “And I don’t care what you think, but this was not my doing. It’s yours. And the result will be at your door, not mine.” He asked me to sit. I didn’t. I just needed to get through this next part. “Even though you are not innocent in all of this, you cannot get involved yourself now. Coming from your position, that’ll be too obvious. This is my show now, only mine.” Khadim didn’t respond, his mouth fell open, and at last he stood with hands on hips.
“Do what you must then,” he answered. “Now, get out of here. I’ll wait for good news. And if there’s none, well, that will be the end of you, too, of both of us actually.”
The bomb debacle was now in my hands, and mine alone. Khadim could only make it worse. Somehow, he must be in on it, but I got what I wanted.
Now, I called the shots. Exactly where did the dilemma lie? With me. Both Esau and the bomb were linked chiefly to me; at least that’s the way it would come out.
Where was Esau? He was the key, my only clue to the location of the bomb, and he had hidden all his personal information. Was there an excuse for another meeting? I had to wait for his contact. On April 10, he phoned. “Any progress on my money?”
Thus, Esau was lured to our café.
The venue had changed with a new owner, much to my advantage. I was waiting when Esau arrived; and puzzled, he whirled from side to side searching with a vexed expression for the security cameras, which were now concealed in different locations. He saw me, hesitated, another sly glance around for clues, and sat opposite me. There were sweat beads on his upper lip this time, a small victory.
“You have the money?’’ Was the money more important than his supposed spiritual triumph?
My answer was silence. Keep him guessing.
“What’s it going to be anyway – the bomb or the money?”
I wrote my answer on a paper napkin and pushed it in front of him: Yes, the money is coming.
With that information, he gave me two weeks, rose and hurried off. The now unfamiliar setting with its new camera system had spooked him.
Suddenly, I found myself in an unlikely role: a neophyte spy tracking a dangerous and experienced menace. Esau had taken a darbast cab immediately after rounding the corner, and I grabbed another taxi right behind him, which had just emptied of two foreigners, apparently Americans who smiled at me (Americans were always too friendly). It was like an old movie: Follow that car! The two taxis traced their way amid the western Tehran traffic clog: first through Ekbatan Town, ending near Ghazali Cinema Town at the Kouroush Cineplex with its twelve separate theaters and neon architecture. Why here? Esau purchased a ticket to see Bashu, the Little Stranger, which tells the story of a child escaping from the terrors of the Iran-Iraq war. Did he know I followed? OK, so maybe he wanted to see a tearjerker about an awful war, just a warm up to what he intended. Another ticket for me and then I sat in a strategic seat five rows behind Esau, my hands prayerfully folded in front of me, covering my face.
Esau hooked his thumbs in his belt and tilted his head against the headrest. Was he sleeping? After thirty minutes, a woman with a head covering took the seat by him, ignoring other available seating, not a suitable or typical choice for an Iranian female. They didn’t make eye contact. How strange!
After another thirty minutes, and still without a glance between them, he handed her a folded sheet of paper. She got up from her seat and headed for the exit door in the rear of the theater. Should I stay with Esau or follow her? There was no rational basis for the choice, but I followed her.
In the now dark, emptying streets, there were no cabs in sight and little traffic, which made this simpler for me. After several blocks she entered one of the few late-night clubs in Tehran, usually prohibited for women. Two five thousand rial notes to the doorman secured my entry. She immediately proceeded to the back corner of the establishment where several unused water pipes for smoking remained, nodded to the owner, and assumed the position of an experienced smoker, sucking air into the water pipe to freshen the coals. The acrid smoke in the room nearly made me cough. My eyes burned. Another woman soon joined her. After sharing the same apparatus for several minutes, the new woman took the paper, and left. What was I following the paper or the person? I elected for the paper.
Here I was again following a woman on the already darkened streets – a practice which might brand me as a mark for the police. Three blocks later at the edge of the cinema district, she rapped five times on the metal door of a brick building, perhaps a warehouse. After the door opened, a man’s hand took the paper and shut the door. For whatever it was worth, I now had the address of the warehouse, so I resumed following the woman, who continued for several blocks finally entering an apartment building on Laheh Boulevard. Shortly after that, the light blinked on in a third floor flat. I stayed and watched from a shadowed doorway, and awhile later, Esau and the first woman from the movie theater entered the same building. Did Esau have two accomplices, two wives? What an enterprising man, and how well he had adapted to Islam, the religion he said he had rejected.
I couldn’t resist. I returned to the apartment building at 6 the next morning, more curious than ever. The sun peeked around the buildings, shadows forming on the pavement below. The garbage trucks rounded the corner, their stench assaulting my senses. Then, more than the odor, I was struck by the appearance of the same two women emerging from the building. This time they were unmistakably dressed as members of the women’s Basij, the paramilitary group which was a civilian subsidiary of the Revolutionary Guards. Esau had astonished me again. How had he accomplished this level of engagement in the Iranian government, culture, and religion in such a short time, and all for a reprehensible purpose? And he didn’t believe in any of the three: Sunni, Shia, or Christian!
I now possessed two pieces of new information: the warehouse site, surely the location of the bomb, and Esau’s address. How to use the data? I had to think it through. One thing was sure: I couldn’t take it to Khadim. My trust account there was closed, at least for now. If I took what I knew up the line, at some point, I’d hit the giant obstacle, the big trap – the person in the government who was in on it, the one who had procured the bomb in the first place. That was the only way Esau could have gotten hold of it. And the Basij were certainly involved. No, I had to solve it with my own means.
I remembered a Shia friend from Evin, a former cleric, one who had threatened to reveal the thefts of the Ayatollah and his colleagues. Hamid was released by now, no longer allowed to ply his trade of organized religion. Finding him was no problem, as he couldn’t separate himself from his former mosque, the Soltani Mosque in the Grand Bazaar area. I took a taxi and found him in the entry courtyard, sitting and crying, head bowed.
I walked across the quadrangle in front of the two blue, white, and yellow spires, from which the muezzins called the faithful to prayer, the cleaners sweeping the dust between them with straw brooms, worshippers awaiting the next call, all ignoring the penitent, black-bearded, wailing imam. He no longer existed to them.
“Hamid, make yourself erect,” I spoke forcefully. “We must rescue your country.”
“You, a Jesus-worshipper, can do nothing here.” His head fell again into his cloak.
“What we believe doesn’t matter now. There is a bomb that will be ignited in Tehran. I need your help.” The bomb was the issue, forget the two billion dollars.
“An explosion is better than apostasy; the bigger the bomb, the better.” Hamid was morose, defeated. How much time did he spend here weeping? I did not know.
Slowly and
carefully, I quietly explained the full story to Hamid. He had no one of importance, no one who would listen, to tell, so I felt assured of his silence.
Finally, the response of the patriot, the true believer in Islam came to the fore. “Here’s what we must do. I have friends, who are not accomplices of the Ayatollah. They will assist. We must get rid of this Esau, the one who takes two women, as if he has the same rights as a true Muslim. He’s a deceiver.” Finally, a compatriot and possibly, a way.
Hamid said Esau must be the first target, and I agreed. Strong arms were required. Hamid supplied them, and the scene required my pleasurable vigilance.
Two nights later at 2 a.m., outside the apartment on Laheh, four of us, three giants supplied by Hamid and myself, encamped on the street, waiting for Esau to enter the building. Esau and his two chador-clothed wives arrived and the apartment light went on. We sounded like an army going up the creaky stairs to the third floor. Surely they heard us. “A gas leak has been reported in the building. We need to check your apartment.” An attempt at easy access.
“We don’t have gas.”
With that, the largest of my giant accomplices hurled his frame against the door, which crumpled open at the latch, the metal wrested from the wood. There was no bolt. Even the sturdy Esau was dwarfed and quickly brought under control. The two women, however, still draped in black, were another matter. Wailing and shrieking, they attacked with clenched fists and a vase within reach. A gash over my left eye poured blood onto my white shirt collar. These two women did not practice the Western custom of using deodorant and taking frequent showers, and their pungency just added to the assault. But my giants were up to the task. Pretty quickly, the women were tied, gagged, and pushed to the floor. Esau was tied up with thick, white rope and gagged with a torn fragment of a chador. Giant Number One took out his cell and called our pick-up car. At the sidewalk I saw the black Suburban, which rekindled the memory of my ride to Evin, and now we pushed Esau into the same. I hurt all over thinking of the long ride before us.
