The Screaming Eagles (2 page)

“Thank you, Sadegh, you are very kind. Thank you.”

Sadegh smiled, patting Michael on the arm. “Nonsense, my friend, you do not have to thank me. I am delighted I can save you a drive to my office. Our traffic delays can be very trying on occasions. That’s what friends are for.”

For the rest of the trip, their relationship was relaxed. Sadegh was knowledgeable about foreign affairs, especially the United States. Admiringly, Michael complimented him one evening while they were having drinks at the airport, waiting to board a plane for Iran.

“Foreign countries have been a lifetime hobby of mine. I enjoy the power that comes with usually knowing more about a country than most of the people who live in it. One day when I retire at the ripe old age of ninety-nine, I would like to be invited to join a think tank, preferably somewhere in the States.”

“Why ninety-nine?”

“Because,” he said, pausing for effect, “a hundred will make me a very old man. Who would want to employ a very old man?”

Smiling, Sadegh looked at him.

This was a new side of Sadegh not seen before. On numerous occasions when they met, if Sadegh was unsure or felt that he was not in control of a situation, Sadegh’s face would harden, especially his eyes, which at times seemed so dark that they were a deep fierce color of black.

He had been suckered and wondered if Sadegh’s weak joke, translated into the Iranian language, Farsi or one of its dialects, had more punch and something had been lost in the translation. It seemed corny. It was so out of character for Sadegh, but he continued the charade by smiling. After all, Sadegh was the client.

Looking at his watch again he saw it was four fifteen. Sadegh was nearly half an hour late. Sadegh was never late. Was he sending a message or making a statement? In his mind, Michael replayed last week’s threat to attend the hanging. Maybe it was an ego thing. Maybe he needed to show that even though Michael had saved him a hundred thousand dollars, he, Sadegh, was in control.

He knew Michael was counting on his introducing him to some of his friends. This was how he obtained most of his clients, by recommendation. Sadegh knew this, and Michael knew this. They both knew it was the potential of future commissions on sales that had brought him to the hanging.

There was no way that he was going to antagonize Sadegh; he’d recognized him for what he was, a classical mean-spirited, and dangerous abuser: first rage, then domination, then control. He ranted and raged at the restaurant. The domination was making Michael come to the hanging. The control was Sadegh’s toying with him by keeping him waiting. Abuse was not strictly men beating up women; it was also a boss-employee relationship, or a ten-year-old bullying a five-year-old at school, or a terrorist hijacking a planeload of people.

Rage?domination?control. He began to have second thoughts about the clients to whom Sadegh would introduce him. Would they all be manipulators like Sadegh? Could he comfortably do business with them? He felt someone touch his arm. “Hello Michael. Here are the papers for my Chicago properties.” Sadegh spoke perfect English with an American accent, having lived in Washington D.C. during his teenage years. After school, he went to West Point, finishing in the top five percent of his class. He returned to Iran and quickly rose to the rank of Savak general.

He had a thick beard, was powerfully built, with the bearing of a military man, back ramrod straight. Turning, he saw Sadegh smiling and shook his hand, taking the envelope.

“Today you will witness an historic event. These men who will hang are the vilest of scum. Remember Michael, they are not men, but scum who soil our motherland with their filth. Consider them as you would a mosquito. As the parasite settles onto your body, it will begin sucking blood immediately, so you squash it as fast as you can and deny the creature your precious blood. This is what these traitors to society are. They spread disease. They need to be squashed and eliminated before they suck out the lifeblood of our country and contaminate it with acts of treason. In a few minutes, that is what we will do. We kill them. Then they can’t suck any more blood or irritate us anymore.” He shook Michael’s hand again, bowed slightly turned and began walking away. His six bodyguards fell in on either side of him, their heads turning continuously, searching the crowd, guns cocked and at the ready.

Delighted at Sadegh’s friendliness and with the envelope safely in his pocket, Michael walked toward an open area where merchants were selling hot dogs, cigarettes, candy, sweet sticky baklava, and pistachio nuts. A makeshift restaurant with tables and chairs, some under umbrellas, was selling chelo or joo-joo kebabs. He ordered spiced chelo kebab and sat down under an umbrella. This was Iran’s national dish, made up of barbecued meat or chicken skewered, served on a bed of fine-grained plump white rice. This type of rice, with its sharp white color, could only be found in Iran. When it was brought to his table, he took a large spoonful of butter and put it into the hot rice. As it melted, he cracked open an egg, which had been cooked for less than a minute, poured it onto the rice, thoroughly mixing it until the mixture turned moist and yellow. He was pleased with himself. Sadegh wasn’t angry any longer. This would mean introductions to important people, future clients, future commissions. However, Michael had to come to terms first with abusive situations that he anticipated in the future if Sadegh’s friends were anything like he was. He was sure they would be.

Eating leisurely, Michael looked around, wondering how much longer before the criminals were hanged. He wished they’d hurry up so that he could leave, noticing heavily armed troops were stationed strategically on surrounding rooftops. Jeeps with machine guns were conspicuously patrolling along the perimeter of the huge crowd.

A hush settled as three men, a police captain and two sergeants, marched smartly up the ramp to where ropes one and one-half inches thick, were fashioned into nooses. The nooses moved lazily in the slight wind. Quiet settled over all spectators, even the hotly contested soccer game stopped. All eyes watched the captain and his two assistants as they checked ropes, metal clasps and trap doors. The hangman was doing a job, performing a task for the people, so he was unmasked, as were his helpers. Victims and their families knew it was not personal, so they did not vow blood revenge. They were grateful if he did his job well and efficiently so that their loved ones would die quickly with a minimum of suffering.

These people about to be hanged meant nothing to Michael. They were anonymous, just faces in a crowd. Getting up from his table, he planned to leave as soon as possible afterwards positioning himself near one of the exits. He found himself very close to the gallows.@A parking lot outside was reserved for hearses.

The three drivers were smoking and telling each other jokes as they sat in the shade playing backgammon, or “sheshbesh,” as Iranians called their favorite game. A large stone had been placed on their betting money next to the board.

The drivers were oblivious of the gallows, which were a few yards behind them on the other side of the wall. It was hard to understand how playing dice was so much more important than what was taking place behind the wall.

Family members and friends were seated below the gallows in an area roped off for them. Dressed in mourning clothes, the families were positioned near wheelbarrows that would transport the bodies to be washed and made ready for burial. Coffins had been selected and measurements taken. Special mementos requested by the condemned men were carried in bags and purses. These mementos would be placed on top of each body before the coffins were nailed shut. Weeping, mourners supported each other. They rocked from side to side in their grief, sobbing quietly; a few had smeared sand on their hair and faces.

Others had sticks and were praying as they methodically hit themselves on their chests and shoulders.

They’d said their private farewells to the condemned man the previous night. The next time each would see the other, one of them would be minutes from death. What topics would or could be spoken about to a loved one about to be executed in a few hours? Did all people say more or less the same things? Did one comfort the condemned or encourage him, or both? Were their conversations monitored or taped? How did a family cope with the aftermath of an execution? Conversely, how could a family willingly sit on a chair in front of a taunting crowd and watch how their loved one suffered as they were being killed?

Surely it would be better not to watch the frantic kicking of their feet as they dropped through the trapdoor and died an agonizing death of slow strangulation which continued for many minutes as the noose got tighter and ever tighter. Was their need to be there an affirmation to the condemned man that his family was with him to the gruesome, painful end? Maybe he could ask Sadegh if it was an Iranian custom for a family to be present at an execution. This would surely please Sadegh and show the interest he’d taken in the proceedings.

Michael was becoming agitated. He was supposed to be just a disinterested spectator. Why then did he find himself moralizing? He thought about the sudden dilemma confronting him and realized that although he had psyched himself into not caring, he knew now he did care. Had the commission on the sale of Chicago properties clouded his judgment? Had he sold his soul to Sadegh? Was his integrity only worth sixty thousand dollars? No matter how he tried to justify it, what he was witnessing was barbaric. Cruelty was being ruthlessly and callously inflicted and by him being there he was no different than the drivers of the hearses who played sheshbesh. He wanted out. To hell with Sadegh’s, potential clients. Angrily, he made his way toward an exit, looking at the roped off enclosure where mourners sat a few feet away from him.

Standing to one side, slightly away from the other mourners, was a young boy.

The boy reminded him of someone. Puzzled, he couldn’t think of whom. He stopped, feeling uneasy, for he was sure he’d seem him before somewhere. Maybe the boy packed his groceries at the supermarket or pumped his gas at a gas station. He tried to dismiss his uneasiness, but something didn’t feel right.

The young boy was dressed in clothes of the mountain Kurds; baggy pants, long loose shirt, long scarf. His multicolored hat was in his hand. Michael estimated him to be about twelve years old and found it odd that he was not distraught or mourning loudly like the others were. The boy was slightly built with a shock of long, black hair. In the middle of his forehead, the size of a fist, was a patch of white hair slashing vivid against black curls.

Some of the teenage boys who’d been playing soccer ran toward the Kurd, throwing fruit and jeering. He ignored them. Annoyed, they started picking up stones and throwing them. Most stones missed, a few hit him, one drew blood on his cheek. He didn’t even look at them or touch his cheek. He just stood there intently watching the door of the prison.

Rapidly losing face in front of their girlfriends, one of the boys broke a bottle and started toward the Kurd.

Michael, forgetting he was leaving, moved quickly to position himself between the boys. The teen stopped, bottle still raised, poised to strike. Quietly, Michael said, “You really don’t want to do that. Leave him alone.”

Seconds went by. The teen looked at him with challenging eyes. His face began turning red with anger and humiliation. The standoff lasted about thirty seconds. His friends said nothing, unsure of who Michael was. Sullenly, the boy turned, threw the bottle onto the grass and walked away with an exaggerated swagger.

The Kurd didn’t look around or acknowledge Michael as he began walking toward the rope and stood next to him. A piece of rope separated them. One was a mourner, the other a spectator, but between them was also a culture of thousands of years.

The white patch of hair ruffled as the wind gusted. Then it hit Michael. The boy must be Dara’s son. Dara, chief of the Kurds in the Zaghros Mountains; 1967, the Six Day War. The boy had Dara’s face, the same white patch of hair. He was a small child when Michael had seen him last. This boy had to be his son. Now he began to see the resemblance, but what was Dara’s son doing standing near the gallows? Maybe Dara was with him or would join him later. Delighted, Michael turned excitedly to speak to the boy. If Dara was nearby, he wanted to speak to him.

Loud cheers erupted, drowning out the questions. Everyone jumped to his or her feet chanting. Sadegh had told Michael that bedlam would continue until the men were on the platform facing their nooses. Michael bent down to ask the little boy how he could find Dara, but the boy pulled away angrily and moved away from him.

The first prisoner walked awkwardly between four policemen, arms tied behind his back, his shaved head bowed. Shaving his head was the only option given the man who could choose to show his remorse and shame. He wore a white shirt, white trousers, and was barefoot. A ramp had been built because getting prisoners up stairs was too difficult especially if they resisted. The man had been fitted with a canvas diaper to be ready for the reflexive opening of his bowels immediately following “the awesome shudder.”

“The awesome shudder” was a final death throe, the last kicks his feet would make. On seeing this, a doctor would wait an additional ten minutes before examining him. The doctor would climb up a stepladder that was placed next to the hanged man. Carefully he would listen for heartbeats with his stethoscope. If the man were dead, the doctor would instruct the body to be lowered.

Gamblers had already started accepting odds. The crowd had been laying bets and would be watching a large clock mounted on top of a wagon. Each minute was divided into twelve, five-second units. Each unit was called number one, two, three and so on. The shortest odds were around two minutes, or twenty-four units, for the feet to stop kicking. Hanging deaths averaged between two and four minutes. However, if the victim had a muscular neck, it could take longer.

The designated chief of the gambling syndicate was affectionately called “Little Father.” He stood next to an iron handle. When the hangman pulled this handle, each trap door would open. Traveling at tremendous speeds, the bodies would fall to their deaths. As the hangman was about to pull the handle, “Little Father” would blow sharply on a whistle. No more bets could be laid once the whistle sounded.