Reverb (Story of CI #2)

by Rachel Moschell

  “We’re in Iraq,” he said. His brown forehead was laced with sweat but he still tried to shoot her a crooked smile. “We made it.”

  Wara’s eyes widened, relieved beyond words to be out of Iran. But then her shoulders knotted and she exhaled loudly. Neelam and Tarsa were still in prison. So were Mirza and the other guys from Ashavan.

  She had been in prison such a short time. They were still there.

  She couldn’t forget them. They were heroes.

  The large doors of the truck creaked open, revealing glimpses of dusty scrub and camouflage tents. American soldiers were climbing into the truck, skinny with blue eyes, black and muscular, Hispanic with crew cuts. A group of them hefted Wara onto a stretcher, which they bore outside into the blazing sunshine. The soldiers hustled her into some soft of medical tent, white and spotless with the scent of lemon and bleach.

  Rupert was explaining that she and Alejo were students visiting Iran who’d been jailed after attending an illegal rock concert. The tent flap lifted and Alejo came walking in, obviously having refused a stretcher. Wara struggled to sitting, ignoring the gangly soldier who had just taped her IV in place at the elbow.

  “Her shoulders got pulled out of place,” Alejo told the soldiers working on Wara, losing some of his authoritative tone in keeping with the student persona. “Some doctor in the prison fixed them. She was hung up from the ceiling with her wrists behind her. Is she gonna be alright?”

  “She’s got blood all over her,” the gangly soldier frowned.

  “That’s from the extraction,” Rupert said. “It’s not hers.” Wara shivered and was about to speak when Alejo sank to his knees, retching all over the tent floor.

  Blood. Everywhere. Rupert swore, rushing to Alejo’s side as he wiped bloody vomit from his chin and tried to stand.

  “Lay him down!” the lanky soldier commanded, and everyone began to rush around, just now realizing that the other student was possibly in even graver condition than the girl.

  “Lay down!” Rupert barked, as Alejo held up his hand, trying to speak. “What’s going on?”

  “I got the baton treatment,” Alejo gasped. The bright blood along his cheek shone stark against paled skin. “They were pretty ticked off.”

  “Take off his shirt,” one of the medical officers commanded. “Then I want him lying down.”

  They moved Alejo over to a cot in the corner, helping him steady his arms against a cabinet as they prepared to cut off his light blue shirt. “Take Petra out of here,” he begged Rupert, but Rupert shook his head.

  “Enough, Paulo! Hold still!”

  They efficiently cut off his shirt, and Wara groaned as she saw the mass of purple and scarlet deforming Alejo’s back. Clear marks from the guards’ nightsticks shone in green and dark purple, from his shoulders to the waistline of his pants. The soldiers turned him away from the wall; Alejo’s belly was a deep violet, ringed with mottled pink.

  A medical officer grabbed the radio to call urgently for backup. Rupert was aghast. “You’re bleeding internally,” he stammered, and Wara’s forehead ran cold. Hot hands were pushing her back towards the stretcher, trying to reach her with words. She faintly became aware of a hum outside the tent; the wind had picked up and was sprinkling the outside of the tent with debris.

  “The helicopter’s here to take her,” she heard one of them say. Rupert nodded curtly and came to kneel at Wara’s side, eyes sober and soft like she’d never seen them.

  “You’re a United States citizen,” he told her. “My friend has arranged for you to be flown out of here for better medical attention. They’ll get you back to your parents. Then later we’ll talk. Caspian is going with you.”

  “N-no!” Wara yelled. “I don’t want to leave! I mean…Alejo…” Words lurched in her throat. “What’s going to happen?” she whispered.

  “I’ll stay with him.” Rupert turned behind him, then back to Wara. “They’re taking him in to surgery. Got to stop the bleeding.”

  A group of soldiers begged Rupert’s permission as they heaved the stretcher into the air and began to move towards the tent’s exit. “No, wait!” Wara screamed. The guy with shadowy eyes who had given her the shot, Caspian, was next to her stretcher, following her outside.

  “They’re going to take care of you,” Rupert told her gruffly. “I promise.”

  Wara barely heard him. “But...no! Wait!” she wailed. She could see Alejo, collapsed onto a gurney with wheels, ready to be wheeled away. Her arms stretched out towards him, trailing plastic IV tubing. “Alejo!”

  He turned his head to look at her, hazel eyes opening a bare slit. “Petra, go!” he ordered hoarsely, and then she was outside the tent and couldn’t see him anymore. She closed her eyes against the onslaught of whirling dust and sun, afraid to open them even when a solder’s voice told her they were safely in the helicopter, bound for another U.S army base, then a plane to Germany.

  She was leaving Iran, and brothers and sisters she had come to love behind in jail.

  She had seen men die today, to save her life.

  Alejo had come to prison to save her.

  And now Alejo might die.

  44

  Heartbreak Tomorrow

  Bozeman, Montana

  TWENTY-ONE DAYS PASSED SINCE SHE LEFT IRAN, sixteen since she had arrived at her parents’ house in Montana. The military had checked her out at their hospital in Germany, made her rest a few days, then sent her home to Bozeman. She had been dehydrated and had some serious stomach issues, but they had quickly cleared that up and sent her home for physical therapy.

  Four times a week she drove herself into Bozeman in her parents’ car, sitting in Dr. Sandman’s waiting room in somewhat of a daze, going through the exercises but thinking of Iran. Brittany Spears plugged from the examination room speakers, and Dr. Sandman rattled on about the upcoming presidential elections and the economy. But Wara thought about Neelam and Mirza and Tarsa.

  And Alejo.

  She made someone at the hospital in Germany call for her, to find out what happened in the surgery. Within minutes, Rupert rang her room, assuring her that Alejo had come through the surgery and was expected to be fine. But it had been close.

  Rupert’s voice had been gruff, telling Wara that he was trying not to show how much he cared.

  Now it was a Tuesday, and the sun had already hid its face. Outside the frozen plate glass window of the living room, the brisk wind of early fall rustled dry leaves among the naked trees. Wara sat cross-legged on her parents’ couch, frowning at the complicated language of Crime and Punishment, hugging a microwave hot pack wrapped around her shoulders. Alejo had read this book on their flight from Newark to Morocco—in Russian. It was a good book, and the idea of talking about Raskolnikov’s spastic mood changes with Alejo sent her lower lip jutting with threatened tears.

  Wara’s mom was in the kitchen, devouring another piece of brownie with coffee and reading a recipe book. Dad was in his office near the front door, pecking away at the computer.

  Wara sighed heavily and let the book lower to her knees, staring at the dark blue of the night through the window. Rupert had called again today, wanting to know if she was ready. He wanted her to talk with his friend, a CI psychiatrist. Wara knew she should. After all, in the space of six months she had lost Noah and nearly been killed herself…twice now? Alejo said she’d been tortured, and, remembering the unbelievable pain, she wasn’t about to argue with him.

  And she’d seen three men die, one of them inches from her side. His blood had completely covered her.

  That one still gave her nightmares.

  There was no end to Wara’s happiness that she wasn’t in prison in Iran anymore, faced with condemning Jaime and Mirza to death or being tortured herself. But that young guard, Hourmazd…he had a mother somewhere. Who loved him. Sisters, probably, and friends. Maybe a young wife and baby, or girlfriend.

  Wara let her head thump back against the back of the couch, staring at the knotted wood ceil
ing.

  I know they needed to get me out. They wanted me safe, but it was also for the sake of the others, the ones we’re trying to help get out now.

  But men had died so she could be here now, on her parents’ couch at the house where she had been raised. Listening to the comforting sound of her slightly-geeky father tapping away at his computer and her mother sipping coffee in the kitchen.

  Was it worth it? Who set the value on life, said that one person’s life was worth the taking of another’s?

  In Bolivia, Alejo had killed an evil politician who was exploiting children through a pornography ring. But other people had also died along with that horrible man, including Noah.

  Was she, Wara Cadogan, going to become the same? She knew Rupert had no intentions of killing anyone, and what had happened to rescue her in Iran was a last resort. But there was no way she could agree to sometimes hurt innocent people, even if it was to bring about justice. Right?

  The wind sent a trail of orange leaves scuttling along the windowpane, just as a beam of white light cut through the darkness of the ranch’s front yard. “Someone’s here, Dad,” Wara announced, then tried to return her eyes to her book, really not interested in chatting with any of her parents’ friends from church.

  First, there was the bus accident in Bolivia and their daughter’s subsequent return from South America, retired from her missionary work. Now, a trip to try out working with this NGO called CI, which had ended with Wara being jailed on false charges and escorted home by the U.S. military, of all things.

  Wara had no idea how the average person at her church in Bozeman was handling this, but she could just about imagine what they must think: What amazingly bad luck.

  That Cadogan girl is a disaster magnet.

  Wara’s own parents still had no idea of the real story behind either of her last overseas escapades, and Wara still had no mental energy to sort through the way to tell them.

  Oh yeah. Mom, Dad, remember that guy who you almost shot, the one who was attacking me in the pine trees? Well he actually tried to kill me in Bolivia. I know, can you believe it? He was responsible for Noah dying too. Yeah, I see your point. Maybe we shouldn’t invite him over anymore.

  None of it mattered if she wasn’t going to join CI.

  And how can I? Could I go anywhere near a jail like that again? Watch people get killed, just because they’re doing their job?

  By the time Gage Cadogan had exited his office and creaked the front door open, Wara’s eyes were glazed, numb with the variety of unpleasant thoughts that swirled around in her brain. The cheerful voice of her father froze her reverie like a bucket of iced pond water.

  “Hey! Alejo Martir! Come in!”

  Her lungs refused to inflate, and Wara gasped, hearing the book leave her fingers and bounce off the coffee table.

  It was Alejo, bundled in a brown jacket and indigo knit hat, shaking her father’s hand. Her father closed the front door against the cold and Wara’s mother moved happily towards Alejo from the kitchen, greeting him with a teary kiss on the cheek.

  Her parents knew that Alejo had been there in Iran with her; he had called them to let them know she was in prison. They knew he had been arrested as well and beaten in prison. They didn’t know that he had turned himself in to rescue Wara. Or, of course, about CI’s real operations.

  “It’s so good to see you,” Lara Cadogan sniffed, wiping away a tear from her coffee-colored cheek. “The way you were there for our daughter...we’re just so glad the two of you are home safely.”

  Alejo smiled warmly at Wara’s mother, and then his gaze slid to Wara and she stared at him longingly, feeling a lump grow in her throat that she couldn’t control.

  “Have you been to see your family?” Gage asked him. “They must have been worried sick, like we were.”

  “After this,” Alejo shook his head. “I’ve talked to them on the phone.”

  “Well, I’m surprised you’re even traveling yet,” Lara frowned. “From what Wara told us, you had some pretty major surgery. You should come in and sit down.”

  “I’m on the mend.” Alejo shrugged it off, tentatively following Wara’s mother towards the couches. Gage raised an eyebrow and peered at Alejo over his trendy glasses.

  “You must have gotten a pretty nasty scar out of the whole thing,” he said. “Internal bleeding is a pretty big deal.”

  Alejo hesitated a few steps from the couch, eyeing Wara with soft eyes. “Um, yeah, it was pretty big.” He couldn’t keep a little grin from his lips.

  “How big?” Wara’s father cringed, while Wara’s mother shook her head at the men.

  Alejo’s grin spread a little wider and he looked down at his belly, positioning one hand at the top of his ribs and the other near his hip. “About like that,” he said wryly. “Apparently there was no time to do anything pretty, so they had to just slice me open. Thank God they had time to knock me out first. It’s not what you’d call a bikini cut.”

  Alejo’s eyes sparkled and Gage laughed heartily, until they both sobered at the sound of Wara’s strangled cry. The sound released the torrent of weeping penned up inside her. Tears leaked down her face as she stared at Alejo.

  Both of Wara’s parents froze, then glanced at one another with The Look and turned to leave the room. They disappeared down the hallway, and Alejo knelt next to where Wara sat, sobbing so hard she could barely breathe. Alejo grabbed both her hands tightly and she leaned into him, pressing her forehead into his. “Thank you.” She felt her tears wetting his cheeks, dripping onto their hands. She let go of him and wrapped her hands around Alejo’s neck, feeling the short, new curls at the nape of his neck. Wara closed her matted lashes and leaned harder into his forehead. “Thank you,” she whispered. “In Iran, when…you told me how you felt, I said I couldn’t trust you. That the idea of being with you scares me to death.” Wara’s voice sounded choked and she drew back to look into Alejo’s reddened eyes. “I take it back. I’m not saying you would ever tell me those things again…what you said on the porch. But I trust you. Thank you!”

  45

  Beautiful

  SHE WAS BEAUTIFUL. WARA WAS SO BEAUTIFUL he could hardly bear it, and she was crying, holding him, telling him thank you.

  In Uzbek.

  “Sometimes the gifts manifest in the presence of love,” Rostam had told him in Esfahan.

  Wara’s warm fingers were clasping his neck and she sobbed as she told him, in Uzbek, she trusted him, wasn’t scared of him anymore. Alejo felt a few tears of his own join hers. He leaned her back into the couch and sat down next to her, adjusting the hot pack around her neck.

  “Wara, did you know you’re speaking the language of Uzbekistan?” he told her shakily. Alejo cleared his throat and scrubbed his wet eyes. He grinned at her expression of shock. “I lived there for a year on an assignment a lot like this one in Iran. There was this Muslim activist who was trying to expose that thousands of Uzbek girls were being sent to Russia for prostitution. Apparently government officials were involved and the activist was thrown in jail as a spy. I taught at the university with Stalin. Remember the know-it-all from my team in Bolivia? We gathered proof about what was going on and the activist was released soon after that.”

  “Wow.” Wara still seemed stunned, either from realizing she had just been speaking in tongues or his little story of Uzbekistan. She sniffed loudly and wiped her eyes on her sleeve, lip still trembling. “I’m so glad you’re ok. I can’t believe you came here. Shouldn’t you be resting?”

  “Wara, it’s been three weeks. I have to take it easy, but I’m going to be fine. Sandal and Rupert have been working hard, along with the journalists who were willing to do this story. I saw it reported about on CNN and the BBC a couple times. Did you see that?”

  Wara nodded. “It was horrible. To see the video Ava took of Sami, how they made him kneel there by the stone…Of course they stop the video before. I’m just glad I never saw the whole thing.”

  The investigative
reporters had also shown the official court documents, proving Sami had only been charged with apostasy and the reports of espionage and rape were only a cover-up to discredit someone who had converted to a religion considered dangerous. The news reported that the other members of Ashavan, along with a young brother and sister who had also converted to Christianity, were still jailed and in unknown condition.

  As for John Rainer, he hadn’t really changed his tune.

  “They are just young believers,” the pastor had said in his only, brief interview with Fox News. “If they had more opportunity to grow in their faith, I’m sure we’d see behavior from them that is more consistent with that of a true believer. But for now, I am just outraged that this extremist Islamic government would keep Christians in jail just because of their faith. What happened to freedom of religion? I’m telling you, this country is the antichrist and one of these days, Christian America is going to have to fight to keep the freedom of religion we all hold so dear.”

  Wara released a poignant, weary sigh and leaned a shoulder into the back of the couch, closing her eyes. Alejo’s heart went out to her.

  “You…were amazingly brave,” he finally told her. “With all the pressure people are putting on the American and European governments to intervene, we may be able to see the Samadis soon. And Tarsa and the guys. Jaime.”

  He still couldn’t believe Malcolm had been there in Evin Prison and no one had known it. Jaime’s weeping mother and pallid girlfriend Kirsten had both appeared in the news, pleading for Jaime’s release. As a first response to the media pressure, the Iranian government had promised to send Jaime back to the United States by the end of the week. Within days, Sandal would be testifying before the Human Rights Commission, which would further put pressure on the government of Iran.