All the warmth drained from Wara’s face into her belly. This was impossible.
Sitting before her in the Iranian courtroom was Jaime Malcolm.
He had started all this by bringing Ashavan to the United States and telling them about Jesus. And Wara was just about to testify that he was a spy and hand him down a death sentence.
The tacky blue carpet shimmered in waves before Wara’s eyes. Jaime and the guy next to him eyed her intensely as they reached down to retrieve their hats. They saw that she understood. They must have been just as mystified to see Wara as she was to see them, but somehow, here they all were. Jaime wasn’t supposed to be here, but he was, a prisoner in Iran and sitting here on trial. They had disguised him and his friend so Wara wouldn’t realize she was testifying against two foreigners.
The truth of it all nearly knocked her senseless. Jaime was here, and if she testified he would be convicted. And if Jaime were established as leader of the organization for soft revolution, then Ashavan, Mirza, and Neelam were all implicated. All the Christians who had anything to do with them would be implicated.
She felt like an idiot for not getting it before, but then before she hadn’t seen Jaime Malcolm.
Muted cursing had ensued at her side, and Wara was faintly aware of Shahrukh’s presence, hissing at her to remember their deal. Someone was roughly escorting Jaime and his hobbit twin out a side door, and Wara heard a deep voice droning that there would be a recess before the trial resumed.
But Wara wouldn’t be coming back. The words she had prayed a few minutes ago flashed across her mind, and she knew that God was answering. He was going to protect Mirza and Neelam, and Jaime. But he was going to use her.
“I have no testimony to give,” Wara heard herself say loudly in Farsi. She was on her feet, addressing the murmuring crowd, ignoring Shahrukh’s horrified squeaks at her side. “I have nothing to say,” she repeated loudly. “The testimony I was going to give is a lie. They made me say it. Jaime Malcolm is innocent!”
She yelled that last line, then sat down, letting her words echo through the buzzing courtroom. The momentary thrill she had felt over finally doing the right thing died an instant death as she heard Shahrukh growl at her side. “You know, don’t you, what’s waiting for you?” His straining fingers stopped mere centimeters from crushing Wara’s in his own under the table, and the purple vein pulsated like a living creature on his temple. “Out the door!”
Two burly guards were waiting on the balls of their feet near the door. “Cuff her!” Shahrukh snapped. Wara felt her teeth begin to chatter as they whirled her to face to wall, secured her hands behind her the small of her back. “Walk!”
Shahrukh stalked at her side towards the door, and she stumbled after him, throwing one last glance towards the door where Jaime had disappeared.
38
Consequences
“TAKE HER TO ROOM 313,” SHAHRUKH ORDERED, then left Wara with several male guards and weak knees. The bazju hadn’t said anything to her, just ordered her brought to room 313. A guard forced the blindfold on her and she fought to draw breath, remembering Shahrukh’s sweaty forehead against hers, the sting his hand left after slapping her cheek.
They shoved her in a car and drove her somewhere else, then marched her down long hallways in absolute silence.
In the terror-filled quiet, Wara had to admit that, when Alejo first told her about his friend who died and why he was afraid of Evin Prison, Wara had thought Alejo was a little bit of a wuss.
That was one person, a long time ago. Why would you use that as an excuse to avoid Tehran forever? She had thought he was overreacting.
But now Wara had to admit, the fear she felt was visceral. The feel of the bazju’s hands on her, knowing she was at his mercy in the cold tile room. The dull, military thud of the guards’ boots on the stained concrete. The heavy blindfold that smelled of dust and copper.
And she had seen nothing yet. For a moment, she remembered herself sitting with Alejo on the porch of Tarsa’s ancestral home, smelling sour cherries and gazing at crystal stars. “It wouldn’t be respectful to say what happened to him,” Alejo had choked out.
The long march paused and Wara sensed a door. The knock sounded heavy and low, and then hinges creaked and she was prodded inside. No one removed the blindfold, but Wara could hear Shahrukh giving the guards orders in a barely-controlled rage. Something ground against metal a few feet away, and Wara shrank back, trembling at what she couldn’t see. And then she smelled garlic. Long fingers grabbed her arms and slammed her against the wall with a creaking of old leather.
“You have been a fool, Ms. Cadogan,” he yelled at her. “Do you think you can make fools of Iran? You didn’t carry through with your side of the deal!”
Wara was too petrified to defend herself; she felt herself breathing heavily through her mouth. The small slit of light the blindfold allowed brought no comfort, only the sight of Shahrukh’s tense fingers digging into her shoulders. Someone cleared their throat menacingly in the background, and she made out the spotless black shoes of Ring Man, standing a few feet away.
“You have to make her change her mind,” the older man intoned. Shahrukh’s fingers scraped down her arms, then he broke away and addressed someone in the room.
“Hook her up.” Guards grabbed her arms on either side and dragged her across the concrete floor. The blindfold disappeared and Wara gaped at a ragged rope running up two stories, then through a rusted metal pulley. She barely had time to take it in before they were tying her cuffed hands to the rope behind her back. And then one of the burly guards began to pull.
“Now,” Shahrukh grunted. The ground flew away from Wara’s feet, and her shoulders wrenched from their sockets as the ropes yanked her towards the ceiling. Molten lava exploded in her joints, and Wara’s world went black.
After the furious march from the courtroom, they dumped Jaime Malcolm on a bench in handcuffs. The only good thing about this was that next to him on the bench, also in handcuffs, sat his friend Gerrit. For a moment, the two of them sat stunned in the hallway, warily eyeing the guards who had momentarily forgotten about them and allowed them this unprecedented chance to talk.
I thought that Gerrit had been sent home.
Jaime’s disappointment at seeing Gerrit still stuck here, a prisoner just like Jaime, was tempered with joy at not being in this alone. He hadn’t seen the guy, who started the whole Ashavan project with him a couple years ago, since they had both been arrested. He and Gerrit had come to Iran to try to raise awareness for Sami’s case, after Church of the Valley, Jaime’s former place of employment, had basically said they’d never knew him. But Jaime and Gerrit’s Big Plan to gather photos and other info in Iran had taken a dramatic nosedive when they were arrested the first night at their hotel.
Jaime cleared his throat and wished he had his hands free to scratch his face. Man alive, that nasty brown makeup itched.
“How are you, Jaime?” Gerrit spoke first. He grinned a thin smile under his black felt hat that made him look like Jack White from the White Stripes.
“I think we’ve both been better,” Jaime groaned and then blinked. They were in prison in Iran. They had no idea what had happened to Sami. Visions of the black courtyard filled Jaime’s mind, and he heard the cool click of the weapons, felt the warm urine trickling down his leg. They had pretended they would kill him, just to freak him out and make him confess.
“That girl up front,” Jaime’s brow puckered in confusion, not really wanting to talk about the past but instead figure out what in the world was going on. “That was Wara Cadogan, from my church youth group.” Gerrit stared at him in astonishment. “I haven’t seen her in years.”
“I can’t believe you know her.” Gerrit’s pale face appeared as confused as Jaime felt. “Why would she testify against us?”
“I have no idea,” Jaime shook his head. “But I’m sure they’re making her say whatever she was about to say. Did you see how she refused to say anyth
ing after she saw us?”
“Good idea, showing her we were there, by the way. They thought they could pass us off as Iranians with their little make-up jobs.”
Jaime pressed his lips together and sighed, not looking forward to his next encounter with Orange Leather. The interrogator was sure to be ticked off about their little sneeze-and-accidentally-loose-the-hat routine. Maybe Jaime still had some brownie points stored up with Orange Leather for finally ending his hunger strike, though.
“Have you got to see anyone?” Gerrit asked eagerly. “Talked with Kirsten?”
Jaime shook his head, allowing the beautiful image of his long-time girlfriend to block out the drab courthouse walls. “The guys from the embassy wouldn’t come. They found out I was talking with Dr. Hosseini to help get Sami out. They think Dr. Hosseini’s a terrorist. So they sent a message they want nothing to do with me. And Kirsten...they let me call her a few times. But they made me tell Kirsten she can’t tell anyone else we’re here.”
Gerrit’s face darkened. “Yeah, I got to call Rose and Evangeline a few times, but they told me the same thing.” Jaime was glad Gerrit had talked with his wife and one-year-old daughter. During the long days in the cell, Jaime had pummeled himself mentally for not yet proposing to the love of his life, Kirsten. The one advantage of his cowardice, however, was that he and Kirsten didn’t yet have any children to leave behind if Jaime should never make it back from Iran.
Jaime eyed the guards chatting down the hall and rolled his eyes. “Well, this is what Orange Leather said about that.” At Gerrit’s puzzled look, Jaime grinned. “The interrogator? That’s what I call him. Don’t tell me you know his real name?”
Gerrit also rolled his eyes. “Nope. I just call him the Dragon. You’ve heard, right, that Komodo dragons’ breath is so bad that it can actually kill you. Full of bacteria and nasty stuff like that. Kind of instant death.”
Jaime had to stifle a real laugh. “Oh, that’s a good one. So this is what ‘the Dragon’ told me about why no one can know we’re here: ‘If the press finds out you’re here, then we can’t be responsible if everyone here in Iran hears about your activities and riots demanding your death.” Jaime stuck his nose up in the air and imitated the interrogator’s accent. “We’ll have to listen to them, you know. It’s not like we want Molotov cocktails over the walls during our afternoon tea.”
Gerrit exhaled loudly and looked away. “He basically told me the same. Makes sense. But what about your mother?”
Having been Jaime’s best friend since college, Gerrit was quite aware of Mrs. Malcolm’s big mouth. “My mother has no idea,” Jaime said wryly. “They’ve been making me call her every few weeks and chat, tell her my visa to Iran was denied and I couldn’t go. They always make me say I’m busy and have to go, though. Guess the Republic of Iran has a small international-phone-calls-for-prisoners budget.”
“So true.” Gerrit’s face sobered deeply. “You heard any news about Sami?”
Jaime felt his forehead wrinkle, and the hat slipped down farther over his white-blond hair. “No news.” He looked down and traced the cracked olive tiles with his eyes. “I’ve got a Sudoku book in my cell, and every time I see it I wonder how he’s doing. Remember how he got addicted to Sudoku the first time I showed it to him? It was even before Ashavan’s first show, in Chicago.” Jaime shook his head and raised serious eyes to Gerrit. “I’m kind of afraid to find out. What if they already carried out the sentence?”
Gerrit exhaled loudly and checked to make sure the guards were still in their position down the hall. “Jaime, those guys, Sami and the rest, especially Tarsa…they’re so brave.” Gerrit’s tone held more emotion than usual, but this little moment of guy heart-to-heart could be excused. The two of them hadn’t talked to anyone but the interrogator in two months, and they might never make it out of here. “And you know what, man?” Gerrit continued, sniffing away a small tear that tracked through the dark makeup. “We’re in fellowship with them. We’re brothers. Jesus is here, and we’re in good company.”
39
Evil Regime
WHEN RUPERT BROUGHT THE NEWS, ALEJO had just finished sending Sandal the video of Sami’s execution. He could send it safely with the software they had here at the safe house, something the Iranian Christians wouldn’t have been able to do. Sandal already had all the taped testimonies and documents they had gathered here in Iran; the video Ava had taken of Sami would help the case she was working to build with several important journalists.
As he turned the computer off, Alejo was still queasy. He’d seen Sami of Ashavan walk up to the chopping block, just a guy about Alejo’s age, someone who could have been any of Alejo’s friends. A fun guy to hang out with, a dreamer, who loved life and music.
The camera-phone clip of the execution was one of the most horrible things Alejo had ever seen in his life.
“Alejo,” Rupert announced soberly as he walked in the office door. Alejo flinched, trying to wipe his mind of what he’d just seen. He didn’t like the way Rupert’s shoulders slouched forlornly as he leaned against the doorjamb. “They’re rioting on Chahar Bagh Abbasi Street,” he said. Esfahan’s main thoroughfare. The older man scowled at the chipped ivory tile. “It’s that pastor, John Rainer. When we talked the other day, I told him how serious this was, and that it was imperative he keep his mouth shut. I’m not quite sure what part of that he didn’t understand.”
Alejo exhaled slowly. “What did he do?” Sandal, Rupert, and several journalists had all contacted John Rainer of Church of the Valley, hoping that after the church heard the plight of the Christians they had baptized they would raise awareness and demand their release.
“He leaked the story on his darn radio program, that’s what he did!” Rupert glared. “And he leaked it in the worst way possible. Said Iran’s got a bunch of Christian apostates in prison, charged with spying. That Iran’s connected with the antichrist,” Rupert’s mustache twitched sarcastically as his fist clenched, “and that the U.S. should go to war to take down this evil regime that allows no religious freedom.” Alejo slumped back into the computer chair and Rupert glared at the empty, peach-colored walls.. “It’s all just part of the end times,” he quoted tightly, then fell into silence, glowering.
And now, of course, Iranians were picking up on the story, and some were mad as hornets. Rioting on Esfahan’s main street, and surely in Tehran, where Wara was imprisoned, as well.
“They’re demanding death for the apostates,” Alejo realized out loud. He ground his teeth, furious with John Rainer. Didn’t the man understand that motivating people to go to war with Iran didn’t exactly help the Christians’ case for not being American spies?
“Thank God he doesn’t know Wara’s name. At least his lack of tact can’t include naming her.” Rupert stroked his mustache, still glowering. The deep crags of exhaustion around his ice blue eyes made him look older. He snapped out of his stare and eyed Alejo. “Hosseini is coming here. He and Caspian should be here any minute..”
Just then, keys engaged the various safe house locks. Alejo rose quickly and followed Rupert to the living room, where Caspian stood with the rotund Dr. Hosseini. Tracks of sweat ran from the doctor’s forehead, disappearing into his beard. He threw a spastic glance behind him as he entered the house, obviously nervous. Caspian shut the door behind them, and Rupert invited Dr. Hosseini to have a seat on the furry blue cushions. Lalo appeared with jasmine tea from the kitchen and a plate of golden dried apricots and sugary almonds. The doctor accepted the tea gratefully, lifting it to his lips with shaking hands. The man was risking a lot to help them get this information.
Alejo could tell Rupert was still simmering over Rainer’s radio program as he dropped heavily onto a cushion next to Alejo after greeting the doctor. Hosseini finished the last of his tea with a desperate gulp, then carefully placed the china cup on the carpet in front of him.
“I found her,” he said, licking his still-dry lips and swiping beads of sweat from his for
ehead. Alejo felt his shoulder blades go rigid, and Lalo hurriedly rose to bring more tea. “They’re holding her in Evin,” Dr. Hosseini continued. Rupert groaned, and Alejo’s cheek went numb. How could he shake off this nightmare? But Dr. Hosseini wasn’t even close to done.
“Mr. Sandiego, Mr. Cole.” The doctor grasped the new tea Lalo placed in his hand with a grateful nod. “They have discovered she is an American. She led them to believe she was from Argentina, but they have positive photo proof of her identity. Wara Cadogan from Montana, United States.”
Alejo’s heart did a zero to sixty. He didn’t want to ask, but had to know. “What did they do to her? She had the other identity for a reason. They must have forced her.”
Dr. Hosseini shook his head. “No. They found out she is American during her first day in prison, and no force was used. We believe they must have already had her picture in a security file.”
That was impossible. Wara’s photo on file in Iran? Alejo cracked his neck hard to the right. “What do they want?” he asked lowly. Hosseini drained the rest of his tea and leaned back despondently into the wall.
“They want to use her to make their case,” he sighed. “The legal precedent exists from Sami. He was executed for security crimes, even though the only real charges against him was his Christian beliefs. They got away with killing him without any international outcry. But now they want to get them all.”
“All of who?” Rupert frowned.
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