Somehow, his impassioned speech had gotten a little out of hand. Wara still looked upset. His heart twisted in a way that had nothing to do with accomplishing a mission. He needed to fix this, right now.
“C’mon,” he jumped down from the little wall and lightened his voice. “I want to show you something funny. Did you already see Rupert’s tree house down by the stream?” Wara’s taken-aback smile told him that she hadn’t. “Rupert told me about it. It’s been here since one of the world wars, or whenever Rupert was a little kid. His dad made it, and he said he used to camp out there and shoot the monkeys that live in the forest.”
Wara’s mouth rounded into an O and she slid off the brick wall, landing gracefully on her feet. “There are monkeys in this forest? Are you serious?”
“I think they might be kind of extinct now, or endangered. Maybe thanks to Rupert and his tree house.” Alejo found himself grinning as Wara’s gloom fled away.
“Yeah, I want to see his tree house,” she said, eyes lit up like fireflies. Alejo nodded in satisfaction and they set off down the hill towards the gurgling stream. Sure enough, there was a two-story wooden house, built around the trunk of an enormous cedar tree. The thing was solid, big enough across that several people could easily camp inside.
“I’m checking it out inside,” he told Wara, climbing happily inside like a little kid. He had never seen a tree house this big, and with the rushing water close by it seemed like the perfect place for a camp out. Alejo climbed the little ladder to the first floor, finding a floor of neat boards and scattered cushions. He was glad to see Wara actually followed him inside. They settled on the soft cushions, Wara trying to bury her arms in one of them against the cold.
“Here, it’s freezing out here,” Alejo told her, pulling off his hoodie and passing it over to her. “Take this. I bet Rupert only camped out here in the summer.” Wara nodded and slipped the hoodie over her head, leaving Alejo in only a snug-fitting t-shirt.
The thought suddenly occurred to him that his could actually work out quite well.
That Wara found him at least a tiny bit handsome he could believe; he’d seen the way she stared at his mouth when they’d sat close on the train. And now here he sat, wearing jeans and a tight t-shirt, showing off more muscle despite the cold. That was a good thing, right?
She likes danger, he reminded himself. Just not if I cause it. She likes situations that are dangerous and where she can rebel but escape getting in trouble.
Above Wara’s head was a security camera of all things. Whether it was on and broadcasting or not was hard to ascertain. Wara had stretched herself out on one side, watching the view of starlight outside the tree house door, feet curled up close to Alejo.
He could get used to this. Wara Cadogan looked extremely attractive in his giant hoodie, and the fact that she was wicked smart elevated her to some kind of supermodel status. For just a second, Alejo imagined having a woman for a partner on missions and in life. Dedicated to each other till death, they could face anything and have fun while doing it. Bonnie and Clyde. Butch and Cassidy. For the first time, it occurred to him that he actually wanted to complete this mission.
“Looks like Rupert has security, even in here,” he remarked with a grin. She lifted her eyes to follow his to the glassy camera.
“That’s weird.” Her lips curved into a smile and she actually looked like she was having fun in here. “Why would you need a camera in a tree house?”
Alejo smiled and stretched his legs out in front of him, parallel to hers. He leaned back into both arms trying his best to look cute. And show off his biceps.
Nice guys are probably also funny.
“Who knows?” he raised his eyes in mock innocence. “Maybe he’s worried about people sneaking back here to do bad stuff.” With soft light streaming in the tree house doorway and clear water rushing over rocks, it seemed terribly romantic out here.
She cocked an eyebrow at him. His plan was depending on that part of Wara that loved the danger. As long as the danger didn’t come from him. But if it was all her idea…
“Bad stuff?” she echoed. The spark in her eye told him she was liking this. It seemed that his niceness in their earlier chat was working wonders.
Probably more that then his muscled physique.
He really hoped she would kiss him.
“Like this?” Wara said, and sparks flew in front of Alejo’s eyes as her bare foot collided with his jaw. From her sideways position on the floor, she kicked him so hard his head snapped back into the cedar boards, sending a resounding crack throughout the tree house.
“Oh my gosh!” she was laughing hysterically as his eyes uncrossed and he tried to stop the room from whirling. “Now we’ll find out if that thing is on. If Rupert has security guys watching us, I bet they’ll come running.”
She had actually made him see stars. Wara was still chuckling and grinning at him as he held his jaw and his slaughtered pride.
11
Whacking White Elephants
THE INCESSANT RINGING OF THE CELL PHONE at last pierced the veil of Rostam’s consciousness, pricking him out of a deep, peaceful sleep. Creamy sunlight powered its way through the wide Venetian blinds, setting Rostam and Ava’s bedroom aglow in a tangerine fog. Underneath the black, mountainous comforter they had received at the wedding, Ava lay curled up, long hair fanned across the fat pillow, still fast asleep.
Rostam started, felt his eyes widen. Three days since he and Ava had been married, and the sight of her sharing his bed still seemed hard to reconcile with the reality of waking hours.
It’s not a dream; she’s really here. She’s your wife!
The sliding electric guitar chords of “Dominated by my Purse” started up again from Rostam’s sleek gray cell, and his head jerked towards the glass bedside table. The tiny electronic rectangle was vibrating itself towards the table’s edge, buzzing against the glass.
It had been ringing for some time already, hadn’t it? Really hoping not to wake Ava, Rostam snatched the phone up, hit mute, and squinted at the tiny numbers displaying the time.
7:04 a.m.
Today was a workday, but Rostam had a week off as a sort of honeymoon in the new apartment Ava’s parents had bought and completely furnished for the couple’s wedding present. It wasn’t the weekend, but 7:04 was stinking early. Rostam groaned softly and sank back into the plush pillow, realizing who must be calling.
Who else would call at such an hour? Anybody Rostam liked knew that he had just gotten married. A grimacing glance at the caller ID revealed the expected: a long row of Xs and a title of “Restricted”.
Rostam steeled himself and pried the cell’s thin body open. “Rostam,” he answered quietly, swinging his legs out of bed and tiptoeing towards the hallway so as not to bother Ava. The too-cheerful voice that greeted him over the phone like cold suds slipping down your back in the shower was exactly as Rostam had guessed.
“Ah, my friend Rostam! I was beginning to worry! You weren’t sleeping in, were you? I figured today you would be going to work.”
The man’s buttery greeting threw the unwanted image of his face into Rostam’s still-fuzzy mind: small beady black eyes; bushy reddish-brown hair and eyebrows; an unbelievably long, pointed nose with a bulbous, fleshy protrusion at the tip. All of this came together to give the man a face that resembled that of that most sneaky, dog-like animal, the fox. Since the weasely-looking man had always remained nameless during his years of dealings with Rostam, Rostam had christened him with the illustrious nickname of “Foxy”.
Over the tinny speakers of Rostam’s cell, Foxy’s unwelcome voice ran on, droning through their usual list of standard questions: Which tours Rostam had guided this at his agency, Lovely Esfahan Tours. What the tourists’ impressions had been of the Glorious Iranian Homeland.
Rostam made his way down the short stairway of their two-story apartment to the Euro chic kitchen. He groggily pushed the button on the espresso maker and rubbed his eyes. Then Rosta
m worked one of the shiny black chairs out from their new table and slid down to endure the rest of the conversation with Foxy.
He was wearing boxers and the rumpled black t-shirt of a classic Iranian rock band, O Hum. The raw morning chill of the tile beneath his bare feet began to bring a little more clarity to his foggy brain. Askew on the shiny table top in front of him, melded into the bottom of a skillet by a thick layer of blackened ash, lay the remains of the omelet Ava had tried to cook for the two of them last night. At nearly midnight, she and Rostam had eaten a late dinner of Chinese take out on their tiny porch under the stars.
Rostam assured Foxy that all of the Brazilians who had been on the tour last week had seemed to have a wonderful impression of Iran. Overwhelmed and astounded at Iran’s awesomeness.
Yeah, that was it.
Foxy should have been saying his goodbyes by now, but then, unexpectedly, he dropped the bombshell: “I must say, Rostam, I am a little put-out that you didn’t mention your marriage to the lovely Ms. Pourali.”
Rostam cringed and his head sank down into his hands on the cool surface of the table. Couldn’t he even have a week without Foxy butting into his private business?
“I’m sure it was an oversight, but I offer you my congratulations.”
“Uh, thank you,” Rostam managed, more ready than ever to hang up. “I appreciate the thought.”
“I suppose it will be a good match,” Foxy rambled on. Rostam’s finger tapped lightly against the “off” button of the cell phone, anticipating the delight of slamming into it within a few more seconds, tops. Foxy continued.
“The Pouralis are a good family, but then again, I do hope you will be able to control your new wife. There have been rumors of some wild living, and maybe a few not-so Islamic sentiments residing Ms. Pourali’s heart.”
The air in Rostam’s lungs suddenly seemed as frozen as the black tiles beneath his toes. Converting from Islam to Christianity and most of the “wild living” Ava had participated in in the past could get both she and Rostam into deep trouble if the government of Iran chose to make an issue out of it.
He was trying to formulate a wary response when Foxy added cheerfully, “Oh, but don’t pay me any mind. Buck up, Rostam. You’re a man; I’m sure you’ll be able to handle her. All those things of the past are much better forgotten. I won’t speak of it again.”
Before Rostam had time to blurt out something appropriate, Foxy was telling him that they would have to meet tonight at 8:00, in one of their usual seedy, clandestine hideouts. With relief, Rostam punched the button to cut the call and tossed the gray phone onto the table.
The coffee had been sizzling in the new coffee maker for a few hours by the time Ava came downstairs, wearing a t-shirt, hot pink sweat pants, and flip-flops. After some bread with cantaloupe and strong coffee, Rostam led her into their living room. The sight of their new black leather couches, chic rust-colored rug, and modern glass coffee table filled him with contentment. New furniture for their new life together.
They sat down on one of the all-but unused couches and Rostam lifted a cushion and carefully extracted his Bible. Carefully, he laid it on his lap and looked for a moment at the worn cover. The Bible was in Farsi, and the cover was blue and gold, decorated with various familiar Persian designs.
There was a small Christian population in Iran, some whose families had been Christians for generations back. There were even some awesome churches, built by the Armenians centuries ago. But this was a book that had to be kept hidden behind the couch. Neither Rostam nor Ava had been born into Christian families. If the Bible were found, the consequences probably wouldn’t be too severe for Rostam; he had been born into a family that followed the Baha’i religion. The Baha’i in Iran were persecuted by the Muslim government anyway, so no one really cared if a Baha’i converted to another apostate religion.
For Ava the results of converting to Christianity would be much more severe. As the law stood now, any Muslim female who converted was sentenced to life in prison. A male convert was punished by the death penalty.
Closing his eyes briefly to wash away the thought of Ava languishing for her faith in the notorious Evin prison, Rostam opened the Bible and began to read for the two of them. Just a short passage from the Psalms about God’s strength and power, something they could think on during the day in their quest to live for Jesus.
As the word strength rolled off his tongue, Rostam winced, pained by the unwanted associations that plagued his mind at the word. The towering, burly mass of manhood that was Rostam’s father ---now that was someone who embodied the word strength. Years spent as soldier and dock worker, hauling around hundred-pound bags of cargo. Yeseree, that was strength for you.
Most unfortunately for Rostam, he had taken after the other human being responsible for his coming into existence: his very slight, painfully thin, five-foot-two mother. Sure, he a good three inches taller than his mom—maybe four, on a good day. And the Falconi’s anemia certainly hadn’t helped him any in the area of size. But the fact of the matter was, being named after the mythical hero of all Iran when in actuality having nothing close to physical strength…well, that was just not fun to think about.
Rostam the Mythical Hero of Iran was one of the most famous characters in the poet Ferdowsi’s one thousand year old epic: the Shahnameh. Legendary for such feats as slaying a giant white elephant that no one else in the world could kill with a single blow from his grandfather’s mace, the Rostam of the Shahnameh was a far cry from the Rostam who was now sitting cross-legged in plaid boxer shorts on the couch next to Ava.
But of course we can’t all go around saving the world and whacking giant white elephants. Rostam swallowed and forced the corners of his mouth up into a wry smile. That is legend. This is now. I may not be a superstar like Mirza, but I’ve done pretty well for myself. I’m the concert agent for Moneta Z, for goodness sake! And look at this awesome woman who married me!
Rostam slit one of his eyes open to sneak a glimpse of his new wife, lips moving silently in prayer to his left. The brilliant tattoo of a turquoise butterfly shone on one white shoulder.
“Rostam! Are you still praying?” He started, realizing Ava had caught him staring. “I prayed for your meeting with Foxy,” she informed him. “I’m really worried…do you think he suspects something about your group next week?”
Ah. Next week. Dr. Hosseini had a contact in the West, someone who was sending a team in to help with the Ashavan situation. They would be posing as tourists from Argentina and Rostam would be their guide.
“You shouldn’t worry about it, honey,” he smiled at her. “Just a little espionage. Nothing we’re not used to. We work for an underground rock band. We’re apostates who belong to a house church.” Ava was still biting her lip. The other times Rostam had hosted Christians from the West, he and Ava still had no sort of relationship. When Jaime Malcolm and Gerrit came to visit Sami and teach him more about the Bible, Rostam had gotten them visas through his tour agency. And twice he had hosted “tours” of Christians from Europe who brought Bibles and other stuff to help the house churches grow in their faith.
“I…just don’t want you to get in trouble. You told me about Foxy before, but it’s the first time you have to go meet him since the wedding.”
“Darling, don’t you worry about him,” Rostam raised his chin proudly and struck a super-hero pose. “That man is no match for me. If he annoys me, though, should I invite him over for dinner tonight?”
They both envisioned the charred skillet in the kitchen and Ava dove at him, squealing with indignation.
12
Everyone Has a Past
THE LACY CEDARS AND PINES THAT RAN UP the steep skirts of the Middle Atlas Mountains glimmered emerald in the afternoon sun, shooting prisms of light through the glass of Wara’s mint tea. The toasty sun warmed her hair and chased away the chill that floated on the mountain breeze. Across the white table of the prim little tea shop, Sandal cupped her steaming glass and gaze
d contentedly at the scenery.
Rupert had said that this town fifteen minutes from CI headquarters would be covered with heavy snow in the winter. Ifrane was easy to imagine frosted in snow; the place had been a retreat for foreigners during colonial times, a way to escape the roasting coasts. Pristine, flower-lined streets curved tranquilly throughout the alpine town, running in front of A-frame chalets with burnt orange roofs and buxom German-style houses, snowy and crisscrossed by dark beams and picture book windowsills. Every house had a smart little garden inside neat picket fences.
Tomorrow Wara, Sandal, and Alejo would be leaving for Iran. Interestingly, they would be avoiding the capital, Tehran, for Sandal and Alejo’s sake. The two of them knew too many people in Tehran, and the risk of running into someone who might recognize them meant a direct flight from Istanbul to the city of Esfahan.
“You seemed quite ready to escape Alejo’s company,” Sandal observed into the crisp morning silence. “How has it been for you, seeing him again?”
Wara fought a groan and buried herself in her tea. “Uh, not so nice. I…know there are a lot of nice things about him. But I just can’t trust him. Not with all the stuff he’s done in the past. What happened with me.”
Sandal raised an eyebrow. “Well, we all do have a past now, don’t we?” Wara blinked, and Sandal continued. “And how have you been since Bolivia? It’s only been three months since he died.”
Now Wara really almost choked. Three months since he died. Since Noah died. She felt her face crinkle and set her glass on the tea table with a hollow clink. “It’s hurt a lot. I mean, before he…died…I thought I was in love with him. But I don’t know if I was. I realized what an awesome friend he was, how nice he was to me. But I don’t know, if the accident hadn’t happened…what would have happened with us.”
Reverb (Story of CI #2) Page 8
