Brides of Blood

by Joseph Koenig

  Brides of Blood

  Joseph Koenig

  A MysteriousPress.com

  Open Road Integrated Media

  Ebook

  For Knox and Kitty

  But now in blood and battles was my youth,

  And full of blood and battles is my age,

  And I shall never end this life of blood.

  MATTHEW ARNOLD

  SOHRAB AND RUSTUM

  If you think of what you must do to save your country,

  Annihilate the liars.

  DARIUS I

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Prologue

  “FRENCH PROSTITUTES HAD BEEN flown in to celebrate the acquittal. The favorite was Marie-Christine, a blonde-haired girl said by the Paris bureau to be a thirteen-year-old virgin. Braless, wearing underwear with Minnie Mouse on the elastic, she looked to be about ten—a real prize. Nicole, Sylvie, Ghislaine were there for the judges, SAVAK generals who had labored over the evidence for a year before bringing the case to trial. The fifth girl, a pale beauty from Lyons, was intended for the prosecutor, but he had turned down the invitation to stay at home with his wife. Rather than let her go to waste, Farmayan, the defendant in the notorious case, had taken her to bed with Marie-Christine, which had pleased the younger girl in ways he had not anticipated.

  In truth Marie-Christine was nearly fifteen, and well used, her virginity restored by Swiss doctors who had stitched fetal lamb tissue across the entrance to her vagina. The orgy in the penthouse suite of the Royal Teheran Hilton had gone on until dawn, when the girls were returned to the airport by military car. In eight hours they had earned ten thousand U.S. dollars for their pimps, and been lavished with fine Persian miniature paintings, souvenirs of their brief visit to Iran, which they would trade for drugs at the first opportunity.

  At 9:00, the tribunal at SAVAK headquarters was called to order for the start of testimony in support of the verdict arrived at in advance. The young prosecutor who had spent the night in his own bed looked wearier than anyone else. In a parched tone that betrayed his discomfort he detailed the charges. Colonel Farmayan was accused of the rape-slayings of two leaders of the Democratic Association of Iranian Women during interrogation at Evin Prison, the latest in a string of similar outrages.

  Farmayan, thirty-nine, dozed through the opening statement. Not until the prosecutor revealed that, acting as his own chief investigator, he had located two eyewitnesses did the defendant sit erect in his chair.

  “In light of the overwhelming evidence of his guilt,” the young lawyer told the court, “and the likelihood that he will commit the same offense again, I am asking for the accused to be put to death. Would natural law be so accommodating, I’d request two consecutive sentences.”

  All three judges glared at him. At 11:30, before the eyewitnesses could be called, they ruled that there was no case and Farmayan had been found innocent. The prosecutor raised his voice in objection, and was silenced by the threat of contempt if he persisted. Appeal would not be considered.

  For a week the prosecutor brooded. The verdict had never been in serious doubt. When he was assigned to the murders he had been made to understand what was expected of him. An acquittal would not be a black mark on his record, but regarded as the opposite, a strong foundation for advancing his career. He had protested that he wanted no part of it. A plan to guarantee a just sentence was already taking shape in his head.

  On the eighth day after the trial the prosecutor left early from work, complaining of nausea. It was a short drive to his apartment, where he changed from his uniform into a suit purchased from an old clothes peddler. A soiled cap pulled low over his forehead completed the transformation. He drove back to headquarters in his wife’s car, a yellow Thunderbird dripping new-car smell, and idled the engine at the curb.

  When Farmayan came outside, he was with two agents on leave from Paris. They went to a black Mercedes-Benz at the corner, and Farmayan unlocked the passenger’s door. The prosecutor took shallow breaths. If the men got into the car together, his plan would have to be scrapped. After talking for five minutes Farmayan clapped the others on the back, and they walked away laughing. The prosecutor was not far behind as Farmayan went around to the driver’s side and sped off by himself.

  The Mercedes-Benz left the city headed southeast into the desert. The Thunderbird dropped back several car lengths to allow a bus between them. At the Varamin turnoff the bus exited the highway, leaving the black sedan the only other vehicle in either direction. Bandits patrolled the road at night. It occurred to the prosecutor that he had put his life in jeopardy in two different ways, two ways at least, something he had not given adequate consideration to before.

  The full moon was over his shoulder as he stamped on the gas and ran alongside the German car. Farmayan stared so intently that for a moment the prosecutor was convinced he’d been recognized. He pointed to the Mercedes’s rear tire, and, then sped ahead, watching the mirror. Farmayan continued half a kilometer before pulling into a narrow turnout.

  The Thunderbird veered onto the shoulder, raced back in a hail of gravel. Farmayan was crouched beside a wheel with his thumb pressed against the rubber. “Friend,” Farmayan said, “whatever you think you saw, nothing’s gone soft except for your—”

  Abruptly, he stopped. His hand inside his jacket was too late by seconds. The driver of the Thunderbird had a revolver out, and now he pushed the cap back from his brow.

  Farmayan did not seem alarmed. He stood up slowly, hands at his sides.

  “If there’s something you need to discuss with me, there are easier ways of getting my ear,” he said.

  Salt grit stung the prosecutor’s eyes as a tractor-trailer barreled down the far lane. He pulled the gun close against his body. Tears blurred his vision; he fought the urge to blink.

  “Well, what is this about?” Farmayan snapped at him.

  “It’s about justice.”

  “Justice for me? It has the bad smell of something else.”

  “And for the women you murdered. I was unable to present my best evidence at the trial.”

  “You did well enough, under the circumstances.”

  “Please spare me any compliments. My part was to lend legitimacy to proceedings that were a hoax from the start.”

  “A professional courtesy any of us would have been glad to extend to you,” Farmayan said. “It is impossible to function effectively as guardians of the state with the threat of harsh punishment hanging over our heads for every small conflict with the law.”

  “I’m not here to debate the merits of SAVAK’s charter. The trial will continue from where it was interrupted.”

  “Don’t be absurd.” Farmayan started to turn away. The prosecutor steadied the gun at his heart, holding him there.

  “One thing puzzles me,” Farmayan said. “Who were your eyewitnesses? There were no witnesses I was aware of.”

  “I had none. It was to convince myself of the utter corruption of the court that I said they existed.”

  “It’s too bad you’ve suffered this late attack of conscience. With brass balls like yours, your future in SAVAK would be boundless.”

  The prosecutor recoiled as if the most slanderous allegation had been leveled against him. �
��My resignation is on General Nassiri’s desk. I was naive—”

  “You still are. Those women were anti-shah filth not deserving even of the scraps we fed them in Evin. No crimes were committed against them.”

  “They were human beings.”

  “Subversives,” Farmayan said disgustedly. “A lesser form of life.”

  The colonel’s lack of remorse was duly noted by the prosecutor. “Have you anything to say in your defense?”

  “It’s pointless to continue this foolishness.”

  “Then you had better pray.”

  “Pray for what? Forgiveness? Forgiveness from you? My conscience is clear.”

  “The little French girl I’ve heard so much about—you had better pray she will be your footstool in the other world. Do it now.”

  Because he had not expected Farmayan to plead for his life the prosecutor was not disappointed by his silence. Farmayan dropped to his knees. He cupped his hands against his chest, touched his forehead to the ground. The prosecutor stood over him with an unlit cigarette in his lips. Dust from another big truck forced his eyes shut. When he opened them again, Farmayan was reaching inside his jacket. A silver automatic snagged on a lapel as the prosecutor put two bullets in his head.

  The prosecutor went back to his car and took out a gallon can from the trunk. To the driver of a passing van he was a Good Samaritan in aid of a disabled vehicle. He emptied the can on the black sedan and the corpse. Pausing to examine his work, he lighted the cigarette and dropped the match without extinguishing it.

  Farmayan burned with a hard flame sending out yellow streamers to the German car. Its heat bathed the prosecutor in sweat that soaked through his shabby suit. The Thunderbird was on the pavement again when a fireball erupted over the turnout. A secondary explosion launched dull skyrockets overhead. The prosecutor put his foot close to the floor, rolled up his window against a sudden chill.

  1

  JEWS AND THEIR FOREIGN backers are those who seek to snare the very foundations of Islam and pave the way for Jewish domination throughout the world. Since they are a crafty and active lot my fear is that, may Allah forbid it, they will one day achieve their goal. In collusion with the cross worshipers they plan first to humiliate and then eliminate Islam in Iran. May Allah never let us see such a day.”

  The old man’s fury roiled the heavy air. Mud-brick walls reflected his protest, batted it along crooked streets, and cloned a mob’s curses, his message blurred by feedback as it multiplied again, now the battle cry of an army.

  A white Paycon with loudspeakers mounted on the corners of the roof carried the word from the southern slums. The small car jerked, stumbled, and lurched back over its trail, washed the pavement in the yellow spray from its headlamps. The driver, vigilant against the enemies of the faith, kept one foot always on the brake. A skewed beam beside the passenger’s window plied the sidewalks. Deterred by the rough walls it sought out arcades and shaded alleys, heroic monuments to the recent war dead. Tumbling haze displaced the light along empty avenues as the Paycon climbed into the heights of the city and drifted on its green edge.

  The beam wavered there despite the motion of the car, which stopped suddenly alongside a row of benches. Brightness congealed around a woman whose head lolled back over the top slat. At that odd angle she appeared no more than twenty, and not beautiful, her best features the double sin of a swarm of loose hair and scarlet lips that were weakly parted.

  “Whore,” someone said inside the car.

  “Drunk in the bargain.” The driver cut the engine, damping the headlamps, but not the taped sermon that blared overhead.

  Four women squeezed out of the car, sisters in black habits, invisible against the night but for eyes, and shiny noses, cheekbones, olive raccoon masks, and of the leader—the most devout—not that much bared, a corner of cloth gritted in her teeth and only one glaring eye unhidden. The women were Pasdars, guardians of morality, their jurisdiction immodesty and licentiousness in its myriad guises. They marched beyond the range of light and surrounded the stuporous figure on the bench.

  “Cover yourself!” The lone eye took in bare wrists and ankles protruding from a black garment identical to her own, colored lips and nails—a catalogue of felonies. “This is the Republic of God.”

  She tilted a jar of clear fluid at a stained rag, and swabbed the criminal’s face until the red was gone. The girl seemed not to care, or even notice, putting up no resistance as a second measure of acetone removed the offending color from her fingers.

  Another of the quartet pulled a loose veil over the wild hair, but could not cage it all. “Slut, hide your nakedness.” She threatened worse than acetone. “Where is your shame?”

  The girl’s chin snapped against her breast as she was prodded from slumber. The Pasdars took her under the shoulders and hauled her up on marionette legs. She showed no interest in supporting her weight; soon, neither did the women. When they tried to sit her down, she dropped like a stone. Not troubling to put out her hands, she broke her fall with her nose. A Pasdar produced an unsoiled handkerchief from the folds of her black chador, but there was no blood to speak of to mop up. Nudging the girl onto her side, she looked into her senseless face. Tangles of brown hair poured off one shoulder, exposing a scorched circular wound behind her ear. The Pasdar listened for breathing, she felt for a pulse, pressed close to fill the empty heart from the violent pounding in her own chest.

  The loudspeakers quieted as the tape ran out. A blast of static announced their immediate return to life.

  “Remind the peoples of the danger posed by Israel and its agents. Recall and explain the catastrophes inflicted upon Islam by the Jews. We see today that the Jews, may Allah damn them, have meddled with the text of the holy Qur’an …”

  Approaching Niavaran Palace the djoubs ran almost clear. Plane trees nourished by the snowmelt they brought down from the mountains lined the boulevards. An American car, an aged Thunderbird, tracked the greenery north through suburban Shemiran, a motorist preferring dead reckoning to the directions he had copied in his notepad. The dry wind was infused with the flavor of summer gardens and the odd pocket of cold spilling down from the Elburz Range. Like the djoubs, the motorist’s thoughts were clearer here, too, a novelty that soon wore thin. He opened the glove compartment for a flask that he kept buried under the Administrative Regulations Governing the Revolutionary Courts and Public Prosecutor’s Office. He drank with little pleasure, businesslike, alcohol as basic to the task at hand as the guns he wore under his shoulder and in the small of his back. “Punishment for drinking liquor is eighty lashes whether it is a man or a woman,” he recited as he reinterred the empty under the law book. “Article 131, the law of Houdoud and Qesas.”

  Turning into the teeth of holy rage, he homed in on an apartment complex on Saltanatabad Avenue below the former royal estate, two modern pale brick high rises that mirrored each other across a tiled courtyard set back from the sidewalk. Double-parked beside a white Paycon pumping out the Imam’s wrath from crackling speakers was a Range Rover of the Komiteh, the Committee for the Revolution. The Thunderbird pulled in several car lengths behind. As the motorist swung his legs out, he breathed against his palm and sniffed his breath. “A man is to be whipped while standing with his body naked except for a cover on his private parts. But a woman is to be whipped while sitting with her dress tied to her body.” He went back to the glove compartment for a stick of gum. “Article 132.”

  Bleary-eyed families, the wives and daughters wrapped dutifully in long head scarves, looked down into the court from gray windows. The faint light of the nearest streetlamps extracted from the tiles a bluish luminescence, so that the squad of Pasdars might have been standing on the surface of a shallow pool. With them were a couple of bearded men who made sharp, nervous gestures with Uzi automatic rifles. A girl stretched out on her side in the center of their small circle seemed to have washed up against the benches. The driver of the Thunderbird went to the white car and pulled the
cassette from the tape player, silencing the old man’s ranting. Some of the apartment windows immediately went dark. As he turned toward the court, he thought an Uzi was pointed his way. But nothing was very clear anymore, and he couldn’t be sure.

  “Police only!” The way was barred by a Komitehman staring past him at the Thunderbird. “You will have to go around.”

  He opened his wallet. The Komitehman looked doubtfully from his face to the color snapshot with his ID.

  “Your name, please?”

  “Bakhtiar.” His stomach gurgled loud enough to hear. Sour gas bubbled in his throat. He corked it with his epiglottis.

  “And your rank, if I may ask?”

  Not quite a slap in the face, the question served a similar purpose. The Komiteh’s duty was to protect the borders and the Revolution, his to chase after counterfeiters, rapists, thieves, and killers, miscreants whose threats were aimed only indirectly at the glory of God. As it would be on the road to paradise, the simplest of the men with the Uzis, even an illiterate like this one, took precedence over officers of the National Police where their responsibilities overlapped.

  Darius Bakhtiar relaxed his throat, let out a vodka belch. “Lieutenant colonel.”

  The black curtain parted around the girl, and he dropped to his knees beside her. The smell of acetone stung the linings of his nose.

  “Who touched this woman?”

  The Pasdars kept silent. A Komitehman in a fatigue jacket zipped to his chin despite the August warmth bounced a light into Darius’s eyes.

  “What does it matter?” he said. “It was done.”

  Darius cupped the flash against his palm. “Who are you?”

  “Bijan.” The name, signifying nothing in itself, was followed by a pause, and then the kicker: “From the Bon Yad Monkerat.”

  Darius swallowed another burp. In consultation with the ayatollahs in the highest ranks of government, the Committee for the Revolution was charged with enforcing the prevailing moral tone. While lesser Komitehs held sway in tiny fiefdoms throughout the city, some claiming barely ten or twelve blocks for their turf, the Bon Yad Monkerat oversaw all of Teheran from a posh villa seized for the Revolution from an exiled merchant family. Bijan was the number two man.