The House of the Mosque (41 page)

He leapt from the tree to the roof and disappeared.

Muezzin brandished his walking stick. ‘Who are you?’ he repeated. ‘What are you doing here?’

There was no answer.

‘Stop that, you idiot!’ Muezzin said. He waved his walking stick again. ‘Stop banging on the door, you bastard, or I’ll beat the shit out of you!’

But the man didn’t stop. Muezzin was about to hit him when Fakhri Sadat cried, ‘No, don’t! He’s mentally ill!’ And she dragged Muezzin away by his coat.

Only when Aqa Jaan arrived on the scene did the man stop pounding. ‘What’s going on here?’ he asked. Since the man was standing in the shadow of the library wall, Aqa Jaan couldn’t see him very well. ‘What’s your name, sir?’

There was no response.

‘Step away from the shadow so I can see you,’ Aqa Jaan said. ‘Give me your hand, I won’t hurt you, I’m just going to lead you out of the shadow.’ Aqa Jaan calmly took the man by the arm and led him into the sunlight.

‘Would you like something to drink? Are you hungry?’

The man’s eyes filled with tears.

Those eyes were familiar . . .

‘Allah, Allah!’ exclaimed Aqa Jaan. ‘Fakhri, it’s our Ahmad!’

Muezzin reached out to touch him. He ran his fingers over Ahmad’s hat and down his face, then pulled him close and wrapped him in his arms.

Fakhri Sadat laid her head on his shoulder and wept. ‘Oh, Ahmad!’ she said. ‘Our Ahmad! Let’s go inside. What have they done to you? How dare they! Come, everything will be all right.’

Aqa Jaan unlocked the library door for him, but Ahmad didn’t go in. Instead, he shuffled over to the guest room, opened the door, went inside, took off his shoes and sank down on the bed.

‘Let him sleep,’ Fakhri said to Aqa Jaan and Muezzin.

Khalkhal had arranged for Ahmad’s early release from prison, but the life had been drained out of Ahmad. After his arrest, his wife and child had gone back to live with her parents, and her influential father – a staunch supporter of the regime – had arranged a divorce and seen to it that his daughter had been awarded custody of the child. Ahmad had been robbed of his fatherhood.

The next morning Fakhri Sadat called him for breakfast, but Ahmad was still unresponsive. So she went to his room, helped him out of bed and brought him outside, where she lovingly washed his hands and face in the
hauz
and led him to the library, so he could see that the door was now open.

He went in and shuffled past the bookcases, running his finger over the spines of the books. He switched on the antique reading lamp on his desk and touched his chair, but didn’t sit down. Then he went out again and shuffled over to his old room, where he looked at his bed, his chair and his notebook – the one in which he used to jot down his ideas for the Friday prayers – and then sat down on the bed.

He sat there all day, staring vacantly into space. Aqa Jaan brought him some food and tried to talk to him, but he could see that Ahmad wasn’t ready to talk, that he needed to be left alone for a while.

That night Ahmad packed his suitcase and left.

Lizard saw him leave and hurried over to alert Aqa Jaan. But it was too late. He had gone.

T
here was fierce fighting at the front. Iranian troops had recaptured a number of strategic areas and opened a new front in Iraqi territory, but it looked as though they’d never be able to oust the Iraqis from the vital oil cities of Khorramshahr and Abadan. Saddam used bombs and chemical weapons to keep the Iranians away from those cities.

The leftist opposition had been almost completely wiped out, but there was one organised group that the regime had so far left untouched: the Mujahideen. The members of the Mujahideen were devout Muslims, though their interpretation of the Koran differed from Khomeini’s. In public they pretended to support the regime, but in secret they were amassing weapons, so that they could strike when the time was right.

Khomeini declared them to be public enemy number one and warned that they were out to destroy the government from within. Now that Iran was fighting an endless war and growing weaker by the day, he wanted this internal foe to be eliminated once and for all. Because the Mujahideen were Muslims, however, Khomeini couldn’t simply make them disappear.

An emergency meeting of the Executive Committee of the Islamic Republic was called to discuss the matter. They reached a unanimous decision: the Mujahideen, like the leftist opposition before them, were to be wiped out at once.

Jeeps were driven in the middle of the night to the homes of the Mujahideen leaders. Armed agents burst into their homes from the rooftops, but not a single leader was found. They had all fled.

Clearly, they’d had advance warning. It seemed that the Executive Committee had a spy in its midst.

The chairman, Ayatollah Beheshti, called another committee meeting. He assumed that the spy wouldn’t show up, thereby giving himself away, but all of the members were present and accounted for. They spent a long time discussing the possible source of the leak.

‘I think I know how the information was leaked and who leaked it,’ said one of the members, a man known for his keen mind and decisiveness. The other men looked at him in surprise and waited breathlessly for him to reveal the name.

He surreptitiously slid his black briefcase, which was under the table, closer to Beheshti’s feet, then stood up. ‘I have proof,’ he said. ‘It’s in my office. I’ll go and get it. I won’t be long.’

As soon as he left the conference room, he tore down the stairs, raced to his car, jumped in and roared off.

Before he even turned the corner, there was an explosion. The building behind him collapsed, sending up a huge cloud of fire and smoke, and killing every one of the committee members.

The news was announced on the radio. Crowds gathered round Khomeini’s residence to express their sympathy. He came out on the balcony and calmly delivered a speech. ‘
Enna lellah wa enna elayhi raje’un
,’ he began. ‘This time the Americans worked their evil through the Mujahideen. But it doesn’t matter, because Allah is on our side! I have appointed a new committee. We will not let anyone or anything stand in our way!’

The hunt for the Mujahideen supporters began at once. There was a spate of random shootings. Mujahideen sympathisers blocked off a few streets in the centre of Tehran and reached for their weapons. Street fighting broke out between the Mujahideen and the security troops.

Everyone who was arrested that day was summarily executed the very same night.

The next week, the chief of the secret police met with Khomeini to inform him of an urgent security issue. He knelt before Khomeini and kissed his hand. ‘The Mujahideen have managed to infiltrate the government at the highest levels,’ he whispered. ‘While our attention was focused on the front, they took over the most strategic posts. They’ve even penetrated your inner circle. I’ve put together a list of suspects in high ministerial positions. With your permission, I’ll notify the prime minister and have the suspects arrested at once.’

Khomeini put on his glasses, examined the list and gave his permission for everyone on it to be arrested.

The chief of the secret police went directly from Khomeini’s house to an undisclosed location, where a cabinet meeting was being held. First he spoke with the prime minister, relaying the gist of his conversation with Khomeini, then the two of them went to the cabinet meeting to inform the ministers.

The chief of the secret police came right to the point. ‘I’ve just come from the house of Imam Khomeini,’ he said. ‘I spoke to him in private, and he knows I’m here. I’m expecting a phone call from him at any moment. I’ve also spoken with the prime minister. The Mujahideen have infiltrated our—’

Just then the phone rang. The chief set his black briefcase on the table, excused himself and went into the adjoining office to take the call. He picked up the phone. ‘Yes, it’s me,’ he said, speaking loud enough for everyone in the next room to hear. ‘I’ve just spoken to the prime minister. Yes, I have it with me. No, wait, I may have left it in the car. Would you hold on for a moment? I’ll go and get it.’ He raised his voice at the end to make sure everyone heard him. Then he put down the phone, left the room, went down the stairs, got into his car and drove off at great speed. Nobody suspected a thing, since they had no way of knowing that history was repeating itself. The explosion shook the ground for miles around.

The Mujahideen’s fight against the regime continued. Week after week, bombs went off at random places throughout the city. But the regime was still going strong, despite the fact that Khomeini’s hand-picked cabinet had fallen for the same trick. When the Mujahideen realised that, they deliberately set out to create chaos in the city, setting fire to buses, banks and government buildings, and shooting as many functionaries as they could.

After a while their strategy began to look more like political suicide, for the Revolutionary Guard retaliated by arresting scores of sympathisers and ruthlessly shooting anyone who tried to escape. Within days, hundreds of members of the Mujahideen had been summarily executed.

The Mujahideen then abandoned the streets and switched to another tactic. This time they concentrated on acts of revenge. Focusing their wrath on the ayatollahs in the major cities, they set out to liquidate them one by one.

After the ayatollahs of Isfahan and Yazd had been assassinated, the Mujahideen stunned everyone by killing Ayatollah Mortazavi. An Islamic philosopher and one of the regime’s most important theorists, he held no political office of any kind. Instead, he taught young imams.

One day, when he was walking to his seminary, he was greeted by a young man: ‘
Salaam aleikum
, Ayatollah.’

‘
Salaam aleikum
, young man,’ the ayatollah replied.

‘I have a message for you.’

‘Oh? What is it?’

‘Your interpretation of the Koran is about to end!’

‘What do you mean it’s about to—’

‘I mean
now
!’ the young man said, and he fired three shots.

The chain of assassinations sowed fear and confusion in the regime. No one knew who the next target would be or where the next assassination would take place.

The ayatollah of Ghazvin was likewise singled out. His own cousin pulled the trigger. Only a few days before it happened, the ayatollah, worried about his security, had asked his cousin to be his chauffeur.

The ayatollah had spoken out against the attacks. ‘America is killing us, Saddam is killing us, the Mujahideen are killing us. But they haven’t killed our spirit! We taught America a lesson once before, and now it’s time to teach Saddam and the Mujahideen that same lesson!’

That night, after his impassioned speech, his cousin drove him home. ‘We’re going through such terrifying days,’ the ayatollah sighed.

‘And such terrifying nights,’ the cousin said as he drove into a side street.

‘Where are you taking me?’ the ayatollah asked.

‘To hell!’ the cousin said. And he pumped him full of bullets.

Nobody was safe any more. All it took was a whisper of suspicion against your neighbour, and he or she was immediately carted off to jail. The opposition went underground. Everyone who could possibly escape tried to flee the country.

The Mujahideen weren’t the only ones behind the assassinations. The armed factions of the leftist opposition carried out their own acts of revenge.

Despite the widespread fear, the ayatollahs refused to give in to the terror. They went about their business as usual. This was also true of Ayatollah Araki of Senejan. Everyone knew that he was a potential target, so he was surrounded by bodyguards.

Araki was a fanatic who wanted to turn Senejan into a model Islamic city. He spoke with loathing of the families of the men and women who had been executed, and he had given Zinat carte blanche in the women’s prison. She tortured the women until, at a sign from her, they lined up like robots and turned to face Mecca.

The residents of Senejan held their breath and waited for this hated ayatollah to be assassinated.

They didn’t have to wait long.

The sun had just set, and the heat in the courtyard was making way for the cool evening air when the door to Aqa Jaan’s study opened softly and someone came inside. Aqa Jaan, sitting in his chair and reading a book, thought it was Lizard.

He looked up. The last time he’d seen Shahbal had been the night they’d taken Jawad’s body to the mountains for burial. Shahbal had left immediately afterwards. Now, here he was, standing in the study.

Aqa Jaan took off his glasses. ‘I wasn’t expecting you. When did you get home?’

‘Just now.’

‘Have you seen your father?’

‘Not yet. I happened to be in Senejan and thought I’d drop by.’

There was a tremor in his voice.

Fate, Aqa Jaan thought, was about to strike again.

The door opened softly a second time and Lizard crept in. He could see by the look on Aqa Jaan’s face that he wasn’t welcome, so he quietly shut the door behind him and sat down outside.

‘What do you mean you happened to be in Senejan?’ Aqa Jaan said.

‘I had a couple of things I needed to do here, so I thought I’d take advantage of the opportunity to come by and say hello.’

‘Why don’t you sit down? Here, have a chair.’

‘I can’t stay long. I have to leave soon. Actually, I came to say goodbye.’

‘Goodbye? Why? Where are you going?’

‘I’m not sure. I have to wrap up some unfinished business, then I’ll probably be leaving the country for a while. I wanted to see you before I left. I’m sorry, but I . . .’ He looked at his watch. ‘I’ve got to go.’

‘What are you trying to tell me, my boy?’

Through the window Aqa Jaan saw the silhouette of Muezzin, though he made no move to come in.