The Last Refuge (22 page)

Meir stared at Khasni.

“When was the last time this man ate?” the judge asked, looking at Meir, then glancing to Achabar.

Achabar stood up.

“I-I-I don’t know, Your Honor,” stammered Achabar.

“Mr. Meir, when did you last eat a meal?”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Meir. “I’m not hungry. The electricity from the torture session ruined my appetite.”

Khasni ignored the comment.

“Bring him something to eat,” Khasni barked to a soldier standing near the entrance to the courtroom. “Now.”

The soldier left the room.

“I will have the shackles at your ankles removed,” said Khasni. “But if you do anything, such as try to run, or try to harm anybody in this room, the soldiers at the back of the room have permission to stop you by all means necessary, including shooting you. Do you understand?”

Meir said nothing.

Khasni nodded to one of the guards, who came forward and removed the steel chain and cuffs at Meir’s ankles. He was led to a set of stairs which he climbed. He took a seat in the cage. There was a small table in front of him with a pencil and a pad of paper.

A soldier entered at the back of the courtroom carrying a small steel plate upon which was a stack of bread. He rushed down the center aisle, waited for Khasni to nod permission to enter, then walked it up the stairs to Meir, placing it on the table.

Judge Khasni stood up.

“With the permission of Allah, the case of the Republic of Iran versus Kohl Meir now begins,” said Khasni, reading from a sheath of papers. “Docket seventeen-hundred-forty-seven. Mr. Meir, you are charged with crimes against citizens of the Islamic Republic of Iran. All five of these crimes involve the capital murder of citizens of Iran. Four of the five men were members of the Iranian Navy. One was an employee of the prison system who was also a reservist in the Revolutionary Guard. These are each serious charges. The penalty for each of these crimes, if you are found guilty, is death.”

Khasni took his seat.

“Colonel Qazr, are you prepared to present your evidence?”

One of the prosecutors stood up. He stepped in front of the table.

“Yes, Your Honor,” said one of the men at the table across from Achabar. “The government is prepared to make its case.”

“Very well, continue.”

“Your Honor, on the night of August twelve, 2009, a vessel of the Iranian Navy, the
Adeli,
was in patrol in Iranian waters in the Strait of Hormuz, near the port of Bandar-e-Abbas. On board were four men, Iranians all, members of the Iranian Naval Defense Forces. They were Siamak Azizi, age twenty-nine, of Chabahar; Payman Kadivar, age thirty-nine, of Bukan; Massoud Norouz, age twenty, of Kermanshah; and Akbar Tabatabaei, age thirty-three, of Ilam.

“Fourteen miles to the south of Bandar-e-Abbas, near the coastline, a team of Israeli commandos, part of a group of special forces commandos called Shayetet Thirteen, of which the accused was and remains a member, attacked the
Adeli
by masquerading as an Iranian fishing vessel with engine problems. As the
Adeli
came to the side of the fishing boat, the Israelis murderously, and with malevolent intent, attacked the unsuspecting vessel, killing all four Iranians. This was a tragic evening for Azizi, Kadivar, Norouz, and Tabatabaei, all four men patriots who had faithfully served our great republic.

“As to the second charge,” said Qazr, the prosecutor. “Two days ago, in a conference room on the first floor of Evin Prison, Mr. Meir did brutally and in an unprovoked manner assault and murder Akbar Javadi, age twenty-five, of Tehran, by strangling the man as he was attempting to merely pick up a water bottle that was on the ground. As more than half a dozen witnesses watched, Mr. Meir attacked Javadi and broke his neck.”

Khasni, leaning back in his chair, nodded his head as he listened to Qazr. When Qazr finished his summary of the charges, Khasni turned to Achabar.

“Mr. Achabar?”

Achabar stood and moved into the open area in front of the judge’s table.

“Your Honor,” said Achabar. “My charge, Mr. Kohl Meir, pleads not guilty to the charges contained in this docket. While the death of any Iranian, especially a young man in the prime of life, serving faithfully to defend our republic, or serve in our penal system, is a tragedy, my charge, for reasons to be detailed and explained, is not guilty.

“As to the first allegations, involving the
Adeli
, there is no evidence that my client, or indeed, that Israel itself, was even involved in the actions of August twelve, 2009. It is no secret that Iran has many enemies, including Israel, but also including America and other countries. It is our contention that Mr. Meir represents merely a convenient figurehead upon which to place the blame for this horrid and unresolved crime. As to the second charge, the murder of Akbar Javadi, my client was in a state of extreme duress, having been taken against his will and incarcerated. This state of duress produced an action that, while certainly regrettable, does not warrant the penalty of death that the prosecutors have argued for.”

Meir listened to the words of the lawyers, reaching to his mouth with his cuffed hands, eating the bread from the plate on his lap. He glanced to the back of the courtroom, where Abu Paria stood against the wall, watching everything. Above his head, the clock read 10:00
P.M.

“Mr. Meir,” said the judge, “it is at this point that the prosecutors are entitled to ask you some questions. Are you prepared to answer some questions?”

Meir chewed the bread, but remained silent. Khasni waited for several seconds for him to acknowledge the question.

“Very well, let the record show that you refuse to answer the question. Should you refuse to answer any questions posed by the prosecutor, it is my duty to inform you that, in the opinion of the court, your lack of cooperation and response will be seen as a desire to avoid what would otherwise have been admissions of guilt or acceptance of facts as set forth by the prosecution.”

“Ask your fucking questions,” said Meir, pushing the steel plate from the table, which made a loud clanging noise as it struck the steel ground and rolled down the stairs.

“I would ask you to refrain from such language in my courtroom,” said Khasni sternly.

“Fuck off, Judge,” said Meir. “What will you do? Lock me up?”

Khasni shook his head in exasperation, then nodded to the prosecution table, signaling to Qazr, the prosecutor, to proceed.

Qazr stood up.

“Mr. Meir, where and when were you born?”

“Tel Aviv,” said Meir. “1987.”

“Were you in fact a member of Shayetet Thirteen?”

“Yes.”

“How long have you been a member of Shayetet Thirteen?”

“Four years.”

“And what is the role of Shayetet Thirteen, in your opinion?”

“It’s not opinion, it’s fact. The role of Shayetet and the role of all Israel Defense Forces is to defend the citizens of Israel from attacks by our enemies.”

“So if the role is, as you state, defensive in nature, would members of Shayetet Thirteen ever have need to go outside Israel’s borders?”

“Yes, of course,” said Meir. “To kill terrorists. Because Iran and Syria fund so many terror-related activities intended to kill innocent Israelis, it is necessary to try and stop these terrorists before they harm Israel.”

“Let the record show,” said Qazr, looking at Judge Khasni, “that the government, by continuing to ask the accused questions, does not agree or acknowledge the slander that Mr. Meir just spoke, namely that Iran sponsors terrorism.”

“So noted,” said Khasni.

“If you don’t believe me,” said Meir, “ask Abu Paria. He’s standing at the back of the courtroom.”

Meir raised his cuffed hands and pointed at the back of the room at Paria.

“He’s the one who funds the terrorists,” continued Meir, his voice rising. “Hezbollah, Hamas. Al-Qaeda. He’s the one who slaughters innocent children. If you don’t believe me, ask him.”

Paria stared back at Meir without expression, saying nothing.

“Mr. Paria is not the one on trial,” said Qazr.

“He should be!” yelled Meir.

“Where were you on the night of August twelve?” asked Qazr, stepping toward the cage where Meir sat.

“What year?” asked Meir. “Can you be more specific?”

Qazr shook his head, glancing at the judge.

“You know what year,” said Qazr. “2009. Where were you on the night of the alleged crimes against the men on the
Adeli
?”

“I was in a fishing boat,” said Meir. “In the Strait of Hormuz.”

Qazr stopped, looked back at the other prosecutor, then regained his composure.

Achabar suddenly stood up.

“Judge,” said Achabar. “May I have a short consultation with my charge?”

“I don’t want to talk to you,” said Meir. “Sit down and shut the fuck up.”

Achabar raised his hands in mock resignation, then sat down.

“You were where?” asked Qazr again.

“You heard me,” said Meir.

“What were you doing in the Strait of Hormuz?”

“I was sent there to kill.”

Qazr paused, again momentarily taken aback.

“To kill? By who? Who sent you?”

“None of your fucking business, that’s who.”

“Who were you sent to kill?”

“Terrorists,” said Meir. “The men you listed, Azizi, Kadivar, Tabatabaei, were all Hezbollah. Kadivar himself was a commander in Al-Muqawama, the military arm of Hezbollah. You can call them Iranian Navy or Revolutionary Guard or Quds or fishermen or whatever you want, but the fact is, they were all Hezbollah. My mission was to kill Kadivar. The other two were an added bonus. The other man, the skipper of the vessel, was collateral damage.”

“So you are admitting to killing all four men?”

“Yes. In point of fact, I killed three of them. Another member of my team killed the fourth. Frankly, it was an easy operation. We expected more of a fight. But then, perhaps we overestimated the intelligence of the Iranians, yes?”

“Which man was killed by the other frogman?” asked Qazr.

“What does it matter?”

“Well, perhaps you’ve been falsely accused of killing a man?” Qazr said, smiling.

“You’re a jackass,” said Meir. “None of your fucking business, that’s who.”

“Do you remember which man you did not kill?”

“Yes, I keep a picture of him in my wallet,” said Meir.

“Mr. Meir, which man did you not kill?” asked Khasni from the bench.

“I don’t know,” said Meir, exasperated. “What does it matter? I just know that I killed Kadivar. A bullet through his head. If you want me to take credit for all four, fine with me. Would that make the paperwork easier, Judge?”

Meir looked at Khasni, then Achabar, then to the back of the room.

“Kadivar was a classmate at the University of Tehran, yes?” said Meir, staring at Paria in the back. “Was he a friend too, Abu? Did you talk as students about how much fun it would be to kill Israeli children?”

“Silence,” interrupted Judge Khasni. “You will not do the asking of questions, Mr. Meir. You’re accused of crimes that could result in the imposition of the death sentence. You’re not helping your cause by—”

“Fuck off, Judge,” said Meir. “Who’s fooling who? This is a kangaroo court and we both know it.”

Khasni leaned forward in anger, then stood up, pointing at Meir.

“You will not disrespect this courtroom,” he barked.

“I will never respect this courtroom,” shot back Meir. “Send me to the firing squad now, will you, you fatuous ass!”

Khasni stared at Meir in anger. He paused, flummoxed, his face red. He breathed deeply for several seconds, trying to calm down, then sat back down.

“We will complete the trial, Mr. Meir,” Khasni said quietly. “It might be short, and you might plead guilty to every charge, but we will impose justice, which means a complete trial, with all charges and defenses, as appropriate. Mr. Qazr, continue.”

Qazr looked at Meir.

“What evidence did you have that Kadivar was Hezbollah?”

“None of your fucking business,” said Meir.

“How long had you been planning the mission?”

“Again, none of your business.”

“Can you tell me how long you were in the Strait of Hormuz before the incident?”

“No, I can’t tell you that either,” said Meir.

“Why can’t you tell me?”

“Do you think I’m going to give Paria insights as to Shayetet’s internal workings?” asked Meir. “Are you a fucking idiot?”

“You’re the one who’s in jail, Mr. Meir,” said Qazr.

“Yes, after you kidnapped me on U.S. soil. Has Israel begun its reprisals, Abu?” Meir looked toward the back of the courtroom.

“Have you killed other Iranians?” interrupted Qazr.

Achabar stood.

“Objection,” said Achabar. “This is a question that forces Mr. Meir to present new evidence against himself.”

“I am attempting to establish a pattern of behavior,” said Qazr. “So that we can determine if Meir’s mission was premeditated. Since he won’t tell the court how long he was in the Strait of Hormuz, I need to attempt to learn more about the background of the accused.”

“Your objection is sustained,” said Khasni. “Mr. Meir does not have to answer this question.”

“I’ll answer,” said Meir. “I’ve killed many Iranians. How many? Even I don’t know that number. And if I were to get out of here, I will kill more. But I have never intentionally killed an Iranian woman, child, or man I knew to be uninvolved in Iran’s war of terror against Israel. I kill terrorists. That’s what I’ve been trained to do. As long as Iran sends terrorists to Israel, my brothers back home will kill Iranians. That is the simple fact. After you shoot me my place will be taken by another man, just as strong, just as willing to die in order to protect our homeland. Leave us in peace and Israel will leave you in peace.”

The prosecutors, Achabar, even the judge, sat rapt, motionless.

“Abu Paria,” said Meir, again pointing with cuffed hands from the cage. “He is the father of the terrorists. He funds them. The suicide bombers. The missiles that rain down from Gaza and Lebanon into the schools in Haifa, Jerusalem, Tel Aviv, Jericho. In Nazareth.”