The Moving Prison (25 page)

He had made good money by acting as informant for the revolutionary committees. This particular job was a little more dangerous than most, and he would choke plenty of
rials
from them in payment. But so far, everything was going as expected. Unseen by the rest of the squad, the
pasdars
filtered into the area from the side corridors. They wore plain clothes, so they were as unobtrusive as the guerrillas themselves. But Firouz saw the bulges beneath their clothing as they closed in on their targets.

There would be a lot of lead in the air in a few moments.
What a tragedy if a few mullahs catch a stray bullet
, he smirked inwardly.
This is going to be amusing as well as exciting.

Esther felt her breath catch in her throat. That man lounging against the wall by the mullah’s gate looked like—he
was
Moosa! Instantly, she scented danger in the air. His late-night forays, his obstinate silence, the gun, the proximity of so many mullahs…. Nauseated by a sudden rush of adrenaline, she scurried to Ezra’s side.

He looked at her, apprehension starching his features. “What is it, Esther? What’s wrong?”

“Look there!” she pointed. Ezra’s eyes followed her trembling finger. When he recognized his son, a loud gasp of panic rushed in through his gaping mouth. He strode toward the slouched, watchful figure of his son.

“Ezra!” his wife moaned at his back, “be careful!”

“Moosa!” he called, closing rapidly on the gangster disguised as his son.

Moosa’s head jerked around at hearing his name, and his face slackened in shock when he saw his father approaching. Over Ezra’s shoulder, he could see the dismayed faces of his mother and sister.
Why are they still here? Their flight was to have left an hour ago!
As his mind raced in frenzy, he saw the Swissair jet only now approaching their gate. A delayed flight!
Why on this of all days …

“Father!” he hissed, white-eyed with horror, “get away from here! You don’t know—”

Marandi almost laughed aloud.
So! This Jew is the son of that one!
Who wouldn’t assume that the father was a collaborator? He would kill two Jews today!

The first passengers from the jet were approaching the entrance to the gate as Marandi unslung his semiautomatic from its hiding place beneath his caftan. Yanking back the bolt, he grinned as he aimed the muzzle at the two Jews.

Moosa heard the click of the weapon. From the corner of his eye he saw the dark hole of Marandi’s gun pointed at him. He shoved his father violently in the chest, flinging him hard onto his back with the unexpected thrust. He charged Marandi, shouting, “No! He’s my father—”

Marandi’s burst caught him in the chest, just as the nearest
pasdar
—who had slipped unseen behind the informant—opened fire. A spray of blood spewed from Moosa’s chest as he fell, wide-eyed with the tragic surprise of the betrayed. Lying on his back in the echoing, darkening world, he saw Marandi fall, the traitor himself a victim of treachery.

The crowds around them screamed and dropped to the floor as the first shots erupted. All around the perimeter of Gate 13, guerillas died in short, thrifty bursts of gunfire as the
pasdars
acted on the information supplied to them by the now-dead informant.

Esther clambered to her feet, her legs wobbling with terror. “Ezra!” she screamed, racing madly to where he lay, spattered with the blood of his son. His eyes were open wide, his mouth moving.
“Moosa …”
his lips framed in silent urgency
. “Moosa …”

She looked up, her eyes drawn in horror to the splintered chest of her son. She crawled to him, vaguely aware of the distant ululating wail—her own voice. Cradling his head in her lap, she moaned the timeless, wordless dirge of the bereaved mother, a sound that rose up from the darkness of forgotten time like a death-groan from a well.

Moosa’s eyes flickered open to her face. His lips moved. She bent near.

“Go.”

Dumb with grief and confusion, she looked into his eyes. Feebly his fingertips brushed her
chador
, as if to push her away. “Go!” he whispered, his voice quiet with the urgency of the dying.

Feebly he turned his face to peer toward Gate 12, even as his soul shuddered from his body. With tears flooding from her eyes like rain, she turned her gaze in the direction it seemed to her, that Moosa’s spirit had yearned in its final flight. Toward Gate 12. Toward freedom.

As she stood, she felt hands on her shoulders. She turned, thinking to see Ezra beside her; but it was Nader Hafizi who gripped her arms and peered into her face in urgency. “Esther
khanom
, hurry! It is now more important than ever for you to leave Iran at once! Come!”

The mullah had raised Ezra to his feet, stiff-limbed and dumb with shock. Through the wailing maelstrom of confusion that had descended, he herded the two of them toward Gate 12, where Sepi stood trembling, unable to remove her face from her hands.

“Esther
khanom
,” the mullah murmured tersely, “quickly, turn your
chador
inside out. The blood stains will attract attention.”

An insane cry—half laugh, half sob—sprang from her throat, before she clapped a hand over her mouth.
No, indeed!
she thought,
We surely don’t want to attract attention!
Unnoticed in the general hysteria, she adjusted her garment.

The mullah guided the three blinded, staggering wretches toward the door of Gate 12, even as
pasdars
poured into the area, swiftly imposing order on the frenzied, shrieking crowds. The bodies and blood stains of the guerrillas were removed, the area efficiently secured, and the patrons calmed. Within thirty minutes, the only evidences of the foiled ambush were the muted murmurs of the bystanders, the edgy glances and wan faces of those who had lived through the one-sided melee.

Looking somewhat befuddled at the unexplained delay, the Iraqi mullah came through the door of Gate 13 and was welcomed—in a slightly wilted fashion, by his greeting committee. At almost the same instant, the door to Gate 12 was blocked by three
pasdars
and an officious weasel of a man who announced in a reedy voice, “Unfortunately, we must reinspect the passports of all those wishing to leave the country. Please form a line.”

TWENTY-SIX

Hafizi stepped up to the official, pulling the Ayatollah’s letter from his pocket. “These three people,” he said, gesturing toward the Solaimans, “are, by order of the Imam himself, not to be detained on their way out of Iran. I am charged with expediting their journey.” He thrust the letter in the man’s face as he concluded, “I assume you will honor the wishes of the Ayatollah Khomeini?” He glared at the sweating inspector, whose Adam’s apple bobbed repeatedly as he scanned the document.

In half a minute, the official handed the letter back to Hafizi, a nervous twitching across his face. “Allow these people into the boarding area,” he snapped. One of the
pasdars
opened the door.

“You,” snapped the mullah at one of the
pasdars
, “fetch their luggage.” He jerked a thumb imperiously at the valises and handbags beside the door. Grumbling, the soldier stopped to comply.

Hafizi shepherded his three blank-eyed charges through. The official stared after them, his expression was awe mingled with traces of suspicion. The
pasdar
tossed their luggage in a heap just outside the doorway.

The door closed behind them, and they stood on the tarmac of the airport runway. Although the steps had been wheeled to the door of the Swissair craft, because of the disturbance inside the terminal, no one had yet been permitted to deplane. As they waited for the hatch to open, Hafizi gripped Ezra by the shoulders and shook him like an errant child.

“
Aga
Solaiman!
Aga
Solaiman! Wake up! You must come back! Someone must take charge!”

Ezra’s eyes twitched toward the mullah, then away, back into the trackless abyss of sorrow where he wandered.

“Ezra!” By now Hafizi was shouting. “Moosa is gone! Neither your death, nor that of your wife and daughter, will bring him back! Do you wish all this to have been for nothing?”

In a blinding, rending rush, the world snapped back into place within Ezra Solaiman. In sudden recognition, with instant, horrified memory, his eyes leapt out toward the mullah. “My son!” he gasped, clenching Hafizi’s upper arms with a desperate grip, “my son is dead! God in heaven, how can this be?” He sobbed aloud, his face raised blind to the sky, his fingers digging into the mullah’s flesh, seeking some mooring, some point of anchorage against the storm of madness that dragged him.

Hafizi pulled him against his breast, hugging him fiercely as if attempting to hold down a wild winged thing that strained to spring into the air. “Yes,
baradar!
” he said, teeth clenched, into Ezra’s ear. “He is dead! But you are alive, and your wife and daughter. You deserve a future, a chance to live past all this hatred, this mindless violence! Be strong now! You must have strength enough for the three of you.” Hafizi stepped back, took Khomeini’s letter out of his pocket, and carefully placed it in Ezra’s hand. Looking at Ezra, he said, “I have come as far as I can.”

As Ezra’s eyes locked with his, an understanding beyond words passed between them. Just then, the door to the aircraft opened. Arriving passengers, complaining loudly about being delayed inside a cramped, stuffy cabin, began descending the stairs.

When the aircraft was cleared, the Solaimans were permitted to board. They shouldered their handbags and valises. After clasping Nader Hafizi in a final, firm embrace, Ezra guided Esther and Sepi up the steps, toward the small dark doorway to freedom. They were greeted atop the stairs by a smiling, efficient flight attendant who glanced at their boarding passes and gestured toward their seats. Sidling down the narrow central aisle of the 707, they arrived at their places. Numbly, Esther began to heave her shoulder bag into the luggage rack above, but Ezra stayed her.

“We’ll put the valises in the racks,” he told them, “but not the handbags. They should stay beneath the seats … where they’ll be easy to reach.”

Their eyes stared blankly at him; then they turned to comply.

For ten or fifteen minutes, they were the only ones on the plane. Then the other passengers, who had been unable to avoid the tedious passport checkpoint, began trickling into the cabin. Esther and Sepi were seated next to each other, Ezra just across the aisle. Presently, the occupant of the window seat arrived, glancing from his boarding pass to the vacant place beside Ezra.

Ezra glanced up, wincing inwardly. Inevitably, the man was corpulent, laden with baggage, and perspiring heavily. Quietly Ezra got out of his seat, managing a polite smile as his seatmate began unloading and arranging his paraphernalia. After he had stowed his baggage in the rack, grunting heavily as he shoved and pushed the things into place, he managed to wedge himself between the armrests of the window seat.

The cabin was nearly full. Ezra edged into his seat, trying to avoid contact with the sweaty bulk of a man next to him. As he was buckling himself into place, he glanced up and dropped the ends of his seat belt from suddenly nerveless fingers.

Ahmed Dabirian had just entered the cabin, after showing some sort of badge to the flight attendant. The cabinetmaker was making his way down the center aisle, swiveling his eyes this way and that, carefully inspecting the face of each person he passed.

There was only one reason that Ahmed Dabirian could be on this aircraft. With a dull pounding in his ears, Ezra watched the approach of the carpenter. Unaccountably, he found himself slightly amused by the sawdust in Dabirian’s beard. He imagined the ludicrous picture: himself handcuffed and led off the plane by a ragtag Islamic official who looked as though he had only just left his workbench.

Dabirian saw him, elbowed his way past the squirming passengers, and came to stand over Ezra, his face grim with purpose.

Esther felt the presence of someone standing beside her in the aisle longer than should have been the case. She stirred from her dark trance to peer upward and recognized the figure of Ahmed Dabirian looming above her husband. She closed her eyes and bowed her head.
This is surely the end
. Without consciously willing it, she began silently cursing Ezra’s stubborn insistence on his own cleverness.

“
Aga
Solaiman,” Dabirian was saying in a quiet, serious voice, “you have done a bad thing.”

Ezra felt his heart twisting inside him, as if someone had reached through his ribs and clamped it in a steel-fisted grip.

“You thought, perhaps,” continued Dabirian, “that an uneducated man, such as myself, would not be clever enough to discover the purpose for the empty space at the bottom of your so-called shipping crate.” The carpenter stared down at Ezra in silence, slowly shaking his head from side to side.

Any minute now
, thought Ezra with the fatalistic clarity of the doomed,
the
pasdars
will come up the aisle and take me away. Can they be persuaded to allow Esther and Sepi to go on their way?
He began composing a plea in his mind—some entreaty that would influence Dabirian to allow his wife and daughter to go to safety. He realized the cabinetmaker was speaking again.

“This hurts me deeply,
Aga
Solaiman. I have had many dealings with you, and always we have treated each other with complete fairness. That you would presume to take advantage of our friendship wounds me deeply.”

The area of the cabin immediately around them had grown very still; Ezra was acutely aware of the eyes, the silent faces of the other passengers. The man sitting beside him had not moved since Dabirian had arrived. From the corner of his eye, Ezra sensed the fellow staring, open-mouthed, as Dabirian reached into an inside pocket of his coat and drew out two bundles of American dollars.

There was an audible intake of breath as the currency came into view. It was not difficult to see the numbers printed on the topmost bills in the stacks. The man standing in the aisle was holding some $20,000!

“Because of my personal regard for you,
Aga
Solaiman,” Dabirian was saying, “I am not going to arrest you.” He paused, as if in debate with himself. “I have prayed much about this matter,” he muttered, “and I have decided that to show mercy in such a case is not an altogether bad thing…. But my duty will not permit me to allow this money to be taken out of Iran. It will be given to the poor—so perhaps my act of mercy will not, after all, be fruitless. No one will know the source of the money. I will see to that.”

Ezra realized that Dabirian was not going to send him back to Evin Prison. He felt a slight breeze of hope wafting through his mind, then remembered Moosa’s bloodied body, lying on the floor of the terminal.

“I wish you well,
Aga
Solaiman,” finished Dabirian. “I mean this with all sincerity.” Gravely he bowed toward Ezra, turned and nodded toward Esther. Then he strode down the aisle to the front of the cabin and was gone.

This is a tragic exodus
, thought Ezra, as he surrendered to the dark gauzy curtains of exhaustion falling across his vision.
This time, the blood of the firstborn is on us—and we must hide it at all costs.
Then he was unconscious.

He was awakened by the landing gear, the grinding rumble of the jet’s wheels as they slammed into a tarmac. He clawed his way out of the darkness of sleep and looked across the aisle at his wife.

“We’re in Geneva,” she announced in a voice devoid of all inflection.

Later the taxi dropped them in front of the nearest hotel. Wearily the three refugees leaned against the walls of the elevator cubicle. Wearily they slogged down the dark hallway to the door where the number matched that of the room key the desk clerk had issued.

They went inside. “Place the shoulder bags on the bed,” said Ezra. Esther and Sepi shrugged their satchels onto the bed beside Ezra’s. He unzipped the nearest one—Esther’s—and unceremoniously turned it upside down, dumping the contents in a tangled heap atop the bedclothes.

Tumbling from the bottom of the bag came just over $300,000, done up in the same neat bundles as those confiscated by Ahmed Dabirian. Ezra repeated the process with the other two bags, with the same result.

The three of them gazed silently at the money—the sum total, Ezra reflected, of his life of careful planning and toil. He had managed, despite everything, to bring this out of Iran.

It was not enough.