“Well, Mousavi has given me a free pass as far as I can see.” Steve sat on a sofa near the wall and across a coffee table from Yazdi. “I’m hiding in plain sight. Should I move? What do you think? If I move but stay in the country, isn’t that going to look suspicious? Where do you think Mousavi is getting his information? Who knew about this operation here in Tehran? You and me.”
Yazdi smiled, showing his gold tooth, “I have no interest in getting myself arrested, so who else knew? How about your diplomats at the Swiss Embassy?” “Are you suggesting that one of them could be an Iranian agent?” He paused a moment. “I want you to know that your information reached the president. As a result the priority is now on the cyber center you told me about last time. Can you get more information? Targets, methods, timing?”
Yazdi looked toward a window for a moment and said, “My best source will be Firuz. Like you reminded me the other day, I’m his uncle. He’ll talk to me. Right thinking. Right doing. Right saying. I will remind him of those principles.”
“Right thinking? Where is that from?”
“That is an old Zoroastrian proverb.” Yazdi looked down an instant and then smiled at Steve. “My family has Zoroastrian roots.” He grinned and added, “Isn’t that in my file?” Not waiting for Steve’s answer, he became serious again. “I hope that my brother raised Firuz right and that he will know what I’m talking about.”
“Tell me, is the religion banned in Iran? Have you been open about your religion?”
“No, it’s not banned. It’s one of the official minorities, like the Jews and the Christians. Each minority has one representative in parliament. Of course, there is discrimination. Being a member of a minority is not good for a career if you want to climb. Since I always wanted to climb, I learned and practiced taqiyya. What would you call it? Concealment, maybe, or lying about your belief to save yourself from persecution. I will remind Firuz: Right thinking. Right doing. Right saying.”
34. Tehran: Grand Bazaar
Suri, Jafar’s wife, fixed her hijab to make sure it covered her hair to her forehead as she walked past two women stopped on the sidewalk near the entrance to the Grand Bazaar.
One was dressed in a full-length black chador. She addressed the other woman, who was not wearing any hijab and whose outer garment was tight enough to hint at a waist, “Are you not a member of our country? Do you think that you are dressed appropriately? Do you think that your way of dressing reflects the norms of our Islamic society?” A police officer stood swinging a baton ten feet away, pretending not to be involved.
Suri hurried past, trying to keep another woman in sight; obviously a European but covered adequately, whom she had been following now for over an hour. She confirmed that her letter was still in her handbag as she walked. An Iranian man, who seemed both bodyguard and driver, accompanied her quarry who so far had stayed close to the European.
They entered Tehran’s Grand Bazaar, and Suri closed the distance, afraid to lose sight of them. Partially covering the peeling beige paint, a religious inscription in black on a green background decorated the arched entrance. On one side, bunches of bananas swinging over assorted men’s shoes and sandals; on the other, white plastic hangers displayed pre-teen dresses moving with the breeze.
She walked past the bananas into the bazaar and instantly felt the energy and bustle. Although not new to the bazaar, her senses celebrated the colors of the displays, the lights overhead that reflected from the silver, and gold-plated trays, the movement of men and women, the carts bringing goods to the narrow store fronts, the men hustling between shops carrying rolled up rugs, the motor scooters and bicycles making their way through the throng, the smells of cumin, and cardamom assaulted the senses.
Suri had been fuming and mulling over her action for two weeks. She had raised her suspicions with Jafar that he was sleeping with the American whore. Jafar had ignored her at first. Not satisfied, Suri had continued her accusations but Jafar had ended her protests by hitting her.
“Stupid woman! That’s what I’m supposed to do. I’m a security officer. You know that. Major’s pay is what’s paying for all this,” and he waved an arm toward the modern appliances in the kitchen.
She brought it up again, without shouting at him this time. His reply, another blow, had set her on her course. She had given it serious thought, asking herself, how would Jafar do it?
The plan had come to her easily; she was proud of herself. She would not confront the blonde whore. She could not approach the American husband, the ambassador, without being seen by Iranian security, which most probably kept an eye on him, at least part of the time. She remembered what Jafar had told her. When the Americans arrived, their offices would be in the Swiss Embassy. She would use someone not important in the Swiss Embassy, someone who would not be worthy of security attention. She mulled some more, thinking her plan through during her shopping, during her cleaning, and especially in bed with Jafar who was not very demanding these days.
Success was more important than quick
