They talked for three hours, alone, then with Wara’s parents who brought in mugs of coffee and a tray of crackers and gingerbread men. Alejo couldn’t take his eyes off Wara, and it was obvious she was exhausted. Dipping half-moons the color of dusk painted her eyes, and he had never seen her lips so pale. He was feeling the drain from the trip here as well, still weak from the surgery and forced recovery time. Wara’s parents graciously invited him to sleep upstairs in the room he’d used before. Alejo kissed Wara softly on the cheek, the way they said goodbye in the country of his birth.
Upstairs, Alejo pulled on some pajamas and swallowed a handful of painkillers without water. The sheets on the single bed were soft blue flannel, all the walls warm amber wood. He carefully curled up under the quilt, unable to close his eyes in the darkness, thinking about the future.
This trip to Iran had turned out very different than they had planned. Alejo had seen suffering before, but it was one thing to see it across the room, at a distance. It was another thing when the people who were suffering were your friends. Neelam Samadi was saucy and seemed like the kind of girl Wara would love having for a friend. Alejo was still in awe of the way she played the drums. And Alejo loved the way Mirza used his fame to bring attention to the work of Hand Up. The guy loved chocolate way too much and it was just weird that he was a famous rock star but lived at home with his two aunts who wore slinky silk robes like the rich ladies on soap operas. Wasn’t it?
Alejo felt his gut twist. He was a foreigner, and when they found out he’d been a Muslim who converted to Christianity they had beaten the crap out of him. What must they be doing to Mirza in prison right now?
The thought of Neelam, a girl, in the hands of Evin Prison made Alejo just plain sick. He grabbed another two little white pills from the nightstand and swallowed them. His stomach ached, and all this thinking was definitely not helping.
This horrifying, beautiful trip had opened Alejo’s eyes. He knew what he was meant to do. It wasn’t that he felt guilty about people suffering for doing good all over the world. He felt responsible. For them. He wanted to help them, take care of them, be there for them in the middle of their fight. Or in the final battle of their deaths.
He was going to join CI.
But there was just one horrible thing about that.
He was going to have to leave Wara behind.
He saw her eyes downstairs, the dark circles, how she’d wept and not been able to let him go. This was supposed to be a simple exploratory trip, but Wara had been arrested and interrogated. Tortured. Alejo winced in his bed, seeing again the primordial panic on Wara’s face when she realized she was splattered in tissue and blood after the shooting.
Killing was horror. But it was an evil that wasn’t always possible to avoid.
He couldn’t kid himself and imagine that Wara would just lightly shrug this off.
So this was goodbye.
He had enough experience in his line of work to know that someone like him didn’t just carry on a nice, platonic long-distance relationship. That just didn’t work, not while working undercover.
Of course, he could see Wara now and then. Maybe once a year, drop in to visit the Cadogans in Montana, reminisce about all the good times Wara and he had spent together.
Alejo snorted and painfully hauled himself over to face the wall, yanking the covers over his shoulders.
Time to sleep, he set his jaw.
But it was so quiet.
In Coroico, the house he had shared with Gabriel and Benjamin had been on the main plaza, always smack in the middle of the town’s hubbub. At Rupert’s ostrich farm, the birds were always rustling around, squawking and kicking at the barbed wire fence. And the Happy Paris hotel in Esfahan, half a block from a major highway…now that had not been a peaceful place to stay.
Here on the plains under the mountains, the stars glittered noiselessly in a cobalt sky so pure it hurt to look at it. There were no horns, no traffic noises, no laughing crowds passing outside the window.
There was only silence.
But the noise inside Alejo’s head was killing him.
He forced himself to breathe, to sleep.
He was going to need it.
Tomorrow might break his heart.
46
Courage
IT WAS COLD, SO COLD, PURE FROST SWIRLING through the air. Wara had woken early, bundled up and gone outside to her little futon on the porch. Her father had bought the khaki-upholstered couch for her when she was eleven and it had been here ever since. The tangerine orb peeking over the mountains meant it was sometime after eight, the hour of winter sunrise. Wara knew her parents would already be gone at work, but she hadn’t ventured downstairs for breakfast.
Her heart was in a whirlwind.
All I can do is what is right, she whispered into the wind, shivering and stuffing her hands tighter into the wool of her turquoise mittens. I don’t want to do it. It would be easier to stay right here and not think about them, about any of them.
Christians thrown in prison for their faith. Orphans. Victims of crime. Abused children.
Most of her life, she hadn’t thought about them. And for most of her life she had never been arrested or threatened by Iranian interrogators or tortured.
All I can do is my best to do what is right. She blinked away tears, squinting into the brilliant glare of the dawn. I can’t know what all the consequences of doing the right thing might be for me or for others.
Footsteps crackled on the frosty pine of the porch, announcing Alejo in his brown corduroy coat and indigo hat. He looked awful, eyes a swollen mess.
“Wara, I have to talk to you,” he croaked, then cleared his throat and sat on the other end of her futon. Their breath joined in the space between them in a translucent blue mist. “I have to leave.”
“What? No. You don’t. Mom and Dad won’t care if you stay here.” She suddenly felt desperate. She didn’t want Alejo to leave. He released a rattling breath and turned tortured eyes on her.
“I already have a flight. At eleven. I’m going back to Morocco, to start working with CI. I came to say goodbye.”
Her eyes widened, suddenly seeing how things were. Of course she wasn’t being invited. She wasn’t cut out for this kind of life, and this trip had done nothing if not prove that exact fact.
“Oh. Ok. Yeah, I can’t believe Rupert ever thought I could work with CI. I told you back in Morocco. It’s ridiculous.” But her eyes burned hot against the freezing Montana morning and the bridge of her nose pricked, tingling as she fought the tears.
What a loser I turned out to be.
“Wara. No,” Alejo leaned in fervently. “It’s not like that. Rupert was really impressed. You were brave. Rupert wants you to work with CI. He even bought you a ticket to come back to Morocco, with me. But of course you wouldn’t…you don’t want to work with CI, do you?” Alejo’s eyes searched hers hungrily, glimmering with green sparks in the growing sunlight. “I mean, I just thought…”
“I’m so scared,” Wara stammered. She twisted her fingers tightly inside the mittens, eyes locked on Alejo for courage. “But, if you’ll help me learn…I have to do what’s right. I want to be part of CI.”
Alejo popped up from the futon, bouncing on the soles of his feet with a really crazy grin. “You’re serious?” He started muttering a string of excited phrases in Spanish. “I…can’t believe it…Rupert knew you would come!” He sobered and eyed Wara critically where she huddled nervously inside her coat sleeves. “Are you sure, Wara?”
“I…I never would have imagined this,” Wara smiled at him, more relieved by the second with her decision. “And I never would have imagined you and I would be friends. I’m sure.”
All Alejo’s gloom of minutes ago had fled and he moved closer to her on, shivering in the cold and with excitement.
“But we’d have to change your ticket,” he grinned. “I’ll wait for you over in Morocco. How much time would you like?”
“Five m
inutes enough?” She tried a toothy grin. “I have to stuff some things in a bag.”
Alejo’s jaw actually dropped. “What?”
“I’m coming with you,” she said, gathering bravado with each word. She started towards the glass door that led to her room, then paused and moved back to where Alejo stood, that crazy grin spreading over his face again. “If I don’t go now, later I might lose my courage. Because right now, I’m brimming over with courage.”
A slight exaggeration, and they both knew it.
“What about your parents?” Alejo was still in shock. “They’re going to think I kidnapped you.”
“I’ll call them. They can meet me at the airport if they want to say goodbye. I’ll be back home for a visit before too long, I’m sure.”
Alejo grabbed her upper arms and kissed her forehead slowly. “Don’t be afraid,” he whispered into her hair, then let her go and walked at her side towards her room, where they would pack for the journey to the other side of the world and whatever it might bring.
47
Another Day to Die
United States of America, six months later
ROSTAM STOOD ON A SUNNY CORNER of Los Angeles, watching lacy palm tree shadows dance across the passing sports cars.
After years of practicing English and working in the tourism industry, he had finally made it to the United States.
Just in time to die.
“Please, don’t say anything to him about…me,” Rostam begged Alejo, who was standing at his side in a t-shirt and khaki shorts. “It’s not fair to him, feeling he has to forgive me before I die.” Rostam’s felt his lips twist bitterly, and he imagined the cancer that ate away at his insides consuming another chunk, bringing him one step closer to a wasting death.
Alejo nodded curtly, sorrow etched on his face. They both turned to face the opposite corner, staring at the bright blue façade of L.A. Muse Used CD Shop. Right now, Rostam was grateful beyond words for the presence of Alejo, as he had learned Paulo was really called. The guy had come to find him, though Rostam had no idea how, in the tiny Italian apartment the Iranian government had pushed them into with a one year lease. Ava was still there, swallowing Paxil and unable to leave the house for more than a quick trip to the supermarket. And Rostam was here in L.A., jumping at the chance Alejo had offered him to track down Mirza Samadi in the United States and beg his forgiveness.
It wasn’t on purpose that Rostam had waited until the end to ask Mirza to forgive him. He had dreamed of throwing himself at his friends’ feet and weeping ever since that first night, when Ava convinced him it was all a lie. But Rostam had been terrified.
How dare he ask Neelam and Mirza to forgive him, just like that?
Rostam had heard what happened to them in Evin; the whole world must have heard. At least those who cared.
It had been in Rostam’s nightmares these long months, and he knew beyond a doubt that the acceleration of his disease was due to one thing and one thing only: guilt. He, Rostam, had betrayed his best friends to the Iranian police, out of jealousy.
And now, he was here in front of L.A. Muse CDs, to ask Mirza to make it all right again.
“Alejo…I think maybe we should just go back to the hotel,” Rostam faltered. Pain throbbed in his chest like a hellish discothèque, and Rostam fought not to cry. Alejo lowered his hand from shielding his eyes against the sun and put a firm arm around Rostam’s bony shoulders.
“We have to go,” Alejo said. Rostam started, then turned wild eyes on the iridescent plate glass of the CD shop. ”I’ll go with you,” Alejo added.
Rostam nodded and gulped, then put his sandals to the pavement towards the shop where Mirza worked.
If Mirza was waiting to kill him, Rostam really wouldn’t lose anything. He was already as good as dead.
Soon, Ava would be a widow, young and alone in a country she barely knew.
Rostam deserved this. He put one hand on the door, wiping away bitter tears from his face.
The CD shop was dead, but Mirza still wasn’t due for a break. Farid and Yancy were sitting on the counter talking about women, and Mirza was glaring at a stack of recently-bought discs, waiting to be filed. The lonely sound of Bon Iver drifted from the shop speakers, and Mirza plopped down on one of the sealed cardboard boxes, fighting the urge to scream. To drive out of here and pick up his sister and never look back.
Except there was no where to go.
Farid, a nice guy from Tehran, had given Mirza this job when the U.N. dropped them off in L.A. And that was about the closest thing to a friend Mirza had. There were a couple Iranian churches here, full of nice people and the familiar smell of Persian spices. But Mirza was definitely not welcome there, because they all knew. The majority of the world might have no idea what went on in Iran, or who the heck Moneta Z was. But the Iranians here knew; they knew what Mirza had done.
Apostate. That was what he had become. Mirza clenched his fists at his sides and felt the box complain under his weight.
He had made the video.
He hadn’t been able to take his sister’s screams.
Mirza said whatever they told him to say, and he said it with a smile on his face.
“Put your foot on the Bible, Mr. Samadi,” the Ring had hissed. And he’d done it. Convincingly. Because Mirza Samadi was a showman, and he was doing the most important gig of his career: saving his sister’s life.
All of Iran had probably seen it on YouTube. A dozen times. The government had been sure to give it a special primetime spot on national TV. The Iranian church here had seen Mirza’s confession, too, and they were quite happy to have nothing to do with the rock star who’d claimed to love Jesus and then denied him. No thank you.
He and Neelam were shunned. For heaven’s sake, if Mirza could shun himself, he would do it. Gladly.
But what was he supposed to do?
“Oh Jesus,” he groaned under his breath. The cheery cover images on the shelves surrounding Mirza mocked him. Yeah, famous Mirza. Thought he was so great, until he gave in. “I told ‘em I didn’t know you.”
“Samadi,” Farid was calling him from the front counter. “Go take a break. You’re working too hard.”
Without a word, Mirza heaved himself off the box and headed towards their illustrious break room. He tossed a couple Big Macs Neelam had brought home from work yesterday in the microwave and dropped onto a plastic chair to wait.
A few months ago, shortly after arriving in Los Angeles, he’d been sitting right here in this chair when the envelope arrived, a bright red and blue affair emblazoned with Fed Ex. Curious, Mirza ripped it open to find a single sheet of paper in slanted, obviously male handwriting.
“Stop beating yourself up,” the Farsi letters said. “You’re back. Remember Jesus and the breakfast with Peter.”
He’d blinked, thinking about the time Jesus had cooked fish for Peter and took him right back as a friend, even after Peter swore three times he didn’t know Jesus.
“You’re back,” the words leaped out at him, and Mirza’s heart had sped. He squinted at the paper, looking for some sign of the sender, and then grinned wryly when he saw it: “Paulo.”
The microwave dinged and Mirza extracted the two hamburgers, just as the door to the break room swung open. He gaped, taking in the face of Paulo, also known as Alejo, from Mirza-still-didn’t-know-where. A pale guy was at his side, and whatever he had been going to say died in his throat when he saw it was Rostam.
Rostam was here.
He was skinnier than ever, and the very picture of miserable.
“Rostam,” Mirza finally managed. He rose to his feet and stared, then slowly moved towards the two of them. He greeted Alejo, then flinched as he turned towards Rostam. He’d never tried to contact his manager, even though he’d thought about it a hundred times. What was he supposed to say? Rostam had sold him and his sister into bondage, right? Ava had to have told him that the whole thing was a lie, but did he believe it?
“Hey,” Mirza sai
d stupidly, refraining from touching his old friend. He could feel the hurt burning in his own eyes, reflected in the rosy red of Rostam’s. “It wasn’t true, you know,” he blurted. “After I became a Christian, I never touched her. I promise.”
“I know,” Rostam tried to smile. His eyes flooded pitifully with tears. “I can’t believe I believed them.” He lowered his voice and raised his eyes to Mirza’s. “Forgive me.”
Something in Mirza’s heart broke, and he wrapped his skinny concert manager and friend in his arms, probably nearly strangling him in a bear hug. “I do. You’re forgiven, friend.” Not about to cry in Rostam’s silky brown hair, Mirza took a few steps back to a more dignified distance. Rostam was staring down, lips pursed, looking like he might be about to pop.
“Rats,” he muttered, then sucked in a deep breath and began fiddling with the belt of his jeans. “Oh man, I think I’m just having some issues…Ugh! What is wrong with my pants?” Mirza frowned as Rostam drew up his t-shirt. Several inches of pale flesh muffined out over his belt over jeans that were obviously way too small.
“You can say that again,” Alejo was frowning as well. “Were your jeans always that short?” Rostam did a double take, staring at the bottoms of his jeans, well above his ankles.
“The pain’s gone,” he said, eyes widening. “It’s totally gone. And I have no fever.”
“You’re taller,” Alejo observed, beginning to grin.
“And…fatter.” Mirza ran a hand through his black curls.
They all gasped together, and Rostam’s mouth widened into a whoop of joy. “No-ooo way!!!!!” he shrieked. “No, no way!”
Mirza looked down at his hands in shock, then slowly raised his gaze to the other guys, grinning wildly. There was no doubt about it: Rostam was bigger. Not in a Hulk-like, model sort of way, but he just wasn’t skinny anymore. He was a good four inches taller. And the sickly pallor was gone.
“The Falconi’s Anemia’s gone,” Rostam’s voice shook in excitement. “And the cancer. And the cancer!” He hollered again in jubilation, and Mirza’s stomach began a crazy dance. Rostam had gotten cancer?
Reverb (Story of CI #2) Page 28