by Larry Bond
The American had left all his equipment behind, except for his radio, which he’d hidden in a pocket. Reluctantly, Yousef handed him the Iranian-made pistol and gun belt. They had the rifles they’d taken from the Basij soldiers, but they’d all agreed a rifle might draw unnecessary attention from the authorities. Basij normally wouldn’t carry one unless they were on duty.
The American also had the identity papers for the dead Basij corporal, a Qassem Molavi. The photo, height, and weight were wrong, but they might pass casual examination.
Together, they worked on a legend, with “Corporal Molavi” escorting his sister-in-law “Miryam” to visit her family in town. Shirin’s husband was away on duty with the Pasdaran, and no self-respecting Iranian woman, especially a pregnant one, would travel unaccompanied by a male relative. It was also true that no self-respecting Iranian husband would let his wife be accompanied by a stranger, but Yousef could see no alternative.
“I wish you didn’t have to do this,” Yousef had told her. He was looking at the American while he said it.
“I don’t want to do this either,” she’d answered. “I hate the thought of walking that far. But it won’t be bad. And I’m looking forward to seeing Uncle Seyyed. I know he will help us.”
“I also wish I knew something about the Charak Basij Brigade,” Yousef complained. Looking directly at Harry, he warned, “Remember, you’re wearing an Iranian corporal’s uniform now. Show some discipline. If you act the same way you do with your own officers, they’ll either spot you as an impostor or throw you in jail for insubordination.”
Anger flashed across Fazel’s face and into his voice. “You don’t have a clue about what it means to be a professional soldier. It’s going to be easy to pretend I’m Basij. I’ll just act like a thug. Oh, no, wait, that’s if I want to be Pasdaran.”
Shirin threw herself between the two men, and while the other Americans may not have understood Farsi, they knew trouble when they heard it. Lapointe and Phillips were closest. They managed to move so that while they discouraged Fazel from saying anything else, they stood with their teammate, facing Yousef. “That’s enough,” Lapointe ordered. Looking at Ramey and Jerry, he said, “It’s time to go.” Both officers nodded.
Embracing Yousef one last time, Shirin sighed and followed “Qassem.” They waited briefly, made sure the highway was empty, and hurried out to the roadside. Although it was early April, in the south it was already in the low twenties of degrees Centigrade. This close to the water, the southerly breeze was humid, but thankfully cool.
The Bandar Charak Road ran almost straight north-south here, two lanes of asphalt bordered by wide shoulders that blended with the surrounding landscape, sometimes almost seamlessly. It seemed flat, but as they walked, Shirin could see that the road cut through a series of low, gently sloping dunes.
Harry explained, “It’s a little less than two kilometers to the edge of town. We should get there in half an hour or so.”
“Fine, Qassem. So tell me about yourself. How old are you? Do I have any other in-laws?” Her tone was humorous, but she knew she was right. They were supposed to be family, even if only by marriage.
They walked in silence for a few minutes before the American answered. “We are not supposed to share personal information with the people we meet, but we are also taught that if we have to construct a legend, it’s best to stay close to the truth. I am twenty-eight.”
“So you’re Yousef’s older brother. Yousef is twenty-four. You have”— she paused for a moment—”had another brother, three years younger than Yousef, Ali. He was at university, but protested the 2009 elections and was arrested. He was killed in prison, by the Pasdaran.”
“I’m sorry. That must have been hard on Yousef and our parents.”
“Your father passed away several years before that. Your mother was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease earlier in 2009, and the loss of her younger son accelerated her decline. Ali was the only family Yousef had. That is why it is so important that the two remaining brothers should get along.” Her plea came from her eyes, as well as her voice.
Harry walked silently for several minutes. “Alright. Thank you for telling me about Ali. But why would Yousef join the Pasdaran if he felt that way?
“He was already in, and stayed because of me, and because leaving the Pasdaran without good reason is not always easy, or safe.”
They walked and worked out several more details of his life. She and Yousef had met in Shiraz, so it made sense that “Qassem” lived there. He was an army veteran who had joined the Basij, and was studying to be a paramedic.
“I’m probably in charge of giving first aid classes to my fellow Basij fighters.”
“Don’t take them lightly,” she warned sternly. “They don’t, and they’re a law unto themselves. Yousef wasn’t wrong about being careful.”
She was telling Harry about Shiraz when they reached the edge of town, with scattered houses stretching away from the road. The city limits were officially marked by a small traffic circle, busy but not crowded with traffic in the middle of the day. The center island was filled with carefully tended greenery.
A policeman stood at the edge of the circle, watching the traffic. He noticed the couple and waved. Fazel waved back and Shirin nodded politely.
Another road headed east from the circle, and they turned that way, doing their best to look like locals. Walking east past a soccer field, they turned south again. One- and two-story buildings, all built from the same tan brick, lined the street. The bare ground was dotted with dark green scrub, but no grass. Trees often grew in the houses’ courtyards, with the houses built to surround them.
She discussed the route as they walked, with the American always steering her toward the largest crowds. It was well into the lunch hour, and her stomach complained.
On a street lined with shops and small businesses, they bought kebabs at one stall, and fruit drinks at another, always alert for anyone following or even showing interest in them. There were places to sit and eat, and Harry offered to let her rest, but she was too impatient to see Seyyed. And they couldn’t linger. Yousef and the others were depending on them.
As they headed south, Shirin began to see familiar places, and told Harry stories about Seyyed and the rest of her family. Her feet no longer hurt, and she began to rehearse how she would introduce the American to her uncle. “Uncle, this Basij corporal is actually an American commando.” There had to be a better way to say that.
Only a few blocks from his house, they saw a traffic barrier across the street, and two policemen waving traffic away. Like the one at the traffic circle, they were dressed in dark fatigues and ball caps, and carried submachine guns. Pedestrians tried to pass or spoke to them, but they were all turned away. Nobody argued with the officers, but several small groups had congregated across the street.
Alert for any sign of authority, they’d both spotted the police at the same time. Shirin’s cheerful mood vanished. “What do we do?” she whispered. Already walking south, they were in a residential neighborhood. Stopping or turning away would look suspicious.
The American simply said, “Peace, Miryam. We’ll turn at the corner. Our destination is to the east of here, remember?” They were so close. She could almost see Seyyed’s house from where they were.
“Yes,” she answered mechanically. Then she remembered something from her visits. “The old Al Ali Castle, down near the water.”
“And I forgot the camera again.”
His response almost made her laugh, and she relaxed a little. But why was the street blocked?
As they neared the intersection where the barrier was placed, Harry surprised Shirin and spoke to an elderly man standing at the corner. “He didn’t let you pass?”
“No,” the old man grumbled. “I wanted to visit my friend Farrokh, but they are not letting anyone by. They won’t tell me why, or how long it will be there. I don’t have a car, and my home is six blocks from here. We play chess every da
y, and smoke together. .. .”
Another man came up, followed by a pair of women in burquas. He asked Fazel, “Do you know what this is about?”
“No, no,” he answered. “We’re just visiting.”
The two quickly moved on before they could be drawn into the discussion. Now that she could see down the cross street at the intersection, Shirin saw barriers at the streets on either side of this one, also manned by police, all blocking passage south. They walked quickly east. “Qassem, I’m worried. This can’t be a coincidence.”
“We’re still walking to the castle,” he reassured her. “See, the next intersection is not blocked off. We can use that street to head south.”
When they turned south, they did find more barriers, this time blocking access back to the west. Again, three streets were blockaded, and the center one passed near Seyyed’s home.
“We can turn west down there,” she said, as they walked by the barriers.
“No,” he replied. “We can’t risk showing too much interest. . .
The gunfire interrupted him. It came from their right, where Seyyed’s house should be. She heard a single shot, then a burst of fire, followed by several more. Then an explosion. All the fear and worry inside her wrapped itself around her heart.
The pedestrians on the street, and even the policemen at the barriers, ducked at the sound. The police kept their positions, but went to one knee, and kept turning and looking behind them. The civilians, some calling or shouting, fled.
Feeling Harry’s grip on her arm, Shirin let herself be hurried south. The shooting continued, and even Shirin could distinguish the sounds of different weapons. Single shots with different sounds, perhaps from pistols and rifles, mixed with a deeper boom. A shotgun? And laid over them was the chatter of automatic weapons. It was a full-blown gun battle.
They’d crossed two or three streets when Shirin stopped, leaning against a wall, almost gasping. “No farther. Please.” She drew a few breaths, hearing the sounds of battle and wishing Yousef could tell her what was going on. But Harry was a soldier, too. “What’s happening?” she asked.
Harry shook his head. “A barricaded neighborhood.” He nodded toward the firing. “And Seyyed’s house is in that direction?”
“Yes,” she answered unhappily.
“They may have tried to arrest him. It looks like he decided to put up a fight.”
The ice around her heart remained, but she said, “I have to see. I have to know what’s happening.”
The streets were virtually empty now, and she started west. “Nahil Street is almost straight. We may be able to see.”
Harry’s expression told her he wasn’t happy with the idea, but she was already walking, and he reluctantly turned to follow. A few fast steps and he took the lead, hugging the walls of any buildings, looking around each corner before crossing any gaps between buildings.
A loud explosion, then another, made the American flatten against a wall, but Shirin hardly slowed. “Those were RPGs. Rocket propelled grenades,” he said softly.
The gunfire slowed, then stopped, and she started to walk faster, afraid that she would not know, and afraid of what she would find out.
One street over from Nahil, Harry paused to look north toward Seyyed’s house, and pointed. A tangled column of smoke was rising, its source still hidden. It had to be a fire. She felt numb. What had happened?
They crossed the next block quickly, without fear of stray rounds, at least. Again, Harry looked around the corner first, then turned and nodded to Shirin. They stepped around the corner and began walking north. “If anyone stops us, we were curious about the smoke,” he said.
That made sense to her, but her mind only noted it in passing. The roadblock at the intersection ahead was unmanned, which allowed them to get closer without fear of being questioned. Bullet holes in the wooden barriers explained why the post was vacant.
Her uncle’s house was visible, but only between two army trucks. Soldiers in Pasdaran uniforms stood in clumps, weapons slung or held casually.
She heard sirens, and one of the trucks moved, giving a clearer view of the structure. The front of the building was a jumble of blackened brick, and smoke streamed out of both the front and the roof.
“It’s his house,” she confirmed, almost to herself more than the American.
Two white ambulances pulled up and soldiers in green fatigue uniforms were loaded inside. The paramedics worked on one for several minutes before putting his stretcher inside.
She watched the activity. “I don’t see my uncle,” she told Harry. What did that mean?
“I only see uniforms,” the American replied. “I see three lightly wounded, two incapacitated.”
The ambulances pulled away, and for a moment she could see more activity. A uniformed figure, probably an officer, was pointing and giving orders, while other soldiers did things with their weapons.
“There, on the right. Between those two men.” Harry couldn’t point, but she saw two soldiers standing, with their rifles held at the ready, as if guarding something. Between them, on the ground, were bundles that she’d seen earlier, but dismissed as debris. Now she saw they were man-sized. There were four of them, partly covered with blankets, but she could see civilian clothes beneath.
Tears blurred her vision, and she started crying. Harry tried to shush her, and even put his arm around her shoulder, but he was not Yousef, and it held no comfort.
“Are you people all right?” Absorbed in her grief, she hadn’t noticed the policeman’s approach. Harry seemed surprised as well. “Is your wife injured?”
“She’s my sister-in-law,” Harry answered softly. “She’s just upset.”
The policeman nodded. “Women should not see such things. Why did you bring her here?”
“We were on our way to visit the Al Ali Castle when we heard the shooting. After it stopped, we were curious about the smoke.”
“And look what it got you,” the policeman’s tone was critical, almost angry. “This is none of your business, anyway. Go now.”
“Yes, Officer,” he answered, and Shirin let herself be led away. They walked through town back west and north. Fighting for control, she stopped her voice, but not her grief. The walk back seemed shorter. They were not stopped or questioned again.
Along the way, Harry tried to get her to talk, but she waved off his questions, thinking and trying to deal with her grief, and new fears. How would they get out of Iran now? Could they even get out? And if they didn’t, what about what they knew?
They reached the layup in late afternoon. She didn’t realize how exhausted she was until she saw Yousef, and almost collapsed in his arms. She began weeping again, completely losing the control she’d worked so hard to maintain.
While Yousef tended to his wife, Fazel explained to the others what had happened. Ramey took it hard, suddenly sitting down like he’d had the air let out of him. “We are so screwed,” Phillips complained.
“They’re hunting us for sure; chasing us,” Lapointe observed. “They’re rolling up her family, maybe people they know.”
Jerry felt badly for Shirin and her husband, and he really wasn’t sure what they’d do next. “We need another plan. What if we find a really good spot to hide and wait for a few days?”
“For the ‘heat to die down?”‘ Ramey asked. He started to say something else, but Shirin interrupted.
“No. There is no more time.” Wrapped in a blanket, holding a nearly empty water bottle, she looked like an accident victim, but her voice was strong. “I had hoped that Seyyed would be able to get us out soon, even tonight.”
Yousef said something to her, and she nodded, answering him in Farsi. “We must tell you something. I know it will sound fantastic, unbelievable. That is why we wanted to prove ourselves before saying anything, but that is not possible now. You must set up the radio and warn your government. The people in charge of the nuclear program, maybe the Iranian government itself, is trying to provoke an attack
by the Israelis on Natanz.”
Jerry heard the words, but they didn’t make sense. “You’re saying they want the Israelis to attack? That’s insane! Why?”
“Because they are impatient for the confrontation, and the weapon isn’t ready. We won’t have it for years, if we get it at all. A public admittance of failure would be a colossal embarrassment for our leaders. If Natanz is destroyed, it’s not Iran’s fault anymore.”
Nobody said anything for a minute, and finally Shirin continued. “We don’t have proof—none of the files on the flash drive say anything about this, but what we know, what the files prove, is that their recent actions are completely at odds with the facts. There is no bomb to test.”