Among the Ruins

by Ausma Zehanat Khan

  “How would going to Evin discredit her?”

  “Zahra was always careful. She went through appropriate channels to secure the release of detainees. Even for Roxana, she worked within the system.” She shook her head sadly. “She was too well-known for Radan to detain her without cause. And other branches of the regime were watching her—they would demand to know why Radan had provoked an incident at such a critical moment in Iran’s international relations. But if Zahra crossed the regime’s red lines—if she was caught taking photographs of Evin—Radan would have had a legitimate excuse.”

  “Why did shutting Zahra down matter so much to Radan? A rumor of the theft was just a rumor. She couldn’t prove it.”

  Nasreen looked down at her hands. “You know how corrupt this system is. Everyone is looking for a chance to climb up on someone else’s back. Radan has many enemies—they’d be only too happy to bring him down. The theft of the Darya-e Nur would be just the ammunition they needed.”

  “So you persuaded Zahra to go to Evin. You took her there. You were working with Radan from the first.” The words formed like rust in his mouth.

  “I persuaded Radan. I told him Zahra would only come to Evin if he transferred the diamond right outside its gates. And he would have to find a way to leak the news of the transfer to Zahra. She would have her proof, she’d be willing to take the risk.” Her words were despairing. “I needed those photographs just as much as Zahra did. I needed a way out from under Radan’s thumb. I convinced myself I could do both—arrange to photograph the transfer, and somehow keep Zahra safe.”

  Khattak’s face became grim.

  “It was criminally naïve to believe Radan would go along with your plan. He could have faked the transfer—he didn’t need to bring the Darya-e Nur.”

  “He did. Mehran had told Zahra the names of the parties involved. If she didn’t see them at Evin, she wouldn’t have gotten out of the car. And Barid wouldn’t have come for anything less than the diamond. Zahra was prepared, in any case.”

  She meant the writing on Zahra’s sleeve, Khattak thought. The initials directing them to the Darya-e Nur.

  “She didn’t trust you to follow the trail of the diamond if she was arrested?”

  Nasreen’s eyes filled with tears. They streaked her cheeks with a misty precision.

  “She trusted me. She feared I might be arrested as well. So she told me to stay in the car. The letters on her sleeve were for the security camera. She knew they’d be passed on to the Greens. When the guards came, she ripped them from her cuff to protect herself.”

  Khattak’s response was harsh.

  “You must know you sent her to her death.”

  Nasreen’s voice was hollow. “Once she’d taken the photographs she needed, I meant to pull her from the crowd.” She met Khattak’s gaze without evasion. “But I always knew Radan would reach her first.”

  Khattak’s face was ashen.

  “Then why do it? Why betray her to Radan?”

  Nasreen’s lips formed the rictus of a corpse.

  “He showed me a video of my brother’s torture. I still hear the screams in my sleep.”

  * * *

  Khattak had difficulty speaking. His thoughts were filled with a retrospective rage at the futility of Zahra’s death. She had always been headed to this moment. Her life’s work, her unfaltering purpose—always destined for this.

  And Roxana, the Green Birds, the starred students, Saneh Ardalan, the prisoners of conscience held around the world, their lives sacrificed on the altars of false gods—

  A few miles from where he took tea in a courtyard, screams sounded against the walls of a prison, darkening the skies. A graveyard scarred the hills, witness to the truth.

  Khattak knew of no way to measure these realities, or to grapple with their contrasts. He felt an unbearable pity for Nasreen, even as he felt the weight of judgment. Unsure of what he was offering, he touched her wrist with his hand.

  Her natural warmth had deserted her. Her face was a death mask, the wraith-like smile sketched on her lips, her head bowed in prayer, her fingers like claws against her throat.

  “Why did you write me the letters? If you were playing Radan’s game, why did you lead me to the truth?”

  “Zahra once said only our hands could pull back the curtains on the truth. I had to do something to honor that.”

  Nasreen dug her fingers deep into her neck, raising crescent-shaped indentations with her nails. Khattak gave an inarticulate cry.

  “Don’t,” he said. “Don’t.”

  She didn’t listen.

  “When Radan arrested Zahra at Evin, Barid lost his nerve. He thought he’d been photographed on Radan’s orders—he thought it was a double cross. He didn’t wait for the transfer, he left without the diamond, and that gave me a chance to set things right—to redeem something for Zahra and myself. I wrote the letters to send you after the diamond. I wrote them in such a way that even if Radan found them, he wouldn’t guess it was me. He wouldn’t know what I was doing. I wanted you to bring him down. I’m good at treachery it seems.”

  There was nothing Khattak could say to this. Zahra’s life or Saneh’s—it was a terrible, poisonous choice. As he’d once had to weigh Rachel’s life against his sister’s.

  “Do the others know? Weren’t you putting them at risk, too?” He gestured at the Green Birds.

  She avoided a direct answer, saying instead, “Do you remember seeing the word Allah on Omid’s wall? Didn’t you take a picture of it?”

  He nodded. It was among the images Rachel had sent back to him. He found it after a moment’s search.

  “Look at it again.”

  Khattak studied what he’d read as Arabic letters. He allowed his vision to cloud.

  She’d written in the Arabic style, but the word she’d written in English was RUN.

  59

  The Gallows

  They were never going to set me free, though Nasreen must have tried. She’s my twin. I’ve felt her agony every hour, every minute at Kahrizak. Each time I bled, she bled. Each time I cried, she wept, like Joojeh is weeping now. As he blindfolds me, I tell myself he didn’t know. He’s a kind man, and Kahrizak exercises its cruelties on guards as well as inmates.

  The rope is rough, the blindfold steeped in tears. They’ve rustled up a cleric from somewhere—the ubiquitous cleric of Kahrizak. My hands are bound or I’d wave him away, I don’t need his pious hypocrisy. I know what Hossein stood for, they can’t lie to me about him.

  It’s my last chance to speak, so I do.

  My name is Saneh Ardalan.

  I’m singing Roxana’s song.

  60

  Khattak and Rachel walked the group of students down to the lobby, Nasreen silent at their heels. Rachel watched as Khattak embraced Omid, Ali, and Darius. He reminded them to be careful, they thanked him on Zahra’s behalf. Rachel had found the young men serious and dedicated. They’d asked questions about the Darya-e Nur, a touching wonder in their eyes. Each wished he could have held the diamond for a moment.

  Taraneh offered a caustic comment.

  “So you’re puckface48. I was expecting someone more glamorous.”

  Rachel laughed. “With a name like that? You shouldn’t have been expecting anyone but me.”

  Taraneh spared her a reluctant smile. She nodded over at Esa.

  “You’re lucky you get to work with him every day.”

  Rachel’s response was droll.

  “You’re lucky you got to work with him here.”

  * * *

  They met a welcoming committee at the airport. Vicky D’Souza, Nathan Clare, and surprisingly, Sehr Ghilzai. Vicky immediately struck up a flirtation with Khattak. He was hard-pressed not to respond. He enjoyed the obvious pleasure Vicky took in it.

  He thanked her for her discretion, and for her efforts with the case.

  “I didn’t offer my services for free,” she warned him. She sauntered over to Nate. “He’s promised to get up close and
personal on prime time. And then there’s the little matter of an exclusive from you, Inspector.”

  Nate blinked at Rachel with something like terror. To her surprise, he hugged her fiercely at the gate.

  “You’re back safely, thank God,” he murmured.

  “And Zach’s okay?” was the first thing she asked in reply.

  His hands slid away from her shoulders, disappointment in his face.

  “He’s fine. You’ll find him back at your place.”

  Relieved, Rachel hugged him back.

  “Thanks,” she said. “It means a lot that I could count on you.”

  Nate held her gaze for a moment, his eyes quietly expressive.

  They found a restaurant near the airport and traded stories over dinner. Vicky studied Rachel with something like awe.

  “So who was this man, Alexei Mordashov? How did he figure into Barsam Radan’s plans?”

  Khattak answered for Rachel. “He claimed he was a collector, I asked Touka to send me some information on his background. Your research will probably turn up more. He’s enormously wealthy—he represents Russian oil interests. And he’s rumored to have quite a collection of illegal artifacts and gems. His connection was to Mehran Najafi, through Mehran’s export business.”

  Vicky’s eyes widened. “That’s right. Wasn’t Mehran exporting caviar?”

  “And other less respectable things. There may have been more than one reason Mehran kept ending up in prison. Rachel, do you remember telling me that Max Najafi mentioned Mehran’s frequent travels to Neyshabur—the birthplace of Omar Khayyam?”

  Rachel nodded, as the others listened, rapt.

  “Mehran was selling Persian antiquities from the Neyshabur archaeological dig. Brokering the sale of the Darya-e Nur wasn’t that much of a stretch from there.”

  Vicky had slipped out her notebook.

  “What else can you tell me about Mordashov?”

  “My own impression? He’s an untouchable Russian oligarch—he’s beyond the reach of the law. And from what I know of such men, this won’t be his only line of business.”

  Vicky scribbled furiously.

  “What are you thinking? Arms dealing? Sex trafficking?”

  Khattak studied her gravely. “That’s for you to find out.”

  Blushing a little, she chewed on the tip of her Hello Kitty pencil. Then she turned to Rachel.

  “You actually held the Darya-e Nur—tell us, what’s it like?”

  Rachel hesitated, choosing her words.

  “It was gorgeous, Tavernier had that part right.” She took a breath, not wanting to sound sentimental. “But compared to Zahra Sobhani? I’m sorry, I found it meaningless.”

  She was depleted of energy, eager to get back to Zach. Mordashov and the diamond thoroughly dissected, their party broke up shortly after.

  She saw Sehr pull Khattak aside, holding up a message on her phone for him to read. His eyes were patient on Sehr’s face. Then his expression changed. To Rachel’s immense surprise, he took Sehr by the arms, touching his forehead to hers.

  “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you for your part in this.”

  A smile of wonder broke over Sehr’s face.

  Rachel squinted to read the message on Sehr’s phone. It had been sent by Touka Swan.

  Zahra’s body had been disinterred from its burial place in the graveyard of the martyrs.

  Touka had sent Zahra home.

  Author’s Note

  The political events of this book are based upon the disputed 2009 presidential election in Iran, and the immediate aftermath of that election. To that end, I conflated specific incidents related to the protests and the mass arrest of protesters in 2009 with current events inside Iran. It should be noted that a subsequent presidential election was held in Iran in 2013, and that the 2013 election was won by the pragmatist reformist candidate Hassan Rouhani. The results of the 2013 presidential election were not contested, and though this was not a free election, it was generally considered fair by the Iranian people. The 2009 slogan “Where is my vote?” was not reiterated in 2013. In addition, the severe repression, murder, and detention of protesters, and the widespread torture and sexual assault of political prisoners at Evin and Kahrizak prisons were not repeated after the 2013 election. This is not to say that political repression inside Iran has been alleviated, or that there is currently a possibility for the resurgence of the Green Movement.

  Green Movement leaders Mir Hossein Mousavi, Zahra Rahnavard, and Mehdi Karroubi remain under house arrest at the time of writing: they have now been detained five years. As of March 2016, there were 820 political prisoners detained in Iranian prisons. Their ranks include students, journalists, human rights activists, artists, labor activists, bloggers, and members of religious and ethnic minorities. Psychological and physical torture remain a staple of the treatment of political prisoners, including extended periods of solitary confinement. Because of widespread fear that is actively encouraged by the security services, the number of actual political prisoners may be underreported. In addition, many of Iran’s most prominent dissidents are in exile, including Nobel Laureate Shirin Ebadi, journalist Akbar Ganji, and theologian Mohsen Kadivar. Dual citizens return to Iran increasingly at their peril, while many choose self-imposed exile.

  Reports from the UN Special Rapporteur on Human Rights in Iran are not encouraging. Dr. Ahmed Shaheed notes the following: Iran is in the process of drafting legislation to expand “state influence over the legal community, media, and civil society organizations,” and these laws and practices continue to operate to the great detriment of civil society activists, precluding fair trials, due process, or accountability. The Islamic Penal Code in Iran is used to justify serious human rights violations by the judiciary and other officials. The penal code also criminalizes “the peaceful exercise of fundamental rights,” for which the penalties are extreme. (See Paragraphs 3–4, and 63–72 of the Report of the Special Rapporteur on the Situation of Human Rights in the Islamic Republic of Iran, March 10, 2016, A/HRC/31/69.)

  But there exists a parallel reality as well: civil society groups are well-entrenched, the literacy and education rates in the country remain high, and Iran has a vigorous, well-informed (though heavily censored) press and populace, with a strong tradition of grass roots activism. These groups give expression to a vibrant and resilient artistic, intellectual, and religious heritage: perhaps nowhere in the Muslim world has Islam’s religious tradition been as thoroughly interrogated and explicated as inside Iran, with a multiplicity of views and many progressive interpretations emerging into the public sphere. More promisingly still, Iran has a century-old tradition of democratic struggle dating back to the Constitutional Revolution of 1906, resurfacing in the 1950s with Mossadegh, again in the early days of the 1979 Revolution, and most recently with the Green Movement in 2009. As a result, Iran has developed an astonishingly sophisticated political philosophical tradition that is little known or appreciated outside the country. And there are other factors to consider: Iran’s sizable youth population is highly educated, increasingly globalized, and politically secular, all of which bode well for the country’s future, despite the grim human rights picture.

  Two other notes on historical events described in this novel: though the private correspondence of Mohammad Mossadegh and Dariush Forouhar did exist, the letters disappeared on the day of the Forouhars’ tragic murder. To my knowledge, there was no mention of the Iranian Yellows in this correspondence: this is a fiction I invented. And while the Iranian Crown Jewels are real and exactly as described in this novel, a private exhibit of items from the national treasury has never been arranged, nor was a theft of the Darya-e Nur ever attempted. The Darya-e Nur and the Kohinoor/Koh-e Nur (The Sea of Light and the Mountain of Light) are two magnificent sister-stones that reputedly decorated the armlets of a Mughal emperor—a legend that embellishes the very real diamonds. I should also mention that the Orlov Diamond in Catherine the Great’s scepter is the original stone
.

  Finally, the murder of Zahra Sobhani in this book was inspired by the real-life murder of Canadian-Iranian photojournalist Zahra Kazemi in July 2003. Zahra Kazemi was arrested by the regime for taking photographs outside Evin. In September 2016, Tehran’s former Prosecutor-General, Saeed Mortazavi, publicly apologized for the deaths of political prisoners at Kahrizak in 2009. In a public letter, he asked the families of the victims for forgiveness for his role in these deaths. Responding to Mortazavi’s confession, an outspoken member of Iran’s parliament, Ali Motahari, insisted that Mortazavi’s apology would only have merit if Mortazavi also revealed the role he’d played in the murder of Zahra Kazemi, and if he named all the parties involved in her murder. As of yet, no one has been held accountable for Zahra Kazemi’s death.

  RECOMMENDED READING

  There is a vast and daunting body of scholarship on Iran’s politics, history, and religious tradition, but a few books that stand out for me are: Laura Secor’s The Children of Paradise: The Struggle for the Soul of Iran, Christopher de Bellaigue’s In the Rose Garden of the Martyrs: A Memoir, Ervand Abrahamian’s A History of Modern Iran, Nikki R. Keddie’s Modern Iran: Roots and Results of Revolution, Amir and Khalil’s Zahra’s Paradise, and Omid Memarian’s Sketches of Iran: A Glimpse from the Front Lines of Human Rights. I also recommend the United States Institute for Peace Iran Primer website (http://iranprimer.usip.org), and Robin Wright’s deeply insightful articles on Iran in The New Yorker. For a comprehensive account of the rise of the Green Movement, there is The People Reloaded: The Green Movement and the Struggle for Iran’s Future, eds. Nader Hashemi and Danny Postel. And for a fascinating history of Iran’s national treasury, see Crown Jewels of Iran, by V. B. Meen and A. D. Tushingham.

  Acknowledgments

  With gratitude to my father, whose voice I miss, and my mother, whose voice is always with me. Though all I remember is seashells by the Caspian Sea, thank you for that drive from England to Pakistan, and for your wonderful stories of Iran.