“Is that item number two?” Rachel asked.
“Not yet. Like I said, the Mossadegh letters were personal. Mossadegh is a figure of some importance. Many of the Green Movement posters feature Mossadegh and Mir Hossein Mousavi side by side, linking the Green Movement to Mossadegh’s democratic ideals. There’s no connection between Mossadegh and the coronation of the Shah: Mossadegh died in 1967. The coronation took place in 1968.”
“So why the arrival footage?” Rachel asked. “Did Zahra think someone who attended the coronation might have his hands on the letters?”
Nate placed a hand on Rachel’s shoulder. She felt the warmth of his touch through her shirt and looked up, but he wasn’t paying attention.
“No,” he said. “Forouhar’s assassins would have burned the letters, Mossadegh’s words were too powerful. He was Iran’s first serious liberal democrat. He passed sweeping electoral reforms, he limited the powers of the monarchy. His nationalization of the oil industry provoked a crisis with Great Britain that led to his downfall. He was too popular for the monarchy to have him killed, so he was placed under house arrest until his death. The letters to Forouhar may have been personal, but they were also a national treasure. They’re a loss to the historical record.”
This was the kind of thing Rachel expected Nate to pull from his head. She patted the hand on her shoulder in a gesture of approval. Nate responded by squeezing her fingers, suddenly alert to where he’d left his hand. Rachel didn’t shrug it off.
Vicky cleared her throat, Rachel snapped back to attention.
“This isn’t the only footage of the coronation. And contrary to expectations, the Internet was of more use than the CBC’s archives. Take a look at this.”
Vicky switched over to the Internet and called up the website of the BBC’s Persian news service. A quick descriptor typed into the search engine yielded a two-minute video of the coronation. The sound and picture were relatively clear, the commentator speaking in Farsi. They watched the imperial procession at the palace.
The Crown Prince appeared first, followed by his mother and her six maids of honor. The Shah came next, dressed in military uniform. He preceded the heads of the army, navy, and air force. These were followed by the bearers of the crowns of the Shah and the Empress.
Rachel had studied the imperial crowns in great detail on the Internet. Of particular fascination had been a 1968 National Geographic article that showcased the coronation. The article had focused on the accoutrements of the Shah: the royal scepter, the imperial sword, the emerald belt—there were no superlatives that could do justice to the wealth on display. But of the Mossadegh letters, there was no mention.
The video ended as the Shah ascended the Naderi Throne, a gem-encrusted throne commissioned during the Qajar dynasty. The Naderi name wasn’t a reference to Nader Shah, the raider of India. Rather, the word nader meant “rare” or “unique.” A lion cavorted on the footrest, while a peacock’s tail formed the back of the chair. As a result, the throne was often mistaken for the Peacock Throne of the Mughals, which had long since been looted and dismantled. The Naderi Throne suffered little by comparison; it was just as profuse in gemstones.
“Okay,” Rachel said when the video ended. “Rich people throwing lavish parties for themselves. What does this have to do with Zahra?”
“I agree,” Nate said. “This footage has been out in the world for nearly fifty years. What are we looking for?”
“Max said his mother wanted to see the Shah’s cap. That’s why she was looking for the footage.”
Vicky’s answer didn’t make anything clearer to Rachel.
“The crown of Reza Shah? It’s the centerpiece of the coronation.”
She skipped the video back. The Pahlavi Crown filled the entire screen. Fashioned of gold and silver, the crown was set with a multitude of diamonds. Hundreds of natural pearls were arranged in orderly rows. It was also emblazoned with emeralds, the largest at the crown’s apex, a hundred-carat stone blossoming from a plume.
The commentary advised them that the coronation crown, the regalia of state, and the Peacock Throne were kept in a vault of the Central Bank of Iran, treasures that backed the national currency.
Vicky reset the video to the frame of the Golestan Palace, site of the coronation.
“Since when is a crown a cap?” Vicky asked, slipping her notebook and pencil into her bag. “When Max said cap, he meant the Shah’s military cap.”
Nate peered down Rachel’s shoulder, squinting his eyes at the screen. His breath tickled her ear.
“By all means, have my stool.”
Rachel scooted off before she could fall off. She was flustered by Nate’s closeness. She hadn’t noticed the Shah’s uniform.
“Rachel.” Nate’s eyes glinted with discovery. “The Shah’s in uniform, but he isn’t wearing a cap. And no one’s holding it for him either.”
Vicky punched his elbow.
“That’s not all,” she said. “I couldn’t find a single photograph of the Shah wearing his cap during the coronation ceremonies. It’s not on the other videos either.”
“What about the video at the reference library? Engstrom said he sent you there. Did you find The Lion of Persia?”
“Zahra was the last patron to take it from the library. She didn’t return it. But it doesn’t really matter, does it? Because we know Zahra was looking for the cap.”
There was no eureka moment for Rachel. She shrugged, unconcerned.
“Seen one, seen them all. The Shah was a dictator, his police terrorized the citizenry. Maybe he didn’t wear the cap because he thought he should underplay his legacy.”
“Then why would he be wearing his uniform?” Nate asked. “And let’s remember, the Shah never apologized for the excesses of his police, they were carried out at his direction.”
Vicky nodded happily at Nate’s elbow.
“It’s true, there’s no evidence the Shah wore the cap on the day of the coronation. The real question is why Zahra found the omission important.”
Rachel flicked on the light in the screening room. Vicky looked from Rachel to Nate with the hopeful expression of a puppy.
“I did manage to winkle a few tidbits out of Max. Does the name Vic Mean ring any bells? He said he overheard his mother ask about Vic Mean on the phone.”
Nate’s response was wry. “If you knew, you wouldn’t be asking us.”
Vicky flashed him a devil-may-care grin.
“I Googled it like crazy, no luck. But I know someone who might be able to help.”
Rachel waited, her face alert.
“This is old history we’re dragging up, right? Well, get a load of this. Before she left for Iran, Zahra met with an archivist at the ROM. The one in charge of records.”
Nate spoke before Rachel could. The ROM was the Royal Ontario Museum, and as such, familiar ground to him.
“Do you mean Charlotte Rafferty?”
“Do you know her?”
“Just by reputation.”
“Max said his mother had an appointment with Charlotte Rafferty. I checked into who she is—that’s I how know where she works. She thought Charlotte could help her find Vic Mean.”
“And did she?” Rachel asked. She was getting the sense this case might be about something, after all. Maybe it was a puzzle with a few missing pieces, or maybe it was a chess game.
Vicky slid off her stool. She linked her arm with Rachel’s.
“Why don’t we go to the ROM and find out?”
Nate smiled at them weakly. “A reporter, a cop, and a writer,” he began.
Rachel’s scowl cut him off. She didn’t want Vicky at the ROM.
But shutting her out wasn’t an option just yet.
22
Bread and Surpluses
One piece of potato, one piece of bread. Fourteen of us in the cell, six are gone, there’s a little extra, they forget to subtract the dead. I eat, I chew, I think about my friend Ahmed, who was here for weeks, then mysteriousl
y gone. I chew his share of bread, but I can’t ask about him without risking myself or the others. The others want to know how I keep my sense of humor as our numbers continue to dwindle. I’m no longer coughing blood, isn’t that reason enough? It’s not. So I tell them about a beautiful girl, a girl whose eyes make slaves of kings, whose voice is like a sonnet, whose heart buds like a pomegranate with seeds of love and mercy. I forgot. Before all this, I was a storyteller like Darius. My cellmates love my stories, they make dirty remarks like pigs. “Shut up,” I say. “I’m talking about my sister.”
23
The meeting place Taraneh had whispered to Khattak was a house in the Armenian quarter, southwest of the city center. Khattak employed an English-speaking guide to take him on a tour of New Jolfa. He’d spent part of the day at his guesthouse, distracted by a new set of worries.
He’d passed the risk of the letters and the security footage on to a group of young people with far more to lose. By any measure, his actions were not in compliance with the terms of his visa, or with his status as a citizen of Canada.
You sound like an American, Larijani had warned him.
And it was a warning. Coupled with the theft of his phone, he knew he was right to be on his guard. As he embarked on his day tour with his guide, he kept an eye out for a tail.
His guide, Bahman, was a middle-aged man who seemed to know less about the sights than Khattak had discovered through his guidebook. They visited a number of churches in the Armenian quarter, before ending up at All Saviors Cathedral, also known as the Church of Saint Joseph of Arimathea. The Kelisa-ye Vank was the focal point of Iran’s Armenian church. The Christian community had been thriving at one time, its religious freedom guaranteed by Shah Abbas I, who attended Epiphany at the church and transported significant Christian relics from other parts of his realm to enhance the cathedral’s stature.
Bahman dozed on a bench in the churchyard while Khattak inspected the cathedral’s anomalous depiction of the Old and New Testaments. The saga of Abel fanned across the eastern dome, elsewhere the story of Hagar and Ismail was paired with the Nativity. A scene of the Ten Commandments was painted opposite the cathedral’s entrance, while a beautifully restored Last Judgment framed the door.
Families mingled in the alcoves, tourists like himself, or Esfahani Armenians whose lineage dated to Shah Abbas’s transport of the village of Jolfa on Iran’s northern border to new Jolfa on the outskirts of Esfahan. It was a thriving place with an atmosphere of liberal exchange.
When enough time had passed, Khattak invited his guide to dinner at the Khan Gostar restaurant behind the cathedral. They ate a meal of traditional Persian food, watching shadows streak across the cathedral as the sun sank in an amber ball.
It was a peaceful scene that echoed the pattern of Esa’s days, reminding him of Iran’s contrasts. A vibrant people, steeped in the traditions of an ancient civilization, were eager to engage with the rest of the world. Their daily concerns were similar to Khattak’s. Families gathered in parks, young people met in cafés to share their gossip about the day’s events—everything was familiar. Just last week, he’d witnessed a painted bride in a fulsome dress posing for her pictures in a park, her mother giving directions to a harried-looking photographer, while the groom stood by, smiling and sweating.
But there was another Iran as well. The country’s human rights record had consistently been rated one of the world’s worst: a repressive ruling elite maintained the forms of due process without a corresponding legitimacy. An unjust judicial system was deeply politicized, the organs of the state rife with corruption, the forces of law and order militarized. The state’s enemies were reformists, intellectuals, students, teachers, lawyers, journalists, union leaders, women’s rights groups, artists, filmmakers, and musicians. The prison system was designed to stamp out any impetus for change.
If life was lived in accordance with the regime’s rules, this other Iran might pass unnoticed, like a subterranean river running through a channel of denial. Head scarves could slip back on heads, young people could meet on ski slopes, families could watch Western television programs at home. And the green wave that had swept the country in 2009 would recede, the ordinariness of a life without autonomy resumed. But perhaps even this ordinariness, this attempt to continue in the face of repression, was a daily reminder of resistance. A well-known Iranian scholar had described this as “the art of presence.”
Khattak checked his watch. It was time for his meeting with the Green Birds of June.
He exchanged the ritual pleasantries of offering to pay for the meal with his guide, a performance in which both parties knew their roles. Once the demands of taruf had been satisfied, he assured Bahman he would be fine to return to his guesthouse alone.
As a precaution, he indicated to Bahman he was thinking of returning to Tehran within the next few days, his visit to Iran at an end. If Larijani were to stop Bahman to quiz him about Khattak’s movements, the message would serve to divert him.
But as he said it, he realized it was also true.
He was anxious to leave, constrained without Rachel at his side, unwilling to attract attention to the work of a group of dissidents whose movement had been crushed.
If the regime had not hesitated to order Zahra’s death at such minimal provocation, he feared for Taraneh and Nasreen, and for the confident young men he’d met that morning.
Digging into Zahra’s death in Iran was nothing like carrying out a homicide investigation in Toronto. He was on his own, he was carrying the weight of his past mistakes, he was outside his natural authority, and he admitted to himself he was afraid.
How much more he admired Zahra Sobhani as a result.
He would do this for Zahra, he thought. As much as he thought was sensible and safe, and when he thought he was stepping over the line, he’d get back on a plane to Canada and tell himself he’d done enough.
* * *
It took Khattak several tries to find the house. It was at the end of a warren of streets with no number on the door. He passed it twice. On his third try, Ali Golshani pulled him into the doorway.
A finger to his lips, he led Khattak across a deserted courtyard, up a set of narrow stairs to a rooftop with a five-foot concrete wall. There were no lights, the roof was cloaked in black. Several young men huddled over their laptops, sprawled on rugs they had dragged to the roof. Light flickered from their laptop screens and cell phones.
“It’s all right,” Ali said. “Nothing will happen to you here.”
Khattak wasn’t listening, shocked by what else was on the roof, shocked he’d been invited to this place. A collection of satellite dishes was situated below the wall in the corners of the rooftop, their mounting brackets loosely bolted, their masts positioned in different directions.
He relaxed all at once, his body no longer communicating its tension.
These young men wouldn’t have allowed him onto this roof if they intended to betray him to agents of the regime. The satellite dishes were far more dangerous to the Green Birds than to Khattak. They should have been much more worried than they were. He wondered if the distance from the stolen election had made the young men complacent about their safety.
They had gathered around a broadcast of the BBC’s reputable Persian news service. If the state media was Orwellian in its doublespeak, the BBC Persia was its corrective. Launched six months before the stolen election, it delivered Persian-language news to a hundred million Farsi speakers in Afghanistan, Uzbekistan, Tajikistan, and Iran. It had distinguished itself with coverage of the protests that arose after the funeral of the leading reformist cleric, Ayatollah Montazeri, who’d become a virtual prisoner in his own home. Accused of working to thwart the interests of the regime, the BBC Persia was banned inside the country.
Ali ushered Khattak to a chair. He snapped his fingers, and one of the young men on the roof slipped downstairs to fetch tea. Omid was at the center of the group, Darius at his shoulder. Nasreen was absent. The first t
hing Khattak had done was look for her.
When Khattak had accepted a glass of tea and taken a sugar cube to sweeten it, Ali dismissed the others without introducing him.
“The fewer of us who know who you are, the better. We think it’s best if we keep what we’re up to between the Hotbird Six.”
“I thought you called yourselves ‘the Green Birds of June.’”
Khattak sipped his tea, following the discussion on Omid’s laptop. It was the re-broadcast of a conversation between a BBC reporter and the Iranian journalist Akbar Ganji. Ganji had broken the story of the Chain Murders with a blockbuster exposé, quoting senior officials inside the Ministry of Intelligence. The agents implicated in the murders had been given pseudonyms, but everyone inside Iran knew whom to hold accountable. For his sins, Ganji had spent six years in solitary confinement, his long ordeal concluded by a hunger fast. He was currently in exile.
Khattak thought of Ganji’s maxim.
Wherever the regime is present, the opposition must also be present.
Khattak wondered if the broadcast was for his benefit.
Ali slapped Omid on the back.
“It’s the girls who like these poetic names.” He jerked his head at a satellite dish in the corner. “We named ourselves after the BBC Persia’s original satellite, the Hotbird 6.”
Khattak reviewed the members of the group to himself.
“There are five of you.”
Ali’s humor fell away. “Saneh is the sixth, he’s Nasreen’s twin.”
Omid interrupted. “The BBC Persia switched to other satellites because the authorities were jamming the Hotbird. For a while, the BBC could only run its test card. But now the station has switched back to the Hotbird, we decided we were playing with fire, which is too bad. It was the perfect name.”
He seemed unconcerned by the activities he was describing. Intercepted communications. Underground newsgathering and transmission. Any of these activities could fall under the rubric of propaganda against the system. The penalties, if they were caught, would be severe. And if Khattak led Larijani to these young men or to Nasreen—he didn’t want to think about the consequences.
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