The Screaming Eagles (8 page)

In his military training, he’d learned that sleep deprivation and lack of food were the surest way to break down any enemy. When physical and mental faculties starve, the brain and body break down rapidly, it was starting to happen to him, and he was powerless to stop it. He could feel himself moving toward insanity. Demons were fighting in his brain, overpowering him and taking possession as he struggled to stop laughing.

Tears started streaming down his cheeks, overflowing. He had no control and his body shook. He felt himself urinating again in his pants. It was warm and comforting as it ran along his thigh. He could smell the urine and knew that all those sitting near him could also smell it.

He didn’t care.

*

At six o’clock in the morning soldiers opened the doors. Fresh air roared into the terminal confusing and disorientating him as he struggled to comprehend, what was happening. From a great distance he watched the stampede of people charging outside. He could see them fighting for spaces to relieve themselves, men on one side of the road, and women scrambling to look for bushes or trees, their frightened children running after them screaming. As he saw the women running further away from the terminal in their frantic search for bushes, he remembered the Israeli paratrooper’s card with a twenty-four hour number to call. Focusing, trying to use all of his concentration, Michael remembered that it was in his wallet. Relieved to know where it was, and that it was not lost, he resolved to rest a while longer and regain some of his strength before taking the card out of his wallet. Suddenly Michael heard shouting. Alarmed, he looked up. People were running toward various ticket counters. Ticket counters sold tickets. Tickets meant a plane. A plane meant freedom. Instantaneously Michael realized that no matter what he must get to a ticket counter. Somehow, from where he did not know, Michael found a small hidden reserve of energy. Jumping up, he ran swerving and hopping over people stretched out on the floor, lifting his arm as he ran, he hit out with his briefcase at people in his way until finally, he got to the Pan Am counter. He was first in line. Panting, chest heaving, taking deep breaths, he stood there sucking in air hungrily, resting his briefcase on top of the counter. His legs started to tremble as exhaustion and nausea came over him. He felt slightly drunk and wandered how long he could remain standing, for he began to feel faint. He determined he would buy the first ticket that came available, not caring where he would fly too. All he wanted was to get out of Iran. Fistfights were going on behind him as people tried to break into the line that had formed. Michael was sure that no one would give ground. No game of toes would be tolerated here. He felt himself getting lightheaded again. God was now masquerading as a Pan Am ticket clerk. The all-powerful God looked disdainfully past Michael who was the number one in line. He held up a ticket and shouted, “Ticket to Athens, leaves 11:00 a.m. How much? Cash only. No credit or checks.”

People started shouting at God, trying to get his attention. Bidding was in Iranian currency, rials or toman. Each rial was the equivalent of approximately one American dollar. A toman note was equivalent to about one hundred dollars. Bids started at $250, rose to $500, then $1600, then $1850, $2000. At $2000, the bidding stopped. God called the man over. He walked past Michael, counting his rials and toman as he took them out of his wallet, loudly proclaiming that he wanted four tickets. He was pulling money from different pockets, piling it onto the counter all the time smiling idiotically. All money was Iranian currency, no dollars were on the counter. Importantly, holding himself erect so people standing in line could see him, the man turned and called to his wife. She came to him, lifting her chador, handing him more money. The Pan Am God shrugged his shoulders, counted the money ostentatiously, putting into a large open leather bag which lay on his desk next to the pile of tickets for sale.

The line grew quiet once more, waiting for the next transaction. All along the counters, auctioneer ticket salesmen were shouting destinations, times, cash amounts and terms. A new cottage industry had arrived for them. New millionaires would emerge by the time they closed the airport when curfew started at 6 p.m. Bids were fast and furiously being made. Michael was still number-one in line, but he had not moved, a useless eunuch castrated by lack of money. A flight to Athens normally cost $150. Four had been sold for $8000. Michael could not believe what was happening, it was not possible. But on this day, the impossible was the norm.

Dazed and in shock, unable to speak, for he only had $1,500.00 in cash, he watched as the bidding started for Swiss Air to Geneva. It would be $230 if fate allowed you to live in a normal country, with normal people, in normal conditions. Geneva sold for $6,800. Crushed, Michael felt tears in his eyes as he decided to give up. Standing at the counter was not going to get him a ticket. He turned and walked away, eyes downcast, ashamed that once again he had failed.

The driver slowed and turned into an alley. Changing down the gears of the car, he drove behind dark silent buildings that took up an entire block. A sentry waved them through the checkpoint. Good, Sadegh thought. The sentries were lax, used to the routine of him arriving at his office just before curfew. He never entered Savak headquarters through its front entrance, always through the back alley. The driver parked in the general’s designated space, alongside the colonel’s car, next to three jeeps. He asked the general if he should wait. Sadegh dismissed him curtly telling him to pick him up at home in the morning. Quickly he got out the car, walked a few steps and unlocked a heavy metal door leading into the windowless building. Closing it behind him and locking it once again, he walked into his office. His chief of operations saluted smartly and handed him a large folder, which contained daily reports. Sadegh put it on his desk. “I’ll read it later. What is the code color for driving tonight?” “White circle, passenger side. They are attached to your folder that is on your desk, sir,” replied the colonel. “Which car are you using, Sir? I would be happy to attach them for you.” “Thank you, Colonel, I will do it myself. Relax Khalil I have a few minutes before my wife picks me up. Whisky as usual?” The colonel sat down. “Thank you, Sir.” His back to the colonel, Sadegh poured a few drops of colorless liquid into the glass, then poured a generous shot of Chivas Regal. He stirred the whisky, then added ice. He gave the glass to the colonel. Taking a glass, he poured a splash for himself. “Salut.” They both drank. Sadegh knew the sedative would take about two minutes to knock out the colonel. “Khalil, forget your report. Tell me the truth, how bad was today?” “Well Sir, today was the worst day so far. Just in our sector alone, including the bazaar district, Mujahidin have killed sixty-four. Twenty-nine are soldiers. Bombings are escalating, as are the firebombs. Sixteen buildings have been bombed. More and more prisoners, under torture, are implicating the Bazaaries who control and run all the open-air market places in the cities. The Bazaaries account for more than half the business and commerce in our country, and have always supported the Shah. We cannot understand why they are now financing Khomeni’s fanatics. I’m trying to set up an appointment for you to meet with the Bazaaries’ group of elders tomorrow which will include their bankers, traders and merchants.” “Good, arrange for them to meet me here. Drink up, my friend, I will have to leave soon.” The colonel drained his glass. Sadegh watched him as he got up and walked toward his desk. In mid-stride, he grunted and shook his head. His right leg bent, then buckled. The colonel collapsed. Sadegh lifted the telephone. “Captain, this is time for interrogations. Make sure that I am not disturbed under any circumstances. Is that clear? Thank you, Captain.” Sadegh put down the phone. He bent over Khalil, picked him up by his legs and dragged him into the colonel’s office. He left him sprawled on the floor, checked the closet to see if the colonel’s uniforms were still hanging there. Sadegh glanced at his watch. Maryam would soon be arriving to pick him up bringing a gardener he had hired a month ago. The man had been hired not for his gardening skills, but because he was approximately the same height and build as Sadegh and had a similar beard. Closing the colonel’s door, Sadegh walked through his office, unlocked the outside door and saw Maryam was parked alongside his car with the engine running. Opening the passenger door, he climbed in. “Cheri,” he said. She smiled, turned her face for him to kiss her cheek. “Wait outside,” he said to the gardener sitting in the back. The man got out the car and closed the door. “I have a present for you, my Cheri. I have to ask you to wait patiently, for about half an hour in the car, while I finish my work.” “Husband, you have never been on time.” she teased. “After so many years of having to wait until you finish up your work, I have my book to read, but to wait half an hour, the present should be better than the earrings you gave me last week.” Looking at her, he smiled. “You drive a hard bargain, my Cheri. I will obviously have to make it something extra special.” He kissed her on the lips, squeezed her hand, and got out the car. “Come,” he said to the gardener. The man followed him silently into his office. Sadegh locked the door behind him. Pointing to his washroom, Sadegh said to the man, “Go in there. You will find a uniform and shoes. Put them on. My wife and I are attending a banquet and my regular driver is sick. You will take his place. Hurry up, we are already late. When you finish dressing, put your clothes in the plastic bag behind the door.” Hesitantly and unsure, in awe that he was in the great general’s private office, the man walked into the washroom. Sadegh walked over to a large ornate cabinet next to his desk. Pulling open the top drawer, he lifted out a two foot long iron bar. One end of the bar was ridged and grooved, so that he could hold it securely in his hand without it slipping from his grasp. This was his favorite tool. The iron bar was heavy enough to inflict maximum pain when breaking hands, arms, legs or ribs. Sadegh could, completely shatter a man’s knee with just one blow. Positioning himself outside the washroom door, he waited. Dressed in Sadegh’s uniform, the gardener walked tentatively out of the washroom eyes downcast. Sadegh swung hard, accurately hitting the man on the forehead. The gardener collapsed. Sadegh turned the man over on his back. It was important to disfigure his face so that identification would be difficult. He would also have to smash his teeth and jaw so that forensics could not identify him through dental records. Sadegh was counting on chaos in the country to minimize any thorough investigation. Savak did not have enough resources now to waste time on the obvious. If a man in Sadegh’s uniform, of similar height and weight, and wearing a beard, was found dead in Sadegh’s office, it would obviously be the general. Aiming carefully, Sadegh started hitting down savagely. Soon, the face was a rivulet of raw bloodied meat. Blood, bone fragments and shattered bits of teeth were scattered all over the carpet. Breathing heavily, he made his way to the bathroom. Pulling on a roll of toilet paper, he cleaned the iron bar, then put it back into the drawer. Sadegh stripped off his clothes and threw them into the plastic bag with the gardener’s. He vigorously washed blood off his hands, using a brush to remove the blood from under his nails. He then washed his face and hair. Leaving his beard wet, he used scissors to cut off chunks of facial hair, also placing it into the plastic bag. He tried to cut his hair as short as possible to make it easier to shave, but he cut himself in many places. However, he was now clean-shaven, and looking in the mirror, he was satisfied with what he saw. Sadegh walked into Khalil’s office, took one of the uniforms hanging in the closet, and got dressed quickly. Khalil, whose build was similar to the general’s, had also been selectively chosen from the officers’ pool. Dressed in the colonel’s uniform, he walked back into his own office. He opened the wall safe, took out three briefcases, unlocked one of them and checked all three passports lying on bundles of Swiss francs and hundred dollar bills. From the safe, he took out a gun with a silencer already attached, and a note written crudely in pencil on a piece of torn paper. He put both in his pocket. Finally, with great care, he took out two explosive devices. Sadegh placed one bomb on the floor next to Khalil’s body. He set the timer for exactly four minutes. He began to hear the rhythmic loud ticking immediately. He counted thirty seconds then set the second bomb’s timer for three and a half minutes, synchronizing it so both bombs would explode at the same time. He placed the second bomb next to the gardener’s head and pulled up his arms so as to place both hands on the bomb. This would eliminate the man’s fingerprints when his fingers were blown up. Sadegh’s office, normally his inner sanctum, magnificently and tastefully furnished, was the only thing he would miss. For hours he would sit there, planning, always planning. A large map of the world that covered one wall was his chess game, his private competition, where he challenged himself. Playing chess was boring, for all that happened in the game was trapping a king so it could not move. The area of conflict in chess was confined to a small board, black and white, no nuances or grey areas. Chess had no total obliteration or total devastation the rules were too restricting and applied evenly to a beginner or grand master. However, Sadegh had created his own game of chess where countries took the place of chess pieces and the whole world was a chessboard. He thrived on plot and counter plot, looking for imaginary, unexpected problems to solve. How far could one go to solve each problem? In how many ways could they be solved? The thrill was in finding solutions where supposedly there were none; making the impossible possible, the improbable probable, and destruction of an enemy so complete that it would never rise again. How, for example, could one of the most well known Savak generals disappear from Iran? Everyone knew his face, every enemy traced his movements, tried to ambush and kill him. The family of every prisoner he had tortured or killed vowed blood revenge and dreamed dreams of how they would kill him. For years now, Sadegh had successfully eluded them all, reveling in their hatred, baiting them, using them, and if they got too close, finding ways to kill them. He used the power of his office, his networks, the CIA and informers in Iran and other countries. It was all so easy. He was now bored, tired of the game. There were no further challenges left, except the final one. The Peacock Throne was in its death throes, the game was over, the Shah, checkmated. It was now time for a new challenge?America. America would be far more formidable, far stronger, but Sadegh had been planning for years how to bring America to its knees. It was as if he had been put on this earth for the final battle. Good against evil. America personified all that was evil. America was the reincarnation of Satan. All his life before today had been to prepare him for this fight, and he was ready. He would take on the United States and he would destroy it. In the stillness of his office, clocks ticked. Closing his briefcase, Sadegh grabbed the plastic bag. He unlocked the entrance door and left it open, slightly ajar. In less than three minutes, Sadegh Muzahedi, Savak general, would totally and irrevocably disappear. Sadegh walked to his wife’s car. Maryam was reading and didn’t look up. As he reached the door, he noticed the window was shut. His shadow fell across her book, and she turned toward him. Gently, he placed the barrel of the gun against the window. It made a cracking noise, loud, like a breaking twig, as it touched the glass. He shot her twice in the face. Unhurriedly, he took the note out of his jacket pocket, leaned through the shattered car window, and placed it on her chest. It said, “Die, hangman’s whore. As easily as we executed you and assassinated your husband Sadegh Muzahedi, so will we kill all of Savak.” He looked at her twisted body lying on the seat. Dark blood was slowly seeping from the two bullet wounds in her forehead. Her eyes and mouth were wide open. She still held the book in her left hand, some pages were moving in the light breeze. “I promised you something extra, my Cheri.” Lifting his gun, he aimed at her eye and shot her once again. Sadegh knew he had about two more minutes before the bombs exploded. Keys would be in the jeep under the front seat as Sadegh had instructed. He had a spare in his pocket, just in case. Taking the oval, white, plastic reflectors, he stuck them onto the front and back of the passenger side windows. Oval white reflectors were given only to generals and their staff. All other personnel were given yellow squares. Each night command headquarters informed the military fifteen minutes before curfew where plastic reflectors should be placed on the windows of all vehicles. This ensured that terrorists who had captured military motorized vehicles could not pose as soldiers and drive around in cars, ambulances, or jeeps while committing acts of terrorism. The city was divided into sectors. Each night different places were chosen as surprise checkpoints. As each patrol reached a checkpoint, the soldiers got out of their vehicles, placed their weapons behind them at their feet, and stood to attention, arms held in front of them at shoulder height. Their military papers were held in the right hand, and they looked straight ahead. A jeep with a machine gun mounted on it, manned by three soldiers at the ready, took up a position behind the soldiers standing at attention. The machine gun was aimed at their backs. As bullets were loaded into the barrel of each machine gun, they made a metallic sound while clicking into ammunition slots. Only then did an officer begin inspecting papers held in each soldier’s hands. This was the most effective way to stop terrorists from disguising themselves as soldiers. Sadegh got into the jeep, started its engine and drove toward the sentry at the checkpoint. At curfew, only experienced soldiers would be guarding streets and manning checkpoints. Sixteen-year-olds, belonging to their school militia, took over sentry duties and other less critical aspects of sealing and controlling the city. As he drove past, the sixteen-year old sentry looked straight ahead, and saluted. Slowly Sadegh turned onto a deserted street. Changing gears, he felt the whine of the jeep’s engine as it began to gather speed.
* Humming to himself he drove fast watching with one eye the rearview mirror. He saw a flash of flames light up the darkness long before he heard the massive explosion. He let out a yell of sheer delight, and drove faster.