“You there, Mr. Messbahi?” Banisadr asked when the silence at the other end had lasted too long.
The call brought him back to the conversation. His desperation had strangely lifted to give way to vengeance—against a nemesis who had robbed him of everything, even his wife.
“I’m with you, honorable Mister Banisadr.”
Testing his devotion, the former president asked, “What’s the regime hiding?” Then, as if tuning an instrument, he asked a second question, striking the perfect pitch.
“Say, what do you know about the 1992 murders at Mykonos?”
That August Berlin was unusually hot. In Hamid’s small apartment, the only breeze blew from an old fan. Throughout much of the season, he had spent his days inside, driven to repose on the powder-blue settee of his living room, his eyes languidly scanning the pages of the journals that had piled for several weeks. This was how he filled his daytime hours while the court was in recess. In any ordinary year, he would have gone to a cooler place. But he could not abandon his post while Ehrig was away lest something important elude them in their absence. Yet a new assassination in the suburbs of Paris, had put him on alert. Another exile, a former deputy at the ministry of education, had been shot at his home only weeks earlier. Since the killers would not take a vacation, neither would he.
As always, the television was on to ward off the silence in the bachelor flat. As always, it went unwatched. The monastic Hamid, who hardly ate before sunset, bit into an occasional bar of dark chocolate, sipped cold tea, and flipped through the pages of magazines, looking at the lines rather than reading them. The heat had undone his focus. Adult responsibility kept him at the task but a childlike restlessness gnawed at him, clamoring for adventure. In this twilight, his eyes caught a familiar name—Mykonos restaurant. He sat up to read and reread the sentences preceding and succeeding the name carefully.
According to a source (a person we’ll call C for the purposes of this article), the lead killer who wielded the machine gun at the Mykonos restaurant on the night of September 17, 1992, is a man named Bani-Hashemi . . .
The line appeared in a diaspora magazine published in France—its author former president Banisadr. Since the murders four years ago, Hamid had mastered every detail about the case and longed to solve its lingering mysteries, among them the identity of the lead killer—the nameless phantom who had tried to lure Yousef to kill; the one who, minutes before the strike of nine that night, had ordered them all, It’s time! The one who had retrieved the Sportino bag from the trunk of the getaway car and walked with it into the restaurant. The intruder who had announced his presence at the dinner table with an expletive. The machine-gun-wielding assassin who had fired three consecutive rounds. The nameless fugitive finally had a name.
Hamid’s drowsiness disappeared. The thrill of discovery set his nerves on fire. At last, at the bottom of a staid afternoon, he had found the adventure he was yearning for.
In thirty years of practice, Ehrig had never returned a business call while on vacation. But when his secretary said Hamid was looking for him, he broke his old vow and dialed the secret co-counsel’s number. The news he received was riveting, more invigorating than the fine sand beneath his feet. His excitement showed in the many questions he asked: Did Hamid know the former president? Was he a trustworthy source or a corrupt politician who would fabricate any lie to inflict damage upon his former allies? Could Hamid find him? Talk to him? Who was his source? Did the source know more about the murders than what was printed in the article? Would the former president be willing to testify in court?
He asked Hamid to translate the article into German and send a copy to his office. The details of the article itself mattered less to Ehrig. What intrigued him was the prospect of returning to court and surprising the other attorneys, who had delayed the trial with their endless supply of witnesses, with a witness of his own.
Hamid also broke a vow. An uncompromising secularist, he had always kept his distance from the religious opposition. Banisadr, a devout Muslim, had once been at the helm of a government that Hamid had opposed from inception. But on that day he softened. Like any good custodian who would readily place the welfare of his charge above all else, Hamid suspended his own rules. Leafing through the tattered pages of his address book, he found the telephone number of the former president’s representative in Germany and requested an audience with him.
Within a few hours, Banisadr had granted Hamid’s request with a call. At first, the conversation was dry, their sentences piling like cold logs on a hearth. When they dispensed with introductions to talk about the trial, the case ignited the exchange and they warmed to each other. Since the publication of the article, the source Banisadr had quoted had revealed much more. Once a top operative in the ministry of intelligence, now a defector, he knew a great deal about the assassinations at Mykonos, though getting in touch with him was nearly impossible, given his precarious circumstances in a border country. Banisadr had faxed the defector some questions, and the few answers he had scrawled and faxed back made it clear that he knew too much to walk the streets for long. The former president was doing his all to bring the defector to Europe but the defector’s past associations and history made it legally impossible. So Banisadr was looking into alternatives. The former president would not speak of breaking the law, but he was confident that those who did so for the noble end of this case would be absolved by heaven. Most of Banisadr’s cryptic lines were lost on Hamid, but not his allusion to a scheme to get the defector out of harm’s way.
On the evening of August 21, 1996, the scent of dilled rice with fava beans wafted from the apartment. Hamid rarely cooked but on the few occasions he did, he cooked with the zest of a connoisseur. Throughout the day, pots and pans simmered and sizzled on the stove of his tiny kitchen. He talked to friends and reporters while tasting his concoctions or adding a dash of what needed adding. By sundown, he had prepared a feast for a once unthinkable guest.
At nearly eight o’clock, the police entered Hamid’s flat. They peeked into his closets, checked his drawers, searched his cabinets, locked all his windows and entryways. Because he had no curtains, they nailed blankets to the window frames to block the view into the flat. The building was placed under security lockdown for the next several hours. Visitors were turned away as residents looked on warily. An officer stood guard at the main entrance, another on the roof, a third at the apartment’s threshold.
Banisadr arrived with two assistants in tow. He beamed his quintessential smile, two bumps forming in the upper cheeks. His dark droopy eyes also smiled behind the large square-framed glasses that had inspired so many cartoonists. Standing across from the former president, Hamid marveled at how similar the man looked compared to the campaign posters he remembered from years earlier: dark hair coiffed back, mustache trimmed, broad forehead smooth, face shaven clean, white shirt buttoned up to the last without a tie. With no trace of trepidation, he cupped two hands around the former president’s hand and welcomed him. True to Iranian etiquette, he seated the visitors at the table and rushed to serve dinner.
“Tell us, Hamid agha, what should we expect tomorrow?” Banisadr asked, pausing after the first spoonful.
(Mr. Hamid, mused the addressee. The president’s title for him was a tender blend of formality and affection for his choice of the first name.) Banisadr was to testify at the trial the next day. Those few hours were all they had to prepare him for the witness stand. It was Hamid’s only chance to turn a man, by nature a pundit, into a compelling witness—a feat no one thought possible.
The meal proved a catalyst. What a hungry man with a dry mouth and a nagging stomach might have interpreted as criticism simply seemed a friend’s wise counsel to a satisfied man, whose senses were filled with the fragrance of herbs, the happy hue of saffron, and the taste of a lamb so succulent that its consumption was, the guests agreed, gastronomic therapy.
“You see, Mr. Banisadr, these Germans have a thing for facts . . .” H
amid began. He had the unusual talent of mangling his own potentially offensive sentences, which always forced the other to articulate them for him and feel charitable in return. He meandered for some time, praising the virtues of brevity as if he were dispensing tips to a convention of grammarians. At last, he began recounting the testimonies of other exiles, who had only befuddled the judges. Pouring a ladle of creamy cucumber and yogurt on the guest’s plate, he smoothed over the roughest matters, till it was the president who concluded that the courtroom was not a forum for punditry. By the end, all Hamid had to say explicitly was a warning about the chief defendant, Darabi, who was certain to do what he could to provoke Banisadr and undermine his testimony.
The next morning, the trial was back in the headlines again. Nicknames for Abulhassan Banisadr abounded. Berliners, stunned by the high security surrounding the witness, were eager to hear from the “best protected man in the city,” to whom some referred as “Abulhassan Trotsky.” The forthcoming testimony of a former president who had turned against his own government made the public curious at first. But curiosity spiraled into sensation when Iran’s ambassador to Germany issued a statement demanding that Germany extradite Banisadr on charges of hijacking. The ambassador was referring to the airplane Banisadr had used to defect. In a television interview, he assailed Bruno Jost’s indictment as a list of empty accusations.
“No German government official would ever believe a single one of the prosecutor’s statements.”
Flashing a confident smile, he went further.
“The judges are sure to vote in Iran’s favor. I’m certain of this because I’m certain of our own innocence,” the full-cheeked ambassador said, staring into the cameras. Then, dispensing with diplomatic decorum, he assumed the tone of a concerned sheriff.
“I repeat the words of our Majles leader from last week. ‘The murders in Berlin are undoubtedly the work of the Americans, and we will not rest until the killers of the Kurdish leaders have been brought to justice.’”
Among serious reporters, the race to the former president for an exclusive interview was on. At times like this, the desire to gain access to a subject overrides all other considerations. Memories fade. Old wounds heal. Past grievances become bygones. At just such a time, Norbert dialed Parviz’s number after many months, hoping he could deliver Banisadr to his studio.
“Oh, dear Norbert, don’t you worry! Let me work on it and get back to you,” Parviz replied in a gay voice, which, to Norbert’s ear, was dangerously tinged with mischief. To think that Parviz was going to work on his behalf once again brought him no comfort. Still, it was time to give trust another chance.
On the steps of the courthouse, Parviz caught up with Banisadr. The two had begun to correspond since the murders. Parviz praised Banisadr over and over.
“Your testimony will be smashing. No two ways about it. You must be heard as much as possible as long as you’re here in Berlin.”
“But the police say I ought not to give any interviews for the sake of my own safety.”
“Nonsense! It’s the German administration that’s trying to keep you under wraps to appease Tehran. Your safety’s got nothing to do with it,” Parviz answered, adding to the former president’s suspicions.
The thought of anyone wishing to silence him angered the former president, who greatly respected the outspoken survivor. He said, “You’ve lived here long enough to know these Germans. It’s unconscionable what you say. I’ve never put up with duplicity, be it from the mullahs or their Western bedfellows. Let’s get on with the interviews then. I’ll talk to any journalist you trust.”
At these words, Parviz held up his mobile telephone and dialed a number. Norbert answered. Switching from Persian to German, he told Norbert that he was standing beside the one he had been looking for. Norbert asked Parviz to interpret a few questions. When the conversation ended, Norbert, overcome with dread, stopped Parviz.
“Wait! This man next to you, whose answers you translated . . . tell me again, was he really who I think it was? Banisadr in the flesh? Right? I mean, you wouldn’t—”
“Ah, Norbert! May you someday absolve me! I swear on my Salomeh’s life, this was Banisadr himself. Go in peace!”
After many empty weeks, the benches in Hall 700 were once again overflowing with reporters and spectators. Many witnesses had taken the stand thus far, but no one nearly as notable as the former president, once the face of the regime he was about to testify against. The exiles sat taller that day, already boasting that his testimony would vindicate and affirm them.
Judge Kubsch, aware of the tension in the room and anticipating the day’s pitfalls, excused all other translators and asked that only Zamankhan interpret. Then he called Banisadr to the stand. The preliminaries had barely begun and already Darabi appeared restless.
“Could you state your profession for the record?” Judge Kubsch addressed the witness.
“I’m the editor in chief of the magazine Islamic Revolution in Exile. Prior to this, I was Iran’s president, but was removed from office in a coup d’état.”
Darabi banged on his bench and roared in German, “Coup? What coup? You lie. You weren’t removed. You fled.”
“Shhh!” several in the audience sounded in return.
“Shut your mouths! I’m talking to him. He says there was a coup when there was none,” Darabi turned in fury to the audience.
“Put a lid on it!” another shot back.
“Motherfuckers, I’m not talking to you. I’m talking to him.” He pointed to the witness while he looked at the audience.
Banisadr kept his gaze on the judge, appearing calm.
Sharing the bulletproof cage with Darabi, Rhayel, who had remained stoic throughout the trial, joined the fray. He, too, began grunting the few expletives in Persian he had learned in prison. Four years of trial had done nothing to soften the stony silence of the two defendants before the judges, or diminish their smugness before the audience. They were on their feet, bellowing at the spectators, confident that they would not be outdone as they never had been throughout the trial.
Judge Kubsch silenced the court and returned his attention to the witness, asking him to explain what he meant by a coup.
Darabi, who had barely returned to his seat, shot up again and addressed the chief judge in German.
“He can’t explain because there was no coup.”
The audience hushed him again. He glared at them, reverting to Persian.
“Shut your shit-holes while I talk!”
That day there were others in the benches who had traveled far to hear the former president, others who were less familiar with the exiles’ code of courtroom conduct and less patient with the rowdy pair. One of them got up unexpectedly, pointed to Darabi, and hollered, “The long dick of a donkey up your mother’s cunt!”
Darabi, dumbstruck, simply dropped to his seat. To the astonishment of those who had observed him for months, he never spoke another vulgar word for the rest of that day, or the trial.
“Mr. Banisadr, who do you think is responsible for the assassinations at the Mykonos restaurant on September 17, 1992?” The chief judge asked what he had not asked any other witness since the early days of the trial.
The question was what Banisadr had flown from Paris to Berlin to answer. He leaned back in his chair. The trepidation of the opening moments disappeared from his expression as he began to articulate the driving conviction of his life.
“If Ayatollah Khomeini had been alive, I’d say he’d ordered it, because when he was alive, he personally issued and signed such orders. But since his death, there’s a small group of elite who call themselves the Committee for Special Operations. They review and order these assassinations inside and outside Iran.”
A hush fell over the hall. One of the attorneys rose to his feet but the judge motioned him to wait. The witness, too, aware of the gravity of the moment, paused to ask if he could read from a statement he had prepared. Judge Kubsch nodded an affirmative.
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“Here’s a summary of everything I know about this case. This information leads me to believe that the assassinations at the Mykonos restaurant were ordered by the highest-ranking members of Iran’s leadership. My assertion is based on the word of three separate sources, inside and outside of Iran. I’ve learned that the point man to oversee this operation was handpicked by the intelligence minister, Ali Fallahian. I’ve also learned that the lead assassin, named Bani-Hashemi, who shot the victims with a machine gun and fled Germany on a plane that same night, came to Berlin via Poland in early September and executed the plan with the help of Mr. Darabi. He is a tall and hefty fellow, in his mid- to late thirties, with light brown eyes. He is soft-spoken but wears a grim expression on his face.”
Yousef interjected, “Judge, just so I know, please tell me is ‘grim expression’ a fact or an analysis?”
The courtroom, intently focused on Banisadr, disregarded him.
When the statement ended, the judges and the attorneys began.
“How do you know these things, Mr. Banisadr?”
“From the three sources I mentioned.”
“Who and where are these sources?”
“I can’t divulge their names. One is in Iran and the other two are out of the country. My third source used to be one of the highest-ranking intelligence officers in the ministry but he has recently defected.”
“So, for the sake of clarity in this courtroom, may we give them a name just so we can follow your argument?”
Banisadr looked at Judge Kubsch and, seeing him nod, he assented. The three sources were thus anointed: the one inside the country would be called A, the second, B, and the third, the defector, C.
A new question followed.
“Tell us what you know about the involvement of Iran’s leadership in this operation.”
Assassins of the Turquoise Palace Page 20
