The Last Refuge (21 page)

Meir’s mouth was dry. He was thirsty. He felt sick to his stomach. He tasted the remnants of blood in his mouth, now sour.

Achabar took another puff, then exhaled again, blowing the smoke at Meir’s eyes yet again. Again, he blinked as the smoke burned his eyes.

Achabar began humming a tune, then smiled.

“Smoke gets in your eyes,” he sang in a low, playful voice.

Achabar puffed one more time, then leaned forward to exhale.

Meir pulled his head slightly back, then thrust forward. He sent a bloody wad of saliva flying into Achabar’s face. It struck him in the right eye.

Achabar lurched backward, the chair tilted, he lost his balance, the cigarette dropped from his mouth, then the steel chair with Achabar on it fell backward. Achabar landed on the ground, at the edge of the wet ring of urine in the center of the cell. He paused, horrified, then stood up. His face was as angry as any Meir had ever seen. He stood, his mouth ajar, breathing rapidly, glaring at Meir.

“You asked for it,” said Meir, his first words since arriving at Evin.

*   *   *

Several hours later, three soldiers came into Meir’s cell. One of the men unshackled his feet and made him stand up. His legs were like two sticks of butter on a hot day. He could barely hold himself up. He was shirtless and one of the guards pushed Meir’s pants down to his ankles with the muzzle of a Kalashnikov rifle.

Looking down, his left nipple was crisscrossed with red and black burn marks.

“Come,” said one of the guards, then Meir felt his hands, shackled tightly behind his back, being forced forward. He followed the soldier down a long hallway.

He looked up. It was a different section of the prison and for the first time he saw the eyes of men behind bars, small slats no more than six inches by six inches, staring out at him as he shuffled slowly down the hallway. Meir knew Persian, but a few muttered words in a dialect he couldn’t understand.

“Run while you can,” he heard in broken English from one of the cells. Then there were a few hoots and curses. Finally it spread out in a low din.

Finally, one of the guards had had enough. “Shut the fuck up!” barked one of the soldiers behind him. “No water today if I hear another word!”

They took a right, and continued down another long hallway, more eyes behind small openings and silence.

Meir entered a large, windowless room that was tiled, the floor wet. The soldier pushed him against a wall. One of the soldiers turned a faucet on and he saw a long black hose being stretched across the floor. The soldier aimed the hose in his direction. Cold water sprayed from the end of the hose. For several minutes they shot cold water against his body, cleaning him off.

The water helped awaken Meir. He felt gauzy, in a stupor, a natural reaction; he had been in shock from the torture. He probably should have received some sort of medical attention. But the body was an amazing thing, especially that of a healthy twenty-five-year-old. The electricity yesterday would have killed most men.

They led him back to another cell, shut the door. It was a different cell from before; cleaner, with a small window. Meir could see the buildings of Tehran in the distance.

After several minutes, the door opened again and Achabar stepped in. He removed his cigarettes and lit one. Then, he removed a black rectangular object, which he held in his other hand.

“This is a Taser, Kohl,” said Achabar. “Set to the highest level. Spit at me again and I will take great pleasure in frying you until you scream.”

“Then don’t blow smoke in my face, asshole.”

Achabar smiled, but his nostrils flared, revealing anger.

“Your trial docket has been set,” said Achabar. “It will begin this evening, in front of the judge. It will be a military tribunal. It will last at most two days.”

“And what are the charges?” asked Meir.

“The specific charges relate to an operation you were part of three years ago,” said Achabar. “Off the coast of Bandar-e-Abbas, in the Strait of Hormuz.”

“What about Bandar-e-Abbas?” asked Meir.

“A group of Israeli frogmen boarded an Iranian Navy cruiser,” said Achabar. “Four Iranians died that night.”

“How do you know it was Israel?” asked Meir.

“I don’t,” said Achabar. “And the truth is, I would have argued, not very forcefully, mind you, but I would have argued that point exactly. How do we know it was Israel? It’s just circumstantial evidence, as they say. And more to the point, how do we know that you were even on the team? I had my arguments all worked out. Not that it would have mattered. They will find you guilty no matter what I say or do.”

Meir stared out the small window, ignoring Achabar.

“Yes, yes,” said Achabar. “Whatever. It doesn’t matter now because the killing of the prison guard is now the main charge. It’s a rather open-and-shut case. It would have been a much longer trial and I would have presented various evidence. But you have saved me a great deal of time and effort, so I should thank you.”

“Then what?”

“After you’re found guilty, you’ll be sentenced to death. There is a question right now as to whether it will be a public execution or not. There is an argument for doing it in private, then releasing the photos.”

Meir felt a tremor move through his body. He clenched his teeth and pushed the fear from his mind. He closed his eyes. He forced himself to think not about his own life, or Achabar, or Evin; but rather about Israel. He imagined Talia.

Sometimes, at night, she would stand on the deck, overlooking the Mediterranean, with nothing on except one of his T-shirts. Would he ever see Talia again? His beautiful fiancée, Talia. The thought of her dark skin, her voluptuous body, her silly, infectious laugh; all of it tortured him. But it helped him escape, if only for a few moments. And it helped remind him that he had much to live for.

“I would like to be alone,” he whispered to Achabar.

*   *   *

At a little before seven that evening, Meir awoke from a deep sleep to the sound of iron keys turning the latch on his cell door.

He moved down the windowless corridor, inch by inch, as the chains that bound his feet only allowed him baby steps. They passed other cell doors, each with yellow writing, though in this section the cell doors were windowless, so prisoners couldn’t look into the corridor. Still, his chains made a loud clanking noise on the concrete, and an occasional, distant scream could be heard. Meir’s hands were out in front of him. A soldier stood to each side. In front of him, Achabar walked, smoking a cigarette.

They entered the elevator and descended one flight. Meir was led down another corridor, through two sets of steel doors, out into the humid night air. In a courtyard, he was led to the back of a dark blue van. The soldiers lifted him up. A pair of soldiers was already inside the van. One of them grabbed his cuffs and locked them to a steel bar that ran down from the ceiling to the floor, then did the same with his ankle cuffs.

“I’ll be in another car,” said Achabar, standing in the open door and looking into the van.

Meir said nothing, not even looking at his Iranian lawyer.

The doors shut and the van started to move.

A corrugated steel fence separated the back of the van from the front, but still, Meir could see out the front. The van left the prison grounds and moved onto a busy street, fell anonymously into traffic, just another set of headlights in a long line of cars.

They drove for twenty minutes, then entered an underground parking garage. Meir looked up at one of the guards.

“Where are we?” he asked in Persian.

“Ministry of Justice,” mumbled the guard.

The courtroom was on the sixth floor. The corridor was empty except for soldiers, all armed with SMGs, wearing the uniforms of the Revolutionary Guard. Near the door, Meir glimpsed Achabar standing near a tall, stocky man with a bushy mustache, dressed in a short-sleeve blue button-down, arms crossed on his chest as he listened to Achabar.

Meir immediately recognized Abu Paria.

Paria was studying Meir as he inched along the linoleum floor, toward a door with the number “seven” on a sign above it.

Meir knew about Paria. Over the years, through his generosity to Hezbollah, Paria had single-handedly killed more Israelis than any man alive. When the PLO needed bombs, grenades, and firearms, it had been Paria who funded and organized the efforts to keep the fatah alive and flourishing. It was Paria who pushed Hezbollah to infiltrate, grow, and take over Lebanon, then provided the weapons and even some troops for various skirmishes against Israel over the years. It was Paria who directed, from afar, the war between Israel and Lebanon. Paria’s support of Hamas was no less generous. Over the years, Tel Aviv estimated that VEVAK, under Paria’s direction, had funneled more than half a billion dollars’ worth of missiles, firearms, and cash to Hamas, enabling the rogue terrorist group to build a fortress on the Gaza Strip.

In Iraq, Paria was the strategist who, upon seeing Al-Qaeda’s early success with roadside bombs, struck upon the idea of dramatically expanding the IED program, turning whole factories in eastern Iran into IED-manufacturing facilities, with regularly scheduled semitrucks that would take loads of the highly lethal bombs into Iraq, to then be dispersed among different groups fighting the Americans.

At the same time, he created the industry of suicide bombers. It was said that VEVAK offered families fifty million rials, about five thousand dollars, for every son or daughter willing to travel to Israel or Iraq to sacrifice themselves. That was a Paria touch; Paria had long ago recognized that beneath all of the veneer of religiosity, within all jihadists lurked the rank greed they claimed to so adamantly abhor in the West.

This was the first time Meir, or any Israeli for that matter, had seen Paria in person. Even photographs of Paria were hard to come by. As Meir came closer, he felt the urge to grab Paria by the neck, to kill the man who had caused so much misery. But he couldn’t, not as long as he was shackled. Even unshackled, as he glimpsed Paria’s big frame, the steel darkness in his eyes, Meir knew that Paria would represent a tough battle. But he would have given anything for just one shot.

“I know what you’re thinking,” said Paria as Meir passed, his voice deep and gravely. Paria had a look on his face that could only be described as vicious.

“Fuck you,” said Meir.

Achabar laughed derisively, but Paria did not. Instead he took a step toward Meir.

“What did you say to me?”

“I said fuck you, Paria. Go fuck yourself.”

Paria moved closer, his face now just inches from Meir.

“The great-grandson of Golda Meir with such a foul mouth,” said Paria. “Do you think she would be proud of you now, Kohl?”

“Don’t ever say her name again.”

Paria stared for a moment, then stepped back.

“You’ll soon see her,” said Paria.

Meir, pulled along by the two soldiers, stepped past Paria and through a set of steel doors, into the courtroom where the tribunal would take place.

The courtroom was large, windowless, and smelled stale, like a classroom. The gallery contained at least fifty chairs and was empty except for a pair of men in khaki military uniforms who sat near the back. Meir inched down the center aisle. Through a wooden balustrade that separated the gallery from the front of the courtroom, Meir stepped forward. Behind a massive table near the front of the room sat a uniformed man, who was reading a file folder, not looking up. This was the judge. To his left, on a raised platform, stood a chair, surrounded by bars. It looked like a cage.

After several minutes, the man looked up.

“I am Adjutant Judge General Rumallah Khasni,” he said, looking at Meir. “I will be presiding over your case. Is defense council here?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” said Achabar, who’d moved to a table at the left.

“Good evening, Moammar,” said the judge. “And for the Islamic Republic?”

“The government stands prepared to present its evidence, Your Honor, sir.”

Meir looked to the right. The two men who’d been sitting at the back of the gallery were now at a table across from Achabar.

“Very well, Mr. Qazr,” said the judge. He scanned Meir with his eyes. “I understand you speak Persian, Mr. Meir.”

Meir said nothing.

The judge glanced at Achabar.

“Please explain to your charge why I ask this question,” said Khasni.

“He knows,” said Achabar. “He speaks Persian.”

“I will be happy to have an interpreter brought in, Mr. Meir. Would you like me to do that? This is why I ask.”

“That’s not necessary,” said Meir in Persian. “What does it matter anyway?”

“It matters because I want you to understand the charges being made against you, as well as the evidence being presented. In my opinion, justice is not served if the accused doesn’t understand what is happening. If you are innocent, you don’t know what you are innocent of because you haven’t heard the charges, and you therefore can’t make rational arguments on your own behalf. If you are guilty, there is no chance for redemption.”

“I speak the language,” said Meir. “So let’s get on with this puppet show.”

Khasni stared at Meir, his look blank and severe.

“Do not speak that way in my courtroom,” said Khasni slowly, his voice rising slightly. “I’m not the one who captured you or who is charging you. I am a purveyor of justice, that is all. And I will not tolerate disrespect of my courtroom or the law. Do you understand?”

“This is a farce,” said Meir. “Do whatever you want with me, I don’t care. If it helps to have your little show before you pronounce me guilty, then do so. Or you can save us all a lot of time and just send me to the firing squad right now.”

Judge Khasni nodded and paused. He leaned forward in his chair.

“Clearly someone has polluted your head about the fairness of the Iranian justice system,” said the judge. “Or perhaps you bring with you bias borne of your own system, Mr. Meir. In either case, your opinion is irrelevant. So is the opinion of your counselor or that of the prosecutors. There is only one opinion in this room that matters, and that is mine, and right now, I have no opinion. Do you understand?”