The Drayton inquiry had come to a close after a protracted hearing, vindicating his choices about that desperate night on the Bluffs. The public outcry against the government had been so strong that in the end, the Minister of Justice had paraded Khattak before the cameras as a solution to his problems.
“Yes, we didn’t act on information we had about Drayton, but look what Khattak did to set things right.”
Tom Paley’s missing file on Drayton had turned up as mysteriously as it had disappeared.
In its aftermath, he’d received a cryptic note from his former partner, Laine Stoicheva.
You’re welcome, Esa.
As soon as he’d gotten his visa, he’d left for Iran with a brief stop along the way.
He was still on administrative leave, awaiting a decision on the fate of his stewardship of Community Policing. He hadn’t seen Rachel in weeks, though he called and e-mailed her as often as he could. But every time they talked, they couldn’t bring themselves to discuss the outcome of the case that had resulted in his being placed on administrative leave.
He’d killed a man.
And though he’d sensed Rachel’s willingness to listen, he hadn’t wanted to re-visit that night at Algonquin Park. Enough that it haunted his dreams, he didn’t need to bring the nightmare out into daylight to examine it. He wasn’t ready, though the weeks he’d spent in Esfahan, not thinking of that night in the woods, had helped.
Until the letter had arrived to disturb his sense of calm.
Because either the letter was a threat or it was a demand.
And he wasn’t prepared for either.
He crumpled the letter up, ready to drop it in a dustbin.
Sober second thought gave him pause.
These letters I write are folly. Hide them for they will condemn us.
There was a loose brick in the wall behind the quince tree.
He thought of burning the letter so it would leave no trace, but with a policeman’s instinct, he folded it into a fragment of itself, and placed it behind the brick with care.
Then he realized something else.
These letters I write are folly.
This was only the first.
* * *
As he sipped his tea, taking a slow pleasure in it, women in white chadors swept through the mosque’s courtyard and dispersed down to the Old Bridge, a sea of fluttering doves on the breeze. The image charmed him, the white veils unique to Varzaneh, a sight Nasih had urged him not to miss.
These poems now rise in great white flocks.
The letter had turned his thoughts to Hafiz.
He followed the progress of the women along the seven arches of the Old Bridge, the river below surging with browns and blues. At the first arch, two slender young women broke away from the flock. One of them waved to him, it was the woman with mischievous eyes. She blew him a kiss with full, pouting lips.
Mildly scandalized, Khattak looked around. No one had noticed the kiss. The young woman looped her arm through her friend’s, bringing her friend to Khattak’s notice.
It was the woman with sad, dark eyes.
Don’t, Khattak thought. Don’t come any closer.
He raised his tea glass and nodded his head, returning his attention to the mosque. His heart was beating unaccountably fast. He pretended to study the crumbling minaret of the mosque. If he looked toward the river, he knew the woman’s eyes would still be on him. He thought of rising quickly, paying his bill and returning to the station to catch an earlier bus. But he didn’t know why the thought of two young women should frighten him.
Again he had the sense of being watched, that prickling of his nerves. But apart from the mosque-goers who were headed to the river, no one else was in view.
His eyes scanned the mosque. He had exited from the door on the left, and walked along the alley at the rear to view the dome’s exterior profile. The chipped-away bands of ceramic glowed turquoise in the sun. Now huffing around the corner from the exit came a heavyset woman with a bright pink scarf that seemed destined to escape the collar of her smock.
It was a painter’s smock with several strategically placed pockets. She fished through the pockets, muttering to herself, discarding matchbooks, a cell phone, cigarettes. A prolonged search produced a piece of paper. She studied it, grimacing.
The hair bunched thickly on her forehead was a sandy blond touched with gray.
She looked up and met Khattak’s eyes, holding out the piece of paper. After a moment, she lifted her hand in a wave, her shoulders slumping in a gesture of relief.
Despite her haphazard attire, there was an air of officialdom about her.
She’d been searching for Khattak, and she’d found him.
His sojourn in Paradise was over.
3
The Sonata
No one says anything in the car. I know they’re Basiji, and I know we’re not headed to Evin. I turn my head to look out the window, one of the Basiji catches me. He cuffs my head with his fist. The violence is a shock, even after Evin. “Keep your head down,” he says. “Where are you taking me?” I ask. I’m ready for the blow this time, my arms up to protect my face. These men are frightening, but they aren’t much older than me. “Please,” I say. “My family will want to know where I am.” The Sonata turns south, away from the mountains. The driver grunts something over his shoulder. “Shahr Ray,” he says. My stomach drops at the name. Sweat breaks out on my body, I lose control of my hands. My heart feels like a stone in my chest, I swallow, and I can’t speak.
I’m going to Kahrizak.
4
They walked along the Old Bridge together, enough of a distance between them as they walked to deny an association if they needed to. The woman hadn’t presented a business card or any other form of identification, and Khattak didn’t ask for one. He slowed his pace to accommodate her limp. She was overweight and favored her left knee as she walked. The piece of paper she’d held up to examine was a photograph of Khattak clipped from a Canadian newspaper.
“My name is Helen Swan, but call me Touka, everyone does.”
She spoke in a distracted manner with the hand gestures to match, but her gray eyes were sharp and direct. They widened with appreciation as they ranged over Khattak’s face.
“I’ve been touring Iran for a few weeks—mostly up north, at the sea. I love this country, I come back every year.”
He didn’t ask how she managed to obtain the visa. He suspected he didn’t want to know.
He was following the progress of the young women who’d crossed the bridge ahead of them. The ground below was covered with the sofreh the weavers had left out to dry, geometric patterns that cut across the river’s banks in colorful, even patches.
“Mostly, I buy souvenirs for resale—carpets, ceramics, even turquoise. But every now and again, I run errands on behalf of our government.”
Khattak didn’t know what to make of this. There was no formal relationship between the governments of Canada and Iran. Canada had closed its embassy in Iran in 2012, expelling Iranian diplomats from its own territory at the same time. There wasn’t even a pretense at consular relations between the countries. Aware of this, Khattak cut to the heart of the matter.
“The Iranians must have a file on you, then.”
“Perhaps.” She made a harried gesture with her hands. “What does it matter? I’m in a position to do favors for certain people and to withhold favors from others, which makes me useful. Especially now there’s been an election in Canada. With the new government, who knows how things might change?”
Khattak suspected Touka Swan knew quite well if relations between Canada and Iran were about to change with the election of a new prime minister.
“Ms. Swan—”
“Touka,” she interrupted. “You’re here on holiday, I understand that. And you were clever about getting your tourist visa, so you’ve managed to keep yourself out of the spotlight.”
It was Khattak’s turn to interrupt.
&
nbsp; “I’m on leave,” he said. “I’ve no interest in whatever you’ve come to speak to me about.”
“But you know Zahra Sobhani.”
Touka Swan came to a halt above one of the arches. She studied the sofreh spread out on the banks.
“Maybe I should get into buying and selling sofreh,” she mused.
“Ms. Swan—”
“Inspector Khattak,” she said firmly. “You are not at liberty to refuse your duty. It would be nothing for me to drop a word in the ears of the wrong people, and bring your visit to this country to an end. I don’t like making threats, but I expect you to hear me out.”
Khattak leaned against the railing. The women he was idly tracking had reached the far end of the bridge. They were talking to a serious young man with an air of grievance who was in the business of renting out tour bikes. Esa thought they would ride to the other side of the Zayanderud River and disappear from his view. Instead, they wheeled the bikes in his direction. The sad-eyed woman had exchanged her chador for a manteau and head scarf. As she rode past him, its tail whipped over her shoulders, the white cloth bordered by a band of swallows. It was whimsical and pretty, at odds with his impression of the woman’s magnetic eyes.
“I know Zahra Sobhani by reputation only,” he said at last. “We’ve never met.”
Sobhani was a well-known Canadian filmmaker. Her documentary on Iran’s 2009 election had swept the awards season, winning accolades for its originality, a story told without commentary or subtitles, the music written by Zahra’s son, the musician Max Najafi, acclaimed in his own right.
The documentary was called A Requiem for Hope. Khattak had seen it at the Toronto International Film Festival, and had attended the discussion with mother and son that followed. Zahra Sobhani had struck him as a fiercely capable woman, bold and unafraid, burning with unresolved questions. Her son had spoken about his music. When pressed to comment on the politics of the film, Max Najafi had said simply, “Iran is the music, that’s all I have to say.”
Khattak had been impressed by the somber mood of a young man gifted with exceptional talent, a man without the need for words. The next time he’d viewed the film, he’d understood a little better. The film was personal to Max, the music intimate, reflective—sorrowful.
It had penetrated Esa’s defenses, making him think of that dark night in the woods.
And other things he wished to forget.
A gun in his hand. The sound of a body thudding against the ice.
He felt its echo in Esfahan, so far away from home.
He looked at Touka Swan and knew she had come to tell him Zahra Sobhani was dead.
* * *
“What happened?” he asked quietly.
Not far from Varzaneh, seasonal birds invaded the Gavkhuni wetland. Though climate degradation had eroded their numbers, a few straggling pelicans dotted the banks of the river, their beaks bullet gray against turbulent flashes of green.
“She insisted on returning to Iran. She was welcomed at the airport like a conquering hero—”
“Like a daughter of Iran,” Khattak interposed. It was a phrase he loved.
Touka Swan shot him a swift glance. She went on as if he hadn’t spoken.
“She must have thought that made her safe. Or that no one in the government would take notice of her. You remember her documentary about the election?”
Khattak nodded.
The stolen election of June 2009 and its slogan, Where Is My Vote, had dominated international headlines for a time, the death of a young protester named Neda Agha Soltani captured on a cell phone to harrowing effect and sent around the world.
Elections were stringently conducted within Iran: candidates were required to receive the Guardian Council’s approval before they were granted permission to campaign. When widely supported reformist candidates had met these requirements, their subsequent, categorical loss was viewed by the public as electoral fraud.
Neda Soltani and millions of others had poured into the streets to protest what they called the embezzlement of their votes: the regime had responded with violent repression, the mass arrest of protesters, and in some cases, its forces had meted out death.
“Then you remember how the film ended,” Touka continued.
“Yes. There was a selection of photographs. An ‘In Memoriam’ section for the students killed during the protests that followed the vote.”
“It was also a memorial for the living. Zahra came back on behalf of the living.”
“I find it strange that the government allowed her to return.”
“She raised an international outcry, painting the Iranian regime in the worst possible light, when they were trying to sanitize their image. They must have weighed the risks of letting her return.”
A flock of starlings rose up from under the bridge. Khattak watched their wings beat against the sky before they spun away into the desert emptiness. To Khattak, the sky seemed cumbrous.
“Wouldn’t she have realized it was still a risk?”
“That’s why she didn’t allow her son to come. She intended to use her platform to demand the release of all of Evin’s political prisoners. She was planning to make a follow-up documentary.”
Khattak didn’t want to hear the rest. He had tremendous respect for Zahra Sobhani’s determination. Evin prison was notorious for its abuse of human rights, its state-sanctioned cruelties a well-known lexicon of torture.
The smallest act of personal defiance could gain an ordinary citizen months of discretionary detention without recourse to due process of the law. The interrogators, the wardens, the prosecutors, the judiciary, the Ministry of Intelligence and Security—these were arms of a long-churning machinery of repression.
“I’m surprised the regime allowed her anywhere near Evin. Photography is forbidden at the prison, she must have known that.”
“She didn’t ask anyone’s permission. She dodged her official minders. A few pictures leaked from her camera would have raised the profile of the prisoners held there. But I admit, I’m surprised she risked it. She normally proceeded through the appropriate channels.”
Khattak was beginning to understand why Touka Swan had sought him out.
“If she was willing to take such a risk, she must have gone to see someone who mattered to her. Personally.”
“Haven’t you been reading the news?”
Khattak waved away a man who approached him with the offer to rent a jeep to drive over the dunes. They exchanged pleasantries, the tour guide delighted to meet a visitor who was fluent in his language.
Touka Swan looked at him with interest.
“You speak Farsi.”
“My father taught me.” She already knew this, he thought. He moved away from Touka, careful to look in the opposite direction. The tour guide’s friends were gathering behind them. “I don’t think we should be seen together. I don’t know who you represent, and I don’t want to find out. Whatever you’ve come to tell me about Zahra, you could be next. Or I could.”
Touka gave an inelegant snort.
“Your profile isn’t high enough to worry the Ministry of Intelligence. All you’ve done is read a slightly subversive book.”
Khattak’s hand went to his breast pocket.
“It’s foolish of you to carry it around with you.”
“It was you?” he asked. “You’ve been following me? Was it you who sent me the letter?”
He had a difficult time reconciling the dreamlike phrasing of the letter with the matter-of-fact woman beside him.
Touka scratched her head.
“I’ve been keeping an eye out for you at the request of our government, but I don’t know what you’re referring to. The first rule of traveling in Iran is not to put anything in writing. I’ve come to you because our government is trying to—balance—its interests in Iran.”
“I have no idea what you mean.”
She sighed deeply, reaching into her pocket for her cigarettes. Without asking Khattak if he
minded, she lit a cigarette and expelled the smoke over the river. She coughed for several moments before speaking again.
“One week ago, Zahra Sobhani was arrested for taking photographs at Evin prison. Two days ago, her body was delivered to her family’s doorstep in Tehran.”
The hollowness that had cut away at Khattak since that night in the woods now opened into a chasm. He felt himself clawing at the edges of it, a wetness behind his eyes.
“They murdered her?” he asked.
“She was tortured, raped, and beaten to death.”
Touka stubbed out her cigarette, her knee buckling at the action. She gripped the deck of the bridge with her hands. They were powerful hands, the skin chafed and raw, the knuckles dark red. They looked like the hands of a fisherwoman.
His mind racing, Khattak said something he hated himself for saying. It laid his selfishness bare.
“How does this concern me? She made a dangerous choice, she’s paid for it, there’s nothing I can do.”
“We need a name,” Touka said. “We need to know who’s responsible.”
Khattak shook his head. He couldn’t understand why.
“It could be any one of the interrogators at the prison,” he said. “A prison I have the sense to avoid.”
The noise of the crowd was growing behind them. Khattak felt a prickling at the back of his neck. He knew he should walk away without hearing anything else, take the next bus back to Esfahan, then to Tehran, pack up his things and leave. He knew nothing good waited for him in the streets of the capital or at the outskirts of Evin prison.
“We think Barsam Radan is directly implicated. All we need is proof.”
* * *
Khattak knew the name, as did anyone who followed news of Iran. Radan was a senior official at the Ministry of Intelligence and Security. He frequently attended Evin to take part in the interrogation of political prisoners, a catch-all phrase for students, labor organizers, artists, intellectuals, and journalists. He’d reigned over the most ruthless period of repression in the history of the prison, with a special fire reserved for those who’d protested the stolen election.
Among the Ruins Page 2
