The Last Refuge (35 page)

Taris closed her eyes.

Be calm now, dear girl.
She heard the voice of her father.

“What’s happening?” asked another reporter, looking up from his computer as Taris walked calmly across the office.

Taris ignored him. She signed into her computer. She moved to “private browsing.” If they really looked, she knew full well, they would be able to find out which sites she’d gone to, but perhaps it would buy her some time.

She signed into a Yahoo account she had set up for this singular purpose. She would use this account once.

“Mahdishahr.” She typed in quickly. Down the hallway, she heard the sound of people entering the offices. “Golestan Street, yellow warehouse.”

The first VEVAK agent stormed into the room as Taris completed the e-mail.

“Taris Darwil!” the lead man shouted to one of her reporters, Katim, who looked as if he would faint. Katim pointed to her.

The agent raised his handgun and aimed it at her head as a swarm of other agents entered behind him.

“Stop whatever you are doing!” the agent yelled.

“What do you want?” Taris said, indignant. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”

Her fingers moved across the keyboard. She hit
SEND
just as the agent arrived at her desk and pushed her off her chair. She went tumbling to the ground. He looked at her screen.

Taris said nothing. Instead, she crawled a few feet away, acting fearful.

“What have I done?” she asked quietly.

“Get Haqim over here,” said the first agent, staring into the computer screen.

The agent stepped from the computer and aimed his weapon at Taris. He moved the muzzle of the weapon closer, then knelt down next to her. He brought the steel of the weapon’s tip against her forehead.

“What did Qassou say?” he asked, anger seething in his voice. “Speak or you die. What did he tell you?”

“When?” Taris asked. “We speak all the time.”

“At nine sixteen!” the agent barked. “
What did he say?
”

“I wasn’t here. I haven’t spoken with him today.”

“She logged into a private directory two and a half minutes ago,” said another agent, now scouring Taris’s computer screen. “That’s all I can determine without running some diagnostics.”

“What does that mean?” asked the agent still pointing his gun against her forehead.

“It means she did something on a private setting. We might not be able to retrieve it.”

He turned back to her.

“What was it?” he demanded.

Taris ignored him, looking up from the ground as tears came to her eyes and began to roll down her cheeks.

“Answer me!” screamed the agent.

She said nothing.

The agent stared at Taris.

“So you’re going to be a problem, yes?” he asked. “That’s too bad.”

The big Iranian swung the handgun across her face and smashed the butt into her nose, crumpling it. Taris screamed as blood began to pour from the nose.

“You used to be a very pretty girl,” he said as he leaned over and grabbed her arm, pulling her up, as the other agent hastily packed up her laptop.

Taris glanced around the newsroom at her colleagues, who stared at the scene in silence.

“Get back to work,” she said.

47

EVIN PRISON

TEHRAN

Meir let his mind drift to Israel. Then, for whatever reason, he thought of his mother. He remembered how she would come to his school, every day, and walk home with him. Until he was in fourth grade, he would hold her hand on the small sidewalks between the school and home. Every day, when they arrived at home, there would be a snack waiting on the kitchen table. Homemade cookies or fruit. Those days were like a gift, a simple present; the love of a mother. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine his mother’s smile. Meir felt her presence.

What if the time had indeed arrived for Israel to be wiped from the earth? There is no incontrovertible rule that guarantees Israel will always exist. There are countries that once existed, but are no longer. Perhaps the time had come, and perhaps he was but a player, a small player, in a battle that on this day, in this unique way, began the destruction of his country and his people?

Don’t give up, Kohl,
came a voice.
Don’t give in.
It was the voice of his father.
You must fight until you are dead. That is the way of your family. It is the way of your country.

Meir had endured a terrible night of half sleep, waking every few minutes, fearful of what was to come. Now that the day of his execution was here, he tried to will himself to sleep. But he couldn’t, not on his last morning alive. He settled into a sort of twilight half-consciousness.

Sometime later, a noise startled him and made him sit up. Through his grogginess, he heard footsteps coming down the corridor. They were louder than those of the guards. His feet hit the ground in a steady, heavy, menacing rhythm.

Meir’s ankles and wrists were shackled. He lifted himself, then sat up and stood. He moved toward the doorway. As the footsteps grew louder, he inched to the left of the door, his back pressed against the wall.

The ring of keys on the other side of the door jingled like a pocketful of quarters as whoever it was found the key to Meir’s cell. The lock slid and the door pushed in.

As Meir had hoped, whoever it was had neglected to peek inside the door hole.

As he raised his shackled wrists above his head, Meir thought of Achabar, his lawyer.
Perhaps it is Achabar. That would be especially nice,
he thought.

The large steel door swept inward and harsh light spilled into the cell from the corridor. A dark figure stepped into the room. Meir waited, pressed against the concrete wall. As the intruder’s head crossed the door jamb, Meir leapt into the air and swung his shackled wrists down, wrapping his cuffs around the intruder’s neck, like a noose. He yanked back with every ounce of strength he still had in his body.

The intruder choked and grunted in pain as Meir yanked back as hard as he could.

It wasn’t Achabar. He couldn’t smell any of his lawyer’s foul cologne. But more to the point, as Meir struggled to strangle the intruder, pulling with lethal strength, he found the man suddenly fighting back, pushing Meir against the concrete wall. He knew it couldn’t be Achabar. No, this one was powerful.

The man dropped a folder, then shot his hands to his neck, trying to get his fingers between his neck and the chain, which was rapidly cutting off oxygen. He slammed Meir backward against the concrete. Meir let out a pained grunt. The man stepped forward, then lurched again backward, this time with all of his force. He slammed Meir hard into the concrete wall, as his fingers were finally able to get between the chain and his own neck. Meir felt the wind get knocked out of his chest.

The man wheezed, catching his first breath of air in almost half a minute as his powerful hands created space between the chain and his trachea.

Meir held the chain tight, yanking back again. But the man was too strong.

Slowly, the figure moved toward the middle of the cell, lifting Meir from the ground as he eased the chain up, pushing against Meir who was pulling as hard as he could. Both fighters were grunting hard. Meir raised his knees and smashed them into the man’s back, but the strike barely registered more than a pained grunt. Most men would have died under the assault by the Israeli, but this one was an animal.

Meir kicked from behind again, this time using his knees and lifting them up against the middle part of the intruder’s back. He pulled back, yet as hard as he did, the strength of the stranger’s hands was even more powerful.

It was at this precise moment that Meir knew who the man was.

Paria lifted the chain to his chin. His right hand reached back and grabbed Meir at the wrist, squeezing, then abruptly twisting, trying to snap Meir’s wrist. With his left hand, he grabbed the other wrist. Then, clenching both of Meir’s wrists tightly, Paria lifted Meir’s two-hundred-pound frame, then, when the shackles were above his head, hurled Meir through the air. Meir crashed, back first, against the toilet, then screamed out in agony.

Looking up, he saw the large silhouette of Paria stepping toward him like a caged beast.

Paria was panting.

Meir lay on the ground, struggling to catch his breath, looking up at Paria, who stepped closer. He could see red at his neck, blood, skin that had scraped off in the initial assault with the chain. Paria let the wound bleed, not even registering the pain. He looked as angry as Meir had ever seen a man.

“I thought you said you could kick my ass,” said Paria.

“Take these shackles off and find out for yourself,” said Meir.

As Meir coughed blood onto the ground, both men knew his words were hollow.

“I’m here to save your life,” said Paria.

Meir tasted blood. He shifted his torso to try and understand how much damage the toilet had just caused. He could move, but felt sharp pain in his lower back.

“Save me?” asked Meir. “Fuck you.”

Paria came closer. He knelt down. His eyes were wide, furious pools of black. His bald head shimmered with sweat. He threw his right hand out and gripped Meir’s neck. He squeezed until Meir began to struggle and air no longer could pass into his lungs.

“You like the way that feels?” asked Paria. “It feels good, doesn’t it?”

Meir attempted to push Paria’s hand away from his neck, grabbing the wrist with his two manacled hands. But Paria moved his black boot and stomped down on Meir’s shackled hands.

For a full minute, Paria held tight, cutting off air. Then he let go of Meir’s neck.

Meir gasped for breath, coughing up more blood as he writhed on the ground, desperately trying to refill his lungs with air.

Paria moved back toward the door. He picked up the folder that had fallen on the ground. He stepped to the bed and sat down. He waited until Meir stopped coughing and caught his breath.

“I’m prepared to offer you a deal,” said Paria.

Meir stared up at Paria from the ground, his lips and ground-facing cheek covered in blood. The Israeli looked confused and disoriented. Pain stabbed at several places throughout his body.

He said nothing.

“All I want is information,” said Paria. “You give me information, and your life will be spared. It’s that simple.”

“Information?” asked Meir.

“Yes. Just information.”

“And then what?” asked Meir. “I spend the remainder of my life in this fucking prison? No thank you.”

“No,” said Paria. “You’ll be delivered back to Israel. You’re a free man. In addition, I will see that you’re removed from the capture-or-kill list. I will also see to it that your sister’s name is removed.”

At the mention of his sister, Meir’s eyes sharpened.

“You’re a liar and we both know it,” said Meir.

“I won’t kill you if you give me the information. You have my word.”

“The word of a thug and a murderer. The man who gives Hezbollah and Hamas the missiles they need to kill my countrymen.”

“The word of a warrior, like you. That is all.”

“The word of my enemy.”

“Yes, you will have to take a leap of faith, Kohl,” said Paria. “But then, what other options do you have? You’re sentenced to die this afternoon. I am your last refuge.”

Meir stared into Paria’s eyes. A small grin crept across the Iranian’s lips.

“I would rather die than give you something you need,” said Meir. “Even if I thought you would live up to your end of the bargain, I wouldn’t do it. And I don’t think you’ll live up to your end of the bargain.”

Paria nodded.

“Just what I thought you’d say,” said Paria. “The confidence of a man who still believes he’s going to be freed. Is that what you think? Was this part of the plan all along? You’re sent to prison and Qassou will somehow free you?”

Paria stared at Meir’s eyes intently, looking for the spark of recognition. Meir gave it to him, if by accident, just a moment, a single movement of his head as Paria mentioned the name Qassou.

“Well, if he was your escape plan, I have some sobering news for you, Kohl.”

Paria reached into his pocket. He removed a cell phone. He aimed it down at Meir. The image on the small screen made Meir flinch. The photo showed Qassou’s prostrate, bullet-riddled corpse, his tan button-down shirt covered in blood, a black hole the size of a golf ball in his neck, his eyes wide-open, staring out into space.

“We have Taris Darwil in a cell down the hall,” said Paria. “It’s only a matter of time before she speaks.”

Meir felt his heart sink like a thousand bricks tossed into an endless ocean.

“Was she your escape plan?” asked Paria. “Was Qassou? Your ‘knight in shining armor’? Well, suffice it to say, Qassou or the reporter won’t be in a position to participate in your little operation any longer. And as we speak, we are rapidly digging through Qassou’s network and through the reporter’s. I’ll kill anyone and everyone who was involved in this thing.”

“What thing?”

“This conspiracy.”

“I’ve never seen this man, and the name Qassou means nothing to me,” said Meir. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Paria tossed down a third picture to the ground. It was a photo of Dewey.

“I don’t know who he is.”

“You don’t know him?” asked Paria. “You saved his life in Beirut. You saved Andreas’s life less than two weeks before this photograph was snapped. Now stop the bullshit. Your escape hatch is gone, Kohl.
Start talking!
”

Paria stood up and moved closer. Meir looked up at him, but said nothing. Then Paria kicked his steel-toed boot into Meir’s torso, striking his ribs. Meir screamed in pain.

Then the voice of his father spoke again. This time, his father was louder, commanding him.

You must keep fighting
.
That is the way of your family. It is the way of your country.

“I would rather die with honor than live in shame,” said Meir, shutting his eyes and bracing himself for the kick he knew would soon come from Paria’s boot.

48