Chapter Twenty-Eight
Upon the return of the large Iranian delegation from the cyber conference in Beijing, Mehdi convened a meeting at the Revolutionary Guard HQ in Tabriz, inviting dozens of the organization’s senior commanders. As supreme commander, he took his usual seat and asked the head of the delegation to Beijing, Nazem Nazarat, to summarize it for them.
Nazarat began by greeting Mehdi: “On behalf of myself and the other members of the delegation, I would like to thank our glorious commander, Mehdi Mohammadi. He worked tirelessly behind the scenes to promote the goals of the revolution. He has met, in secret, with various persons and elements, and has opened unto us doors hitherto closed. He has followed his own course and vision for our homeland.”
Everyone there except for Mehdi rose to their feet, clapped and cheered for their brave commander.
“The conference,” Nazarat continued, “honed our understanding of the importance of the world of cyber. We must boost our foothold in this field in both security and means of attack. Unless we are able to foster better information security, we remain exposed to the enemy’s unrelenting attempts to uncover our secrets and disrupt our every move. By the same token, we have to establish an attack system capable of penetrating any data system our enemy may have, reveal its plans and foil them.”
Mehdi was finding it difficult to follow Nazarat, as his own mind drifted and he was somewhere else. Halfway through Nazarat’s discourse, he rose from his seat, thanked everyone present and excused himself, citing some urgent personal matter he had to attend to. He drove from HQ directly to his parents’ house.
***
Grown and a man’s man in his own right, Mehdi was nevertheless always happy and excited to come home to his mom and dad. He never married. “I am married to the revolution,” he told his mother when she expressed her concern or gave that reply to anyone who took an interest in his personal status. His parents’ home was his haven, a source of refuge. Along with maderbozorg, his beloved grandma Suheila, the khanom, (lady or Mrs.), his loving parents, brothers and sisters, and numerous cousins, who multiplied over the years, were his entire family.
When she was still alive, Suheila never asked Mehdi about his marriage plans. Over the years, his mother Fatimah, also, came to terms with the situation and ceased presenting him with all sorts of potential brides among Tehran’s elite families.
Nor did Mehdi’s marital status present any issues with the organization he commanded. The leaders of the revolution and their supporters ruled out the possibility that Mehdi, a virile he-man, could have any ‘extraordinary’ sexual predilections. They accepted without any doubt his total devotion to the cause and understood as a matter of course that he simply hadn’t spare time for leisure or personal relationships.
Mehdi avoided the company of women altogether. There was one woman, but for a moment, whose memory stayed with him for the rest of his life. His entire perception of his own sexuality revolved around that extraordinary recollection, the moment allotted him by Allah, back in that little patch of heaven on that Greek peninsula.
Even as he was recovering in the hospital in Thessaloniki after his car accident, his entire being was immersed in that heavenly encounter, that torrid night with a godsend. “There are those,” he was reminded of an old Persian saying, “who spend their entire life to make their mark, whereas some make their eternal mark in the flicker of an eye.”
‘Did I really make a mark in such a short time?’ he thought to himself. ‘Or perhaps it was a bit longer? Either way, for me, it was eternity.’
Meeting that fellow with the blue eyes back in Beijing had thrown him into a mental loop that had left his soul bare. ‘I don’t need any piece of paper to verify what was so plain in a split second to the naked eye,’ he reasoned, convinced some mystic bond tied that guy and him from the fringes of the conference together.
‘What I need now is some downtime, some reckoning of my own to do,’ he had realized at the meeting back in HQ. It was the very first time in his life he felt he could not take part in a professional discussion, let alone contribute. He upped and left and went home directly, thinking he might find solace at his parents’ home. But then again, he had another reason to visit, one that was utterly plain and simple.
***
The khana was just completed at that time. It has been two intensive years since that terrible fire, and the family had devoted itself to having the complex rebuilt. Suheila did not live to see it built in her lifetime, but true to her last words and testament, they honored her and her memory by naming the new family complex, ‘Suheila Hall.’
Her death was hardly a surprise. Towards the end of her life, she was afflicted by all sorts of ailments; however, she bore them all with dignity, not matter how much she suffered. She hoped to live to see the khana restored but died one year after the great fire. Her death was a sad event, but the mourners nevertheless took solace in her memory and in their great privilege of having known her.
“The great poetess of carpets and rugs,” the commander of the Revolutionary Guard began his eulogy to her. He had come especially to the funeral of his beloved maderbozorg, grandmother. A magnificent blue carpet hung behind him, featuring her name in gilded silken letters.
The restoration of this building, which, in fact, meant it was rebuilt, constituted an opportunity to introduce large scale changes. The team of architects that was chosen included heritage specialists, highly proficient in preserving traditional architecture, as well as modern architects, who originated creative solutions for contemporary requirements.
The complex itself had two stories, in line with the tradition of that specific bazaar and the bazaar spirit and culture in general. It consisted of polished red Zagros stones, brought all the way from those splendid mountains, where a special quarry produced the marvelous, beautiful bricks, renowned throughout Iran.
The first floor was divided in two. One space constituted a large exhibition hall where visitors could view the wares on sale, complete with an open space where the weaving ladies demonstrated their art and skill to the general public. The other part of this level was the actual sales floor, which constituted an integral part of the grand bazaar the Mohammadi khana was part of.
As part of their route, the many visitors to the entire market of Tabriz would pass through the khana’s open space and make their way by the piles of carpets and rugs, while being regaled by the calls and cries of the loud sellers.
The khana’s second story no longer had the warehouses and weaving and production halls. They were relocated outside the grand bazaar to specially dedicated venues. Instead, the second floor of the khana now had board rooms. The central office, adjacent to the lavish conference hall, was where Suleiman, Mehdi’s father, sat, managing the family business and steering it youthfully and forcefully despite his advanced years. Bahiz’s room was next to his, as he was in charge of promoting the business. Another board room was situated next to his. For the time being, it remained unoccupied, although it was sumptuous and spacious, “for future’s sake...” Suleiman dreamt of a new generation of directors to see the family business flourish through a long and prosperous time.
The second floor also featured sales rooms for exclusive clientele. This applied to large-scale buyers and certain connoisseurs who flocked from every corner of the world to marvel at the carpets and rugs and gaze at the Mohammadis’ exquisite wares, which were, indeed, world-renowned.
The center of the second story featured the ‘Museum of Carpets,’ dedicated to the memory of Suheila. Its floors consisted of large marble tiles in gray-blue that hailed from the Alborz mountain range, famous the world over for its beauty and unique palette. The law prohibited quarrying there, unless, that is, you were part of the supreme commander’s family.
The museum’s main wall had a bright marble stand with a picture of Suheila, whose blue gaze dominated the entire space. A tribute to the
contribution the Mohammadis’ made to Iran’s carpetmaking industry, it boasted artifacts that were centuries old, having miraculously been spared in the fire. Suheila’s own contribution was highlighted as well: her unique, exquisite, patterns, the fine weaving together of silk and wool and her color scheme. These were a tribute to her rich imagination, astounding creativity and wondrously skillful weaving.
***
Suleiman stood at the entrance of his office and waited for Mehdi, his son. Following their warm embrace, the proud father led him to the sumptuous lounge, where his other son, Bahiz, was already sitting. The three Mohammadi men enjoyed their family reunion and had countless cups of sweetened tea their loyal, long-serving servant prepared them.
Mehdi sang the praises of the newly built, impressive khana complex. “I couldn’t get a good enough look during the opening with all the crowds, but I got a good glimpse now and really must commend you for a wonderful project you’ve built here.” He then bid Bahiz and his sisters farewell and walked over to the museum with his father. He turned to Suheila’s corner, bowed his head before her impressive portrait that hang next to Ali’s, which had a black frame. For a while, he dwelled deeply in his prayers and thoughts.
On his way out, Mehdi got a chance to greet a group of students from the weaving faculty at Esfahan. In reply, they told him they had come especially for a study tour of the museum.
“Do not have any meal today!” Suleiman warned him. “Your mother has been busy all day with her special horshet sabzi.”
“Don’t worry,” Mehdi replied, smiling, “as if I could forget Mom’s beef stew with herbs.”
Back at home, when he passed through the kitchen, he did his best not to lose himself in the intoxicating scents and smells of cooking as he surprised his mother Fatimah with a hug, seizing the moment her back was turned. He whispered, “I am going to be busy for a few hours” and went up to his own small piece of heaven.
The southern side of the family home had a short and narrow staircase that led to a spacious rooftop balcony. Realizing that the rest of the family made little used of it, for they had the entire spacious mansion to deal with, Mehdi embraced it from the moment he had first discovered it many years ago. The views of Tabriz lay before him, with all the city’s might and splendor. He could see the teaming streets, palatial houses and the minarets of the mosques. He viewed the entire surrounding from the same level as the minarets that towered over the multitude of people below.
Over in the corner of the roof, there was a small chamber with an electric kettle for tea. The rooftop had a partial ceiling, and along with the ever-temperate breeze from the bluish far-off mountains, this was enough to stave off the city’s usually warm air. The pleasant haven had two old chairs and a hammock, now holding Mehdi’s outstretched legs.
He shut his eyes and let the swaying overpower him. Thus, the commander of Iran’s Revolutionary Guard gave in to his thoughts, dreams and troubles. He was wracked with both certainty and doubt.
‘Surely Suheila’s blue eyes, which I’ve seen only this morning in her portrait at the museum, are the same as those of that Israeli fellow I met at that bar in Beijing. They were without a doubt carved out of the same rock. But what does this have to do with me?’
But still, Mehdi was also plagued by doubt. ‘How could it be, that among all the people on earth, I would be related to a minister in the government of Israel?!’
And yet, certainty once more, for ‘the tears I saw in his eyes were real. And no doubt my excitement ever since my encounter with him is real. Who better than I knows what he must be going through... It’s like something out of a novel or those movies... He doesn’t even know what’s going to happen.’
His thoughts lingered. ‘I doubt whether he can contain this terrible secret he is up against. Surely, he must resolve this. He has to get to the bottom of the mystery that has overwhelmed his life, too.’
As he swung back and forth, the heat and his fatigue caused Mehdi to doze off. He was awakened by the sound of knocking on the rooftop’s door. There stood his mother. Her concern for him was obvious.
“I am fine, Mom,” he said, feeling as if a great, big iron weight had been lifted from his shoulders. It came loose. ‘I have to see him,’ he resolved.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The phone rang on Friday evening.
“Hi. My name is George. I am a tourist. I came from Armenia with a group of Bahai pilgrims. We’re touring the Bahai gardens in Haifa and I would like to see you. I have something to deliver.”
In the afternoon of the following day, Bonnie drove to Haifa. A waiter in a café near the entrance to the Bahai gardens led him to George, who in turn handed him a sealed envelope, which he opened the moment George was gone.
“I’ll be waiting at the Hyatt Regency Paris on the 17th of this month” was all the message said.
***
“I’m about to go on a five-day private vacation in Paris,” the minister of science told the chief of security at the prime minister’s office. “No security. No bodyguards.” Still, protocol, as well as security procedures, dictated he would disclose that he would be staying at the Hyatt Regency in the 17th arrondissement.
Once Bonnie finished checking in at the reception, the clerk gestured to a remote corner in the lobby and told Bonnie someone was waiting for him there. A large, bald man rose to greet him. When they sat down, the large man asked Bonnie whether it would be okay for him to take a three-day tour outside France. Bonnie feigned surprise but inwardly, he was hardly taken aback.
“Where am is supposed to be going?”
“That I cannot tell you,” the large man replied. “All will be revealed tomorrow.”
The following day, Bonnie came down to reception with a small traveling bag. He told the clerk his plans had changed and that he was going on a three-day trip to the south of France. He requested, and received, a hotel safe where he deposited his Israeli passport, Israeli banknotes, a book in Hebrew which he had begun reading on the plane, as well as any other item that might be associated with Israel.
The large man was waiting for him in the lobby. He greeted him and asked him to accompany him outside, where a rather simple-looking car with a French license plate awaited them. He asked Bonnie to take his seat in the back, next to another man who was already there. The car proceeded in the direction of one of Paris’s airports.
Early on, the man sitting next to Bonnie produced an Iranian passport. It was green and it had the title ‘Republic of Iran’ embossed on the front. The man handed it to Bonnie, who was surprised to find a recent photo of his inside along with his personal details. ‘It’s for me! It’s issued to me,’ Bonnie realized, leafing through, and discovering there were several stamps there, indicating a few journeys already made over the past year, for example to Turkey, Abu Dhabi and various countries in Europe. Needless to say, Bonnie had made no such visits. One of the stamps indicated that the bearer of that passport had entered France a few weeks earlier.
Inside the passport, Bonnie also found a flight ticket for Iran’s national airline. Much to Bonnie’s amazement, the destination was Tabriz, Iran. He also found a few Iranian banknotes, but the sums meant nothing to him.
When they arrived at Charles de Gaulle Airport, the large man bid him farewell in good English and wished him bon voyage. The officer at the passport counter examined the Iranian passport Bonnie handed him, saw the entry stamp to France, stamped the exit date and let Bonnie through to the Departures terminal.
The flight to Iran was on time. Shortly after takeoff, Bonnie was cordially asked to move from coach to business class. Five and a half hours afterwards, the uneventful flight ended. The plane landed at Tabriz airport.
It was afternoon in Iran. A car waited by the airplane stairs to take Bonnie to the terminal. The person who was there to attend to him indeed fast-tracked his arrival and his check-in through customs a
nd passport control.
The car then took Bonnie from the airport to the Espinas Hotel in the center of Tabriz, where the reception desk gave him a key and informed him that they would come to pick him up the following morning at ten o’clock.
Tired as he was, Bonnie was nevertheless unable to sleep. His hotel room was spacious and lovely but simple and unadorned. The coffee table had a bowl of fresh cut vegetables, fresh sandwiches and an assortment of nuts and seeds. He also found a note inviting him to sample the minibar, which, as he discovered upon opening it, featured a large selection of fresh juice, mineral water and sodas but no alcohol. He helped himself to the snacks and the non-alcoholic beer, which he actually found quite pleasant.
He was overrun by troubling thoughts. ‘How will the meeting go tomorrow?’ Ever since his first encounter with his ‘biological father,’ as he referred to him at this stage, his excitement had cooled off a bit but was still high.
The car was there at ten o’clock that morning. Bonnie was summarily taken to a fancy-looking, spacious house in the outskirts of Tabriz, where the car entered underground parking. Bonnie stepped into an elevator with an attendant who brought them all the way to the eleventh floor. The attendant pushed a buzzer and bid farewell to Bonnie before the elevator door opened.
Bonnie entered an apartment with a modestly decorated living room complete with thick Persian rugs and two armchairs. Mehdi Mohammadi was sitting in one of them. He got up, shook Bonnie by the hand and invited him to sit. They sat opposite each other. The silence was heavy. Mehdi was pale, tight jawed, his lips so tight they were white and his ears alert like those of a predator about to prowl. Bonnie, too, was nervous. He felt his jaws were tightening, as well. His back and neck were aching, and his stomach turned.
Mehdi spoke first, breaking the silence.
“We have matters to resolve,” sounding very tired, he told Bonnie in English.
Deadly Ties Page 18
