Hot Spot

by Jim Carroll

  Khadim was awarded more authority, and he took me up the line with him. The complex interaction of the ministry allowed considerable latitude in job responsibilities, and he was placed in charge of an amazing sum of funds. In point of fact, his duties exceeded his abilities. Only because of my skills in financial management was he not swallowed by this new position. It would take several years before the world bond crisis moderated, and he needed my help navigating these shoals competently.

  I soon forgot the Lord had bypassed my interpretation gift and delivered me from the dream puzzle by other means. I mentally assumed credit for my new successes. I had achieved this victory with my superior acumen. Conveniently, my part in the bomb was forgotten.

  However, acquaintances I had in the coffeehouses were close enough to tell me the truth and snap me back to reality in my boastings. In my discussions with others, I often shared how I worked in helping to maintain Iran’s financial security, without, of course, ever mentioning my part in the recent bond crisis. “Yusef, you’re not the one who controls anything, neither dreams, nor the market, nor the inner workings of world finances,” they adjured. I listened but put the comments aside. Were the events on the God-scale or the Yusef-scale?

  Suddenly there were an abundance of dreams. Were they God’s outpouring to the recipients or God’s lessons and traps for me? Now just as the job exceeded my boss’s competency, God’s actions exceeded my faith. Men from all levels and professions began to share their dreams with me. I became known as their sidewalk café receptacle of visions and aspirations, someone who was sympathetic and knowledgeable of these strange occurrences. My path through the coffeehouses of Tehran led me to academics, students, and upper level businessmen.

  Recitations of dreams took remarkably similar patterns. In all of them, a man approached them in some way, and there were always features which identified the man as Jesus. Conversion did not immediately follow these dreams. The dreamers required additional information – the realization that they were sinners and could not pay their own penalties and that Jesus had sacrificed Himself to make that payment. Sometimes I delivered the message. At other times my new colleagues did so. I heard this request repeatedly: “I must have a Bible.”

  A local Christian pastor of the Assyrian Evangelical Church supplied these at risk to his own safety. He came to me in the coffee shop and parked himself between my friend and me. Awkward. “I’ll get Bibles for you,” he spoke earnestly. “There are always methods, ways to do this. And if security catches me, there are others from my congregation who’ll help.”

  Had he seen the inside of Evin? Did he know what he was doing? Surely not. But I accepted his help and failed to warn him because I was selfish for his assistance.

  An added danger was the recent addition of surveillance cameras at all the coffeehouses. Our initial impression was that the cameras were for restaurant security, but the rumor spread that the state was actually using them to monitor what occurred in the establishments. We looked up at the cameras, and they looked down on us.

  Thus, the conversations and particularly the transfer of Bibles had to be handled with care. One such transfer went awry. The young man with me, Abdul, pulled a Bible from under his coat and gave it to a new believer. It was too warm for such a heavy coat. I suppose this aroused their suspicions, and it was a full-sized book, too large for a clandestine transfer. An agent from the Ministry of Intelligence and Security appeared out of an unobtrusive door, one we had not even noticed, where he had been watching us. Knocking over coffee as he came, he put his hand on Abdul’s shoulder. “What was that book?”

  Abdul told the truth. There was no point in lying as the Bible was now in the hands of the new believer. “I just gave it to him as a present.”

  “You can’t give Bibles to Muslims.”

  The new believer said, “I’m a Christian.”

  “You both come with me. Is he involved?” The agent pointed to me.

  Both Abdul and the new believer denied my involvement, and I made no effort to correct them. I never saw them again. The number of dream searchers declined for a time.

  Esau’s shadow still lurked behind each corner of the coffee shops. Why was the monitor watching us and not the other patrons? Was he responsible for the disappearance of Abdul and that new believer?

  An inkling of this possibility dribbled out to me in a conversation with Khadim. As we discussed the financial matters of the day, he slipped in the comment: “Please guard yourself in your little coffee klatches.” My jaw dropped as I pondered the comment.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You understand. You have an enemy, who resides in Kuwait, with important contacts here, and he uses them in many areas. You know who I mean, your half-brother.”

  “Do you mean Thawab?” I tested the water.

  “Don’t be stupid. You know. This secret one colludes with those in Iran who are above even me.” Is this possible? “And you must understand, he works to diminish us all. The current Qatari mess is there, in which the Saudis have singled them out as a rogue state, which they are not. You’re only a foil in these little matters.” And he added, “The same for me, but for some reason, he really has it out for you.”

  “And by the way, my young friend, I am having your ankle bracelet removed. Go wherever you wish except the airport, and remember, the imams watch over us all.” As I left his office, he placed his right hand briefly over his heart, an indication of respect. Was it sincere? Or another deception?

  CHAPTER 11

  THE ATTACK

  I was summoned to the Ferdowsi Grand Hotel for a meeting with Khadim and colleagues from the Ministry of Industry, Mine, and Trade.

  There was Esau. He was in the lobby, on the red velvet couch with his legs crossed, dark brown suit, red beard. When I first saw him, he was already staring at me as I passed through the metal screening device at the front of the hotel. I had not seen Esau since the episode at my school twelve years earlier, and he was balding and had gained a paunch, the latter made more obvious by the absent tie. Though our encounter seemed accidental, I’m sure it was not. He kept his eyes on me as I walked into the restaurant. What was this al-Qaeda representative, this ISIS mongrel, doing in my city? While he had been responsible for long-distance meddling in my affairs, was he now here for a frontal assault?

  Khadim and I went in for the meal, in which we were going over some minor contracts with an African firm. So boring, but I could think of nothing but Esau guarding the door. After two hours we finished. My stomach was full of wilted salad and my ears stuffed with British accents.

  On the way out, I searched the lobby. He was gone. Could the figure of Esau have been a cruel and threatening apparition, fabricated by my own culpable mind? Was he just a phantasm with no real substance? Was he even here? After all, wasn’t I responsible for part, or even all, of this clutter in my head? I heard or saw nothing new for two weeks.

  He was waiting at my doorstep, sitting awkwardly on the floor and leaning against the wall. He was really here in Iran. How did he locate my apartment? “Well, brother, it’s time we talked again.” I nodded, helping him up from his awkward crouch. He followed me into my apartment. “For a prisoner of the Ayatollah, you’ve done well. I suppose our genetics counts for something.”

  I put the key in the lock and we entered. Esau took my cue and sat in the single padded chair. “Here we are, two brothers, and nothing else to do but talk about the future.”

  “And what is that future?” I started the teapot and got out the tea. It was ready quickly. Esau had already adopted the Persian method of tea consumption. He poured the first quantity into the saucer with the sugar and slurped through his lips. We were no longer teacher and student, and some neutral social interaction was necessary to open the conversation.

  Esau then took the lead. “Yusef, let’s go out for a walk.” I knew he wanted to avoid the apartment bugs, so I obeyed.

  “You must be wondering why I’m here in Iran. Here
it is. This Sunni versus Shia thing, Saudi versus Iran, and Christians dirtying the mix – this is barbarism, the result only of religious fanaticism, and I’ll employ the present conflict for my purpose. And you know my purpose.”

  “I’m not sure that I do. I thought you were simply against Christianity. Whose side are you on?”

  “What do I care about Islam or any religion? I only attend the services to position myself so I can finish off all you religious bigots, Christian, or otherwise, whoever lurks behind a particular symbol, cross, or crescent.”

  How could he carry out such an objective? It was much broader than I had believed. I thought it had just been about me. Why was he here in Iran?

  He went on. “I want you to know I’m serious, that there’ll be no mercy afforded to you or our family. You may wonder why I’ve bothered coming here. Well, it’s my way of enjoying my vendetta.” And then with no other word, he disappeared around the corner.

  For another two weeks, there was nothing. Again, Esau had disappeared.

  The citizen riots and uprisings over the failing Iranian economy had smoldered off and on all of 2018, and, because of their lack of focus, had failed to achieve any real result. But as 2019 began, Esau put his plan into motion. I couldn’t see it at first, but then…

  The riots took on a fresh character, and rumors spread that Sunni fundamentalist elements were promoting the uprisings. I’d had enough of the Ayatollah nonsense and his secret service dealings, and now, it seemed, ISIL/al-Qaeda was being superimposed on the fomenting rebellion. On my way to work, men dressed in black with body armor and clubs blocked the street. They beat demonstrators, even if they were standing peacefully; blood stained the streets. Photographers were taken prisoner, their cameras confiscated. My colleagues in the ministry said this was the largest disturbance they had ever observed in Iran, even greater than the 2009 Green Rebellion. Everyone I knew was too young to recall the demonstrations against the Shah in 1979.

  I tried to think through the instigating forces. My reasoning was bound by my long-term view of Iran – the inherent vitality and diversity of its people. The Ayatollah and his crowd had controlled the populace for too long with their ridiculous conservatism. Unfortunately, the regime had proven itself as corrupt as the one preceding it as they lined their pockets above all else. That deadly combination had choked the people and their individuality, and now the dam had burst. Or so I thought.

  But there was more. The state-controlled news wouldn’t admit to the invasion by Sunni elements, but the BBC reported that ISIL had taken credit for the civil disorder. That news spread through the populace. The word on the street was confused. Had they been taken advantage of? Should the protests continue?

  Then there was Al-Jazeera, the Qatari station beamed in by the satellite dish on my roof; the station always brought a fresh, clear message. There she was in my living room again reporting on the civil disruption in the streets of Tehran: Tahara, her dark hair uncovered, and deep brown eyes staring intently into the camera, as if she were intentionally looking right at me. She had not left my mind since I had first seen her face when I was still free in Isfahan. I felt like she was speaking only to me, although we had never met. It was frustrating. I could never be near her. A silly, lingering crush.

  The immediate provocation for the trouble on the streets, however, remained economic. The promised monetary windfall for Iran that had been made based on the July 2015 nuclear agreement had not come to fruition. The poor remained poor, and those without jobs still had none. Well-educated young people were idle and vented their frustrations in the street.

  There were genuine, serious reasons for these “civil disturbances” (the controlled news refused to call it a revolt, which it was). My observations, based on my reading of the histories of other countries where these kinds of things had happened, told me that such unrest persisted for a while, ran its course, and weakened with the movement’s failure to change anything. Fatigued, protestors lost their zeal for the cause, and limped off to a nearby corner to lick their wounds.

  But this didn’t occur. There were waves of violence, which flagged, but they were always renewed, as if by an infusion of energy. And the source of the energy, I found, was Esau and his connections.

  Esau phoned me. He seemed to know or suspect that my phone was monitored by the ministry, or by other combatants, so he mentioned no specifics. “Meet me at that repulsive café on the corner tonight at 8:30.” I felt that I had no choice but comply. I was haunted by the possibility that he had those above me in his pocket.

  I was there at 8:15 and waited until 9 p.m., when Esau finally showed. He smiled at the fact I had stayed well past the appointed time. “Afraid to leave, eh? Very wise.” He sat facing away from the ever-present security camera, smiling. “I suppose you want to hear the story of the Ayatollah’s demise and how I’ve arranged it.” Inflated doggerel? Perhaps, but threatening nevertheless. But still the Ayatollah remained in charge. I became distraught at the sight of Esau’s red hair and powerful arms; this felt like a repetitive scene from Groundhog Day.

  I sat with nothing to say, but Esau said plenty. “Here it is, my dear little brother. My contacts with the ISIL and al-Qaeda are quite helpful, and their objective is the same as mine. They are as anti-religious as I — that you must have known; and we will grant no more quarter. It’s death to Islam. Death to Christianity and Christians. And I know how this will be achieved. The one who controls the money and the bomb will win, and that’s me. Let’s see some expression on your face. I can’t stand your impassive demeanor.” I could only twist in my seat and wonder what was coming next – the bomb again? I had tried to forget.

  “Here it is, little brother: You acquired bombs for this country, and they are very pretty, especially the one we have in safekeeping. That one is particularly attractive.”

  My mind jumped to my own safety. How had Esau learned of my role? Did his connections have no bounds? They had to stop somewhere. But how did he possess one of the bombs?

  But then, finally, the greater problem hit me. What did he intend to do with his bomb?

  And what should I do? Should I inform those above me about the danger? Who among them could I trust? What was the greater risk – that the bomb would actually be used, or that, by revealing the plot, I would place myself at risk for my role in obtaining them in the first place?

  I concluded that the latter was the greater risk for me. Surely, Esau and his henchmen wouldn’t explode a nuclear bomb in Tehran. The bomb had more value as a threat. More reasoning on my part without evidence.

  I sat deadpan, making an effort to appear unimpressed. I observed the dissatisfaction in Esau’s face, a blank expression, pallor increasing. Was he disappointed at my insufficient reaction? I summoned the waiter and ordered two Turkish coffees. “Let’s talk further. Surely, there must be some common ground, some hope for resolution.”

  The evening waned, and the café emptied. Likely Esau saw the diminishing crowd as a disappearance of his cover for our meeting, because he drew the conversation to a close. “You get the idea, young man. There’s destruction on the horizon, and you’re responsible for it. I’m done talking with you.” Abruptly, he pushed his coffee away, got up from the cast iron seat, and disappeared into the crowd.

  CHAPTER 12

  THE GAME

  What happens next? What did I want to happen? What outcome would serve me best? Once more there was a long pause from Esau that left me without mooring, no fresh information. First and surprisingly to me, the riots continued. They did not peter out like most citizen-sponsored upheavals. I still wondered how Esau was connected to them though.

  Rumors circulated in the ministry, and people started avoiding me. Did they think I was connected to the unrest in the streets? Khadim himself shifted his gaze away from me whenever I entered the room, and stopped speaking to me when others were around. For some reason, I was marked. Or did I imagine this?

  I scoured the Tehran newspapers, includin
g Abrar, Khabar, Kayhan (its editor appointed by the Ayatollah himself), and Entemand Daily, a paper reflecting the reformist view, for hints about the source and progress of the civil strife. The articles were sterile in their content, any real news mopped up by the state machinery. The papers blamed the United States for interfering in the nation’s politics, though no such mechanism was documented as far as I knew. No ISIL/al-Qaeda connection was ever mentioned.

  Then, on February 15, 2019 Esau tracked me down for a meeting at the same café. The temperature was 50 °F, and there few other patrons sitting along the sidewalk. Esau said the closed circuit camera was off, and he sat down hard in the metal chair and pulled up to the table, both elbows resting upon it so that his clasped hands were six inches from my face. How could he know the surveillance camera was turned off?

  For a moment, just an instant, the thought came over me that this man in front of me, the one who had kicked me out of secondary school, the one who had declared himself an enemy to me and my family, was still my brother, and that I should feel something for him. The wrinkles in his face, the skin too fair for one native to the Middle East, evoked an emotion in me for the man. I had not experienced this before. Then, it was gone. It was as if he saw my thought because he smiled before he began.

  “I’m sure you’re puzzled by recent events, and you must want to know what’s really happening.” Yup. “I hope this interval has whetted your appetite. Now, I’m going to bring you into the script to a degree you will not enjoy.”

  Even though I wanted to know what was going on – about the riots, the bomb, and his ISIL/al-Qaeda connection, if there was one, to know any of this was potentially unsafe.

  “Ok, Yusef, here it is.” He put his palms down on the tabletop as if he was preparing to place his bets at a roulette table. “ISIL and al-Qaeda have joined forces. ISIL ran out of money when they lost the oil-producing territory in Iraq and Syria, and they had no choice but to join al-Qaeda, which still gets their financial support from the Saudis.” Most observers had suspected as much. “I’m using their people here in Tehran to undermine the religious authorities in the government. Riots occur as I decree.” I couldn’t believe this was happening under my nose, and that I was now caught up in the plot. Esau knew that if I reported what he was doing, I would be considered a collaborator. I could only sit and watch.