As Firuz struggled to make headway, Kella first looked at Farah for an answer. “Is this a test? Let’s see, Zoroastrians: members of one of the oldest religions in the world; monotheistic; let’s see ... Zoroaster, or maybe Zarathustra … was its prophet. That exhausts my knowledge.”
Farah said, “It’s one of our official religious minorities.” Steve asked, “Firuz, can you help us?”
The car was practically free of the capital city’s grasp and vehicular chaos. “I’m no expert. My mother did teach me some things as I grew up in Southern California. We have our own language, for example. I learned a few words through prayers. It was Iran’s main religion before Islam. It dates back maybe three thousand years.”
“How many members of the religion are in Iran?” Kella asked.
“I’ve heard from twenty to forty thousand. About half have left the country since 1979. Three or four thousand live in Yazd, which is where my family comes from, and it’s also the center of the religion in Iran. We have a Zoroastrian community in Los Angeles.”
“Los Angeles would be where you’d find Zoroastrians in the U.S.,” Steve said laughing.
“Quite the contrary, sir. This is not a kooky cult. Zoroastrianism forms the core principle of what later became Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. Our own prophet predates Moses, Jesus, and Mohammed. We had the basics. Others added details later, like the Ten Commandments.” Firuz suddenly was driving ten miles an hour faster.
Steve had told Kella that SENTINEL had revealed his religion to him, a significant breakthrough at the time between agent and case officer. SENTINEL’s career would not have gone far had his superiors known. His role in the Iraq-Iran War would have been to clear a minefield, like many of the young men and boys on the memorial billboards along the street and highways.
There was momentary silence and Firuz added, “Here, there are smaller centers outside of Yazd but Yazd is the main location. The elders all know one another across Iran, which I should add, was a Zoroastrian country until the Arabs invaded and imposed Islam.”
And these scatter groups, Steve thought, are what SENTINEL’s plan depended on—a Zoroastrian ratline or Underground Railroad.
As they approached Qom, a control point forced them to stop. They waited in line for half an hour before their turn came. The ladies used the time to use the toilets and, although Steve would have like to do the same, he stayed in the car and stretched as much as he could. Kella and Farah came back and Steve again tried to make himself as small as possible. At the checkpoint, the chadors in the back all held their breaths, and Firuz did all the talking. Steve and Kella especially had been anticipating this moment. They had no Iranian documentation. The only solution was to not having to produce any. Steve looked around for getaway possibilities.
Fortunately, the guard didn’t seem anxious or particularly interested in a man driving three properly dressed women. Firuz explained that they were on their way to a funeral in Baghestan, a town to the southeast. The guard took a cursory look at the three ladies in the back and waved them on. If Mousavi was looking for them, he was looking toward the North West, toward the Turkish border, Steve thought. The problem was that Yazd was not close to any border. They all started breathing normally, and Steve began to feel better about Firuz.
In Qom, Farah got out of the car to buy water and fruits. She said, “Yazd is in desert country. Drink water.”
* **
They arrived considerably after dark. The headlights cut through the night to reveal a winding dirt road going up a hill devoid of vegetation except for infrequent bushes and a few walls promising a house on the other side. The startled eyes of small nocturnal animals stared as the car went by. They stopped in front of a long wall high enough to guarantee privacy. A wrought iron door divided it in halves. Firuz parked behind a white car in front of the gate.
Steve’s greatest pleasure of the day, even beyond the relief of getting though the road block easily in Qom, was to get out and stretch. “The trip from hell,” he said to no one in particular as he raised both arms as high as he could and then bent from side to side trying to decompress his vertebrae.
Firuz led them through the dark garden to a two-story house, which unlike most in the area, was not of adobe but of western construction. Their host waited at the open front door. Firuz introduced Jemshid as his great uncle, but in a way that hinted that the exact relationship, although familial, might be a bit vague to him. Jemshid, in his sixties with an angular clean-shaven face, wore a robe of faded tan cloth with a large white cotton sash about his waist and a boxy white cap.
He was accompanied by a taller man dressed similarly with a sash, which seemed to be symbol rather than a fashion statement. Judging by Jemshid’s deference to the other man, Steve assumed a hierarchy existed between the two men. Using Firuz to interpret, the man said, “I am Fereydum. We know about you from Hashem, Jemshid’s nephew. Our community welcomes you. Jemshid will be your host.”
Jemshid, also using Firuz to translate, said, “It is my deep honor to be your host. This is your home. You will be safe here.”
Steve smiled and nodded. Feeling awkward in his chador in front of these two grave men, he pulled it over his head before speaking.
“I don’t know what Hashem has told you, but it is our honor to be here.” Steve had learned enough about ta’arouf, Iranian politesse, in his short time in Iran to appreciate that it was a competitive sport. Except that he truly felt grateful that
