Messenger from Mystery

by Deno Trakas

  Nadia spoke to her helper, who started the engine. Then she said aloud, so all of us could hear, “We must go to port, see immigration.”

  My body seemed to gain weight and I slumped onto my butt, right on the deck. I had hoped we were free.

  Nadia had gone to the wheel to give orders to her man; then, as we picked up speed and headed into Kuwait Bay, as the cool air teased us, she and Hashemi came over and knelt between me and Oman.

  Nadia took my hand before she began: “He say Iran send message to look for Azadeh and man who die, what his name?”

  “Garrison,” I said.

  “He had different name there. I say I don’t know him. He ask if Azi is Azi. I say no, she is Firoozeh, American citizen. He say he call in to report that he stop boat with two Kuwaitis, two Mexicans, one Iranian man, and one American woman, but we must to go to port, to talk to immigration, to promise to bring passports the next day so they check. If there is person with no passport, they arrest. He ask if I understand. I say yes. No problem. Everyone here have passport. He say okay.”

  I waited for her to go on, but she smiled instead. “You mean he’s letting us go?” I asked.

  “Yes.” We all looked at the same time at the Coast Guard boat putting distance between us, following a course slightly south of ours. I squeezed Nadia’s hand and gave Oman five with my good hand.

  “So we don’t have to go to immigration?”

  “Now no. He just say that because that is procedure. But he report he see us, so tomorrow I go to immigration.”

  “What about the hospital? Azi and Oman need a doctor.”

  “Yes, you too.”

  “I’m in no pain that can’t be cured by a plane headed for home,” I said.

  Hashemi spoke up. “You need visa. No visa, no fly. I have friend help me, but you . . . .” He held open his hand and shrugged.

  Oman and I looked at Nadia. “I ask father,” she said.

  “I thought he didn’t want to get involved,” I said.

  “Yes, well, tough shit.”

  CHAPTER 25

  When Nadia’s mother woke her husband after midnight and said there were four bloody fugitives from Iran in the living room, he was furious. A portly, dark man, darker than Nadia, draped in a silver silk robe, he looked like a don of the Muslim mafia, a man used to having his way in the world, a man who wouldn’t put up with having his sleep interrupted without killing someone. He charged into the room, instantly assessed the problem in front of him, and threatened to call Khomeini himself and personally escort us to Tehran, including his soon-to-be-flogged servant, his disobedient daughter, and his disrespectful wife. I got the translation later, but as he stomped the roses of his plush carpets, shouting in Arab-ish, variations on the theme “How could you jeopardize my job, my position, my life!” I understood enough to know that our safety was not yet secure. But the sound and fury eased somewhat when Azi collapsed—he allowed us to take her to a bedroom and see to her needs—and when Hashemi spoke to him and dropped some names.

  Nadia’s father seemed impressed and began to ask questions, speaking mainly to Hashemi. When he realized that we had received help from high up, that we all had more-or-less-valid passports, and that Azi, the principal fugitive, also had a new American identity, he agreed to give us shelter for the night.

  Hashemi made a couple of phone calls, and within twenty minutes a new Mercedes pulled up to the house. Hashemi and I shook hands at the door and wished each other luck—I asked him where he was going. “Many place,” he said. “Must to deliver pistachio.” He held up his briefcase, patted it on the side, and smiled. “Maybe I see you in South Carolina. Maybe we go to ski.” Leaving me confused, he turned and walked to the car, whose driver held open the back door for him.

  Although I’d only had a few hours sleep in the last two days, and my sofa was comfortable enough, and the relief of our escape was profound, I still couldn’t sleep—my sojourn in Iran played in my head as if my lifespan was only three days and it was time for me to die, but miraculously I didn’t, but Garrison did, but Azi was free, but Azi was in critical condition, and the Iranians were looking for us, but at least we had beds for the night, but what about tomorrow . . . .

  In the morning, Nadia’s father extracted Azi, Oman, and me from of his privileged life by driving us to the American embassy and dumping us on our own representatives. After a call to Michaels at his home in the middle of the night to verify our unlikely story, we were treated very well, and by early afternoon, Azi-Firoozeh was admitted to a nearby hospital and under the care of a trustworthy doctor. Oman had his cheek and ear stitched, and the doctor patched me and pronounced me lucky—an inch one way and the bullet would’ve punctured my lung, which would’ve filled with blood and probably killed me; an inch the other way and it would’ve smashed my shoulder into a lifelong disability. Both Oman and I received antibiotics, painkillers, proper visas, and, best of all, new plane tickets for home. With the embassy’s help, Nadia, Oman, and I were able to take our updated papers to immigration, tell a convincing story, and satisfy the Kuwaiti authorities who had no interest in detaining us.

  We exchanged a medley of emotions with Nadia at the airport.

  “Have good trip, boys,” she said, as she began to cry.

  “Thanks, Babe,” Oman said as he gave her a squeeze and a peck on the cheek. “I’ll come see you next time I’m in South Carolina.”

  “Yes, and I visit you in Mexico, make sure you write good book.”

  “Come soon and you can help me.”

  “Okay, damn right.”

  When it was my turn I gave her a one-arm, clinging hug, packed with equal amounts of gratitude and affection. “You’re sure you and Azi will be okay?”

  “Yes sure, no problem. My father is pig, but embassy treat us good.”

  I eased up but kept a loose grip on her arm as I looked into her watery eyes. “Be careful. We have to assume the Iranians are still looking for her and might’ve linked the breakout at the jail with the shootout at the boat.”

  “Yes, okay, we live like mice”—she scurried her fingertips along my arm—“and as soon as Azi better, we come to Columbia.”

  “Okay. I’ll check your apartment for you, make sure there aren’t any more plumbing problems. Do you want me to call anyone at school and make up a story about why you had to return to Kuwait?”

  “No, I will call.”

  “Okay. Call me too to tell me how everything’s going. You’ve got the numbers at my mother’s house and my apartment?”

  “Yes, yes, don’t worry.”

  “Okay.” I kissed her quickly on the lips and held her again. “Thanks for everything. We couldn’t have done this without you.”

  She laughed but her eyes began to tear again. She pushed me away and said, “Go before I cry a river. We see you soon.”

  On the plane, before we took off, Oman said, “I like your women, Jay. That Nadia is a rare gem—a rich girl who isn’t spoiled. And Azi, she’s been through hell, but she’s a fighter, and she’ll get better. Any time you need to free one or the other from terrorists, give me a call.”

  “I will. I might have to. There’s no telling what the Iranians’ll do next.”

  “That’s true. Right now it feels like it’s over, but it’d be naïve to think so.”

  “Yeah. Was it worth losing an ear and part of your face?”

  “Sure. The women back home will think I’m a romantic hero, like Van Gogh.”

  “You think you’ll get a book out of all this?”

  “Absolutely. I’ve already got an outline. I’m gonna model my main character on Garrison. I think I’ll call it ‘I Ran From Iran.’”

  “I like it already, but you’ll have to change the names and other stuff to protect Azi and Garrison’s people, especially Hashemi.”

  “No problem. I’ll give the bad guys small penises.”

  “What?”

  “When I’m writing about a bad guy who’s based on a real person, I g
ive him a small penis so he’ll never own up to being the model.”

  I laughed. “But what about Azi, Garrison, and Hashemi? They’re the main ones you need to disguise.”

  “Don’t worry—I know how to do it. I might make Garrison a woman, and I might leave out Hashemi.”

  I shook my head, but I felt reassured. As we took off, I nudged him and asked, “How does it feel?”

  “Fantastic.”

  I’d meant his wound, but I knew what he meant. Despite the death of Garrison, despite Azi’s condition, despite our wounds, it felt Fantastic to be going home, like hostages flying to freedom. The fifty-two Americans still held captive in Tehran would know the feeling, but not for another two months, not until the very minute Reagan took office in January, a symbolic gesture that would convince me forever that his people had cut a deal behind Carter’s back, arms for hostages or something like that, which would turn me into a rabid Reagan critic. But I didn’t know any of that future, and I had a confusing present to deal with.

  My mother was waiting for me at the Spartanburg airport and gave me an uncharacteristic tight, lingering, and painful hug. “I’ve been so worried, honey. I just knew something terrible was going to happen.”

  I almost said “It did,” but I didn’t want to begin the story on the way to the car, so I just hugged her back and said, “I’m fine.”

  “Are you hungry?” she asked. “Let’s stop somewhere so you can eat while you tell me all about it. You said so little before you left, hardly anything, so I’ve been imagining the worst.”

  “I’ll tell you everything, Mom, but yeah, I’m starving, so let’s go to The Beacon. I want American food, a burger and fries, maybe apple pie and ice cream too.”

  She smiled at the thought of feeding her son and said, “Okay.”

  Telling the tale, talking about torture, death, and escape from the Ayatollah in the middle of a rowdy Saturday night crowd of high school kids eating chili cheeseburger aplenties in the parking lot of one of the last car-hop restaurants in the state struck me as absurd, and I wondered if I’d dreamed it all. But my aching shoulder convinced me otherwise. No, my experience was unlikely, almost unbelievable, but real, a pivotal chapter in my life, maybe a pivotal moment in history: the Iranian-Islamic revolution, the hostage crisis, Carter losing to Reagan, the Soviets invading Afghanistan, Iraq invading Iran . . . what a chaotic and confusing world. But I wasn’t in the mood to wax political or philosophical—I wanted to be as ignorant and innocent as the teenagers around me, or at least to return to some form of normal simplicity—so I just told the story and ate.

  My mother smoked and listened, registering alarm, amazement, and sympathy. When I finished with a summary of the last day in Kuwait, she patted my hand, took it in both hers and kissed it, then wiped her tears off my knuckles. “How’s your shoulder?” she asked.

  “It hurts when the painkillers wear off, and I can’t raise my arm, but it’ll be fine. I was lucky.”

  “Thank God. All the time you were gone I kept wondering where you were and what you were doing. I’m glad I didn’t know. I prayed for you a hundred times.”

  “Thanks. Obviously it helped. I prayed too.” I told her about kneeling in the mud of the marsh.

  “I thought it was just a sign of old age that I’m getting more religious,” she said, “but maybe it’s the times, or maybe it’s just our personal hardships.”

  “In my case, I was just scared.”

  “I guess that’s always been the best reason to pray.”

  I slept three hours that night until I woke up panting and sweating from a nightmare in which Garrison and I were chased on foot through a crowded city like Tehran, at night, then we ducked into a taxi driven by my father, with Azi lying unconscious on the back seat, and it turned into a boat that started sinking—Garrison told me to bail, and I tried, using my hands, but the water rose faster than I could scoop it out the window.

  The next morning I called Michaels to tell him I was back and to see if the CIA or someone in the government would provide a memorial for Garrison. He said yes, he’d been working on it since my call from Kuwait, it had been approved, and he’d already talked to Garrison’s brother and made arrangements for a funeral. Michaels offered to fly me to Bloomington, Indiana, for the event if I would promise not to reveal the nature of the mission or anything I knew about Garrison’s undercover work. I agreed, of course. When my mother dropped me at the airport thirty-six hours later, I apologized for not staying longer and promised to call and visit more often—and I meant it.

  An attractive woman in her forties with short, curly brown hair, freckled fair skin, and a conservative black suit held up a sign with my name on it. She introduced herself as Julie Wilson, an assistant to someone whose name I didn’t catch, and I wasn’t sure if she worked for the President or the CIA, but she knew Michaels, and I assumed she’d been briefed on the mission. “Will you be spending the night?” she asked as we walked to her rental car in the parking garage at the airport.

  “No, I’m just here for the funeral.”

  “Fine. Where can I take you?”

  “I don’t know. The service’s at five, right?”

  “Right. Why don’t you come to the hotel with me, and you can eat lunch in the restaurant while I take care of last minute details. Then I’ll drive you to the church.”

  I appreciated her taking charge—I didn’t want to make any decisions if I didn’t have to. “Sounds good. I’d like to talk to Garrison’s brother—his name is John, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Can I do that?”

  “I don’t see why not as long as you’re discreet.”

  “I don’t know what you mean by ‘discreet,’ but I was thinking of taking him out for a beer.”

  With a pleasant but authoritative tone, she said, “Discreet means you abide by your agreement and don’t talk about the mission in which Mr. Garrison was killed, and you don’t reveal his involvement in the CIA.”

  “What does the family think he did?”

  “I don’t think he told them—evidently they weren’t very close. He probably described it vaguely as foreign service. Or he might have told them he worked for an embassy or consulate.”

  I nodded and wondered what it was like to live a secret life that even your brother doesn’t know about. “Can I take him out for a beer?”

  “I’ve planned a small reception at the house, we’ll have beer and wine and heavy hors d’oeuvres, and of course there will be other family members to consider.”

  “What family does he have, other than the brother?”

  “His parents died in a car accident. A sister, Vivian, is flying in from Austin, and there are a few local relatives. Not more than a handful, I’m afraid. It’ll be a small and private affair.”

  “What kind of affair, I mean, since there’s no body?”

  “We offered a formal ceremony, with a military honor guard and all, but it would’ve postponed the event, and the family declined. There’ll be a priest, of course, and I understand that the brother will speak, and I will speak for the government—I’ll also present them with a flag. Do you want to say anything? I can probably arrange it.”

  “No, not in public.”

  “Then that’ll be all. We’ll have a tombstone made for him, and his brother will oversee its placement in a local cemetery.”

  “It’s a shame. In Tehran he had to live like a rat in a maze, always on the lookout, super cautious, with no family, probably few friends, a false identity. He gave up his life even when he was alive. In this country we idolize idiots—athletes, actors, rock stars—but Garrison was a real hero, and we can’t even recognize his heroism at his death.”

  “I couldn’t agree more, Mr. Nichols.”

  A small and private affair. A modest Methodist church. Twelve people, including Julie and me, thirteen counting the minister. Julie spoke eloquently, if vaguely, about Garrison’s invaluable service to his country and the country’s inexpressi
ble gratitude. The brother, a taller, pudgier version of Garrison, spoke emotionally about how they had been close as kids, how Garrison had taught him how to shoot a BB gun and that day John had killed a squirrel and felt terrible and never shot again, but Garrison never criticized him for it. They grew distant after their parents died and Garrison moved to Washington, and in the last three years they had seen each other only once, but he and his sister always looked up to Garrison and knew they could count on him. The sister, Vivian, dressed in a severe black suit like a young attorney trying to fight her way into a partnership, cried audibly but didn’t speak. After the service we were all invited to the house, but I knew I would feel awkward being a stranger among family members. I thanked Garrison’s brother for the invitation, declined, but also asked if he and his sister could spare me five minutes at the church. He went to Vivian, interrupted a hug between her and a sad old woman wearing a hat with a bird on the brim, and then brought Vivian over and we sat in a pew near the back. Julie watched us without seeming to.

  She had told them about me, but I introduced myself again. Then I asked, “How much do you know about your brother’s job?”

  “Not much,” John said. “Mike never talked about it. I don’t even know where he lived—he moved around a lot.”

  “I know even less,” Vivian said.