The Screaming Eagles (4 page)

The paratrooper spoke into his walkie-talkie. “Entering terminal. One passenger, no luggage, briefcase only.”

“Where are the Iranian soldiers that used to be here?” Michael asked.

“Guarding El Al is now considered nonessential. We do all of our own security now. I leave you here. When are you returning to Israel?”

“Don’t know. Will have to see what happens to my business. I’ll buy a ticket when I know I’m leaving.”

“Shalom.”

He walked away, looking in each direction, talking into his walkie-talkie. Michael didn’t even know his name.

He showed his passport to immigration and walked past immobile luggage carousels, which looked like big metal snakes hibernating. Car-hire kiosks, lost luggage, hotel accommodation booths and limousine tour booths, all stood silent. Some were boarded up, empty shells like quiet sentinels watching over a graveyard. The silence was dark and eerily oppressive; except for the sound of his shoes hitting floor tiles. Nothing moved in the terminal. The area, which had been forced to serve five times as many travelers as it had been designed for, always frantic, bustling and chaotic, was now ominously quiet. Echoes from his shoes loudly surrounded him as he made his way to an exit.

Outside, he looked for a taxi. A huge crowd of people shouting, and pushing were trying to enter the departure area. Taxis, cars and buses continuously unloaded large groups of men women and children. Everyone was dragging suitcases, trunks and boxes; some had carpets rolled up. All women were wearing chadors, the long black veils covering their bodies from head to foot.

When he’d left two weeks ago, things were tense. Many people were leaving, but nothing like this. He wondered if the Shah was still in control.

*

As he was driven from the airport, he saw subtle and not so subtle changes. In shop windows, pictures of the Shah had always been obligatory. Now he saw only a few. Billboards on the side of the road proclaiming the Shah’s magnificence, wisdom and kindness had been defaced with graffiti. Signs declaring “Death to the Shah,” ” Khomeni the Just,” “Khomeni, Son of God,” “Khomeni our Leader, Imam Khomeni,” were written boldly on walls, tied onto lampposts, hanging from branches of trees. The pictures of Khomeni were also nailed to trees, stuck on rocks, viaducts and bridges. Women everywhere wore chadors.

The taxi driver, surprised and delighted to have found not only a fare from the airport, but also a foreigner who could speak Farsi, boasted his joy at the revolution which was happening in his country.

“Soon, Agha, you will see the coming of Messiah, the new age our Koran has foretold. With Khomeni, blessed be his name, as our great revered leader, Iran will challenge imperialist America, Russia and China for leadership of all peoples. First though, the scourge, the cancer, has to be forcibly cleansed, disposed of, eliminated. Never again will the stink of Shah’s devil, blaspheming regime of bloodsuckers, soil or pollute our beautiful, glorious, magnificent country.”

He gestured animatedly, alternately smiling and frowning. He watched his passenger closely in the mirror, sometimes turning around to emphasize a point. Michael professed total, absolute support of the driver’s views, sure that if he argued with this fanatic driving a taxi, that he would be killed and dumped in some alley with a slogan pinned to his body. Also, he needed to find out when the driver thought Khomeni would arrive. Michael asked him.

“Soon, Agha, very soon.”

“What about the curfew?”

“Stupid,” hissed the driver. “Only a crazy man could believe by stopping us coming out into the streets at night, he could stop our unstoppable revolution. The Shah is like a little child. He thinks that if he puts a blanket over his head, the bad men will go away. The only thing that happens during curfew is that there are no prostitutes on the streets. No man can make love to his sweetheart, then go back to his wife later that night. Restaurants, hotels, entertainment places, movies and shops close at six o’clock so that workers can get home before the stupid eight o’clock curfew. After eight o’clock, there are no doctors or ambulances available. If a person gets sick, they have to wait until morning. If they cannot wait, they die. Insha’Allah, God is Great.”

Michael realized that he would have to learn to adapt to this new Iran, this new freedom that allowed taxi drivers to denounce the Shah. Was this new era the end of the Iran that he had lived in? Shaken by the driver’s overt confidence, his willingness to boast of a revolution about to explode to a complete stranger. What if he would have been working for Savak, the secret police? Where was the fear and suspicion that was a way of life for the average Iranian?

This was scary; he had no idea what would be waiting for him. Could he function or cope in this new society? A society that allowed taxi drivers to openly call for the overthrow of their government, to all who took a cab ride on a Sunday afternoon from the airport. No Arab country anywhere allowed taxi drivers, students, opposition politicians or anyone else, to speak in the manner that this driver was speaking. The more confidence the man exuded, the greater was the certainty that the Shah was about to be overthrown.

Driving past the huge, strikingly beautiful Shah Yad monument, the driver spat out the window. “That monument’s name will be changed to Asadi, freedom. Just wait, Asadi.”

The driver dropped Michael at his apartment in Yusef-A-Bad. He over tipped him, as he didn’t want any arguments. He wanted him to think well of him. After all, he was a foreigner in this man’s country.

Only a few short weeks before, he’d been well liked and welcomed. Now, he was considered the enemy whose support kept the Shah in power.

Walking across a small bridge leading to his front door, he smelt the foulness of the joub, as usual it stank. Teheran, built on the side of a mountain, still had an open drain system which locals called the joub. It wound down the mountainside alongside each road. Everything and anything was thrown into the joub. When it rained or snowed, filth floated down the mountain and the stink wasn’t so bad, sometimes he could even open his windows, which overlooked the joub. They were kept tightly closed and in the middle of summer, air fresheners were hung behind the curtains. Weeks ago he’d noticed for the first time hands cut off at the wrists, floating in the joub, some without fingers, nearly all without fingernails. As he walked across the bridge he looked, but saw no hands.

Pinned to the outside of his door, a piece of brown paper was fluttering in the breeze. Putting his briefcase down, Michael pulled out the pin, smoothed the paper and read: “Foreigner, traitor, son of the great Satan, you have twenty-four hours to leave our country or we will kill you. You are warned.”

Someone would be watching so he didn’t look around; instead, he inserted the key in the lock, still holding the paper that was his death sentence, picked up his briefcase and entered the apartment, slowly closing the door behind him once he was safely inside.

He didn’t know how long he stood there trying to ignore thoughts of death. Should he abandon everything and run? He felt helpless. Dozens of plans formed in his mind of what he should do. He dismissed them all. A note on his door was a warning. Rather than blow up his building and in this way lose a valuable structure, committees, one of which had now obviously targeted him, always gave landlords and owners one warning. Generally, no second note or warning would appear.

He tried to think. At most, he had one more day in Teheran. It would be impossible to sell his properties, business, cars and furniture.

Two weeks ago, Bank Saderat was blown up. Dardashti, the manager, and twenty-six of his assistants were killed. The bank’s affairs were now being run by the government-owned bank called Bank Melli. They had taken over Saderat’s accounts.

Michael needed to withdraw all of his money, about six hundred thousand dollars. He would immediately lock up all legal documents of ownership to his factories, apartment buildings and shops in his wall safe, for he would not be able to sell them for a while, if ever. He would go to the bank first thing in the morning on his way to the airport. He knew he had better get there early in case there was a crowd.

He determined that he’d lock up the apartment, fly out, wait a few weeks and then return. That would be his plan. He was sure this plan would need to be fine-tuned, but at least he had made some decisions.

Later that afternoon, he walked to a supermarket a few blocks away. The street was crowded. Everyone was hurrying; women in black chadors were everywhere, they seemed to have taken over the streets. Usually groups of men stood talking, their fingers busily counting prayer beads, reading, smoking or eating. Michael’s street was different now, it didn’t feel the same. He had walked it so many times but felt like he didn’t know the street and its atmosphere anymore didn’t belong there anymore. It was filled with different people?chador-clad, sullen, unfriendly, suspicious people.

Returning from the supermarket with a bag of fruit, Michael was walking quickly. A young woman ran past him, knocking his arm. He nearly dropped his fruit. Starting to say something, to shout a curse, Michael checked himself. He had to be careful. Mustn’t attract unnecessary attention. She was too far away anyway. He was surprised by the fact that she didn’t wear a chador.

Hell, maybe there is still hope, he thought. She wore a pair of blue jeans, sneakers and a white shirt, had long black hair and a nice figure. He wondered if she was late for work, or maybe she had kept her boyfriend waiting too long.

As she ran, her long hair bounced up and down. She was shouting and pointing with her left arm as she continued running, pushing startled people out of her path. He could see her hurrying toward three men standing in front of a furniture store. She was gesturing wildly, shouting at the men, all the time looking back at a small grey car slowly traveling toward the four of them.

Michael stopped walking. He was about twenty yards away from the men and the girl who had now reached them. Something just didn’t feel right. He saw the tallest of the three men pull a round object out of his pocket, recognizing it immediately as a grenade.

The man pulled at the pin, wild eyed, trying to move too fast. His inexperienced fingers were not able to grasp the pin. Turning to run away, Michael saw a man lean out the window of the grey car that was now parallel with the man about to throw the grenade. The man in the car started shooting.

It sounded like an Uzi. All four standing in front of the store were hit. For seconds, they were still people. Then, as bullets continued hitting the intended targets, they became rag dolls, their bodies uncontrollably jerking, sagging and collapsing.

The grenade fell from the dead man’s hand. The pin was now out around his thumb. Bullets were still cutting into them, smashing through them. Michael heard the sound of panes of glass splintering and breaking. Instinctively, he ducked, putting his hand in front of his face, trying to shield himself from the glass. Michael ran as fast as he could. Everyone ran. The whole street ran. All around him were masses of running people pushing and shoving. Men, women and children were all running. All could smell death close behind them. Desperately, Michael clawed his way over people who had fallen, trying to keep his balance. Cursing, he bumped them out of his way.

The grenade exploded.

The blast pushed Michael gently. He felt it on his back, pushing him forward. He tried to brace himself, but its force was stronger than he was. He felt himself falling, put his hand out to try and steady himself. Remembering the fruit, he tried to fall away from it but couldn’t. He smashed into the ground.

For Michael there was silence, everything was muted. He felt as though he was going through a type of slow motion. Bodies kept falling near him, on top of him, and all around him. From far away, he could hear people moaning as his nostrils filled with the smell of unwashed bodies and vomit. The world seemed so noisy. Why couldn’t they be quiet like he was?

All of a sudden Michael’s ears started ringing, sounds weren’t muted anymore. Suddenly, everything became too loud. He knew instinctively, that he had to get away from this place of death. Kicking his legs, twisting his body, hitting out, shouting at people who had fallen on top of him to get off, he thrashed around trying to get up. An arm was lying across his face. In a frenzy he grabbed it by the wrist, angrily digging his fingers around the wristwatch, squeezing and trying to get it off him determined to break it if necessary. With all his might, he pushed the arm viciously away.

The arm shifted easily. It had no weight, for it wasn’t attached to a body. It dripped blood onto Michael’s shirt, face and arm. Michael screamed.

*

The filing cabinet was open. Files, check stubs documents and miscellaneous papers were stacked in neat piles on Michael’s desk. He packed them carefully into his briefcase. Whatever the bank manager needed, Michael would have.

When he finished, mentally exhausted, he sat down, turning on TV.

Michael’s apartment was on the third floor. His door was locked, bolted and had an iron bar from top to bottom. He doubted that it would be strong enough to stop the intruders for long, but he had a coiled rope in his bedroom with a long enough drop to let him escape into the alley. He’d secured a length of rope around a wall heater with a slipknot so he could release it to fall to the ground once he had safely landed.

In all the other rooms Michael had coiled ropes next to heaters, but had cut them through so they were hanging by threads. If anyone tried to follow him, as they scrambled out of windows, they’d crash to the ground. This would buy him some precious minutes to escape. Next to Michael’s escape rope he placed a gun, spare clip of bullets, a knife, and a can of mace. If the assassins came through his door, he would be long gone out the window. He couldn’t run into the main street because soldiers would shoot anything or anyone that moved during curfew hours.

Weeks ago when Michael had first heard about members of militias breaking into apartment buildings and killing occupants in the middle of the night, he had prepared for this possibility. Michael had found a large Dumpster about a hundred yards away from his building. If he could get there fast enough that would be his hiding place until the sun came up and the soldiers returned to their barracks.