“He’s not an Imam, Sharazad, just an ayatollah, a man and a fanatic. It’s because he’s doing what priests have always done throughout history: he’s using his version of religion to drug the people into senselessness, to keep them dependent, uneducated, to secure mullahs in power. Doesn’t he want only mullahs responsible for education? Doesn’t he claim mullahs alone understand ‘the law,’ study ‘the law,’ have the knowledge of ‘the law’? As if they alone have all knowledge!”
“I never thought of it like that, I accepted so much, so very much. But you’re right, Ibrahim, you make everything so clear to me. You’re right, mullahs believe only what’s in the Koran - as if what was correct for the days of the Prophet, peace be upon him, should apply today! I refuse to be a chattel without the vote and the right to choose …”
Finding so many common grounds of thought, he a modern, university trained, she wanting to be modern but unsure of her way. Sharing secrets and longings, understanding each other instantly, using the same nuances, belonging to the same heritage - he so very much like Karim in speech and looks they could be brothers.
That night she had slept blissfully and the next morning slipped out early to meet him again, drinking coffee in a little cafe, she chadored for safety and secrecy, laughing so much together, for no reason or every reason, serious sometimes. Both aware of the currents, no need to speak them. Then the second Protest March, bigger than the first, better and with little opposition.
“When do you have to be back, Sharazad?”
“I, I told Mother I would be late, that I’d visit a friend on the other side of the city.”
“I’ll take you there now, quickly, and you can leave quickly and then, if you like we could talk some more, or even better I’ve a friend who has an apartment and some wonderful records …”
That was five days ago. Sometimes his friend, another Tudeh student leader, would be here, sometimes other students, young men and women, not all of them Communist - new ideas, free exchange, heady ideas of life and love and living free. Occasionally they were alone. Heavenly days, marching and talking and laughing and listening to records and peace-filled nights at home near the bazaar.
Yesterday victory. Khomeini had relented, publicly, saying that women were not forced to wear chador, provided they covered their hair and dressed modestly. Last night celebrating, dancing with joy in the apartment, all of them young, embracing and then going home again. But last night her sleep had been all about him and her together. Erotic. Lying there half asleep this morning, afraid yet so excited.
The cassette ended. It was one of the Carpenters, slow, romantic. He turned it and now the other side was even better. Dare I? she asked herself dreamily, feeling his eyes on her. Through a crack in the curtains she could see that the sky was darkening. “It’s almost time to go,” she said, not moving, a throb in her voice.
“Jari can wait,” he said tenderly. Jari, her maid, was party to their secret visits. “Better no one knows,” he had said on the second day. “Even her.” “She has to know, Ibrahim, or I can never get out alone, never see you. I’ve nothing to hide but I am married and it’s…” No need to articulate “dangerous.” Every moment they were alone screamed danger. So he had shrugged and petitioned fate to protect her, as he did now. “Jari can wait.”
“Yes, yes, she can, but first we’ve got to do some errands and my dear brother Meshang won’t - tonight I have to have dinner with him and Zarah.” Ibrahim was startled. “What’s he want? He doesn’t suspect you?” “Oh, no, it’s just family, just that.” Languorously she looked at him. “What about your business in Kowiss? Will you wait another day or will you go tomorrow?”
“It’s not urgent,” he said carelessly. He had delayed and delayed even though his Tudeh controller had said that every extra day he stayed in Tehran was dangerous: “Have you forgotten what happened to Comrade Yazernov? We hear Inner Intelligence was involved! They must have spotted you going into the building with him, or coming out of it.”
“I’ve shaved off my beard, I’ve not gone home, and I’m avoiding the university. By the way, comrade, it’s better we don’t meet for a day or two - I think I’m being followed.” He smiled to himself, remembering the alacrity with which the other man, an old-time Tudeh supporter, had vanished around the street corner.
“Why the smile, my darling?”
“Nothing. I love you, Sharazad,” he said simply and cupped her breast as he kissed her.
She kissed him back but not completely. His passion grew, and hers, though she tried to hold back, his hands caressing her, fire in their wake. “I love you, Sharazad… love me.”
She did not wish to pull away from the heat, or his hands, or the pressure of his limbs, or the thunder of her heart. But she did. “Not now, my darling,” she murmured and gained a breathing space and then, when the thunder lessened, she looked up at him, searching his eyes. She saw disappointment but no anger. “I’m… I’m not ready, not for love, not now…”
“Love happens. I’ve loved you from the first moment. You’re safe, Sharazad, your love will be safe with me.”
“I know, oh, yes, I know that. I…” She frowned, not understanding herself, only that now was wrong. “I have to be sure of what I’m doing. Now I’m not.” He debated with himself, then leaned down and kissed her, not forcing the kiss on her - quite confident that soon they would be lovers. Tomorrow. Or the next day. “You’re wise as always,” he said. “Tomorrow we will have the apartment to ourselves. I promise. Let’s meet as usual, coffee at the usual place.” He got up, and helped her up. She held on to him and thanked him and kissed him and he unlocked the front door. Silently she wrapped the chador around her, blew him another kiss, and left, perfume in her wake. Then that too vanished.
With the door relocked he went back and put on his shoes, the ache still present. Thoughtfully he picked up his M16 that stood in the comer of the room, checked the action and the magazine. Away from her spell he had no illusions about the danger or the realities of his life - and early death. His excitement quickened.
Death, he thought. Martyrdom. Giving my life for a just cause, freely embracing death, welcoming it. Oh, I will, I will. I can’t lead an army like the Lord of the Martyrs, but I can revolt against Satanists calling themselves mullahs and extract revenge on the mullah Hussain of Kowiss for murdering my father in the name of false gods, and for desecrating the Revolution of the People!
He felt his ecstasy growing. Like the other. Stronger than the other. I love her with all my soul but I should go tomorrow. I don’t need a team with me, alone it would be safer. I can easily catch a bus. I should go tomorrow. I should but I can’t, I can’t, not yet. After we’ve made love …
AL SHARGAZ AIRPORT: 6:17 P.M. Almost eight hundred miles away, southeast across the Gulf, Gavallan was standing at the heliport watching the 212 coming in to land. The evening was balmy, the sun on the horizon. Now he could see JeanLuc at the controls with one of the other pilots beside him, not Scot as he had first thought and expected. His anxiety increased. He waved and then, as the skids touched, impatiently went forward to the cabin door. It swung open. He saw Scot unbuckling one-handed, his other arm in a sling, his face stretched and pale but in one piece. “Oh, my son,” he said, heart pounding with relief, wanting to rush forward and hug him but standing back and waiting until Scot had walked down the steps and was there on the tarmac beside him.
“Oh, laddie, I was so worried…”
“Not to worry, Dad. I’m fine, just fine.” Scot held his good arm tightly around his father’s shoulders, the reassuring contact so necessary to both of them, oblivious of the others. “Christ, I’m so happy to see you. I thought you were due in London today.”
“I was. I’m on the red-eye in an hour.” Now I am, Gavallan was thinking, now that you’re here and safe. “I’ll be there first thing.” He brushed a tear away, pretending it was dust, and pointed at a car nearby. Genny was at the wheel. “Don’t want to fuss you but Genny‘11 take you to the hospital right away, just X ray, Scot, it’s all arranged. No fuss, promise - you’ve a room booked next door to mine at the hotel. All right?”
“All right, Dad. I, er, I… I could use an aspirin. I admit I feel lousy - the ride was bumpy to hell. I, er, I… you’re on the redeye? When’re you back?”
“Soon as I can. In a day or so. I’ll call you tomorrow, all right?” Scot hesitated, his face twisting. “Could you… perhaps … perhaps you could come with me - I can fill you in about Zagros, would you have time?” “Of course. It was bad?”
“No and yes. We all got out - except Jordon - but he was shot because of me, Dad, he was…” Tears filled Scot’s eyes though his voice stayed controlled and firm. “Can’t do anything about it… can’t.” He wiped the tears away and mumbled a curse and hung on with his good hand. “Can’t do anything… don’t, don’t know how to…”
“Not your fault, Scot,” Gavallan said, torn by his son’s despair, frightened for him. “Come along, we’ll… let’s get you started.” He called out to JeanLuc, “I’m taking Scot off for X ray, be back right away.”
TEHRAN - AT MCIVER’S APARTMENT: 6:35 P.M. In candlelight, Charlie Pettikin and Paula were sitting at the
