The Screaming Eagles (6 page)

Standing in lines was a national pastime in Russia, whose border was a few hundred miles north, one of five countries that bordered Iran. But in Iran, standing in line was a joke. Nobody stood in line even at urinals. The game was, if you came across a crowd of people and it was necessary to get from point A, where you were standing, to point B, which were the doors, the Iranian way was not to wait for others to go in first. Everyone had the same objective, getting through the doors first. Loosely translated in Farsi, it was called a game of toes. You placed the toe of your shoe on the inside or outside of a shoe of the person standing directly in front of you and by moving your body ever so slightly, your eyes looking everywhere but the final objective, you began to maneuver around that person.

Everyone spoke, shoved excused themselves, always politely, always gently, always trying to edge closer to the doors, but never looking directly at the doors.

Above the crowd, pigeons roosted in the ornate overhanging archway. As they flew to and from their nests, they shed feathers and white ooze.

Holding his briefcase, Michael walked down an alley alongside the bank building to an unmarked door, the employee’s entrance. Anti-Shah graffiti was brazenly chalked or painted on walls in bright colors along the narrow lane, which Michael had always used previously when he visited his clients who were bank employees. In the old days, the walkway had always been clean and well kept, but now it was filthy. A damp urine smell was pungent and fresh and Michael wondered how many terrorists had hidden there from the soldiers the previous night and relieved themselves as they waited. There were no bloodstains on the pathway, so, the soldiers had obviously not surprised or encountered the people hiding. Although it was daylight, a single bulb above the employee’s door was lit. Weeds had broken through paving stones, most which were now uneven, cracked and angled. Michael looked for a place to stand that was level. He couldn’t find one, so he stood with one leg slightly bent. Standing there waiting, he wished that he smoked, so he could appear nonchalant, slowly dragging on a cigarette. He checked his pocket again, felt for the hundred dollar bills. Two Bank Melli employees were current clients of his and he planned to ask the first one who appeared to get him through the employee’s door so he could talk to the bank manager.

One by one Bank Melli’s staff approached the door. They knocked, showed their ID’s to the peephole and were admitted. They all looked at Michael, wondering what he was doing standing there. They purposely avoided any eye contact, looking uneasy, harassed and worried. Fearfully, they looked at him as if he would contaminate them with some sort of disease. They disliked the fact that a foreigner was standing in a lane that was meant only for employees of the bank.

Two employees, both men, ostentatiously spat in his direction as they walked toward the door. Neither waited until they were safely inside, but instead, spat in his direction again as they passed him, daring him to retaliate.

Michael wondered if his mind was very tired or if he was thinking crazy thoughts because he was absolutely sure that the keeper of the peephole must be God. He was the lone decision-maker of who shall live and who shall die, who could enter and who could not. Michael wondered if it was a male or female God. Was God, young, old, married, single, a grandfather or grandmother? What sort of person and what sort of qualities were needed to be chosen by a board of directors of the bank at their special board meeting, to be appointed to this most important of bank positions? Was this faceless person, chosen by promotion, demotion, nepotism or favoritism? Who the fuck was this moron who sat on the other side of the door of this stinking alley?

Finally, he saw Hashemi walking towards the door and moved to intercept him. “Hashemi, salaam, how are you, my friend?”

“Please, Mr. Lawrence, I cannot speak to you. Sorry, I am late.”

“Hashemi, I need to speak with the bank manager. I will gladly pay generously for you to assist me to get into the bank.”

“Sorry, Mr. Lawrence, I cannot assist you. It is strongly forbidden. Excuse me, I am late.”

Michael pulled out a hundred-dollar bill. Hashemi visibly froze and shied away, his hands outstretched, trying to push Michael away from him. Swatting away at the money as if it were a snake, he knocked on the door and showed his ID.

“Hashemi, Hashemi, we are friends. Please.” Michael took out another hundred-dollar bill from his pocket.

Hashemi, his face, white and his teeth bared, angrily hissed, “We will kill you, kill all you Satans. Get away from me, get away, you Zionist pig, you heretic. Our time is near. Leave my country, raper of my people, son of the devil himself. Leave me alone, you swine who hate us and are trying to destroy our country. Leave my country now, go before we destroy you.” Hashemi walked through the door.

Michael was stunned. He stared at the closed door. It just could not be possible that this was the same Hashemi who had pleaded with Michael to accompany him to Florida so he could invest in a small, income-producing strip of stores. Hashemi’s family members had each contributed moneys so, they jointly would have enough to make a down payment. They designated Hashemi to buy the properties on their behalf. For Michael, the sale and his commission was hardly worth the trip, but after a plea from Hashemi’s mother, he’d flown to Miami with Hashemi. Hashemi had no interest in the negotiations. Michael concluded the sale on behalf of the family, as Hashemi’s only interest when they arrived in Miami was to visit as many topless and bottomless bars as possible. He was a paralytic drunk every night they were in Miami. Now, four months later, this man who drooled when he searched the Yellow Pages for a bar that advertised the raunchiest evening entertainment had just accused Michael of being Satan. Obviously, the transformation of Hashemi had to be a result of pending changes with which Khomeni had threatened the population once he came into power. Michael was in a total state of shock and disbelief.

Ali Khoyi arrived a few minutes later. Walking rapidly, he recognized Michael and waved. He was a short, quiet well-dressed man. He smiled. “Mr. Lawrence, good morning. Do you wish to avoid the crowd at the front and come in through our door?”

Michael couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He took out the six hundred dollars from his coat pocket. Ali Khoyi waved the money away and shook Michael’s hand, holding it by the wrist.

“I don’t need your money, Mr. Lawrence. You were good to me when you helped me select my properties. You advised me well when I needed a friend. Let me be your friend. Please follow me into our bank. Whom do you wish to see? You must need to see the manager. Come, I will arrange it.” Together, they walked through the door.

*

Michael looked at his watch. It was already three o’clock. He’d been sitting in a small waiting room alongside the manager’s office for six hours. The manager’s secretary was either talking on her phone or reading a book. She was obviously in total sync with her boss, sensing and anticipating his every wish. She pointedly ignored Michael. He had tried to strike up a conversation with her, but she just continued to read her book.

Ali Khoyi had brought him tea twice. They both saw her disapproval, but she said nothing. Michael drank his tea as Iranians did, placing a sugar cube between his teeth and sipping tea through it until it melted. The manner in which he drank tea didn’t impress the bitch.

He’d read and reread the only magazine that was on the coffee table next to his chair. The magazine was open and on one of its pages was an advertisement offering flights at discount prices to Ethiopia. Michael’s mind started wandering again. He’d slept only an hour and since arriving, had two cups of tea.

The only information on Ethiopia he’d had came from his friend Tal who told a story that, when he had finished his Israeli army stint in 1959, he’d been sent to the country as an agronomist on his first job assignment. He thought that he would be based in Addis Ababa, the capital, where he would be teaching people how to farm. Instead, he found himself in a small village, 400 miles north, in a jungle so overgrown and wild that even if he wanted to he couldn’t leave. Once a month a plane would land with mail, provisions, tools and equipment.

Tal was the only white person there. When he first arrived, he noticed that all of the women were scrawny, dirty and burnt blue-black by the sun. He said that he could smell them before he saw them because they used animal fat rubbed onto their bodies to shield themselves from the sun. Their only redeeming feature was even, white, teeth. They cleaned their teeth with ashes.

After living there for three months, not touching or being with a woman, it was amazing how much lighter-skinned, clean and voluptuous the women began to appear to Tal. As the weeks dragged on and he became more sex starved, the women became more beautiful.

Maybe, like Tal, the manager saw something in his secretary that Michael could not. That secret, obviously, was for the manager to know, and for Michael to continue to speculate about in his befuddled state.

All day long, men had been escorted into the manager’s office. Most came out ashen faced, some completely dumbstruck murmuring to themselves, holding their prayer beads and counting the prayers as they moved the beads. Those she quickly dispatched, hurrying them out like a jailer keeping a prisoner moving as rapidly as possible toward the electric chair, the prisoner not wanting to go and the jailer in a hurry to get it over with, go home and climb into bed.

The intercom buzzed and Michael heard her call his name. He got up, she opened a large ornate door and closed it behind him as he entered. The room was enormous. The manager sat at the far end of the room behind a large antique desk. Antiques were everywhere. Walking toward him on lush, heavy, Persian carpets, Michael saw a huge crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling. He also noticed matching wall fittings, heavy drapes, an Iranian flag, large pictures of the Shah and pictures of the royal family on the wall behind the manager’s chair. The manager didn’t bother to get up. The room was ominously quiet.

Looking up at him, the manager said, “Mr. Lawrence, I can give you five minutes. What can I do for you?” He exhibited none of the customary, polite, inconsequential small talk or courtesy that was dictated when Iranians met. Michael’s heart sank.

Opening his briefcase, he took out bank statements, saying, “I have six hundred and thirty-four thousand dollars in this bank. I wish to withdraw it.”

Twirling one end of his mustache into a point while he spoke, the manager with his excessively gelled hair said, “Mr. Lawrence, come now. You did not deposit your money in my bank. These are Saderat statements.”

“You are well aware that Bank Saderat was blown up and as Bank Melli is the National Reserve Bank owned by the government, you have assumed all of their responsibilities. Here is my latest statement and my passport.”

“Mr. Lawrence, while it is true we have taken over Saderat’s affairs, how do I know that an hour before the bank was blown up you didn’t withdraw all of your money and take it out of the country or maybe five minutes before it was blown up. Possibly you are trying to take advantage of our temporary, unfortunate situation in our beloved country? How do I know that you are not looking to make another six hundred thousand dollars?”

“You know that is not true.”

“How do I know, Mr. Lawrence? What proof do you have?”

“You know I could not have withdrawn my money. It was impossible. Saderat would have had to draw a reserve bank check so that I could cash it. You would have a copy of the reserve bank check. Check your files.”

“How do I know if what you say is true? You surprise me, Mr. Lawrence, with your knowledge of our banking system. I think the authorities should be made aware of this situation. We will have to investigate you and your business. Write a letter. It will take us many months, if ever, to prove your claim. In the meantime I will inform the authorities to investigate your business. Times are difficult at the moment, no one knows how long this foolishness will continue in our glorious country. We Iranians are suffering. Unfortunately it is foreigners like yourself who came here to exploit our people and resources, you all are the cause. Write your letter, and when things quiet down, perhaps we will find this money that you claim. Perhaps.”

“This cannot be. Every reserve bank has to honor its depositors’ moneys. Here are my checkbooks. Check and you will see, my balance is correct. I must get my money.”

“I repeat, Mr. Lawrence, write a letter. Now you must excuse me. I have other appointments.” He turned away shifting papers from one end of his desk to another, completely ignoring Michael.

Michael heard the door open behind him. The secretary called his name. The manager must have pressed a buzzer to summon her. Michael wanted to walk around the desk and beat the little shit to a pulp. For seconds, they stared at each other. There was no fear in his eyes. He knew that he had Michael’s money and that he had him by the balls. He knew Michael wouldn’t touch him because he had only one chance in a million to get his money. Michael couldn’t jeopardize that one chance, so he would have to leave the pompous motherfucker sitting behind his big desk and go home and write a letter.

Michael found three parking tickets on his car. He tore them into small pieces, spat on them and kicked the pieces away. He planned to check his file of clients and lean on the most influential to get him out of this mess. He would fight fire with fire. He’d get that sleazy piece of shit and break his kneecaps if he had to. Kameran, Mohmen, Sadegh, he would contact someone, anyone that would make that manager shit in his pants. Somehow he’d get back his money. If he wanted war, he’d have war.

*

Michael opened the door to his apartment. It had taken him three hours to return from the bank. He closed the door, paused and knew immediately that something was not right. He sensed someone was inside. He froze?stopped breathing and didn’t move as he listened to see if he could identify committeemen. He heard noises from the kitchen. Reopening the front door quietly he stood ready to take flight into the streets.