room was a rough wooden table and two benches, a few pots and pans, the big mattress and a small one on old carpets. An oil lamp for light. The joub outside was for washing and for waste. No decorations on the whitewashed, dried-mud walls. A tap for water that sometimes worked. Flies and insects. And in a niche, facing Mecca, the place of honor, the well-used Koran.
It was just after dawn, the day chill and overcast, and Hussain had already called for morning prayer in the mosque and had wiped the dirt off the gun and oiled it carefully, cleaned the barrel of spent cordite, and refilled the magazine. Now it’s as good as ever, he thought contentedly, ready to do more of God’s work and there’s plenty of use for such a gun - the AK47 so much better than the M14, simpler, more nigged, and just as accurate at close quarters. Stupid Americans, stupid as ever to make an infantry gun that was complex and accurate at a thousand yards when most fighting was done at nearer to three hundred and you could drag the AK47 in the mud all day and it would still do what it was supposed to do: kill. Death to all enemies of God!
Already there had been clashes between Green Bands and the Marxist-Islamics and other leftists in Kowiss, and more at Gach Saran, a nearby oil refinery town to the northwest. Yesterday, after dark, he had led Green Bands against one of the secret Tudeh safe houses - the meeting betrayed by one of the members in return for the hope of mercy. There would be none. The battle was sudden, short, and bloody. Eleven men killed, he hoped some of the leaders. So far the Tudeh had not yet come out into the open in strength, but a mass demonstration had been called by them for tomorrow afternoon in support of the Tudeh demonstration in Tehran even though Khomeini had expressly warned against it. The confrontation was already planned. Both sides knew it. Many will die, he thought grimly. Death to all enemies of Islam! “Here,” she said, giving him the hot, sweet black coffee nectar, the one luxury he allowed himself except on Fridays - Holy Days - and other special days and all the Holy Month of Ramadan when he gave up coffee gladly.
“Thank you, Fatima,” he said politely. When he had been appointed mullah here, his father and mother had found her for him and his mentor, Ayatollah Isfahani, had told him to marry so he had obeyed.
He drank the coffee, enjoying it very much, and gave her back the little cup. Marriage had not distracted him from his path, though from time to time he enjoyed sleeping against her, her buttocks large and warm in the chill of winter, sometimes turning her, joining, and then sleeping again, but never really at peace. I will only be at peace in Paradise, only then, he thought, his excitement growing, so soon now. God be thanked that I was named after Imam Hussain, Lord of the Martyrs, Imam Ali’s second son, he of the Great Martyrdom, thirteen centuries ago at the Battle of Karbala. We will never forget him, he thought, his ecstasy growing, reliving the pain of Ashura, the tenth day of Muharram - only a few weeks ago - the anniversary of that martyrdom, the Shi’as’ most holy day of mourning. His back still bore the weals. That day he had been in Qom again, as last year and the year before that, taking part in the Ashura processions, the cleansing processions, with tens of thousands of other Iranians - whipping themselves to remind themselves of the divine martyrdom, scourging themselves with whips and chains, mortifying themselves with hooks. It had taken him many weeks to recover, to be able to stand without pain. As God wants, he told himself proudly. Pain is nothing, this world is nothing, I stood against Peshadi at the air base and took over the air base and subdued it and brought him to Isfahan in bonds as I had been ordered. And now, today, first I will go again to the base to investigate the foreigners and curb them and this Sunni Zataki who thinks he’s Genghis Khan, and this afternoon again I will lead the Faithful against the atheist Tudeh, doing God’s work in obedience to the Imam who obeys only God. I pray that today I will gain admittance to Paradise, “there to recline on couches lined with brocade, and the fruit of the two gardens shall be within easy reach,” the so familiar words of the Koran etched on his brain.
“We’ve no food,” his wife said, interrupting his thought pattern. “There will be food at the mosque today,” he said, and his son Ali became even more attentive - momentarily distracted from scratching the fly sores and other insect bites. “From now on you and the children will not be hungry. We will be giving out daily meals of horisht and rice to the needy as we have done throughout history.” He smiled at Ali, reached over, and tousled his head. “God knows we are among the needy.” Since Khomeini had returned, the mosques had begun again this ancient role of giving daily meals of plain but nourishing food, the food donated as part of Zakat - the voluntary alms tax that all Muslims were subject to - or bought with money from Zakat that was now again the sole prerogative of the mosques. Hussain heaped more curses on the Shah who had canceled the yearly subsidy to mullahs and mosques two years ago, causing them such poverty and anguish. “Join the people waiting at the mosque,” he told her. “When they are all fed, take enough for you and the children. Daily you will do this.” “Thank you.” “Thank God.” “I do, oh, yes I do.”
He pulled on his boots and shouldered the gun. “Can I come with you, Father?” Ali asked in his thin, piping voice. “I want to do God’s work too.” “Of course, come along.”
She closed the door after them and sat down on a bench, her stomach rumbling from hunger, feeling sick and weak, too tired to wave the flies away that settled on her face. She was eight months with child. The midwife had told her that this time would be harder than before because the baby was in a wrong position. She began to weep, remembering the tearing, screaming agony of the last birth and the one before and all of them. “Don’t worry,” the old midwife had said, complacently, “you’re in the Hands of God. A little fresh camel dung spread on your stomach will take the pains away. It’s a woman’s duty to bear children and you’re young.”
Young? I’m twenty-two years old, and old, old, old. I know it, and know why, and I’ve a brain and have eyes and can even write my own name and know we can have better, as the Imam knows, once foreigners are expelled and the evil of foreign ways torn out. The Imam, God protect him, is wise and good and talks to God, obeys only God, and God knows that women are not chattel to be abused and cast back into the days of the Prophet as some fanatics want. The Imam will protect us from extremists, and won’t allow them to repeal the Shah’s Family Act that gave us the vote and protection against summary divorce - he won’t allow our votes and rights and our freedoms to be taken away or our rights to choose if we want to wear chador or not, never when he sees how strongly we are against it. Not when he sees our staunch resolve. Throughout the land.
Fatima dried her tears and felt happier at the thought of the planned demonstrations in three days, and some of the pain left her. Yes, we women’ll demonstrate through the streets of Kowiss, proudly supporting our sisters in the great cities of Tehran and Qom and Isfahan, except I shall of course wear chador by choice, because of Hussain. Oh, how wonderful to be able to show our solidarity both as women and for the revolution. The news of the planned marches in Tehran had rushed throughout Iran, by what means no one was sure. But all women knew. Everywhere women decided to follow suit, and all women approved - even those who did not dare to say so.
AT THE AIR BASE: 10:20 A.M. Starke was in the S-G tower watching the 125 come in with full flaps to touch down and turn on full reverse thrust. Zataki and Esvandiary were also there with two Green Bands - Zataki cleanshaven now.
“Turn right at the end of the runway, Echo Tango Lima Lima,” Sergeant Wazari, the young USAF-trained air traffic controller said throatily. He had on rough civilian clothes in place of his neat uniform. His face was badly bruised, nose mashed, three teeth missing, and his ears swollen from the public beating Zataki had given him. Now he could not breathe through the nose. “Park in front of main base tower.”
“Roger.” Johnny Hogg’s voice came back over the loudspeaker. “I repeat we are cleared to pick up three passengers, to deliver urgently required spares, with immediate turnaround and departure for Al Shargaz. Please confirm.”
Wazari turned to Zataki, his fear open. “Excellency, please excuse me but what should I say?”
“You say nothing, vermin.” Zataki picked up his stubby machine gun. To Starke he said, “Tell your pilot to park, to stop his engines, then to put everyone in the aircraft onto the tarmac. The aircraft will be searched and if cleared by me, it may go onward, and if it is not cleared it will not go onward. You come with me, and you too,” he added to Esvandiary. He went out. Starke did as he was ordered and turned to follow, but for a second he and the young sergeant were alone. Wazari caught him by the arm and whispered pathetically, “For the love of God, help me get aboard her, Captain, I’ll do anything, anything…”
“I can’t - it’s impossible,” Starke said, sorry for him. Two days ago Zataki had paraded everyone and beaten the man senseless for “crimes against the revolution,” brought him around, made him eat filth, and beat him senseless again. Only Manuela and the very sick had been allowed to stay away. “Impossible!”
“Please… I beg you, Zataki’s mad, he’ll k - ” Wazari turned away in panic as a Green Band reappeared in the doorway. Starke walked past him, down the stairs, and out onto the tarmac, masking his disquiet. Freddy Ayre was at the wheel of a waiting jeep. Manuela was in it, along with one of his British pilots, and Jon Tyrer, a bandage around his eyes. Manuela wore loose pants, long coat, and her hair was tied up under a pilot’s hat. “Follow us, Freddy,” Starke said and got in beside Zataki in the back of the waiting car. Esvandiary let out the clutch and sped
