Very smooth indeed, Alejo.
A woman in black biking shorts, a Speedo logo workout shirt and teal leather boots suddenly crunched her way across the dry branches out into the clearing. She was a little overweight with skin the color of milky coffee and didn’t even reach the shoulder of Wara’s father.
“Mom!” Wara sputtered. “What are you doing here? You guys could have killed us!”
And her mother’s here, too. Great. Alejo felt his face’s slow burn spread across the bridge of his nose and he thanked God for his dark skin to hide the color.
“Put that thing away!” Wara pleaded again, facing her father with huge eyes. “That is Alejo Martir…Nazaret’s brother? He’s probably gonna work with CI, too. On Monday we have the same flight and he just stopped by to see me. And you guys almost shoot him in the head!”
Hysterical disbelief echoed in Wara’s voice, apparently finally convincing her father to drop the gun to his side. Wara’s mother quickly closed the last few steps to her husband’s side, mahogany eyes filled with worry.
“Do your friends always carry guns, Wara?” her father questioned.
Jaw gaping, Wara eyed Alejo’s Glock where it nestled in the pine needles. She probably wasn’t going to be able to answer that one.
“I work overseas. Sir,” Alejo decided to speak up. He still wanted to melt into the background and figured his voice betrayed those thoughts. “The gun is for emergencies.” Like being shot at out of the blue, he wanted to add sourly.
Did all the men in Montana have easy access to shotguns?
“We were just fighting,” Wara was going on over his thoughts. “Practice fighting! Since I’m taking karate, remember? I mean, it’s nice that you want to protect me, but in the future please just…don’t shoot first!”
Wara turned towards Alejo, looking cross. “Can he get up now?” She paused, then arched one eyebrow at her father.
Mr. Cadogan’s light-skinned features twisted into a wry smile and he leaned his lanky frame casually against a tree. His blanched fingers on the gun, however, announced he wasn’t totally convinced. Besides being long and skinny, Mr. Cadogan had a boyish face that gave away its middle age only by the smile lines around the eyes. His sandy blond hair and eyes the color of grass were a stark contrast to the stout, short woman who was Wara’s mother. At Mr. Cadogan’s nod, Alejo slowly rose to his feet, hoping he looked nice and non-threatening.
“Sir.” Alejo heard his own voice crack and he actually gulped. “I feel really stupid right now.” The smooth comments are just gushing forth today. “Like Wara said, my parents and my sister are really good friends of Wara’s in Cochabamba. I shouldn’t have just stopped by, and I’m really sorry. I’ll get out of your way now.”
Feeling deflated, Alejo tried to square his drooping shoulders and debated whether it would be safe to try to take a step across the clearing now towards his rental car.
If Wara were Alejo’s daughter, he would probably chase the intruder across the lawn with the shotgun, firing a few more warning shots and a string of choice words.
To Alejo’s great relief, however, Mr. Cadogan’s lips curved upward into a cautious smile, and Mrs. Cadogan’s dark eyes lit up, all the worry of a moment ago completely melted away. “You’re Noly Martir’s son? Oh no, we’re so sorry!”
Wara’s father seemed to be beginning to see the humor in all this. “Well, what do you expect me to do when I come home, find an unknown car in the yard, and hear my daughter screaming in the trees?” Tossing the shotgun carefully to a soft patch of grass near his feet, Mr. Cadogan moved towards Alejo, holding out one pale, work-roughened hand.
“As you heard Wara holler a few minutes ago, I am, in fact, her father. Gage Cadogan. We know that Wara thinks the world of your family, so we’ll give you the benefit of the doubt…this time.” Alejo felt a sweet rush of relief at the mischievous twinkle in Gage Cadogan’s eye as the two briefly shook hands.
Since Alejo had run away from home at fourteen and didn’t consider himself worthy of being lumped in with all the good deeds the Martirs had done in the meantime, he felt guilty at letting all the suspicion surrounding him melt away at the mention of his family’s name. But right now, Alejo needed all the merit he could get. If being a Martir would save him from being chased off the property with a gun by Wara’s father, he would take it.
“This is pretty funny, when you think about it.” Wara’s mom flashed a smirking smile towards Alejo, holding out her own hand. “I’m Lara. You’ll stay here with us, of course.” Alejo nearly choked at Wara’s aghast glance his way. “I assume you’re staying in Bozeman until Monday then? That’s when Wara said the trip starts. I’ll get you set up in the guest room upstairs.” Lara Cadogan cheerfully scooped up the shotgun that lay forlornly in the dry grass and began to march back out of the pine trees. Gage walked over to clasp Wara’s guitar case shut, then slung it up in one hand and ambled after his wife. Wara marched after them and Alejo’s sighed, replacing his Glock into the ankle holster.
If Wara’s mom got to cart the shotgun back into the house, Alejo got to bring his gun too. This place really was like the Wild West. Or central Afghanistan.
Inside the Cadogan house, everything reminded Alejo of Rupert’s house in Bolivia: an open floor plan of pure wood, the kitchen separated from the living and dining rooms by a maroon granite countertop. The space was full of light, surrounded by multiple large windows, burgundy muslin curtains pulled back to let in the crisp fall sun.
“After we give our guests the shotgun treatment,” Gage Cadogan clapped Alejo on the shoulder, “we usually invite them in for a drink. Won’t you please have a seat on the sofa while we rustle up some lemonade—or should I bring something a little stronger?”
“Lemonade sounds great, thanks,” Alejo replied. He was actually starting to like Wara’s father.
“I’ll bring you some too, Wara,” Lara Cadogan called from the kitchen. “Sit down and be hospitable to your guest.”
Alejo followed a sullen Wara over to the corner that was arranged like a living room. One large khaki-colored sofa and two matching loveseats surrounded a box-like coffee table, massive, battered, and laden with stacks of every kind of book imaginable. A brightly-colored yellow fabric ran over the length of the table, and Alejo immediately recognized it as an aguayo cloth from Bolivia.
Alejo found a seat across from Wara, crossing his legs and thanking Lara as she brought cool clay mugs full of lemonade. “I’m going to make us up something to eat,” she told the two of them. “I volunteer at the school with some of the challenged kids, so dinner is always a little late.”
“They’re the naughtiest kids,” Wara said bluntly. “Dad’s a computer programmer. And he supervises this ranch my grandpa left us.”
“Do better at computers than ranching,” Gage smiled. “And now I’ve got to do some work, something that’s due tomorrow. We can talk more at dinner.” He nodded at Alejo and headed down a hallway towards the back of the house. Wara’s mother had already left them alone. She was rattling pans and pulling food out of the fridge over the dull hum of a radio talk program. The hum of the radio enveloped them and they sipped lemonade without speaking.
“I reserved a little hotel in town,” Alejo finally told her. “You would hate it if I stayed here.”
Wara bit her lip. “You can stay here,” she said. Alejo swallowed hard and they lapsed again into quiet.
“They’re talking about poor Jaime on the radio again,” Lara finally broke the silence around a mouthful of something crunchy. “It’s all over and done with now, and I wish they’d just let it go. His mom gets so upset.”
Alejo craned his neck towards the kitchen, and Wara leaned to see her mother. “The whole firing scandal?” she asked. Lara nodded and turned down the radio. “I guess you’re listening to John Rainer.” Another absentminded nod; Lara Cadogan was frowning at the contents of a blindingly silver bowl.
“Jaime Malcolm is this kid who used to be in youth group w
ith me,” Wara explained to Alejo. “He’s a couple years younger. He was worship leader at this huge church in Chicago until he got fired a few months ago. Jaime and this other guy Gerrit cooked up a plan to share the gospel with Iranians by inviting rock bands from Iran to sing over here in the States. Jaime always was a little weird. He worked in the music industry and had all these contacts, so it was really easy for him to set up concerts. This one guy from a famous band became a Christian, but he ended up being kind of ‘controversial’. Jaime’s church wanted to disown the Christian rock singer and Jaime was causing problems about that. So they fired him.”
Alejo finished the rest of his lemonade in one gulp. He couldn’t believe they were talking about this. Wara knew Jaime Malcolm?
“When Jaime got fired, it just about did his poor mother in,” Lara continued with a sigh from the kitchen. “The whole thing was just so public! Last Sunday, you know, Sherry told me she wishes her boy would at least finally marry Kirsten and give her some grandchildren. You remember Kirsten from youth group, right?”
“What happened to the guy?” Alejo asked over Wara’s distracted nod. “The Iranian guy who ended up being controversial?”
“Nothing good,” Lara said lowly, one hand on her hip in a gesture that reminded Alejo very much of Wara. “Jaime and Gerrit were so excited because this guy was from Iran’s most famous band. The name of the band even meant ‘Righteous’. The lead singer was young and terribly good looking. Amazing green eyes that just looked through your soul. Well I can tell you, the guy ended up not being so righteous.”
“But didn’t John Rainer himself baptize the rock star?” Wara’s tone was sarcastic. “John Rainer is really famous in the church world here in the States,” she informed Alejo wryly. “He’s into everything, including politics. Leader of the Christian Family Policy Council. He’s the pastor of this huge church in Chicago, Church of the Valley. And has his own radio program, which my mother adores.” Wara’s sour tone indicated she was not a big fan of John Rainer.
“Well, he did baptize him…” Lara smacked her spoon hard against the bowl. “But when Pastor Rainer saw the man continued in sin he had to speak out against it. He said he wished he had never baptized him. And it’s a good thing he did, before things got worse.”
“It’s worse now?” Wara asked, stifling a yawn. “Did Jaime go onstage naked one Sunday and start shooting people.”
“No, not Jaime. The rock star. The wages of sin is death, as they say, and not too long after getting back to Iran the guy got arrested. Can’t say I’m surprised.”
“What’d he get arrested for?” Alejo asked in the calmest tone he could manage.
Lara’s face twisted and her coffee-colored cheeks mottled darker. “Satan worship” she said shortly. “Plus counts of rape and spying. Horrible stuff. Really makes the rest of us Christians look bad.”
Now even Wara was listening, mouth slightly agape. Lara shuffled into a side pantry, leaving the shiny bowl on the counter amidst shreds of cast off lettuce and bell peppers seeds.
“Wara, I need to talk with you,” Alejo said.
“Uh, ok.” She seemed startled. “I thought we were already talking.”
“I assumed your mom doesn’t know everything about your trip?” he asked lowly.
“No! Not exactly. She thinks CI’s an educational NGO.”
Alejo nodded expectantly. “So do you want to show me to the guest room?”
Wara blinked and rose quickly from the couch. “Oh. Ok. Mom, I’m giving Alejo the tour of the house,” she called towards the pantry. The both filed up the wooden staircase, trailed by wisps of garlic and cumin. At the top of the stairs they reached a little sitting room of soft plaid couches and a fluffy peach rug, framed by two cedar doors.
“This will be your room.” She led them towards the door on the left. “And I’m on the other side.” They went into the guest room, which was swirled with shadows of dark blue and wood paneled walls. “Out here is the porch.” She slid a glass door open and revealed a spacious railed deck with a view of dusky mountains capped with snow. The sun was already tucking itself into the jagged fringe of a mountain, and Alejo felt a lightening pang for the Andes around the city of his birth.
“So, this porch goes all the way around the house, over to my room,” Wara gave him a little smile. “But my part is nicer because I have a futon. What’s going on?”
They both walked over to the railing, watching the neon, escaping sun.
“Another reason I wanted to come here early is to give you some more information about the trip,” Alejo began. “I was with Rupert and Sandal in Bolivia, and already got the briefing. Sandal’s going to be our guide. You remember her, right?”
“How could I forget her? She came to the hospital when you were blind, Alejo. She and Tabor were sent there because God gave Rupert a dream about us.” She shook her head quickly in disbelief, then almost grinned. “So we get to go with Sandal? Where? Rupert said I had to study Farsi, so that kind of narrows it down. Afghanistan, Iran, Tajikistan…such a nice list.”
Honestly, Alejo wasn’t even listening to her. What were the chances? “Wara…you actually know Jaime Malcolm?”
“Yeah,” she drew out the word slowly. “From youth group. You know Jaime?”
“No. But I read about him, in the file. For our trip. Because he was behind bringing a rock star to the United States, and then lobbying for his release when he was arrested. That rock star is Sami of Ashavan, and Rupert’s intel says he is a Christian, Wara. Despite what the story in the news says. He started a house church movement and then was arrested. They’re saying he was executed, but you know how Iran is. They like to say stuff like that just to throw you off.”
This was seeming a lot for Wara to take in. “Jaime Malcolm was in your file for this trip?”
“Only because he was behind Sami’s conversion and then tried to lobby for his release here in the States. He tried hard to go to Iran to put on pressure there, but his visa was turned down multiple times. That’s where we come in. Rupert’s contacts need help to get information out about Sami’s case, and the rest of the band that were arrested with him. They need help to pressure for his release here in the West. We’re going to Iran, Wara, to find out if Sami is still alive.”
4
Prisoner One
Esfahan, Iran
THE CUBE-SHAPRED ROOM IS COLD AND DRENCHED with the scent of rancid, day-old rice. Oddly enough, the walls are covered with dusty tiles the color of mustard; the room’s only furniture is three battered wooden school desks. A peeling Snoopy sticker winks back at the prisoner from the desk where he’s sitting and he sighs, then shoves his shaking hands further into the refuge of his sweater’s sleeves. From behind him a metal door slams, and the prisoner crosses his arms more tightly across his chest, mentally steeling himself against the grating voice of his bazju or interrogator.
“You haven’t written anything.” The comment is offered in a tone like a smooth pebble calmly slid across a frozen pond. The prisoner hunching over the Snoopy sticker isn’t fooled; he has spent quite a lot of time already here in prison, and has spoken with his bazju nearly every one of those days, some of the time here in this hellish mustard-shaded room that reeks of moldering rice.
His bazju is angry. Very angry. The calm tone doesn’t fool the prisoner for a moment, and the freaky thing is, he knows that his bazju doesn’t intend it to.
Bam! From the corner of his eye, the school desk that had sat to the prisoner’s left, the one that held the upper right hand inscription proclaiming Amin’s undying love for Roshida, pops into the air, propelled by the bazju’s brown leather loafer. Metal shrieks against porcelain tiles as the desk crashes to the floor, and the impact’s hollow echo stings the prisoner’s ears.
“I thought that you had learned something!” He risks a glance to confirm that the bazju’s face is indeed that dangerous shade of mottled crimson. The orange-ish leather jacket that the interrogator wears nearly every day
has an especially thick dark ring around the collar today, as if the man has been so busy he hasn’t been able to leave Evin prison for days to go home, change, and shower. The rank odor of his clothing mingles with the acrid smell of old rice, and the bazju swipes violently at a long lock of dark hair that is forever falling into his pale green eyes.
“We discussed this. Have you truly learned nothing from your little scare less than two weeks ago? You thought we would kill you; I saw the fear in your eyes. Do you want to die?”
The prisoner blinks slowly, forcing himself to examine the chalky white grout between the smudged mustard tiles. What he really wants to do is get out of Evin alive, go back home to the woman that he loves and marry her that same day, if possible. “No, not really,” he says.
“Then maybe I’m missing something here.” The bazju strides to the fallen desk and slams it back to its place, eyes simmering. “Could you have some sudden onset of hand cramps? Could you have forgotten how to write? Anything you can offer me to explain why the paper I have given you, where you are to write what I carefully dictated to you, is still sitting there WITH NOTHING ON IT? I told you to write about Mirza Samadi!”
It has been so long since the prisoner had something close to a normal conversation with another human being. On some days the bazju just feels like talking about politics or the weather, or even working on some of the Sudoku puzzles from the prisoner’s battered book. But then, after a short time, it’s always back to business. The bazju’s business is to get a confession out of the prisoner, apparently whether there is anything worth confessing or not. The daily screaming matches, full of accusation and threats, have begun to force the prisoner to turn his mind on autopilot. Nod and look compliant at all the right times. Murmur “Yes” or “No”, while staring demurely at the floor. Resist the impulse to cringe when the bazju is yelling and purple, right in your face, desperately in need of a breath mint.
Just count the tiles. Again.
Reverb (Story of CI #2) Page 3
