by Ben Coes
“No, it wasn’t,” said Meir.
“Please, let me finish,” barked Khasni, looking at Meir. “I will not have you once again turn this courtroom into a circus.”
“But you’re wrong,” said Meir calmly. “It was in international waters. At least get your facts straight, dickhead.”
Khasni scrambled for his gavel, found it, then hammered it down on the table several times.
“I told you to be quiet or else—”
“Or else what?” said Meir. “What will you do? Take away my conjugal visit privileges with your wife?”
“Silence!”
“Everyone in this courtroom knows what your verdict is,” said Meir. “Even that silly pimp of a photographer knows what the verdict is. Don’t you?”
Meir nodded toward the photographer, a pimply faced young man with greasy hair who glanced nervously around the courtroom, but said nothing.
“Fine!” yelled Khasni, leaning down and scribbling onto a piece of paper. “In international waters! Is that better?”
“Much,” said Meir. “I’ll sleep better now.”
Khasni breathed in deeply, regaining his composure.
“As I was saying, this was an offensive operation conducted by Israel in international waters. The court acknowledges that the defendant himself believes the men to be members of the political party known as Hezbollah, but that, in this judge’s opinion, is an obfuscation designed to cloak the facts of his own murders in the shadowy, rumor-filled world of such affairs. The defendant has failed to demonstrate the victims’ purported membership in this group, and, more to the point, even if there was in fact proof they were members, it still would not change the fact that Kohl Meir murdered these men.”
“Brilliant,” said Meir. “You’ll win a Nobel for this, Khasni.”
Khasni’s nostrils flared and his face began again to redden in anger, but he breathed in deeply and said nothing for several seconds.
The photographer continued to take photographs of Meir.
“In addition, there is the matter of the dead prison guard,” continued Khasni. “If a case could be any more clear-cut, I have not yet seen it in my twenty-two years as a jurist. Without provocation, and by his own admission, as seen by several witnesses, Mr. Meir did cruelly and with malicious intent strangle and kill an innocent prison guard who, according to witnesses, was simply picking up a plastic water bottle from the ground.”
“I broke his neck,” interrupted Meir. “I didn’t strangle him.”
“Thus, it is my duty to render the following verdict,” continued Khasni, ignoring Meir. “In the matter of docket seventeen hundred forty-seven, I find the defendant, Mr. Kohl Meir, guilty in the murders of Siamak Azizi, of Chabahar; Payman Kadivar, of Bukan; Massoud Nouruz, of Kermanshah; and Akbar Tabatabaei, age thirty-three, of Ilam. In addition, I find the defendant guilty for the murder of Akbar Javadi, of Tehran.”
The photographer stood now and moved closer to Meir, continuing to take pictures.
“The penalty for each individual murder is left to the discretion of the judge, but we must follow the rules as set down by Iranian law and judicial precedent,” said Khasni. “After much reflection and contemplation, I do hereby sentence the defendant to death by firing squad. For each murder, this is the sentence. Obviously, due to the nature of the sentences, it would be impossible to administer these penalties consecutively. In other words, there is no way to shoot the defendant five times in a row.”
A small cough emanated from Achabar.
“If you don’t get a raise after this I’m going to kill myself,” said Meir.
Khasni shook his head, but ignored Meir’s remark.
“The date of the firing squad is tomorrow,” said the judge. “As to the location, due to security ramifications, that decision is confidential. The execution of Kohl Meir will take place in a secret location. Thank you all for your hard work and participation.”
“You’re welcome,” said Meir from the cage. “Let’s do it again sometime.”
42
DOĞUBAYAZIT, TURKEY
Doğubayazit was a small, ramshackle town with unpaved roads in the far eastern reaches of Turkey. It was the closest town to the Iranian border, mostly inhabited by Kurds; a rural town in the dusty, often cold high plains, surrounded by hills dotted with small farms and mud huts.
Some people came to Doğubayazit in order to see Mount Ararat, about ten miles to the north. For most, the town was a convenient pit stop; travelers on their way to Iran, and truckers needing to get a meal, a night’s sleep at one of the seedy motels. The central town had more than a dozen Internet cafés.
It took Dewey six hours to drive the semi from Erzurum to Doğubayazit. He exited the paved Turkey–Iran highway and headed into the town.
Dewey passed through Doğubayazit’s central square just after two in the morning, driving slowly and avoiding the few pedestrians still out, even a few dogs and chickens, wandering around the town’s dirt roads oblivious to the cars and trucks driving through on their way to the Iranian border. The few people still up were dressed in traditional Kurdish attire. The town itself looked like something out of the Old West with a smattering of austere, plain-looking concrete buildings.
A few miles from the center of town, Dewey pulled into a dilapidated series of trailers and a lit sign reading ISFAHAN HOTEL. Another sign read INTERNET. He parked the truck next to a gasoline tanker, then went inside the small concrete building that looked like the entrance.
The lobby was empty except for an elderly man with gray hair and a neatly trimmed mustache. He said hello to Dewey in Turkish.
“Internet?” Dewey asked.
“Internet.” He pointed across the lobby to a table with a keyboard and a large, older computer on it.
“Thank you,” said Dewey.
The computer was an old Sony. Dewey went to his e-mail and signed in.
There was one message, from Tacoma. The message had been sent the day before.
Meir guilty
Nothing from Taris, the reporter. He was about to enter Iran, a country bigger than the state of California, with a fake nuclear bomb and absolutely no clue where to go with it.
“Fuck me,” Dewey whispered.
He stood up and went to the bathroom at the back of the lobby, closing the door behind him. The bathroom was squalid. He went to the bathroom, washed his hands, then looked in the mirror. He smiled as he looked at the brown-eyed, dark-skinned man in the hijab staring back at him from the mirror. He didn’t even recognize himself.
He went to the front desk, paid, then went back to the truck.
He walked in front of the semi’s grille, heading for the passenger door. As he rounded the front of the truck, Dewey was surprised to see two men. They were standing in front of the door. Both had black hair, cut short. They wore jeans and T-shirts. Both men were small. There was nothing unusual about them, except that one clenched a long fixed-blade knife in his right hand.
The man without the knife stepped forward, a grin on his face. He said something in Kurdish, which Dewey didn’t understand. Dewey stood still.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“Money,” he said in broken English. “Your truck too.”
Dewey nodded. He couldn’t help smiling. Curiosity got the better of him.
“Why do you want the truck?” asked Dewey.
“Gasoline,” the man said.
“Why do you need gasoline?”
“We sell it,” said the Kurd with the knife, smiling conspiratorially.
They were young and small, each about five-five, and thin as beanpoles. He assessed the blade; he held it reasonably well. Part of Dewey wanted to simply walk past the two and go about his business. But sometimes, Dewey knew, desperation created unpredictable and irrational behavior.
“When it rains, it pours,” said Dewey.
“What?” asked one of them.
“Nothing.”
If they were surprised by Dewey’s
six-four height and his wide berth, they didn’t show it.
Without taking his eyes off the thief with the knife, Dewey took a step back, then squared off against the pair.
“Walk away,” said Dewey, pointing at the field next to the truck.
The one with the knife smiled and giggled, almost like a cackle.
“Walk away,” he repeated a bit louder.
The other one reached behind his back. He pulled a small handgun out.
Dewey remained still.
“Money and keys,” the Kurd said, a hint of anger now on his dark, stubble-covered face.
“I’ll give you some money,” said Dewey, raising his hands. “I can’t give you the truck.”
“Keys!” the short thug screamed.
And then he fired the weapon. The crack of the bullet sounded like a firecracker. It was a warning shot; the bullet sailed past Dewey’s head.
“Really simple,” said the one with the knife. “Money and keys.”
Dewey’s eyes moved back and forth between the two thugs.
“Okay,” Dewey said. He reached into his pocket and removed the keys to the truck. Holding them in his right hand, he took a step forward.
The knife-wielding Kurd was to his left, the gunman to his right.
He stepped toward the one with the knife. He held his left hand out toward Dewey. Dewey let the keys drop to the ground. In the moment after they hit the dirt, with both Kurds watching them fall, Dewey grabbed the small man by the left wrist. The thief swung the blade at Dewey. As his arm slashed through the air, Dewey grabbed him at the wrist, ripped his arm hard, then threw him like a rag doll at the gunman, who, in his panic, fired, sending a bullet into the leg of his knife-wielding friend, who screamed. In the same moment, before the gunman could fire again, Dewey reached over and struck the Kurd, lurching at the gunman, thrusting with his fist; all his strength behind the blow, which he aimed at the man’s neck. It was a ferocious blow and Dewey knew immediately that he’d broken the young man’s trachea.
As the first man screamed in pain from the bullet in his leg, Dewey pulled the gun from the other, who now lay on the ground next to his blood-covered friend. He held his neck with both hands and stared, bug-eyed, up at Dewey, fighting for air. He would live, in fact, both men would live, but they wouldn’t be hijacking trucks for a while.
“You two might want to consider a different profession,” said Dewey.
43
TEHRAN
Marwan and Pavil sat in the front of the brown Samand sedan, across the street from Qassou’s apartment building.
The rain had again picked up, and both men strained to watch the front entrance, waiting for their man, Vesid, to bring out Qassou. It was likely that Qassou would be walking, but groggy from the tranquilizer.
After fifteen minutes of waiting, both VEVAK operatives began to get antsy.
“Where the hell is he?” asked Pavil.
“I’m sure he’s coming. We know Qassou wouldn’t have put up a fight. He’s probably heavily sedated and Vesid doesn’t want to carry him out.”
After waiting another ten minutes, Pavil reached for the door handle.
“I’m going up.”
The possibility that Qassou had subdued Vesid didn’t occur to either man. Qassou had come to the front entrance, looked out through the window, and spotted the two men sitting in the sedan. Upon seeing the two agents, Qassou turned and walked quickly through the service entrance, out the back alley, then hurried several blocks to a taxi stand in front of the Grand Tehran Hotel.
Qassou entered the presidential palace at half past seven. He was drenched and his skin looked ashen. As he approached the security desk, he realized it was only a matter of time before the VEVAK operatives put two and two together and discovered he’d escaped. Whether it was Paria himself or someone lower on the totem pole, they would quickly seek to arrest him. Still, the fact that they had tried to take him surreptitiously meant that Paria was suspicious but not certain. Paria had likely not told Nava.
You have time.
He walked up to the uniformed soldier and handed him his laminated government identification. The soldier inspected it, then passed it beneath the scanner.
“Good morning, Minister Qassou,” he said. “You’re here awfully early.”
“What is it to you when I arrive?” asked Qassou.
“It’s nothing,” said the soldier. “I was just making conversation.”
“Sorry,” said Qassou, attempting a smile. “I have a busy day in front of me, that’s all.”
“Good luck,” said the soldier.
He walked to his office and shut the door. From his leather case, he removed his change of clothing and quickly got out of his wet clothes. He went to his computer. Nava had yet to respond.
“Fuck,” he yelled.
He went to his private bathroom, closed the door, then looked in the mirror above the marble sink. His eyes were badly bloodshot, and the skin around them looked purplish. His skin had a sheen of sweat on it, which he tamped with a hand towel. He was pale, ashen even.
He went back into his office, sat behind his desk, and kept a close eye on his e-mail.
At a little after eight, his door opened and he jumped up from his seat. It was his assistant, Firouz.
“What?” he barked.
“Morning to you too, boss,” said Firouz.
“What do you want?”
“Nothing,” said Firouz. “They said you were already here and I had to see it for myself.”
“You’re funny,” said Qassou. “Your tongue will land you in the unemployment line.”
“Would you like an espresso?”
“Yes. Now close the door.”
Qassou picked up the phone. He dialed the number he knew by heart.
“Al Jazeera,” said the voice.
“Taris Darwil,” said Qassou.
“May I tell her who’s calling?”
“The Minister of Information.”
“Yes, Minister Qassou, I apologize. Right away.”
He waited on the line for several seconds.
“Lon,” came the soft voice of Taris. “Where have you been?”
“I can’t talk. Listen to me: I will call your cell and leave the name of a place. If I don’t, it means Paria has found me. If they do, I fear they will find you. Leave Tehran.”
“Lon—”
“Don’t argue.”
“What will happen with Meir?”
“It’s over,” said Qassou. “The only possibility is to stop the bomb. Meir has been sentenced to die.”
“Should I call the Americans?”
“I can’t think anymore. Call whoever you want.”
Qassou hung up the phone just as his door opened. It was Firouz with his espresso.
“Here you are,” said Firouz, handing him the small cup.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Now get out.”
Firouz’s smile turned into a frown. He turned and walked toward the door.
“By the way,” Firouz said, turning at the door. “The president just called a minute ago.”
“Why didn’t you put him through?” asked Qassou angrily.
“You were on the phone.”
“If, God willing, I’m here tomorrow, I will fire you.”
Qassou went to his desk.
“Now shut the door,” he commanded. “Now!”
He dialed Nava’s office as Firouz stepped out. Nava’s assistant put him through.
“Hello, Lonny,” said Nava. “An important call, yes?”
“Yes,” said Qassou. “Though that bonehead should’ve interrupted me.”
“We’ll have him beheaded,” said Nava, laughing. “How about that?”
“You kid, but the thought did cross my mind,” said Qassou.
“What’s wrong, Lonny? You’re finally getting your big wish. Shouldn’t you be happy?”
Qassou winced.
“Can you
go earlier?”
“I can leave right now,” said Nava.
* * *
Pavil stepped off the elevator on the fourteenth floor. The floor was empty. He went until he found a door with the number four on it. Looking around one last time, he saw no one. He removed a handgun from his shoulder holster, took two steps back, raised his right foot and kicked the door just above the doorknob. The door ripped open, a chunk of wood falling to the ground from the sash. Pavil stepped inside and shut the door.
He moved, weapon out, down the hallway. In the kitchen, he smelled burning coffee. He moved from the kitchen to the bedroom. Several drawers on a desk were open, as was the top drawer of the dresser.
He ran down the hallway to the bathroom, where he found the VEVAK operative, Vesid, unconscious. Beneath his head was a pool of blood that had spread out like a red pancake around his head.
He saw the grotesque pool of black liquid in Vesid’s eye. Kneeling, he felt for a pulse on the wrist. He was alive.
“I think we have a problem,” he said into his cell phone, speaking to Marwan, waiting in the car below.
“What is it?”
“Qassou isn’t here. Vesid is unconscious, tranquilized by his own gun. Someone stabbed him in the eye. You better call General Paria.”
“Right now? He’s going to be pissed. Should we at least give ourselves a few hours to look for him?”
“Don’t be a fucking retard,” said Pavil. “Make the call. Then get an ambulance over here.”
* * *
They moved east from Tehran in a dark green Range Rover customized with bulletproof glass and steel and with every inch of its glass tinted black. Nava was paranoid about the possibility of being followed, something that the presidential motorcade would have practically guaranteed. A watch car with soldiers trailed a quarter mile back.
Nava and Qassou sat in the backseat; in the front were two Revolutionary Guards, both armed, the soldier in the passenger seat holding an UZI SMG across his lap.
Tehran spread out in the vale of the Alborz Mountains. Iran’s largest city was in some ways similar to another mountain-ringed metropolis half a world away, Los Angeles—both chaotic, traffic-filled cities that were confusing to all except those who lived there. After pushing through a mess of traffic near the government center, the Range Rover climbed onto the highway and went east.