“I’ve got him. Get the syringe, Jalal. He might be bluffing, so be careful. I can only apply the pressure for a minute then I have to release his artery. Hurry.”
Jalal opens the wardrobe door kicking his clothes out of the way. Reaching inside, he pulls out a small bag, unzips it, and takes out the syringe. He holds it up, presses the plunger for a split second, and sees clear liquid spurt. Kneeling down, Jalal pulls off Sadegh’s glove and with his left hand, applies pressure near the wrist. Within seconds, the veins swell. Choosing one, he carefully inserts the needle and slowly presses down the plunger until the vial is empty.
Sadegh does not move.
I ease the choke hold, but still lie folded on top for a while longer while Jalal cuffs Sadegh’s wrists and ankles. Jalal pulls off the black ski mask and examines Sadegh’s pupils to see if they are dilated.
“He’s unconscious.”
I roll off and stand up. Jalal turns off the lights and holds the gun as he pulls on his clothes.
Without a word, I run out the door to fetch my SUV, which is parked a block away.
Jalal takes a flashlight from his suitcase and turns it on. Then he wraps duct tape over Sadegh’s mouth, making sure the man can breathe through his nostrils. Working quickly, Jalal throws everything scattered around the room into a garbage bag, then finishes dressing.
He drags Sadegh toward the door. The yard is dark, but he sees the outline of the car Sadegh parked a few doors down. By morning, gang bangers will have found it and it will have disappeared. In the distance, Jalal faintly hears the boom of loud bass float their music as kids drive up and down Maxwell Street.
Standing in the room, he waits for Jay to arrive. He listens to the silence as it settles and takes residence of the room. The only sound occasionally is the door creaking gently in the breeze.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
It takes me just over half an hour to drive from the motel to the enormous complex of boarded-up buildings. I’d visited the buildings once before, about a year ago, when a developer had hired me to do a feasibility study to see if it would be worthwhile making an offer to the City of Chicago to redevelop the stockyards.
Carefully maneuvering my SUV on roads overgrown with weeds, I drive slowly between the buildings, until I find a door in a darkened area well hidden from the main road. I turn off the headlights and get out. Jalal pulls the large shopping bags out of the trunk, walks to the door, and leaves them there. He returns and stays in the van, watching Sadegh, who is tied up and handcuffed. Still drugged, Sadegh is asleep in the large metal dog cage.
Wearing gloves, I use a crowbar, straining to force open the steel door. Bits of the metal fall onto the ground as I continue levering the bar until the door finally begins opening. A noise to the left of where I stand startles me and I wait, not moving or breathing, trying to identify what it was. But there are no further noises or movements.
After a few minutes, I shine my flashlight in the direction of the noise, but find nothing. Slowly, I ease the small cages and fishing net through the door, then partly close it behind me, not before taking a long deep breath of air outside. Tying a handkerchief around my face, I hope to filter out enough of the horrible smell.
The ripeness of an overpowering stink envelopes the building, its foul stench thick, rancid, even though the buildings haven’t been used for more than thirty years. I know the surrounding network of sewers and septic tanks are so blocked they’ve retained gasses leading to the buildings. Only three buildings are still standing, the others demolished years ago. The one I’m in is the smallest. I am still holding in my breath, and will have to breathe out soon. The darkness is oppressive and I know they are there, watching and waiting. No sounds or movements can be heard now that I am amongst them.
Turning on the flashlight, I place it on the floor between my boots. Immediately, I see dozens of pairs of eyes, glowing red in the shine. They start moving and jumping, teeth gnashing as they are drawn towards the light. I wonder how large the rats are and sense them moving toward me, twittering in high-pitched squeaks, curious and hungry as they dart about nervously, zigzagging, never moving in a straight line, drawing ever closer. The hungrier they are, the faster they’ll come, hunger overcoming their inbred fear of danger. I throw down a small piece meat in front of me.
Holding the net unfolded in both hands at shoulder height, I feel the first one brush up against my boot. I bring the net down, heaving it upwards and straight ahead. I breathe out, gasp for air too quickly. The handkerchief sucks wildly into my mouth as I breathe in again.
* * *
Luke sips hot tea, moving his rocking chair slightly as he stretches to put down the cup on the side table. The TV is still on, the sound turned off, part of his nightly ritual between one and two a.m. At 2 o’clock, old movies start—reruns that he remembers from his childhood, which now was over 80 years ago. This is the time of night he treasures most, his thinking time, an hour to relive his past while the kids, the grandchildren, and now the great-grandchildren are all asleep.
This is the time of night to look through his window and see the huge, silent buildings that stretch for more than twenty square blocks, their shapes starkly silhouetted by the lights of Chicago more than ten miles away. Now they were dark, boarded up, unused ramshackle buildings, dying slowly as they develop huge cracks, crumble and fall apart.
He knows every inch of every building, every staircase and elevator, smokestack and water tank. These were his buildings, his home away from home, where he’d spent every working day of his life. The city owns them, but no one knows them like he does. Now rats, some of them as big as small dogs, were the only inhabitants.
He’d entered those buildings for the first time when he was nine years old and his daddy had gotten him a job that paid five cents a day. Within twelve years, he’d worked his way up to being assistant to Boss Doddie and when Boss Doddie died he, Little Luke had been made chief supervisor, the first black man to be given that position. He retired with his pension after the stupid mayor and the more stupid government decided to move Chicago’s most famous industry to Joliet for political reasons.
The meat packing industry had created thousands of jobs and had also made Chicago and the Midwest famous all over the world. He remembered his youth, his untiring strength and energy with which only the young are blessed. He remembered his job. For him, it wasn’t a job—it was a craft. All his life, he’d had only one job. How many others could say that? His job was to oversee and supervise that the cattle trucked in by rail were off-loaded and slaughtered in the largest cattle slaughter yards ever built anywhere in the world, the Chicago Stockyards.
The buildings were perfectly designed killing areas, where hundreds of thousands of cattle were slaughtered, sometimes as many as a thousand a day. Cattle buyers from all over the country bought their herds from cattle auctions then sent them by rail to the Stockyards. The trains came from every direction, traveling day and night, stopping only to take on coal and change crews, for Chicago was the end of the line. Speed was important, as cattle lost weight while they were being transported. The quicker they were slaughtered, the heavier they’d be. Brokers were paid by weight of the carcass, so for every pound of weight the cattle lost, the brokers lost a dollar or more.
The whole complex had been designed to speed up loading, killing, stripping of carcasses, and delivery to butchers or wholesalers so that those brokers could be paid their commissions. Speed was of the essence. Sometimes they were made to work all night, and the brokers were forced to pay his men overtime. He knew by heart the various train schedules and prepared his crews in advance so they were ready as the cattle trucks eased their way into the dozens of holding pens on the east side of the buildings.
The cattle knew they were going to die. From a long distance away, the animals smelled death. They smelled blood as railway cars backed into off-loading ramps. This was when they were at their most dangerous, when they kicked and bucked, eyes bulging, tongues hanging out,
trying to gore the handlers who forced them to leave the safety of the car. As a youngster, Luke had used sharp, pointed, heavy poles to keep them moving down the ramps. In later years, they were given electric cattle prods.
During the hot summer months, some cattle died from suffocation due to overcrowding or lack of water in the cars. On their arrival, he’d have a special crew haul the carcasses out of the cars with winches as speedily as possible so that the trains wouldn’t be delayed. Delays meant that trains were held down line. This wasted time. Time meant that the cattle were losing weight. The dead beasts, often stinking and already bloated, were stacked beside each other in their special pens until jobbers could come and cut them up for offal, then load them into their wagons or trucks. The dead cattle had to be washed down constantly with buckets of thick salt water until the jobbers arrived so as to keep away hairy blue flies, some the size of a man’s thumbnail, that swarmed in dark clusters on the bodies as soon as the salt solution dried.
Luke directed each slaughter crew when and how to direct and measure the rack and pulleys that lifted and hauled the freshly killed carcasses onto meat hooks by their back legs, so that blood could pour cleanly out of their severed necks. He positioned them six at a time on conveyors so that the rivers of fresh blood gushed down the stainless steel gullies until the pumping emptied the carcasses. The noise was deafening as gallons of blood streamed downward into sewers, roaring as it bubbled and frothed, gathering momentum, finally splashing into holding tanks like a heavy stone as it crashed into the sewer walls.
Luke was a true professional, the best in the business, running his shifts with military precision, and always reaching his quota.
Those were the glory days.
Unfortunately, progress had overtaken them all. Like steam engines and the cattle, his beloved buildings were now just memories of a bygone era of an old man who sat at the window every night and remembered. It was nearly 2 o’clock, time to turn up the sound.
Luke takes another sip of tea as he notices a dark van with only its parking lights on, driving slowly away from the number two building. The van turns onto 47th Street and heads east. Only then does it turn on its lights.
It passes his house, beginning to gather speed. The windows were tinted so Luke can’t see either the driver or passenger. He notes the last three numbers on the number plate, writing them on a napkin.
A van coming out of the abandoned stockyards at this time of the night could only mean someone was up to no good, probably a drug dealer. He’d watch the news tomorrow and see if he should contact the police.
In the distance, he hears a dog barking. The dog doesn’t sound angry or menacing. Reaching for the remote, Luke turns up the sound.
* * *
Keeping the speedometer at 55, I drive south on the Dan Ryan Expressway. Though it is 2 a.m., the 40-foot semis whizz past me, crowding all three lanes and trailing black smoke from their exhausts above the driver’s cabins as they jostle for position. For them, this is make-up time, the best time to travel, when there are hardly any cars or traffic jams on the roads.
Deep in thought, Jalal is quiet, not speaking, staring at the road in front of him.
I wonder what is on his mind, knowing that the man who had hanged his father, killed his people, and was planning to wipe out the entire Kurdish nation, is tied up and sleeping in an animal’s cage a few feet behind him.
For Jalal, making Sadegh talk and eventually killing him, is something personal. For me, however, learning what plans this man and others have already put into motion to destroy the economy of the States is another war that I’ve volunteered to fight in.
In my mind, Sadegh is a man who has carried his evil into another life here in Chicago. I look at him as being nothing other than a terrorist leader and I plan to kill him. Not as a person I’ve known in the past, but as a parasite that needs to be squashed. Those had been Sadegh’s own words when he hanged Dara.
My questioning would focus on finding out which American politicians, businessmen, and corporations, as well as other countries, were part of the scheme. I want to know where the eight Screaming Eagles are hidden. I want to know about any networks he has here in the States that are his co-conspirators. I am at peace with my decision to torture and kill this man. I have no alternative.
The rule of law and order in the States would be stacked heavily against me, not on my side, no matter how strong the case might be, or how urgent the danger. It sickens me.
The moon leads us on and soon the exit sign for the Sky Way Tollroad looms ahead. I signal, moving into the right lane to take an off-ramp. After paying the toll, I see that Jalal has fallen asleep. I am still two hours away from the farm. The farm had saved my life.
* * *
Years before, my accountant advised me to establish a company trust fund to take advantage of tax loopholes allowed in the 1970s and set up by Congress to combat the recession. The 70s were the heady times of making money and through my trust, I’d purchased two farms, one 94 acres, and the other 70 acres in the remote hill country of Michigan. I had paid the trust fees ten years in advance, putting the deeds into a strong box I rented at the bank. The property taxes had been estimated and a special interest-bearing account allowed my bank to withdraw money each year to pay the taxes.
Jennifer had been a bank teller in those days and on one of my trips when I came to Chicago, we’d spent a torrid weekend together. It had been a delicious sexual experience for both of us, but nothing had come of it romantically. Normally men and women tend to drift away from each if sex doesn’t continue. Surprisingly, however, we’d remained good friends, two free spirits who enjoyed each other’s friendship with no strings attached. Whenever I came to Chicago, we’d have lunch together or do a movie. Persian history and its culture fascinated Jennifer. I always brought her books and old maps and anything I could find in the bazaar that I thought she’d enjoy.
When I lost all my money, I had settled in London and spent four years there, spaced out with guilt and going through my healing process. I felt as if a thief had stolen a part of my life and mending away from home was the answer. I did not contact anyone in Chicago or anywhere else in the States. I wasn’t ready to face anyone who had known me when I was king of my little world.
When I felt strong enough and able to speak to people, looking them in their eyes, and gradually building my confidence, determined to rebuild my life, I packed my suitcase one morning, got on a plane, and returned to Chicago after spending four years in London. I’d gone to the Billman Bank to draw from the $1,000, all I had left in my account, all that stood between myself and starvation.
Jennifer had since married, and now had three children and a fourth on the way. She’d been promoted to chief of loans and securities. I’d taken her to lunch and told her what had happened in Iran. Shocked when she heard my confession, she tearfully held my hand and promised to discuss with her husband how they could help me.
She’d paid for lunch, I joked that I was a cheap date and took her back to the bank. She called her husband to ask if he would meet me and discuss job possibilities. The appointment had been set for the following week. I was close to tears, wallowing in humiliating self-pity.
Two days later, I received a call from Jennifer. She’d researched my numerous accounts over the years in case there was interest owing to me and had not found any. However, she ‘d come across a strong box that I’d paid in advance and she wanted to know if I was aware of this. In my misery and depression, I had totally forgotten about the strong box, as well as the deeds to the farms I found when I opened the box. The farms hadn’t been worth much when I’d bought them and I couldn’t understand Jennifer’s excitement. Jennifer made me sit down at her desk and began telephoning various realtors in Michigan. One of my properties had 200 yards of beach front along Lake Michigan.
The sale of that land made me a multi-millionaire and though Jennifer vehemently refused at first, I had set up college funds for her four children.
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I’d kept the smaller 70-acre farm and whenever I could find the time, I’d drive there. It was my own private place, a place to heal my soul spiritually, and to connect with the power that is much higher than I. Staying in the small house surrounded by an old oak forest gives me a chance to regroup mentally, re-energize, and relax in the knowledge that no one knows that this place exists. I’d vowed never to bring anyone to my farm. Today would be the first time.
CHAPTER TWELVE
As I near the turn off to the farm, I think of the strange series of events that have brought the people in the van together, two of them the fiercest of antagonists all their lives: one the master, the other never acknowledging that he would ever be a slave.
Both came from countries that had been at war with each other for thousands of years. One of them would die and it would take place thousands of miles from each of their homelands.
I lean over and touch Jalal’s shoulder. Instantaneously, he is awake. “We’ve arrived.”
The road winds around a small ridge and I follow the dried-up riverbed until I arrive at the foot of a small hill. The sun is still below the line of the hills and I park my van under a small group of trees near the mouth of a cave.
The banging of the car doors awakens Sadegh. His mouth is still sealed with duct tape. He watches as we carry the boxes, plastic bags, and large brown bags into the cave. His cage has been placed his cage on the grass near a patch of pungent flowers growing wild.
The sun has yet to rise and a pre-dawn chill lingers in the air. Sadegh’s palms are sweating, his loathing more pronounced, as he reflects on how they’ve trapped him. Trying to keep calm, he maneuvers, testing for weaknesses where they’ve tied his legs and arms. His wrists are held tightly by the handcuffs. Knees bent, he tries kicking at the door of the cage but can’t budge it. His mind is in turmoil, trying to find the bargaining key he could use so that they will free him.
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