Misdemeanor Trials (23 page)

CHAPTER FIFTY ONE

OFF BALANCE

“The question isn't who is going to let me; it's who is going to stop me.”

--Ayn Rand

John and Raintree arrived at the Haj Rajab Ali Mosque for the afternoon prayer.  The Mosque was on
Buzarjomehri
St.  Raintree told him that the street was named after a brutal Major General and supporter of the Shah
Reza Pahlavi
.  In one story about the savagery of the Major General, an opposition leader named General Pukladen was to be executed by firing squad on charges of revolting against the Shah at some date before World War Two.  Puladeen managed to survive 21 bullets from the firing squad.  The story has it that Buzarjomehri promptly went up to the wounded Puladeen took out his pistol and shot him in the head, finishing the execution.  Mac thought it was amusing that the Mosque was on a street named after a supporter of the hated Shah of Iran.

By this time John had prayed so many times in so many Mosques he felt like he belonged there.  They waited outside the Haj Rajab Ali Mosque watching for Darby, but once again, he had no success.  They entered the Mosque, shoulder to shoulder with worshippers.  He kept glancing to his right and his left and felt a mild shock go through him when he saw a person he recognized.  It was not Darby.  It was the man who was with Darby at Madani’s house, and who was probably Darby’s bodyguard.  He was five feet away.  John tried to get closer, keeping his eye on the man, and not paying attention to where he was stepping.  John bumped into the man in front of him, tripped and fell forward.  John, for a moment, had lost his discipline.  The disturbance caused the bodyguard to turn in John’s direction.  They made eye contact, and the man yelled out something in Farsi.  Several men grabbed John and held him down.  Raintree tried to pull John away, but the bodyguard yelled again and several others grabbed Raintree and held him down.  Within minutes John and Mac were taken to the street, and a white technical pulled up.  They were thrown in the bed of the small truck where their hands were tied, hoods were thrown over John’s head, as the men in the vehicle yelled excitedly to one another in Farsi.  John could not figure out how he and Raintree were spotted.  He and Raintree looked like everyone else at the Mosque.  They had the same skin, the same hair, the same clothes, and the same body odor.  John figured he was now a dead man, on an assignment that was supposed to be a simple and straightforward identification of Darby Rhodes, with very little danger.  It had turned into something so dangerous that he and Raintree would not survive, and for no particular purpose.

The truck ride was on paved roads, stopping and starting in the thick traffic of Tehran.  The truck stopped and John was taken out of the truck and led into a building by four men.  He was tied to a chair.  His hood was removed.  He saw Raintree tied to another chair in the room.  Both chairs were around a single table in the middle of the room.  There was only one guard left in the room and he was holding an AK-47.  He kept his eyes on the two infidels.  The room was small and bleak.  It looked like an extra Spartan bedroom, with a single bed in the corner, no pictures on the wall, with whitewash paint.  He saw no blood spatters on the wall or floor and was somewhat relieved that it was not a killing room.  There were two doors each on opposite sides of the room.  There was a high window he could not see out of, but it let in some light.  The chairs they sat in were separated by the old wood table.  After a few minutes two men entered the room.  The men turned and yelled at John in Farsi.  John said, “I don’t know what the fuck you are saying, you assholes.” One of the men hit John in the face several times, and he began to feel himself slip into unconsciousness.  They turned and yelled at Raintree in Farsi.  One of the men hit Raintree in the face with his fist.  His nose began to bleed.  They continued to yell at Raintree and he responded in Farsi.  One of the guards hit Raintree again.  John had no idea what was going on.  The group of men talked among themselves and Raintree's head dropped and John could see he was verging on unconsciousness.

All of them, except one who carried the AK-47, left the room.  It was finally quiet and slowly Raintree raised his head and quietly spoke to John.  “When you fell in the Mosque one of your contacts fell out.  The big guy saw you with one blue eye.  They left just now to get someone who speaks English so they can interrogate you.  I told them I didn’t know you, but I tried to pull you from the fight because I did not know who they were, and we were in a holy Mosque.  These guys are not some rag tag group.  The big guy is in charge.  There is discipline here.  Follow the cover as long as you can.” They waited in the room for a long time. 

When it opened Darby's bodyguard entered, and with him was a man in a suit with no tie, smoking a cigarette as he looked at the two captives.  John immediately recognized him as Darby Rhodes.  Rhodes turned to Raintree and in calm tones began to speak to him in Farsi.  Raintree nodded but said nothing.  Rhodes persisted as he began to lose control of his voice and began speaking rapidly in an elevated voice.  Raintree suddenly responded in English, “I don’t know who the fuck you are or he is.  I don’t know shit.” The bodyguard untied the right hand of Raintree and put in on the table between them.  With an unexpected swiftness, Rhodes brought out a small knife and stabbed Raintree’s hand, securing it to the table.  Raintree yelled in pain and John yelled in terror, calling Rhodes and the Bodyguard terrorist shitheads whose mother’s shoes were made from camel shit. 

Rhodes turned to John, and yelled, “This will happen to you.  Tell me who you are, why you are here, you American killer of Persian children.”

Rhodes hit John with a Glock he pulled from his waist, sending John again into the twilight of unconsciousness. 

Rhodes turned back to Raintree and in English said, “Why are you here? I need to know now, before you die.  Tell me now.”

Raintree, yelling in pain, said, “I know nothing.  I am a worshipper at the Mosque.  You are a piece of putrid dog meat, I am a loyal Persian, a worshipper of Khomeini.”

“You are an American and you must tell me what you know before you die,” yelled Rhodes.

Raintree yelled back, “I know nothing.  Let me return to the Mosque and complete my prayers to Allah.”

Rhodes looked at his bodyguard.  In response, the bodyguard swiftly brought down a sword John had not seen in his hand.  He raised it over the table and with obvious force, severed Raintree’s hand from his wrist.  Blood began to spatter and in pain Raintree screamed as loud as a man could, knowing he would soon and slowly die.  Raintree's head dropped and John knew he was out.

Rhodes turned to John.  “Tell me who you are and why you are here.  I have no time to waste.  I will remove every limb you have until you beg me to tell the truth.”

With an uncontrollable anger and without thinking, John screamed, “I don’t know anything, you cancerous scum.  Kill me or torture me, you’ll know the same thing.  I know nothing.”

John heard in the distance what he thought was a small explosion, followed by gunfire.  Rhodes and the bodyguard spoke rapidly in Farsi, then looked at the guard with his AK-47, and said something to him, and left the room.  The gunfire increased in volume and he heard elevated voices through the door.  For no reason, the one guard who remained in the room fell down on the floor and remained motionless.  He saw the room light up a bit from the sun as day turned to dusk.  It was the other door in the room that was opening.  John looked at a woman, dressed in a long black burka and a hijab, silhouetted in the doorway in the light of the dimly lighted sky.  She came into the room and with a small knife cut John’s bindings.  He could not see her face except for the eyes.  She handed him a key, pointed to a small truck parked in the alley ten feet away, and said in perfect English, “Take the white car, and hurry.”

John reached over to the fallen guard, took the AK-47, found the guard’s cellphone, and said, “I have to take my friend.”

She replied, “You don’t have time.” John reached for her knife and cut Raintree’s bindings and tied one around Raintree’s lower arm to stop the bleeding.  Raintree was semi-conscious, got out of the chair, and with John helping him, walked out the door.  John looked at the woman.  Her face was covered but she had dark skin and dark intelligent eyes.  “Take your friend's hand.  Leave no fingerprints.  The guard will waken tomorrow.  He will be interrogated and then they will kill him.”

“Who are you?” he asked as he pulled Raintree out the door.

“Shalom,” she said as she closed the door.  The three of them left the room, and she disappeared.

John put Raintree in the passenger seat of the vehicle.  It was small.  John got behind the wheel and drove East in the underpowered and undersized vehicle, driving towards the fading sun.  Raintree snapped out of his sluggishness and told John, “Drive east on highway 44 towards Gasmar.  I have contacts there.”

“The guy in the suit was Darby,” said John.

“That was Nasar Khalili,” grunted Raintree, obviously fighting the pain.  “He was a minor player in the new state police that followed the terror traditions of Savak under the Shah.  They have been replaced by the Ministry of Intelligence and National Security of the Islamic Republic of Iran.  A lot of the leaders are the same people who worked for Savak.  They have been "Rehabilitated" and now carry out the work of the Ayatollahs.  If he is part of some plan, it is the government’s plan.  It is big.  Probably a response to the inauguration day bombing.  Something is going down soon.  Normally you would be taken to Evin Prison, worked on for weeks.  You would tell them everything you know and then you would be hanged.  They didn’t have the time to do that.  For some reason they could not wait.  Something is happening soon.”

After about forty minutes on a paved four lane highway, John saw a road sign in Persian and English indicated Gosmar was coming up in a few clicks.  Before reaching the town, Raintree told John to turn north into an industrial area.  They began a slow climb from the barren desert into the higher mountains.  There was no one on the road.  Raintree told him to pull up one of the side roads, which was a dirt track more than it was a road, cut out of the side of the hill, and a cliff on one side with a ten foot drop to a dry streambed.  The road became steeper.  Raintree told him to stop.  “We have to make sure we’re not followed before we make any contact for help.” John killed the headlights and turned the vehicle around, and parked as far into the hill side of the road as he could.  He turned the engine off.  They waited leaning against the vehicle.  He could see the headlights of the sparse traffic on Highway 44 about two miles away, and he could see the paved road that turned off of Highway 44, and he had a clear view of the dirt road all the way to the paved road which was about 1000 yards down from where they parked.  It was as quiet as a place could be.  Twenty minutes passed and John saw a pair of headlights turn north on the paved road off Highway 44. 

“We may have visitors,” whispered John.  Raintree and John watched silently as the vehicle moved at a slow pace up the paved road.  The headlights slowed as it approached the turnoff on the dirt road where they stood.  “Who are they?” asked John.  “Could it be one of your guys?”

“Our guys don’t know where we are,” said Raintree.  “There is no reason for anyone to be on this road.  It leads to an abandoned salt mine.  What did you bring from the killing room?” asked Raintree.

“Just the AK-47 and the guard’s cell phone,” answered John.

“Give me the cell phone,” said Raintree.  John gave him the cell phone.  It was on.  “This is how they found us.  I hate to do this cause I think we’re going to need it.” He threw the cell phone on the dirt and crushed it with his foot.  Simultaneously the headlights on the road slowed to a stop.  After a moment the headlights slowly turned up the dirt road in their direction.  “Get the
Kalashnikov
.  The range of that thing is about 400 yards.  When they get within range, shoot the driver.  I would do it but I don’t have a right hand.”

The vehicle moved cautiously up the road.  John leaned on the hood of the car, cradled the barrel grip in his left hand and viewed the vehicle using the grooved aiming sight on the rifle that had been made for close-in assault, and not long range sniping.  The vehicle got within 300 yards and for no reason, stopped, and turned off its headlights.  Nothing happened in the silence for a few minutes.  Then the passenger door opened and a man got out and looked up the road.  John could barely see him in the very dark night.  That meant there were at least two persons in the vehicle, maybe more.  The passenger walked slowly towards them.  John kept his sights on the driver’s side windshield.  He could hear the passenger talking quietly to someone in the car.  The passenger quickly turned back to the vehicle, started speaking loudly and began to run back to the vehicle.  He got into the passenger side, the headlights went on, and the engine started.  The car began to quickly move back down the hill in reverse.

“Shoot, John.  Shoot now, or we’ll have every security cop in Iran on our ass in ten minutes,” said Raintree.  John focused on the driver’s side window, and the anger rose in him that he had to kill again, not absolutely sure that the men in the vehicle were looking for him and Raintree.  But he had no choice.  The risk was too high to let them go.  He was justified.  Quietly he pulled the trigger.  He heard the sound of impact and breaking glass.  The car began to weave back and forth down the hill, until it weaved too far and went over the road, down about ten feet to the stream bed.  The vehicle rolled over completely, landed upside down, and a moment later burst into flame.  John and Raintree froze in their spot and waited.  They could hear the sound of men’s voices, painful, calling out.  The flames subsided and the voices lowered.