Reverb (Story of CI #2)

by Rachel Moschell

  She had to give Shahrukh an answer, or he might hit her, if only to impress his boss. The three times he had slapped her cheek had been hard enough to make eating painful.

  “Fifty?” she ventured weakly. Shahrukh’s eyes flashed with triumph, as if delighted she had answered incorrectly in his little game show.

  “Thirty-one,” he crowed, still not glancing over at the woman prisoner who now kneeled on the mustard-tile floor. “She is thirty–one. She used to be beautiful like you, Ms. Cadogan.” His eyes searched Wara’s figure and she stiffened, nauseated. “Don’t be stubborn and force us to be more persuasive. Your crimes are great, but if you cooperate you can still save yourself from a harsh sentence. Cooperate, Ms. Cadogan.”

  Shahrukh walked slowly across the floor, eyes fixed on her cheek. He stopped next to her desk and ran one finger across her jawbone, then trailed it down her neck. Wara felt her teeth chattering against his hand, and yanked herself away from his touch.

  “I think you can have the guards take her back to her cell now, sir.” Shahrukh addressed his boss, eyes never leaving Wara’s flesh. Ring Man jerked the trembling woman prisoner to her feet as if she were a rag doll. Light from the hall illumined the room as the door opened, then disappeared, leaving Wara and Shahrukh in the dim interrogation room.

  “Stand up,” Shahrukh commanded her, and Wara exhaled weakly, ecstatic that he was going to send her back to her cell. She rose shakily beside the desk and began to move towards the door where Sohrab must be waiting as usual. But Shahrukh shoved her roughly, sending her stumbling, pinning her against the wall with his hands. His heavy breathing fell hot against Wara’s neck, the cold concrete seeped through the thin back of her manteau. The acrid scent of garlic suffocated her as he leaned his forehead against hers, eyes closed. His eyelashes fluttered against her cheeks like feathery spider legs.

  “Tonight after work,” he enunciated carefully, “I will go home and spend the evening with my wife and two small children.” Wara whimpered, panicked by the closeness of the words whispered into her cheek. “Do you think I want to be thinking about our interrogation session, when I am reading bedtime stories to my sons?” The bazju pressed his forehead more firmly against Wara’s, chilling her with the sheen of his sweat against her skin. “Don’t make me do this.”

  A sob broke from Wara’s lips and she wrenched herself away, turning from him and supporting her shaking body against the cold tile wall. “It…it was Jaime!” she wailed, barely able to control her crying and form words. “Jaime Malcolm made me do it! He’s the leader!”

  She couldn’t believe her words, couldn’t believe this person she had become, babbling like a child and wiping her nose on her sleeve. Jaime Malcolm? But he was the only one who made sense. Jaime had been a part of her church, and she knew he had contact with Ashavan and others here in Iran.

  Of course Jaime wasn’t part of some spy ring, but he was the only one she could possibly invent a story about that Shahrukh would believe. And Jaime hadn’t been to Iran this year; the Samadis and Rupert had told Wara his visa was denied. He would be safe outside Iran’s borders, no matter what Wara said about him.

  God help her, she was going to lie to save herself. But there was no other choice. Right then, she felt she would make up a thousand lies, just so this man wouldn’t touch her again. Wara felt tears snake down her cheek to mingle with her running nose. Shahrukh was still leaning forward against the wall from where Wara had escaped him, eyes closed. After a few slow breaths, he straightened and faced Wara.

  “So. You are finally going to cooperate.” Wara nodded too hurriedly, then sank weakly to the floor and hugged her knees to her chest.

  “Jaime Malcolm is the guilty one?” She nodded again, tearfully, mentally pleading with Jaime to forgive her already, for what she was about to do.

  Yes, it was despicable. Neelam and Tarsa and Mirza would probably never give in, never make up these horrible lies just to save their own skins.

  But then again, Jaime Malcolm was safely in the United States somewhere, possibly drinking a skinny latte in Starbucks and surfing the web. She was locked in this dimly-lit room with an interrogator in Iran.

  Shahrukh sighed with something like relief and strode calmly towards the desk to retrieve his ever-present notepad. “You’ve just made bedtimes stories more pleasant for me, Ms. Cadogan,” she heard him mutter. Wara began to rack her brain, pulling details of her unlikely alliance with the evil Jaime Malcolm into existence. Shahrukh was going to ask her to write it all down.

  But no. At the last moment, the bazju frowned and returned the legal pad to the desk. He turned to face Wara, face a stoic mask of business denying the uncomfortable proximity they had just shared. Wara couldn’t meet his eye. The hiss of his breath on her cheek still haunted her.

  “Usually I would have you write your confession down,” he told her calmly, as if they were discussing a business proposal over Earl Grey and scones. Shahrukh sat down on the larger desk, crossed one leg over the other, and brushed the stray lock of greasy hair from his eye. “In this case, however, I am going to need you to give your testimony orally. We’ll go over it now here. I hope you’re in the mood to study together, Ms. Cadogan, because I need your confession to be perfect. This time, there is no room for mistakes.”

  35

  The Death of Hope

  STALE COFFEE ON ITS LAST LEG ASSAULTED Alejo’s nostrils, mixed with the rosy scent of cantaloupe. He slumped over onto his knees on blue cushions in the corner, staring at the tile while one of the guys rustled around in the kitchen, removing the remains of their impromptu dinner from the table.

  It had been thirteen days. After Rupert arrived, he had driven Alejo to a CI safe house in Tehran where two lukes were waiting. The two were introduced as Lalo and Caspian; Caspian was Iranian, Lalo from Colombia. Doctor Hosseini had been feeding them what information he could, at the risk of his life from the Muslim extremists he was part of and his own government. Through Heydar, Hosseini had sent news that the Samadi siblings had basically disappeared into the bowels of Evin Prison, guarded carefully in solitary confinement for politicals. There were rumors that Mirza Samadi would confess to apostasy. It made Alejo sick to imagine what was going on in the prison to bring the rock singer to this point.

  By tomorrow, Hosseini had said he should have news of Wara. It was all Alejo could do to keep from putting a first through the safe house wall as he waited for news of her. The wait was killing him.

  A soft knock sounded on the safe house door, and Alejo snapped out of his moment of permitted self pity. Caspian had set off an hour ago to meet with Heydar, guiding him around the police tail that had been following the chef/house church pastor. Rupert paused, then slowly closed the fridge door, shutting the remains of the cantaloupe and cheese inside. Lalo stuck his head out of one of the bedrooms, alert and ready in case their visitor should turn out not to be Caspian with Heydar.

  The key turned in the lock and hinges creaked, revealing Caspian and the ponytailed chef. Heydar wore starched white and black slacks, his uniform from the restaurant. His eyes were grim as he greeted everyone in the room. The five men found seats on the blue cushions and stared at each other from across the room.

  “They’ve been following you?” Alejo addressed Heydar.

  Heydar nodded and curled his lip. “Same two sweaty figures eating at Ado every meal. And hanging out smoking near my apartment, morning and night. Government agents here aren’t very good at disguising themselves, that’s for sure.”

  “Or at following people,” Caspian added with thick raised eyebrows. The smoky dark circles that the young guy perpetually wore under his eyes were darker than usual. “We lost them right away.”

  Heydar rested his arms on his knees and gazed at Rupert with hooded eyes. “I know what happened to Rostam and Ava. They’re in Amsterdam.” Alejo felt the surprise from all in the room. “They tricked Rostam into giving testimony against Mirza,” Heydar continued soberly. “Rostam’s governmen
t watcher made him believe that Mirza was having an affair was Ava. They got Rostam to say whatever they wanted against Mirza, to have an excuse to arrest them. In return, they sent Rostam and Ava away to Europe. She came to me in tears the night before they were sent away. I didn’t see Rostam.”

  Rupert appeared pained, and Alejo’s jaw clenched. Rostam now believed Mirza had betrayed him. And Rostam really had turned Mirza in to one of the cruelest penal systems in the world.

  Heydar pressed his lips into a grim line, rose, and pulled a violet pen drive from the pocket of his slacks. “Before Ava left, she left something with me. For you.” The chef frowned and weighed the tiny stick in one palm. “I know you’re taking all our voices with you, our testimony of what we’ve been through. But you couldn’t speak with Sami. And you won’t be able to. We’ve all testified that he brought the gospel to us, then died because of it.”

  “What’s on the drive?” Alejo asked. Over the past few weeks, many here in Iran had repeated the story that Sami had been executed. But there was no evidence. And without evidence, Alejo would keep fighting to move the world to not forget him.

  The tears in Heydar’s eyes pierced his soul. They slipped from his eyes, dodging pockmarks, soiling his crisp dress shirt.

  “Ava was there.” The pastor’s voice was dry gravel. “She saw it all, filmed it even though the police could have arrested her. We know Sami is dead; he was executed in a park in Tehran. Beheaded. Ava watched Sami die.”

  Stunned, Alejo felt the room shift around him. Ava had seen Sami beheaded, and she was still willing to follow Jesus? All the Christians in Heydar’s church knew this, that Sami had his head cut off, and they were still willing to be a part of the church Sami began?

  “You’re sure?” Alejo managed. It was a stupid question. The hope he had kept alive during this trip died at the look on Heydar’s face.

  Sami of Ashavan was dead. There would be no saving him.

  Alejo pressed the flash drive to his chest and felt himself ready to cry for the hundredth time since Wara had been taken. “We’ll make sure the world knows,” he croaked. “I promise we won’t forget you.”

  36

  Hope Deferred

  THEY SAY DEFERRED HOPE MAKES THE HEART sick. If that is true, then who could guarantee the results of hope flat-out denied?

  Just that morning, Orange Leather had stalked into the prisoner’s cell and dropped the bomb: the appeals have failed. According to Penal Code Something, the prisoner is going to be charged with espionage. Tomorrow he will hear the sentence.

  Tomorrow the prisoner will go to court.

  The hope denied is doing more than making him sick; this loss of hope is kind of like a dagger, twisting his insides out.

  He has no doubt he’ll be convicted. He doesn’t really know the exact charges. But bristly-bearded Iranian judges will hand him down some sort of sentence tomorrow, and that will leave him here, in jail. Far, far away from the love of his life, the girl he should have proposed to a hundred years ago. Why has he been so stupid, selling all his time to a career in the music industry instead of making a life with her?

  He swallows hard and reaches for his iPod, a little treat Orange Leather has brought in to cheer him up before the trial tomorrow. Tomorrow the prisoner will hear his sentence. Or at least that’s what Orange Leather has told him.

  He still can’t forget that night two weeks ago; the interrogator had told him it was time for court, then brought him into a silent black courtyard somewhere inside the prison. They ripped the blindfold off and pushed him against the wall, where he heard the click of long semiautomatic weapons trained on his head. Faced with a brutal execution, the prisoner felt his insides quiver and hot liquid run down the inside of his leg.

  She would never know what happened to him.

  One of the burly soldiers began to count in Farsi and they all took aim.

  But when the triggers were pulled, nothing happened.

  Orange Leather had suddenly appeared at the prisoner’s side, calm and sober. “This is what could happen to those who don’t cooperate,” he said.

  Exhausted by the memory, the prisoner now grits his teeth and slumps against the concrete, willing himself not to cry.

  The prisoner pulls an extra sweater over his head, warming his frail frame against the concrete chill. He pulls up a modern-version hymn on his iPod, leans back into the wall, and begins to sing.

  37

  Hobbits

  THE BLINDFOLD DISAPPEARED FROM HER EYES just before the ponderous door swung wide. Wara blinked at the surreal glimpse of white light, plush burgundy chairs, and bearded clerics in black robes. At her right, Shahrukh cleared his throat nervously and shot her a shaded glance.

  “The courtroom,” he murmured, and Wara could have sworn the bazju had as many butterflies in his stomach as she did. He had driven her mercilessly over the past day and a half, until the invented testimony Wara had rehearsed with him begun to seem eerily real. Ring Man had glided into the yellow interrogation room for long moments, eyes boring into Wara, taking in her recited indictment of Jaime Malcolm with coolly satisfied eyes.

  Just outside the courtroom, Shahrukh leaned into Wara’s side, old leather creaking as he said lowly, “If you don’t do what you’ve said, I’ll hurt you.” Wara blanched, and her foot faltered on the ragged carpet of the hallway. A spattering of bleach and furniture polish mixed with Shahrukh’s signature garlic. “I won’t lose my job over this. I would never find work again, and then what would happen to my sons? They will go to university, Ms. Cadogan. I won’t let them end up like me.”

  Wara could only stare at the scene in front of her, unable to respond to Shahrukh’s threat. When the bazju came for her this morning, she had imagined she would face a video camera. Not this large auditorium that Shahrukh called a courtroom. She was supposed to give her so-called confession in public, before judges.

  Wara tried to swallow, but only felt her dry throat muscles clench. “Remember what we talked about,” Shahrukh cautioned her, then nudged her forward through the door. “You will sit right there. When they dismiss you, come right back here. I’ll be waiting. “

  Wara headed through the door on rubbery legs. The fabric of the clean black manteau they’d given her to wear rustled loudly in her ears, joining the roar of silence as everyone stared at her entrance. A row of empty chairs loomed in front of her, just behind a low plaster wall that faced the waiting crowed. She glanced back at Shahrukh, who motioned her towards the chairs. She wobbled her way towards one, sucking in a deep breath at the sight of the dour judges towering above her on a podium. The roomful of people facing her swam as she dropped too heavily to her seat, releasing a tired whoosh of air from the cushion.

  Just recite your piece, she ordered herself with gritted teeth. Jaime is far away from all this. You’ll keep Mirza and Neelam safe. And if they let you go, you can tell people what’s going on here.

  A rotund man stood up to face the judges reverentially, his belly nearly bursting buttons at the bottom of a melon-colored, starched dress shirt. Wara felt dizzy. Was this the translator? She had convinced Shahrukh there was no way she could give her testimony in Farsi. The fire she’d felt inside Vank Cathedral, speaking about God’s love in Farsi like a native, hadn’t returned since that day. She blinked hard and placed both palms on the low wall in front of her to steady herself. The last time Wara felt this way, she had been captured by Alejo and his team in Bolivia after they had blown up her bus. Alejo had saved her and carried her away from there. For some reason, now, she settled at the image of Alejo sitting on the worn burgundy chair next to her, squeezing her hand and winking.

  Oh God, please protect Mirza and Neelam.

  She heard the man with the too-small shirt mangling a pronunciation of her name, and realized it must be her turn to “confess”.

  Someone began coughing noisily, the only sound in the still courtroom.

  From the little doorway behind her, Shahrukh was hissing for her to s
tand up. She left the chair and faced the crowd, absently fingering the edges of her head covering to make sure no stray locks had escaped to anger the judges. Everyone just sat there and gawked, except for the grating cough.

  Wara opened her mouth to speak.

  Man, that coughing is distracting.

  She frowned, annoyed that her carefully-rehearsed speech was becoming fuzzy in the face of that constant hacking. Who coughed like that? Wara turned towards the far right of the courtroom, immediately locating the offender. Offenders, actually. Two scrawny guys sat in the front row, but so far to the side they were nearly out of Wara’s possible range of vision. They were staring right at her with wide eyes, coughing up a lung, both wearing black felt hats, white shirts, and black pants with suspenders like little hobbits.

  What? Hats in the courtroom? When one of the coughers saw Wara’s eye on him, his wheezing died down and he elbowed the other hat-wearer, nearly his twin, in the side. Wara blinked, uncomfortable with such a strange level of attention from any man in Iran. She was just about to force out the first words of her confession when one of the young men sneezed. Loudly. Her gaze jerked back to him just as the other one also sneezed, by now attracting the attention of just about everyone else in the room. One by one, the black hats tumbled to the ground with the effort of the sneeze, and the first thing Wara registered was blond.

  There were Iranians with light hair, but this hair was pale, almost-white blond. The contrast with their darkened faces immediately revealed that the two were wearing makeup to darken their skin. Millipedes tickled their way up Wara’s spine as she recognized one face, even a few shades darker.

  She suddenly wasn’t in a courtroom in Iran but in Bob Carson’s living room in Bozeman, sitting cross-legged with the other teenage girls from the Church youth group. She flipped hair over one shoulder as they watched the boys outside, hurling hotdogs into the empty field in Bob’s famous Hot Dog Hurl. A skinny fourteen-year-old kid with white-blond hair and a smattering of freckles giggled at the side of the other, much-taller guys in the youth group and then nearly wrenched his arm out of the socket throwing the hot dog into the wild.