Easy Day for the Dead (6 page)

The three SEALs stashed their gear in the room, then played rock, paper, scissors to see who'd stay awake for the first watch. John lost. Alex was tempted to volunteer to take the watch anyway because he was still too keyed up, but he knew John wouldn't go for it, so he stayed silent. Pancho collapsed and was snoring inside of a minute.

John went into the kitchen with Leila while Alex made himself comfortable on the floor. He could see the kitchen clearly through the open door. He half closed his eyes and focused on his breathing.

“Would you like a drink?” Leila asked.

“Water, please,” John said. Alex thought he wouldn't mind a
martini, but he didn't need it dulling his senses now. And alcohol would just make him piss, which would dehydrate him before the mission.

Leila removed a pitcher of water from the refrigerator and filled two cups. She sat down to drink with him. “I am sorry my English is not good.”

“Your English is great,” John said. “How come you speak so fluently?”

She smiled. “It is not great. My mother liked English and she taught me. When I was a high school student, I studied in the United States as an exchange student for a year.”

“Where?”

“Sacramento.”

“That's great for just one year.”

“Later, I majored in English at California State University.”

“Wow,” John said.

Alex rolled his eyes. No wonder John was single.

“It took me six years to graduate.” She laughed.

“Maybe that's why your English is so good.”

“I am embarrassed. It should be better.”

“Two rooms but you live alone,” John said. “Is that common here?”

“No.”

Alex wanted John to ask why, but John apparently decided to let it drop.

After nearly a minute of silence, Leila explained: “The local newspaper wrote a false article about my husband—saying he wanted to overthrow the government. One day when he picked my son up from high school, some agents abducted them. I tried everything I could and asked the few people I knew for help. The authorities released my son, but he had received such serious head injuries that later he died. My husband remained in prison, and they tortured him to death.”

“I'm sorry,” John said. His voice was quiet and Alex had to strain to hear.

“It is okay,” Leila said.

“Did you ever find out why the newspaper wrote the false article?”

“It was a
basiji
.”

Alex understood. In 1979, Ayatollah Khomeini established a militia called Basij. Its members,
basiji,
were infamous for enforcing morals and obedience to the government.

“Reserve members do not get paid. Full members are paid. The special members are paid to be part of the Basij and Revolutionary Guard. He is a reserve member. His name is Emamali Naqdi.”

Alex started to get up, but stopped. John was leaning across the table. He held Leila's hand in his.

“Why'd he target your family?” John asked.

“When my husband and I went out, the basiji man stared at me—he made me feel so uncomfortable, but my husband told me not to worry about it, so I did not worry. He looked at my husband with an evil eye, but my husband ignored him, too. The basiji disappeared for a couple of weeks. I thought it was finished. Then my husband was taken away. After my husband died, the basiji reappeared, watching my house late at night. Sometimes he just stood outside; other times he sat in his red Chinese SUV—he'd watch my house for hours. I reported it to the police, but they said that because I was living alone, he was protecting me, and they told me I should be careful not to irritate authorities.”

“Didn't you have family or friends who could help you?”

“We had just moved here for my husband's work—we had only a few people. Two helped me free my son, but they were afraid to help my husband.”

“And you hold your government responsible for what happened to your husband and son?”

“Yes. I love Iran, but I hate the government. It is not just what
happened to me; it is what happened to so many other Iranians.” She paused.

Alex understood her motivation, but he wondered if he could ever turn on his own government like that. Maybe if it was killing his family and friends and a theocracy, but luckily, the United States was still just a regular, messed-up democracy.

“Why do you do what you do?” she asked John.

“It's a long story,” John said.

“We have time.”

Alex tuned John out, thinking about his own reasons. It went back to when he was in high school. There was a man who had a hard time holding a job or connecting to society. He blamed the government for all his own shortcomings. One day, he blew up a post office. Both his grandfather and sister Sarah were killed in the explosion. It was an act of terrorism. Didn't matter what color the man's skin was or what god he believed in, he'd committed an act of terror. From that day on, Alex vowed to take people like that out.

“Not all Iranians are terrorists,” Leila said, bringing Alex back to their conversation. “Very few.”

“I know,” John said. “It's the
few
we came for.”

Leila excused herself and retired to her room to get some sleep. He heard her chair scrape across the floor and then the soft padding of her feet. A moment later there was a light thump on the table and the muffled sound of metal on metal. Alex smiled. John was field-stripping his AKMS. It wasn't a cold shower, but it worked.

The sun was just warming the house as the occupants began to stir. Alex stretched, sitting up in the kitchen chair after having taken the last watch. An early morning vehicle drove by outside. Alex thought about the red SUV Leila mentioned, but the vehicle was gone before he could peek out the window.

Leila walked into the kitchen and smiled at him. “I will make you breakfast,” she said.

“You don't have to make anything for us,” Alex said. “We brought some food.”

“It is okay,” she said. “I already bought extra groceries, and they will spoil if we do not eat. It has been a while since I have cooked for more than myself.”

Alex didn't argue. It would be better than sucking on warm energy gel.

As Leila began preparing breakfast, over village loudspeakers came what Alex hoped was the call to morning prayer—not a call to kill the Americans.

E
arly Thursday morning, Major Khan returned home to Tehran for leave and donned his sheep's clothing. Sometimes he believed he was a sheep, but deep down inside, he knew he was a monster. Knowing what people do to monsters, he maintained an upstanding image in order to survive. At dawn, he said the Fajr prayer, the first of five that Muslims say each day.

Major Khan had breakfast with his wife, Daria; Mohammed, their eleven-year-old son; and Jasmeen, their nine-year-old daughter. His wife and children were excited that he was home. They ate nan flatbread with jam and feta cheese. After breakfast, they stayed at the table and talked.

“Where were you last week, Daddy?” Jasmeen asked.

“Working,” Major Khan said. It was true.

“Working where?” she persisted.

“Somewhere special—doing special work for Allah,” he said. Questions irritated him, but he'd learned the camouflage of patience.

Jasmeen soon lost interest in asking about his work and talked to her brother. Someday his daughter would learn like her brother and mother not to ask too many questions.

Major Khan's wife was a pious woman who didn't like violence, but she accepted his profession because of its necessity for Islam and
Iran. She knew that much of her husband's work for the Quds Force was secret, but she didn't know he kept secrets within secrets.
If she saw the full monster that I am, she'd surely want to leave me.

Major Khan's cell phone rumbled. He answered it then listened for a moment before saying, “I'll be right there.” Then he hung up.

“Do you have to go to work today?” Mohammed asked.

“I just have a few things to take care of.”

The boy frowned. “How can they call it leave when you still have a few things to take care of?”

“I got to eat breakfast with my family. And I'll finish work early and be home for lunch.”

“Your father is an important man,” Daria said, defending him. “That's why he's so busy.”

“Will you play soccer with me after school?” Mohammed asked.

“Yes, I promise.” Major Khan kissed his children and wife before heading out the door. They truly seemed to love him, but his love for them was pretense. It had occurred to him that maybe their love was pretense, too.

He left his family and drove fifteen minutes to the Revolutionary Guard base and parked his car outside the Intelligence Division Detention Center. Inside, he checked in.

“The prisoner has been readied for you, sir,” the Guard said.

“Yes, I came as soon as I could.” Major Khan entered the interrogation room, where a young man with a swollen jaw sat on a chair with his hands tied and eyes blindfolded. In front of him was a small table with a baton on it.

“Good morning,” Major Khan said.

The boy said nothing, turning in the direction of his interrogator's voice.

“I am told you're a member of the so-called Arab Spring movement.”

“No,” the boy said. “I told everyone
no,
but they don't listen.”

“I'm listening. People tell me I'm a good listener. Not like the barbarians who brought you here,” Khan said.

“Thank you.”

“Are you thirsty?” Khan asked.

“Yes.”

“Just a moment.” Major Khan stepped out of the room and returned with a cup of water. He placed it to the boy's lips and poured slowly.

The boy drank until the cup was empty. “Thank you.”

“What is it that you'd like me to know?”

“Pardon?”

“You said that no one listens to you. I'm here for you—to listen.”

“I'm just a university student, and I don't have anything to do with the Arab Spring. Three men burst through my door at night, sprayed tear gas in my face, bound me, blindfolded me, punched me, kicked me, and brought me here. They kept asking me about the Arab Spring, but I told them I don't know anything. Then they hit me with a baton. I told them I don't know anything, but they don't believe me.”

“I believe you,” Khan said.

“You do?”

“Yes.”

The boy became silent for a moment. “Can I go?”

“Yes, just as soon as we finish.”

“Thank you.”

“I know how you feel,” Khan said, easing himself against the wall. “When I was your age, there was fierce competition in my neighborhood between religious sects. I was invited to convert from my sect to another—when I didn't, someone told the authorities that I was a spy, and intelligence agents captured me and interrogated me.”

“How'd you get free?”

“My family had connections and eventually cleared my name. So you see, I do know how you feel.” Major Khan walked behind the
boy and removed the boy's shirt until it hung down from around his bound hands.

“What are you doing?” the boy asked.

“I'm making you more comfortable.”

“You don't have to. I'm comfortable enough.”

“Oh, I listened to what you said, but you didn't listen to what I said.”

“I was listening,” the teen said.

“Then you heard me say, ‘I know how you feel.' I know you're not comfortable.”

“But you're not making me more comfortable.”

“But I am. You just don't understand. I'm going to teach you how to feel comfortable.” With the boy's shirt removed, Major Khan began removing the boy's pants.

“No, please don't.”

Now that the boy was nude, Major Khan picked him up out of his chair and leaned him over the table.

“You said you would let me go,” the boy said.

“I listened to you, but you weren't listening to me. I said I'd let you go as soon as we finish. I haven't finished teaching you what my interrogator taught me.” Major Khan unzipped his trousers.

“Oh, no. Please don't. Why are you doing this?”

“I'm teaching you a tradition so you can pass it down to the next generation.” Major Khan dropped his undershorts. He didn't care whether the boy was a member of the Arab Spring or not. Major Khan cared only about liberating his own monster.

The boy screamed.

T
hursday morning, after Alex's watch, the guys woke and ate breakfast together with Leila. Following breakfast, John showed his Bible to Leila and asked, “Do you mind if I read this?”

“Do you believe in God?”

“Yes. Do you?”

“I did. Before my son and husband were murdered.”

“I know someone like that.”

“Would that be Alex?” she asked.

John looked at Alex.

“If you all don't mind, I'm going to take a nap,” Alex said. He retreated to the bedroom and lay down on the floor next to his kit. The walls were thin because he could still hear Leila.

“How about you?” Leila said.

“Me?” Pancho asked. “I'll believe Him when I see Him. Or, if that's too much, He could make me a believer by rescuing the poor.”

“You lose someone, too?” Leila asked.

“No,” Pancho said.

“If you do not do this for someone you lost and you don't do this for God, who do you do this job for?”

“John and Alex,” Pancho said. “They're my brothers.”

“They're not real brothers, are they?”

Pancho chuckled, causing the wall to vibrate. “No, not hardly. I grew up with six brothers, but not these guys.”

“Seven boys. It must have been hard for your parents.”

“I never knew my father. Rarely saw my mother. Grandma raised us boys in a shack that leaked. She fed us just enough to keep us hungry—did the best she could, and we loved her for it.”