Misdemeanor Trials

by Milton Schacter

  One evening after returning to the house after prayer, Raintree went to the small refrigerator, unlocked it, and removed two beers. John sat on the floor pillows and savored the rare taste of beer in this Muslim country. “The Mosques seem somewhat peaceful and the prayers bring calm to the place. I've always been told the Muslim's were a hostile and hateful religion. I don't get it. What is going on?” asked John.

  “You don't hear what the Imam is saying during the prayers. He talks about the Jews as pigs and America as decadent, and every non-believer must be killed unless they convert. It is the same everywhere. If you hear that every day, it becomes part of what you believe. Give them two weeks in New York with an expense account and a lot of their minds could be changed.”

  “It seems a bit goofy to me,” said John.

  “These guys are savages,” said Raintree. “They are one generation off their camel. They left the desert just a short time ago. In the desert they threw spears, put women in red tents and ate camel. They are aborigines and it takes hundreds of years, if not thousands, to breed out that aborigine and replace it with a civilized society. Merely because they dress in western clothes instead of robes, drive cars instead of camels and use nuclear bombs instead of spears, doesn't change their tribal, territorial, savage instincts. You can't change an attack dog, but you can breed it out of him over many dog lives.

  Raintree continued, “Not only that, but the religion is nuts. Have you read the Koran?”

  “No,” said John.

  “Anyone with half a brain who has read the Koran, or the Classics Illustrated version, learn real fast that the mission of the Muslim is to kill, and I mean kill, everyone who is not a Muslim. We can't co-exist with them. Also, they are sex crazed. The religion, and a good part of their entire society is based on sex, as in fornication, not gender. They use their women as semen receptacles and household servants. Women are property and not human. It's bizarre that the greatest sacrifices by the devout, and by that I mean them killing themselves in some act of violence that kills the infidel, will be rewarded in the afterlife. The prize of the devout is you will go so heaven where they will be have seventy virgins. I guess they assume the virgins are young. If the virgins are eighty years old that might change a lot in the religion, but that is too much to hope for. I had the great idea that if we tried to educate the Muslims that the virgins were old ladies, the number of suicide bombings would fall by half. Can you imagine a young horny Jihadist who has just set off a suicide bombing killing scores of Jews, arrives in heaven, and sees 72 seriously ugly women who, he is told, are the 72 virgins? Suddenly he knows why they are virgins. I am sure the first thing that comes out of his mouth is, ‘Oh, shit.’ As it sits now in the Jihadist lore, if you wear a bomb, and kill a bunch of Jews, you can then fuck a lot of girls who you don't know, who don't know you, and who are totally inexperienced. In any other culture that would be a child molest or a rape. A religion that revolves around sex, like child molest or rape, like they do, is crazy. But that is what it is. There is no mention that the reward in heaven would be a beautiful woman, with whom you experience a special love and devotion. Now that might be something to die for. But these guys are a bunch of animals. I have always wondered about the Muslim girl or old woman who puts on a bomb, and blows up a bunch of infidels. What is any of those gals rewarded with? Probably an old fat eunuch houseboy with his tongue cut out who takes a bath every day and consistently puts the toilet seat down. That would be her reward.”

  “How did you get those ideas? You’re from this part of the world. And why are you back?” asked John.

  “When my father got to America in the early 80's he saw some things, and he told me about them. He was big on life's lessons. He said he looked around when he got to the United States, and he saw there were more white guys than any other. They had the money, and the power that went with money. He told me he saw the Middle Easterners had small stores, or drove cabs, and lived in ghettos. He did not see Americans doing those jobs. He made a conscious decision to join up with the successful, go with the flow and follow the crowd. He wanted to be an American. He shaved his beard, cut his hair short, sent my mom out to buy western clothes, moved out of the Iranian ghetto, and changed his name to David Raintree, and started attending a Catholic church. He went to classes and tried hard to learn, and especially speak, English. I always thought he was a smart man. He started out as a Real Estate salesman and then bought a few pieces of property. He worked hard and did some things he never got into with me, but he was legit and ended up as upper middle class, almost wealthy. My brothers and sisters are thoroughly American, have graduated from college and are doing well. The only political discussions we have at Thanksgiving are between the family Democrats and Republicans. My brothers and my sister's husbands are Republican. My sisters are Democrats, kinda.

  “But why did you come back to Iran?”

  Raintree paused. With a touch of a faraway glance, Raintree answered. “When you're a kid, and you respect your father, then you listen to what he tells you, and you believe him. My father never hesitated to tell us how his mind worked. I especially remember one time when I came home from the University a little bewildered about who I was. I was just beginning to bore into typical growing adolescent questions like 'who am I, what will I do,' and so forth. I asked him why or how he could give up his past, his traditions and his family in the old country, and become a new person altogether when he came to the United States.

  “He said that the past was a memory, and the past was a teacher, but nothing would ever change what the past was. The present and the future could be changed. The past would always remain in my DNA, he said, but the past he had come from when he came to America was mired in archaic customs and traditions. It was inflexible. He said the most stable world, or culture, or person, was the one that could absorb change. He said he easily gave up his past because he learned in America that the old culture was inflexible and dogmatic, and worse, murderous. When he decided to give that up, he said that he wondered where he should go and what he should do. He said the adopted country was strange, it had a culture he was unfamiliar with, and he was apprehensive and a bit frightened. For him, the future was uncertain and he told me that my own future was uncertain. He said the history of the world was full of unforeseen events, and included natural surprises, political surprises, historical surprises, economic surprises, and personal happenings that could not be seen coming. He decided he would move on in the new world, in the face of its uncertainty, mainly, he said, because he had no choice. He said that the options or choices he had would be foreclosed by the passage of time, and if he did not act, he would become the victim of circumstances, and that frightened him even more than the risk of forging ahead. He said that he had no past, and no certain future, and he was going to live in the moment, taking every opportunity for himself and his wife, and someday, his children. After I graduated from school, and looked back at what he said and how he came to his conclusions, I realized he was a critical thinker. He absorbed information, thought it through, and tried to make the best next move for his family. Critical thinking takes time and effort, and something you must do, especially if you don't have the benefit of a preprogrammed life. I got here because I am an American. I love my country. I have the tools to be here, and to work successfully, and I knew the old country was wrong, just wrong, and bad. Until I came here, I did not know how bad and wrong it was. I was like my dad, with an uncertain future and a real desire to live the American life. I wanted to live in the moment, and I did, and I am here.”

  CHAPTER FORTY

  THE GOOD DOCTOR

  John and Raintree were sitting at the table after returning from evening prayers when Mac walked through the door. “We have an operation,” he said.

  “Upstairs or local?” asked Raintree.

  “Local,” answered Mac.

  “Involvement?” queried Raintree.

  “Backup,” said Mac. “There is a local knockdown of some guy nam
ed Dr. Fereydoun Abassi-Davani. They have him at Albizi Café tomorrow at two in the afternoon. He will be having lunch. It's a residential area in old Tehran, with narrow streets and storefronts practically on the street. He used to live there and will be visiting his disabled mother. Apparently when he returns to his neighborhood he always stops by the same Cafe. The good Doctor will have one bodyguard. If the local’s plan doesn’t work, we will finish what they started, or we always have the option to abandon. It’s our discretion, based on what goes down. I have photos of both men. If it goes down like last time, our part will be limited to drinking a cup of espresso. If the plan falls apart, there’s a chance we’ll be the shooters. I’ll brief John.” Mac threw the photos on the table and waved John into the adjoining room. They each sat on a mattress that was on the floor.

  “Once in a while, but not often, we get a request by one of the local friendlies. They may need manpower, backup, or intel. In the last few years there hasn’t been much effort by upstairs agency administrators to maintain or coordinate with, or contact the locals, probably because the upstairs guys just didn't trust us that much. The local friendlies trust our local group. But things have been changing lately since the inauguration bombing, and upstairs will give us instructions on helping them, and are sharing intel more often, but that didn't happen much, if ever, before the inauguration day bombing. Anyway, the locals still come to us unofficially if they need help. They have been doing it without coordination or authorization from the people who control their operation. We in turn help them without any authorization from upstairs. Tomorrow two motorcycles will travel South on Ghandi Street to the new Café Prague. The cafe was closed a few years ago because they refused to put in security cameras. Things have loosened up a bit and they reopened without cameras. The café is on the near side or west side of the street. I will get there at 1:00 pm to make sure we get a table outside. You and Raintree will go for coffee at 1:30 and we will sit south of the Good Doctor's table. I will leave you at that point. The friendlies will hit Dr. Fereydoun Abassi-Davani and his bodyguard with suppressed weapons, turn right on the corner and be out of sight. If the bodyguard is not hit, and is a threat to the hit our guys, we hit him first. This whole operation should happen so quick that it is doubtful the bodyguard can respond. If he tries to shoot at the motorcycles, we will be upwind and not caught in the bodyguard’s fire. If we have to take any action, we will backup. I don't want to pull out a gun and shoot at someone who has a better gun and is a better shot. It's like running with scissors. Last time something like this happened, it went like clockwork. I even got to finish my espresso. Your exit route is through a doorway and an alley just south of where we will be sitting. Our car will be sitting fifty feet away. With suppressed weapons, no one will know what happened for 30 seconds, with plenty of time for the friendlies to escape. There is no thinking on our part, unless things fall apart, which I doubt. Knowing what I just told you, John, are you up for this?”

  “Do you know the guys on the motorcycles?” asked John.

  “No,” said Mac. “It is all set up by the front men on their team. They bring in special operators a few days early. The shooters get familiar with the area, escape routes, and if they can, observe the candidate. They know where they are supposed to be, and when, and who the mark is. When they are through, they ditch the bikes and leave the country. That way there is no disturbance with the network already established in Tehran. Typically the specials don’t make contact with any of the locals, and if they do, it is usually only one, who they don’t even know. If the shooters are caught, they have no information that could cause the breakup of the network.”

  “Who is this guy Dr. Fereydoun Abassi-Davani?” asked John.

  “Don’t know. Probably a scientist. Killing of scientists has been very effective. Even better that sending a computer virus to their nuclear test sights. But we should find out more when we read the newspapers after this all goes down,” said Mac.

  “I came here on what I was told was a visit to look for a guy,” said John. “I had my share of shooting and getting shot at. I don't want to do it anymore. I was told this was not a dangerous assignment. And why are you leaving before shots are fired, Mac?”

  “Simple to answer,” replied Mac. “I go to that Café every month or so. Sometimes more often. It's a popular place for young people. I know people who go there. I can't take the risk of being identified when the shooting happens. It could compromise my cover. John, we need your help on this one. I know you have been behind enemy lines before. This is just another time behind enemy lines. And your country needs your help, especially now when it seems we may be winning.”

  John thought Mac was smooth talking him and pushing the right buttons by appealing to his competency and his patriotism. “Okay,” said John. “But I am not a spy, I don't want to be a spy, and I don't want to get involved in violence in a foreign country. I'll help this time, but if it turns violent, I will get angry, and will respond with the instincts of a soldier.”

  Mac took John to a sturdy metal floor chest in the corner of the room. It was locked with two strong looking locks with a heavy steel lid. He opened the two locks on the lid. Inside there were multiple weapons, including AK-47's, shotguns and handguns. “We lock this chest and secure it to the floor. “Iran is a population of thieves. If anyone leaves the house someone can break in and steal anything they can. It's the way people live in this town. If these guns were found, I am sure no one would care, but the thief would be well armed. Anyway, tomorrow before we go, each of us will have a suppressed firearm. I like the Walther. You can pick the one you are most comfortable with. You can carry it under your coat. Let's go drive by the café and check it out.”

  At noon the next day John and Raintree drove the white rental car to the alley behind the cafe and walked to a table south and about fifteen feet from the table where they expected to see the good doctor. They sat down. Raintree sat on the east side of the table and John sat on the west side, facing Raintree and the street. Mac had told him that men are a creature of routine, and that the doctor was set in his ways, and that is what they counted on for this operation to be successful. Raintree ordered two espressos and unfolded the newspaper he brought with him. John looked around the neighborhood. The streets were paved and narrow with little foot or vehicle traffic. The buildings were mostly two stories tall, surrounded by high walls, and looked residential, with a shop appearing occasionally. It was nondescript. A little before two P.M., two men arrived and sat at a table about 15 feet from John and Raintree. John recognized the target from the photo. He tensed up, though he felt confident he would not be involved. He was here for backup, that's all. A few moments later he heard the sound of high pitched low horsepower motorcycles. Two motorcycles drove by the cafe. The drivers wore hard helmets and black pants and jackets. He saw both riders raise obviously suppressed weapons and fire. Both fired at least three times. The doctor’s face fell onto the table. The bodyguard was hit and spun around and faced the motorcycles. He began to raise his gun and Raintree stood up and fired twice at the bodyguard, who turned and fired at Raintree. Raintree was hit. John stood up, pointed the gun at the bodyguard and fired twice with a double tap to his eye. The bodyguard was done. John looked at Raintree. “Where were you hit?”

  “In the leg. It's a graze. Let's get out of here,” said Raintree. John stepped over to Raintree and helped him hobble to the alley. John had no time to think. They walked as quickly as they could to the car. Raintree got into the passenger side, John got into the driver's side and they drove down the narrow street. John thought they were safely away. No one in or about the café had moved when the action hit. Everyone nearby dove for protection when the motorcycle drivers fired and Raintree and John had walked away unnoticed. John looked back down the deserted alley as he drove off and saw a lone man on a motorcycle. John sensed the motorcycle was chasing them. John stopped the car and stepped out of the driver's side. As the rider slowed down and looked directl
y at John, John raised his weapon and fired twice to the chest. The rider fell. John got back into the car. No one followed. He dropped Raintree off at the compound, left his gun, made sure Raintree was not hemorrhaging, and then drove to airport, where he parked the white car in the rental car agency lot and walked away. He caught the bus back to the compound. John did not know the rider who was following him, but he knew that neither he nor Raintree could risk being identified or followed. John came to Tehran to help identify a terrorist. He did not expect to be involved in an offensive operation. He knew that if he were detained or identified by any local that he, and any of the operational unit, would be prisoners at Evin prison for many weeks before they were hanged in public from a crane in the middle of town. He also knew that once he signed on to the cafe operation, the killing of the rider was justified.

  CHAPTER FORTY ONE

  AFTERMATH

  “If you don't read the newspaper, you're uninformed. If you read the newspaper, you're misinformed.”

  --Mark Twain

  John sat alone at the table the next morning eating a breakfast of cheese, walnuts, cucumbers with bread and tomatoes. Raintree walked in without a noticeable limp. His wound from the day before was a graze by the bullet. A bandage and some tape seemed enough. Raintree had a newspaper in his hand. He sat down and read from it, translating loosely from Farsi. “There was a shooting yesterday by unidentified drive by shooters.” Raintree then went on to explain what the article said. A Dr. Fereydoun Abassi-Davani, a Nuclear scientist, was having lunch at his old neighborhood cafe while visiting his parental home on a visit from his job at the Nuclear Reactor at Qum, which was significantly damaged in the inauguration day bombing. Also seriously wounded and near death was Dr. Fereydoun Abassi-Davani's bodyguard. The article said the killing was the work of American Zionists. The paper stated that Kamal Shirkhani was also killed in the shooting when the assassins attempted their escape. The paper reported that Shirkhani would be buried the next day in Lavasan, a small town northeast of the Iranian capital Tehran. He was identified as a colonel in the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps. There was no explanation of what Shirkanai was doing in the neighborhood. The article said that the three assassins had been apprehended and were currently at Evin prison and would be executed within the month.