I stop talking and continue staring at Jalal. Neither of us speaks. The rawness of my terror and shame hover between us. I sit down, letting out a deep sigh, almost a groan.
Jalal picks up my cup and pours fresh coffee to the brim, spilling some on the floor. He hands it to me.
“Jay, I never told you that after my father was pronounced dead by the doctor at the hanging, the police gave me a wheelbarrow and instructed me to position it so that when the rope was cut my father’s body would fall into it. I wheeled the body into a hut nearby to make it ready to take back to our home in the mountains. Three open coffins stood on the flor of the hut. I moved towards the nearest coffin and looked up and saw the uniform of a high-ranking soldier standing waiting
for me.
“I had never seen Sadegh but knew immediately that it was him. He had a thick, black beard and was dressed in a dark green military uniform with four stars on each shoulder. His bodyguards stood outside the door when he walked in. He looked at me as if he was trying to memorize my face. I remember the pupils of his eyes were the blackest I had ever seen. I had never seen him before only heard him described by my father.
“I saw him staring at my father, then at me. In a deep voice, he asked if I was the dead man’s son. I nodded.
“Sadegh moved to where I stood, looked down at my father, and spat on my father’s face twice, turned, and walked out of the hut.
I waited a few minutes in case he returned, but once the other bodies on wheelbarrows were wheeled into the hut, I knew he would not be back. I dabbed both of my forefingers on each saliva drool, touching the wetness as it slid across my father’s face. Then I put each forefinger on my forehead above my eyebrows and rubbed the spit into the pores of my skin. From that day onwards, the flesh on my forehead has always carried my father’s death and the memory of the man who killed him.”
He pushes the cup to me, “Drink it now.”
Embarrassed, I emerge from the dark corners of my heart, and the cloud of dreams that have gnawed and returned throttling my mind.
“Jalal, I’m not the iron strongman I used to be. Do you still want to go to war with a damaged, old soldier at your side?”
“Nothing has changed, Jay. I’ve always trusted you. I still do. I know you will not let me down.”
“Humor me then. Time is of the essence. We can’t stumble around blind. I believe that we can work ten times faster if you include Josh. He has resources and contacts I could never come up with. Let’s use him to obtain the information we want and when we are ready to grab Sadegh, you and I will do it alone without him, agree?”
“Agree,” Jalal nods.
I glance at my watch and pick up the phone. It rings once.
“Josh, we need to talk.”
“Now, at five in the morning?”
“Yes.”
“Trouble?”
“Yes.”
“Give me half an hour. I’ll come to your place.” Josh sounds instantly awake.
I hang up and turn to Jalal.
“Josh is my closest friend in Chicago, and in his own way, has years of combat experience. Your plan is to kidnap a man who executed your father in another country, who is probably an American citizen, and whom you suspect is the mastermind of the terrorist network here in the states. Can you and I trust Josh with this knowledge? I don’t know. I believe what you told me, and I’m sure Josh will also.
“Josh deals with crime and criminals every day. It’s his business. You’ll need solid, hard facts if he’s skeptical, and I’m sure he will be. You need to understand that global strategies and intrigue might not be his specialty, but as a street fighter using street smarts where there are no rules and no holds barred, I’d match him up against anyone. You’re going to have to take some chances. Josh will be your first.”
Jalal sits in the chair, looking at warily at me. He is obviously troubled with the inclusion of Josh, a complete stranger. He cracks his knuckles one at a time, never blinking as he stares intently at me. Suspicion ripples across his face.
Eventually he looks down at his hands, examining the hills and valleys his knuckles make, slowly moving his thumb up and down each knuckle, as if he is saying a hidden prayer. He seems stricken and unsure what to do, weighing each possibility and obviously unhappy to be put into the position of meeting this stranger.
I say “Start the conversation with what you can prove. Give him an in-depth background of the Middle East and how each of the four nations surrounding Kurdistan have an effect on your people. I don’t think that Josh has ever met a Kurd or spoken to one. Someone who has never lived with the sort of danger and constant state of war that you and I have lived with all your lives will need to be explained and why Sadegh must be killed. Leave until the end what you plan to do to Sadegh. Let’s see how Josh reacts. You do the talking. You decide if you trust him. It’s your decision, Jalal.”
CHAPTER THREE
When Josh arrives, he and Jalal shake hands, and Josh immediately senses Jalal’s menace. His eyes narrow, then he looks at me, sharing the focus that the man opposite him is a killer.
Warily, the large black man pulls up a chair and sits down across from the table opposite the slender Kurd with the white forelock.
“If this is going to be a long meeting Jay, please get me a mug of coffee, not just a cup.”
Looking at Jalal, he extends his hand and says “Hi, I’m Josh.”
Jalal nods. “My name is Jalal.”
Jalal crosses his leg under the table, ankle and shoe resting on his knee. Instinctively, I realize he has a gun in an ankle holster. The shadow of a smile crosses his face as he rests his hands inches away from his knee, inches away from his gun.
I begin. “Josh, before Jalal starts, you need to know the background that strongly binds me to Jalal and his people. I want to tell you how I met his father Dara. One of the reasons I believe Jalal is that I’ve known him from the time he was 14 years old. Our lives have connected and intertwined ever since. The last time I saw his father Dara was when he was standing on the gallows in Teheran about to be executed. By a strange quirk of fate, I met Jalal minutes before he saw his
father hanged.
“Tonight, after I heard what Jalal proposes to do, I find myself in a situation where the person involved with the terrorists is a man I knew quite well. He was a client of mine in Teheran. I was not aware at that time that he was the one who executed Jalal’s father. However, I was made aware tonight that he lives in Chicago, and Jalal has come here to find him. The man living here is connected with the terrorist incidents, the bombing of the jumbos, and the TV, station as well as the buses. Jalal has shown me the proof. You will need to examine what he shows you and decide if you are satisfied.
“To be honest, I wish I could have helped Jalal on my own, for it would have been a great honor to have helped the son of my friend Dara and in a small way repay the Kurds for helping us during the first Gulf War. Unfortunately, I lack the knowledge and resources to provide the urgent help Jalal needs. That’s why I’ve asked you to hear what he has to say. I hope that you can be of assistance to him. I have assured Jalal that I trust you completely.”
Uneasy suspicion causes Josh to fidget and say nothing. Jalal looked searchingly at Josh. I am sure Josh knows that Jalal has a gun strapped to his ankle. Josh returns the stare, looking at Jalal as he continues sipping his coffee. The silences get longer, beginning to hang heavy throughout the room.
“Damn it, Jalal, are you going to say something, or what?” I finally shout. The tension seems unbearable.
Josh raises his hand slightly there is a glitter in his eyes. “Easy does it, JR. Your friend doesn’t know me like you do. Mr. Jalal, I’m head of the Terrorism Task Force for the Chicago Police.” He takes out his wallet and gives Jalal his identification badge and his business card.
“Mr. Jalal, this is my card. If you turn it over, you can choose any of those numbers. You can check me out. If you’re satisfied, let Jay call me late
r. I need to get some sleep.”
Jalal examines the card, turns it over and over again, running his fingers over the embossed letters.
Jalal shrugs and opens his hands, using them expressively as he speaks, “I do not know if you will be a friend, Mr. Bratt, or if you will betray my people to our enemies. You give me a card and tell me this card will prove if you are a man to be trusted. That card is just a piece of paper. What is in your heart and your soul is more important. I cannot tell yet what you consider to be justice, fairness, or what code of ethics you live by. As a man, like all of us, you must have things that are hidden in the deepest parts of your heart. I do not know what those things might be, so I do not know who you really are. This is my dilemma. There is no card you can show me or boss who can vouch for you, for if I am wrong, I will have made a fatal mistake, probably my last mistake on this earth.
Putting his palms gently down on the table, Jalal continues.
“Jay told me I will have to take some chances. I understand I will have to take chances. A good general will not only prepare for his victories, but also for his defeats. The proof I will show you of what I say is copied and in other, safer hands than mine are now. I have one additional set hidden in this country and another overseas. The people who have access to the copies have been given specific instructions of what to do if they do not hear from me on a regular basis at specific times. I do not believe that I will return to my country alive and after I am killed, either you or Jay will have to complete what needs to be done.
Jalal peered at Josh, whose face remained impassive. “Can I trust you, Josh? I do not know—the phone numbers on your card do not tell me that. I have made my peace with my God, and have said goodbye to my family. I love my wife, who is the mother of my children, for she is the only woman I have ever known. It is her face and the face of each child that I hold in my heart. It is their support that gives me this courage, courage I never knew I had as I prepare myself to die. So Mr. Chicago Policeman, if you will eventually betray me? I am ready and prepared to be killed by you, or your superiors.”
Jalal pauses, takes a deep breath. He and Josh hold each other with their eyes, not saying a word. Neither gives latitude to the tension that creeps into their unyielding stares.
Eventually Jalal says, “Let us begin. We have much to discuss.”
Talking rapidly, he gives a background of his heritage, his people, and how he met me. Continuing, he says the United States is a target for a hostile takeover by Iraq and Saudi Arabia in a matter of days. They have the backing of every Arab country.
“After the execution, when I returned to our village with my father’s body, I gave Jay’s card to my mother. She recalled who he was and remembered that he had saved my father’s life. I did not know who this man was. She explained how he and my father had worked together in 1990. Mustaffa, my uncle, was made chief as soon as my father was captured. The village elders knew that this time my father would not be rescued, for he’d been flown by helicopte to Teheran. He was caught trying to ambush and capture one of my people’s greatest enemies. Jay knew him as a friend; we knew him as a murderer.
“This man was the architect of so much evil, so many deaths, and was always one step ahead of us. For years, we tried to capture him, not kill him, though we had a few opportunities to do so. My father knew the risk and he gambled on capturing our enemy, but he failed and was caught instead. He was executed by Sadegh Muzahedi, a man we have since discovered is a triple agent. My father found this out, which is why he tried to capture Sadegh alive.
“A bit of background. Sadegh was born to an aristocratic, wealthy Iraqi family. Sadegh was one of more than twenty children over the years who were chosen, indoctrinated, and sent with false papers to schools in Teheran. He was twelve years old. His Farsi was perfect, he’d been taught the language when he was a child by his nursemaid. When he graduated school in Teheran, he was sent to the American military academy, West Point, where the CIA eventually recruited him. This was an unexpected bonus, for his mission had only been to be an Iraqi spy in Teheran.
“When Iranian Prime Minister Mossadeq in 1950 nationalized the oil wells, saying that $2 a barrel was not enough, the Americans panicked and tried to recruit as many agents as possible in Iran and any other oil-producing countries. Sadegh, who was in the top ten of his class at West Point, was a natural for recruitment.”
Josh interrupted, his face twisted into something just short of an incredulous smile. “The CIA are extremely thorough with background checks. It is hard to believe they were fooled that easily. I really don’t know where you’re going with this, but I also don’t know how accurate your information is.”
Jalal did not seem fazed by Josh’s challenge. “Good point. I’ll give you an answer in a minute as to how they were fooled. America suddenly realized how reliant and vulnerable it was with regard to Middle Eastern oil. That is when total paranoia took over. The State Department frantically set about establishing warm relations with the Arab nations, who up until then had been considered to be desert barbarians, illiterate camel riders, who lived in filthy tents with their many wives. These barbarians who smoked hashish all the time were sitting on the largest reserves of oil in the world. American industries were making huge profits by being able to factor into their costs of production oil at two dollars a barrel. If it went up to three dollars or more, profits would fall dramatically and they’d be forced to lay off workers. Unemployment meant recession. Recession could lead to a depression. For politicians, this was suicide. Think tanks in Washington were sure it would not take too long for the Arabs to discover their ability to hold America hostage. Because of this scrambling and haste, Sadegh slipped through the cracks, for his background was not thoroughly checked. Iran is a closed society to foreigners. Who could check him out? Where would they start? In this manner, he became a triple agent. Does that answer your question?”
“I’m good with that, sounds reasonable,” Josh nodded.
Jalal continued. “My mother petitioned our Council of Elders, explaining how important it would be for the village that I obtain an education so that I could think like our enemies. My mother argued that, to defeat people who continuously kill us, we had to know them first, understand them thoroughly, then we could deal with their weaknesses. She strongly believed that living in Teheran would not endanger me, and if I could get in touch with Jay eventually, through his contacts, I might be able to get to Sadegh. If Jay was found to be working for Sadegh or SAVAK, my mission would be to kill Jay. Having met Jay, she felt he would prove to be a good friend and not a collaborator or spy for Sadegh Muzahedi.
I listened, incredulous. Josh hung on Jalal’s narrative.
“Iran is Iraq’s sworn enemy of many thousands of years. The Iraqis also fear the Kurds. Muzahedi suddenly found himself in a position of being able to get information about them from the Americans through the CIA. Now he had access to information on both of his enemies, the Iranians and the Kurds. He used this information brilliantly to betray Iranian and Kurdish agents all over the world. They were systematically killed off when the Americans, whom we at first trusted, unknowingly gave Muzahedi information about our networks of spies. That was another reason for us to be suspicious of Jay. However, my mother proved to be a wise woman, for in the two years I lived with Jay, he never spoke about his past and never tried to extract from me any of our military information.
“Jay also became my teacher about international affairs, politics, and trade. He opened up a fascinating new world for me, and I soon realized that our concerns were without merit. He also encouraged me to try to perfect my English, explaining it was the only common denominator language if I ever traveled overseas. I could see how he enjoyed his work, and that he would never have worked as hard as he did if he were a spy, for the business would only have been a facade.
“The night before my father was hanged, I was permitted to visit Dara. He pointed to the man in the cell next to him and told me how the prisoner ha
d been recruited to be a CIA agent by Sadegh. The man was a drug lord, and for three years had been Sadegh’s partner. Sadegh hanged him the same day as he hanged my father.”
Jalal looks at Josh. “Do you know what an NOC is?”
Josh says, “Sure, ‘Non-Official Cover.’ People recruited by the CIA, drawn from all walks of life, to infiltrate potential terrorist groups such as cults, anarchists, white supremacists, any group trying to commit treason, murder, or overthrowing the government. An NOC. could be a man or a woman. Why they do it, no one knows. Maybe they’re bored housewives, CEOs looking for adventure, or college kids. We don’t know their reasons, but there sure are plenty who apply. Very few do it for the money. If they’re caught, official policy is we don’t know them, won’t rescue them. We’ll deny they exist. In the FBI, if we’re going to make an arrest or a raid, we always check first to see if there are any NOCs we need to be sure not to injure or kill.”
“The drug dealer was an NOC,” says Jalal “My father was sure that inadvertently, he’d stumbled on something that could incriminate Sadegh. That was why he had to be eliminated. By putting the man to death as a criminal of the state, just another person who’d broken the law, Sadegh’s hands would be clean. The drug dealer told my father that night that Sadegh’s share of any profits always had to be converted into dollars. The payoff was picked up every three months by the same person, Sadegh’s wife. The drug dealer personally drove her to the airport with his escort of armed men to ensure that she got there safely. When they arrived at the terminal and he handed the porter her luggage, on the luggage tags he always saw the destination address—Chicago. She would fly with the money to Chicago. This is why, when I came to look for Sadegh, I decided to contact Jay, for Chicago was the last address I had of his as well.
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