Misdemeanor Trials (19 page)

CHAPTER FORTY

THE GOOD DOCTOR

John and Raintree were sitting at the table after returning from evening prayers when Mac walked through the door.  “We have an operation,” he said.

“Upstairs or local?” asked Raintree.

“Local,” answered Mac.

“Involvement?” queried Raintree.

“Backup,” said Mac.  “There is a local knockdown of some guy named Dr.  Fereydoun Abassi-Davani.  They have him at Albizi Café tomorrow at two in the afternoon.  He will be having lunch.  It's a residential area in old Tehran, with narrow streets and storefronts practically on the street.  He used to live there and will be visiting his disabled mother.  Apparently when he returns to his neighborhood he always stops by the same Cafe.  The good Doctor will have one bodyguard.  If the local’s plan doesn’t work, we will finish what they started, or we always have the option to abandon.  It’s our discretion, based on what goes down.  I have photos of both men.  If it goes down like last time, our part will be limited to drinking a cup of espresso.  If the plan falls apart, there’s a chance we’ll be the shooters.  I’ll brief John.” Mac threw the photos on the table and waved John into the adjoining room.  They each sat on a mattress that was on the floor. 

“Once in a while, but not often, we get a request by one of the local friendlies.  They may need manpower, backup, or intel.  In the last few years there hasn’t been much effort by upstairs agency administrators to maintain or coordinate with, or contact the locals, probably because the upstairs guys just didn't trust us that much.  The local friendlies trust our local group.  But things have been changing lately since the inauguration bombing, and upstairs will give us instructions on helping them, and are sharing intel more often, but that didn't happen much, if ever, before the inauguration day bombing.  Anyway, the locals still come to us unofficially if they need help.  They have been doing it without coordination or authorization from the people who control their operation.  We in turn help them without any authorization from upstairs.  Tomorrow two motorcycles will travel South on Ghandi Street to the new Café Prague.  The cafe was closed a few years ago because they refused to put in security cameras.  Things have loosened up a bit and they reopened without cameras.  The café is on the near side or west side of the street.  I will get there at 1:00 pm to make sure we get a table outside.  You and Raintree will go for coffee at 1:30 and we will sit south of the Good Doctor's table.  I will leave you at that point.  The friendlies will hit Dr.  Fereydoun Abassi-Davani and his bodyguard with suppressed weapons, turn right on the corner and be out of sight.  If the bodyguard is not hit, and is a threat to the hit our guys, we hit him first.  This whole operation should happen so quick that it is doubtful the bodyguard can respond.  If he tries to shoot at the motorcycles, we will be upwind and not caught in the bodyguard’s fire.  If we have to take any action, we will backup.  I don't want to pull out a gun and shoot at someone who has a better gun and is a better shot.  It's like running with scissors.  Last time something like this happened, it went like clockwork.  I even got to finish my espresso.  Your exit route is through a doorway and an alley just south of where we will be sitting.  Our car will be sitting fifty feet away.  With suppressed weapons, no one will know what happened for 30 seconds, with plenty of time for the friendlies to escape.  There is no thinking on our part, unless things fall apart, which I doubt.  Knowing what I just told you, John, are you up for this?”

“Do you know the guys on the motorcycles?” asked John.

“No,” said Mac.  “It is all set up by the front men on their team.  They bring in special operators a few days early.  The shooters get familiar with the area, escape routes, and if they can, observe the candidate.  They know where they are supposed to be, and when, and who the mark is.  When they are through, they ditch the bikes and leave the country.  That way there is no disturbance with the network already established in Tehran.  Typically the specials don’t make contact with any of the locals, and if they do, it is usually only one, who they don’t even know.  If the shooters are caught, they have no information that could cause the breakup of the network.”

“Who is this guy Dr.  Fereydoun Abassi-Davani?” asked John.

“Don’t know.  Probably a scientist.  Killing of scientists has been very effective.  Even better that sending a computer virus to their nuclear test sights.  But we should find out more when we read the newspapers after this all goes down,” said Mac.

“I came here on what I was told was a visit to look for a guy,” said John.  “I had my share of shooting and getting shot at.  I don't want to do it anymore.  I was told this was not a dangerous assignment.  And why are you leaving before shots are fired, Mac?”

“Simple to answer,” replied Mac.  “I go to that Café every month or so.  Sometimes more often.  It's a popular place for young people.  I know people who go there.  I can't take the risk of being identified when the shooting happens.  It could compromise my cover.  John, we need your help on this one.  I know you have been behind enemy lines before.  This is just another time behind enemy lines.  And your country needs your help, especially now when it seems we may be winning.”

John thought Mac was smooth talking him and pushing the right buttons by appealing to his competency and his patriotism.  “Okay,” said John.  “But I am not a spy, I don't want to be a spy, and I don't want to get involved in violence in a foreign country.  I'll help this time, but if it turns violent, I will get angry, and will respond with the instincts of a soldier.”

Mac took John to a sturdy metal floor chest in the corner of the room.  It was locked with two strong looking locks with a heavy steel lid.  He opened the two locks on the lid.  Inside there were multiple weapons, including AK-47's, shotguns and handguns.  “We lock this chest and secure it to the floor.  “Iran is a population of thieves.  If anyone leaves the house someone can break in and steal anything they can.  It's the way people live in this town.  If these guns were found, I am sure no one would care, but the thief would be well armed.  Anyway, tomorrow before we go, each of us will have a suppressed firearm.  I like the Walther.  You can pick the one you are most comfortable with.  You can carry it under your coat.  Let's go drive by the café and check it out.”

At noon the next day John and Raintree drove the white rental car to the alley behind the cafe and walked to a table south and about fifteen feet from the table where they expected to see the good doctor.  They sat down.  Raintree sat on the east side of the table and John sat on the west side, facing Raintree and the street.  Mac had told him that men are a creature of routine, and that the doctor was set in his ways, and that is what they counted on for this operation to be successful.  Raintree ordered two espressos and unfolded the newspaper he brought with him.  John looked around the neighborhood.  The streets were paved and narrow with little foot or vehicle traffic.  The buildings were mostly two stories tall, surrounded by high walls, and looked residential, with a shop appearing occasionally.  It was nondescript.  A little before two P.M., two men arrived and sat at a table about 15 feet from John and Raintree.  John recognized the target from the photo.  He tensed up, though he felt confident he would not be involved.  He was here for backup, that's all.  A few moments later he heard the sound of high pitched low horsepower motorcycles.  Two motorcycles drove by the cafe.  The drivers wore hard helmets and black pants and jackets.  He saw both riders raise obviously suppressed weapons and fire.  Both fired at least three times.  The doctor’s face fell onto the table.  The bodyguard was hit and spun around and faced the motorcycles.  He began to raise his gun and Raintree stood up and fired twice at the bodyguard, who turned and fired at Raintree.  Raintree was hit.  John stood up, pointed the gun at the bodyguard and fired twice with a double tap to his eye.  The bodyguard was done.  John looked at Raintree.  “Where were you hit?”

“In the leg.  It's a graze.  Let's get out of here,” said Raintree.  John stepped over to Raintree and helped him hobble to the alley.  John had no time to think.  They walked as quickly as they could to the car.  Raintree got into the passenger side, John got into the driver's side and they drove down the narrow street.  John thought they were safely away.  No one in or about the café had moved when the action hit.  Everyone nearby dove for protection when the motorcycle drivers fired and Raintree and John had walked away unnoticed.  John looked back down the deserted alley as he drove off and saw a lone man on a motorcycle.  John sensed the motorcycle was chasing them.  John stopped the car and stepped out of the driver's side.  As the rider slowed down and looked directly at John, John raised his weapon and fired twice to the chest.  The rider fell.  John got back into the car.  No one followed.  He dropped Raintree off at the compound, left his gun, made sure Raintree was not hemorrhaging, and then drove to airport, where he parked the white car in the rental car agency lot and walked away.  He caught the bus back to the compound.  John did not know the rider who was following him, but he knew that neither he nor Raintree could risk being identified or followed.  John came to Tehran to help identify a terrorist.  He did not expect to be involved in an offensive operation.  He knew that if he were detained or identified by any local that he, and any of the operational unit, would be prisoners at Evin prison for many weeks before they were hanged in public from a crane in the middle of town.  He also knew that once he signed on to the cafe operation, the killing of the rider was justified. 

CHAPTER FORTY ONE

AFTERMATH

“If you don't read the newspaper, you're uninformed.  If you read the newspaper, you're misinformed.”

 --Mark Twain

John sat alone at the table the next morning eating a breakfast of cheese, walnuts, cucumbers with bread and tomatoes.  Raintree walked in without a noticeable limp.  His wound from the day before was a graze by the bullet. A  bandage and some tape seemed enough.  Raintree had a newspaper in his hand.  He sat down and read from it, translating loosely from Farsi.  “There was a shooting yesterday by unidentified drive by shooters.” Raintree then went on to explain what the article said.  A Dr. Fereydoun Abassi-Davani, a Nuclear scientist, was having lunch at his old neighborhood cafe while visiting his parental home on a visit from his job at the Nuclear Reactor at Qum, which was significantly damaged in the inauguration day bombing.  Also seriously wounded and near death was Dr.  Fereydoun Abassi-Davani's bodyguard.  The article said the killing was the work of American Zionists.  The paper stated that Kamal Shirkhani was also killed in the shooting when the assassins attempted their escape.  The paper reported that Shirkhani would be buried the next day in Lavasan, a small town northeast of the Iranian capital Tehran.  He was identified as a colonel in the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps.  There was no explanation of what Shirkanai was doing in the neighborhood.  The article said that the three assassins had been apprehended and were currently at Evin prison and would be executed within the month.

Raintree said, “People here don't pay any attention to the number of people going to Evin prison, mainly because you hear about it almost every day.  There are more bodies in the trunks of cars in Tehran heading to Evin prison than anyone wants to admit, and while I am driving I try to figure out which cars are carrying bodies.  Anyway, I spoke with Avi this morning.  Everyone got out safely and the operation went as planned.  Newspapers here are just like at home.  There's no truth in the news and no news in the truth.  You can't believe a word they say.”

CHAPTER FORTY TWO

IN PARTS

“Big girls don't cry”- The Four Seasons

Raintree and John returned after evening prayers and found Farah sitting on the sofa reading a romantic novel printed in English.  Raintree excused himself and left without saying where he was going or when he would be back.  John had learned to expect that from Raintree and Mac.  Mac was more of a shadow presence than Raintree, but they both had something else going on all the time.  Raintree was mostly driving his cab.  Raintree and Mac never said where they were going.  John never asked.  Farah looked up at John and said, “John, let's go get a drink.  I have to get out of here once and a while.  Mac goes with me sometimes, but he has been busy lately.” Farah had a voice like bourbon with a splash of lime and ginger ale, both intoxicating and sweet.”

“Sure,” said John.

“It's not a good idea for a lady to go out at night without a male escort.  We'll take the tram, so don't speak English while we travel.  Once we get there, you can speak any language you want.  It's moderately wide open.” She left a note for the urchin who lived there and retrieved her knee-length coat.  Farah paid the trolley fare.  John noticed that there was a sign on the trolley that showed a price increase from the last time he took the trolley.  It was getting dark when they arrived in a place Farah said was the Super Jordan Market where they could get a drink.  The narrow street was blocked with traffic.  He saw BMW's, Mercedes and other sports cars inching along.  They walked a short distance to a garish building where bare chested men in leather vests were standing outside, obviously standing as filters for the proper clientele to enter.  Inside the building was a relatively small bar with tables populated by well-dressed western looking people, none over forty.  The music was beat music, high volume, but not loud.  Farah took off her roo-poosh and let her hair fall on her shoulders.  She asked what John wanted to drink. 

“What are you having?” he responded.

“I'm having a Kettle One on the rocks.”

“I'll have the same,” said John. 

After the waiter took their drink order, Farah looked around the room and said, “I hate this place.”

“We could go to another place, if there is one,” said John.

“No, I mean I hate Tehran and the whole country,” said Farah.

“I thought you were from this country,” said John.

“I was born here.  It was a long time ago, and maybe I just don't remember much or maybe I came from a small town where things were different.”

“How is it different now?” asked John.

“It is so full of hate now.  The people who live here are thieves, the men are boorish, women are treated like animals, and you have to come to an underground bar to get a decent drink.  If you have a drink you are frowned upon, but in the hills they grow poppies for heroin.  It is just crazy.  When I was a child my family lived in a small godforsaken town in the east of Iran.  It didn't seem to me to be as bad as it is now.  I liked my home and my family.  I liked to go to school and had lots of friends.  It was a good life for me and my sister.  I guess I didn't know about all the conflict and turmoil of Iran.  My father taught in a small university, mainly because the larger university would not hire a Jew.  We lived in a small house and the electricity worked some of the time.  It was very dark at night when there was no moon.  When I was a child I would go up on the roof and watch the stars.  It was peaceful.  I would see a shooting star, sometimes several, coming from different directions, like flaming bullets across the sky.  They must have come from millions of miles away, and maybe they had been traveling for millions of years from all different parts of the universe until they came too close to this small planet, and then in a millisecond would burn up in a beautiful bright flash.  I wondered on those quiet nights if there was anyone else in the whole world who saw that same shooting star as I did.  I don't think so.  I don't know and never would.  Probably something that is not even knowable.”

The drinks arrived.  John looked at Farah, raised his glass a bit, and said, “To your health.”

“I don't know why I am telling you all of this,” Farah said.

He paused, reluctant to get out in front of Farah or appear to be prying.  John said, “My mother would go to the supermarket and stand in line.  People in the checkout line who were complete strangers would just start talking to her, telling her things about themselves that seemed oddly personal.  They would just go on, and my mother would listen, and then we would leave after buying our groceries.  I thought it was normal because it happened frequently.  I grew up with it.  But I learned later that she was just the kind of person people wanted to talk to.  I have no idea why.  When I figured it out that she was a living, breathing sounding board, I would answer the phone for her, and, if it were a friend or relative, I would yell to her and say something like, 'Mom, your sister wants to talk to you.  Do you want to meet her in the supermarket line?' I thought it was funny, but maybe I have some of that in my DNA.”

“Are your parents still well?” asked Farah.

“No,” answered John.  “My mother and father are both gone.  My mother was special in my eyes, maybe even a little dopey.  Both my parents seemed to really like each other and laughed together a lot.  Both of them had a great sense of humor.  One time at dinner when we were kids he told the story of a time my mother and father, before they were married, went to an Indian casino, parked in a free parking lot, gambled a bit, had dinner and returned.  My dad said he would go get the car, and my mom said she would follow in a few minutes.  My dad was sitting in the car, waiting, and he could see my mother come into the lot, walk towards some Indian fellow about 30 yards away with some dollars in her hands.  The guy was backing away from my mom, like he was being attacked.  She walked towards him as he backed away, with the money in her hand, trying to give it to him.  He finally put his hands up, and walked away.  When she got back to the car, she told my father that she was trying to tip the guy for watching the parking lot while they were in the casino, but the guy said, 'No thanks, ma'me, I am here just trying to look for my own car.' Mother and father both started to laugh in the car.  That night at the dinner table they began to laugh again.  We kids laughed too.  I was drinking a glass of milk when my dad told the story.  When everyone started to laugh, the milk never got swallowed.  They told us that story several times during the next twenty years.  They laughed every time.”

“How did your dad die?” asked Sarah.

“He had been a smoker most of his life.  He got lung cancer, and after a short time in Hospice care, he died.  My mother was sitting next to him as she always did at home as he was dying.  Everyone knew the end was coming and my mom and dad would sit and talk.  Mostly my mother would talk because my father didn't have the energy.  She told him she remembered the time at the Indian casino where she tried to tip the guy.  My dad started a smile and then a weak laugh, which was interrupted by a weak and persistent  cough.  A trickle of blood came out of the corner of his mouth, and then he just died.

“At the funeral my mother delivered a short eulogy.  She told our family and his friends how she was sitting with him when he died, and how he laughed a little before he died.  Then she said, with tears in her eyes and a smile on her face, that she was very happy that he died laughing.  I swear, the entire church was crying.  He was a good guy.  I miss him.”

John asked, “How long have you been here?”

“A couple of years, but I am leaving soon.” Farah replied.  “I have been good at it.  Hey, I'm alive and that is a certain indicator of success.  But one of my assignments before I came to Tehran ended up very badly.  After that I wanted out, but I felt a responsibility to stay in the business, just like Mac and Raintree.  I thought a simple presence in Tehran might be a little less intense.  I'm an American, I love my country and I have to do what I can to protect it as well as what I can do to protect Israel.  But this place is a dark spot in the world and I just want no more of it.  Their religion is hate for everyone.  It is a poison they drink, thinking it will kill their enemy.  Their soul is primitive and inadequately developed.  No civilization can continually condone barbarism and expect to remain civilized.  And they haven't remained civilized.  Maybe they never were.”

“I get it,” said John.  “I don't want to be here at all, but I was in the Military and they have control over me, probably until I die.  Unfortunately, with their help, it may be sooner than later.  I'm probably not as motivated to be in this business as you were, or are.  I just want to go home and prosecute criminals.  I don't do cloak and dagger.”

Farah continued.  “I am fortunate that I can go home, and that I have a place where I can go to escape the hate here.  People wonder why the Jews were compliant with the oppression of Germany during World War II.  Germany was their home.  They had nowhere else to go.  I do.”

The conversation paused.  John did not know how to react to the outpouring of a woman caught in the middle of a world and its many players and its many conflicts.

“So you're a lawyer?” she asked.

“Yeh.  Haven't been at it too long.  I just get started on a case or an assignment and some guy named Bob calls me from D.C. and wants me to report right away.  If I don't, they threaten me with activation and a desk job in some military base in Nome, Alaska.  Not really, but that kind explains their attitude.  I thought I was the leading man in my own life, but it seems I'm just in a supporting role,” said John.

“I understand that kind of pressure,” said Farah.  “I graduated from college in International Relations.  I planned to join the Foreign Service, become a diplomat, and save the world, but before I could even apply to the Foreign Service, I was approached by a guy who called himself Avraham.  They had been tracking me for a long time.  I was a Jew, I lived in Israel for a while, I was a woman, I spoke perfect Farsi, I spoke Arabic, I was American, and I had been educated in International Relations.  More importantly, I was young, naive and full of energy.  They recruited me.  I spent a year in training outside of Tel Aviv.  I love that country.  After that, I spent a long time deep in the terrorist networks, and I mean networks.  It is the one binding thing all of the Arabs, Persians, Sunnis, and Shias have in common, simple terrorism, and a hatred of Jews.  But they thought I was one of them, a focused terrorist, and I suppose I was for a long time because I had to be.  One night things ended badly.  I went to a house where terror business and preparation and planning were done.  When I got there three of my fellow terrorists had what they called a Jew spy.  When I got to the room, he was tied in a chair, his head hung over and his face was cut and bleeding.” Farah paused for a moment looking in her mind for the memory of that moment. 

“He was alive, but barely.  I knew who he was.  We had trained together in Tel Aviv.  He was a close, and very personal friend.  I loved him.  His name was Uri.  They asked me what they should do with him and I said, 'Kill the Jew pig,' because I knew that would happen to him no matter what.  One of the shitheads raised a gun and shot him in the head.  I died a little that night, right then and there in that moment.  Since then the sun has not been so bright.” She paused for a moment.  “Just because a friend dies, does not mean they go away.  He has not gone away.  He may not have remembered the times at the door he let me go first, or the times in training that he dropped back to tell me it wasn't far to go.  Or the time he waited at the crossroads for me to catch up.  He might not remember, but I do, but this last time, even though it was my solemn pledge to him, we would not go home together.  After that I begged off from the deep undercover.  If I were caught I don't think I would mind dying, but I could not stand the torture.  So I was loaned to the Americans, with the provision that there would be no violence.  I accepted because I had to do something.  I really despise these cowards.”

“Anything happen to the guys that killed your friend,” asked John.

“I arranged for them to die,” she replied.  “I told my colleagues that I wanted them to perish in a way, that when they spent eternity in hell, the one thing they would never forget is how they died.”

“How did they die?”

“In parts.”