"man zaban-e shoma ra khoob nami danam, agha" sorry, i don't speak your language, excellency gavallan croaked, his chest hurting him. the mullah, an old man with white beard and white turban and black robes, turned and shouted above the din at the watchers and people in other cars.
reluctantly a driver nearby got out and came over and greeted the mullah deferentially, listened to him, then spoke to gavallan in good though stilted english: "the mullah informs you that the youths were wrong to attack you, agha, and have broken the law, and that clearly you were not breaking a law or provoking them."
again he listened to the mullah a moment, then once more turned to gavallan and mciver. "he wishes you to know that the islamic republic is obedient to the immutable laws of god. the youths broke the law which forbids attacking unarmed strangers peacefully going about their business." the man, bearded, middle-aged, his clothes threadbare, turned back to the mullah who now loudly addressed the crowd and the youths and there was widespread approval and agreement. "you are to witness that the law is upheld, the guilty punished and justice done at once. the punishment is fifty lashes, but first the youths will beg your forgiveness and the forgiveness of all others here."
in the midst of the uproar from the nearby demonstration, the terrified youths were shoved and kicked in front of mciver and gavallan where they went down on their knees and abjectly begged forgiveness. then they were herded back against the wall and thrashed with mule scourges readily offered by the interested and jeering crowd. the mullah, the two green bands, and others selected by the mullah enforced the law. pitilessly.
"my god," gavallan muttered, sickened.
the driver-translator said sharply, "this is islam. islam has one law for all people, one punishment for each crime, and justice immediate. the law is god's law, untouchable, everlasting, not like in your corrupt west where laws can be twisted and justice twisted and delayed for the benefit of lawyers who fatten on the twistings and corruptions and vilenesses or misfortunes of others..." screams of some of the youths interrupted him. "those sons of dogs have no pride," the man said contemptuously, going back to his car.
when the punishment was over, the mullah gently admonished those youths who were still conscious, then dismissed them and went forward with his green bands. the crowd drifted away leaving mciver and gavallan beside the car. their attackers were now pathetic bundles of inert, bloodstained rags or moaning youths trying to drag themselves to their feet. gavallan went forward to help one of them, but the youth scrambled away petrified so he stopped, then came back. the fenders were dented, there were deep scratches in the paintwork from stones the youths had used maliciously. mciver looked older than before. "can't say they didn't deserve it, i suppose," gavallan said.
"we'd've been trampled and very bloody hurt if the mullah hadn't come along," mciver said throatily, so glad that genny had not been here. she'd have been punished by every lash they got, he thought, his chest and back aching from the blows. he pulled his eyes off his car, eased his shoulders
painfully. then he noticed the man who had translated for them in a nearby car still in the traffic jam and trudged painfully across the snow to him.
"thanks, thanks for helping us, agha," he said to him, shouting through the window and above the noise. the car was old and bent and four other men were crammed into the other seats.
the man rolled down the window. "the mullah asked for a translator, i was helping him, not you," he said, his lips curling. "if you had not come to iran, those young fools would not have been tempted by your disgusting display of material wealth."
"sorry, i just wanted to th "
"and if it wasn't for your equally disgusting films and television that glorify your godless street gangs and rebellious classrooms that the shah imported at the behest of his masters to corrupt our youth my own son and own pupils included those poor fools would be all correctly law-abiding. better for you to leave before you too are caught breaking the law." he rolled up the window and, angrily, jabbed the horn.
at lochart's apartment: 2:37 p.m. her knuckles rapped a short code on the penthouse door. she was wearing a veil and dirt-stained chador.
a series of knocks answered her. again she tapped four rapid and one slow. at once the door swung open a crack, teymour was there with a gun in her face, and she laughed. "don't you trust anyone, my darling?" she said in arabic, palestinian dialect.
"no, sayada, not even you," he replied, and when he was sure she truly was sayada bertolin and alone, he opened the door wider, and she pulled away her veil and scarf and went into his arms. he kicked the door shut and blocked it. "not even you." then they kissed hungrily. "you're late."
"on time. you're early." again she laughed and broke away and handed him the bag. "about half's there, i'll bring the rest tomorrow."
"where did you leave the rest?"
"in a locker at the french club." sayada bertolin put her chador aside and was transformed. she wore a padded ski jacket and warm cashmere turtleneck sweater and tartan skirt and thick socks and high fur boots, all of it couturier. "where are the others?" she asked.
his eyes smiled. "i sent them out."
"ah, love in the afternoon. when do they return?"
"sunset."
"perfect. first a shower the water's still hot?"
"oh, yes, and central heating's on, and the electric blanket. such luxury!
lochart and his wife knew how to live, this's a veritable pasha's what's the french wordy. ah, yes, gar~onniere."
her laugh warmed him. "you've no idea what a pishkesh a hot shower is, my darling, so much nicer than a bath let alone the rest." she sat on a chair to slip off her boots. "but it was old lecher jared bakravan, not lochart, who knew how to live originally this apartment was for a mistress."
"you?" he asked without malice.
"no, my darling, he required them young, very young. i'm mistress to no one, not even my husband. sharazad told me. old jared knew how to live, a pity he didn't have more luck in his dying."
"he had served his purpose."
"that was no way for such a man. stupid!"
"he was a notorious usurer and shah supporter, even though he gave to khomeini lavishly. he had offended the laws of god an "
"the laws of zealots, my darling, zealots as you and i break all sorts of laws, eh?" she got up and kissed him lightly, walked down the corridor on the lovely carpets, and went into sharazad and lochart's bedroom, across it into the luxurious mirrored bathroom, and turned on the shower, and stood there waiting for the water to heat up. "i always loved this apartment."
he leaned against the doorway. "my superiors thank you for suggesting it.
how was the march?"
"awful. iranians are such animals, hurling abuse and filth at us, waving their penises at us, all because we want to be a little equal, want to dress as we want, to try to be beautiful for such a little time, we're young such a little time." again she put her hand under the water, testing it. "your khomeini will have to relent."
he laughed. "never that's his strength. and only some are animals, sayada, the rest know no better. where's your civilized palestinian tolerance?"
"your men here have put it all into a squatting hole, teymour. if you were a woman you'd understand." she tried the water again and felt the heat beginning. "it's time i went back to beirut i never feel clean here. i haven't felt clean in months."
"i'll be glad to get back too. the war here is over, but not in palestine, lebanon, or jordan they need trained fighters there. there are jews to kill, the curse of zion to cast out, and holy places to recapture."
"i'm glad you'll be back in beirut," she said, her eyes inviting. "i've been told to go home too in a couple of weeks which suits me perfectly then i can still be a marcher. the protest planned for thursday's going to be the biggest ever!"
"i don't understand why you bother, iran's not your problem and all your marches and protest meetings will achieve nothing."
"you're wrong khomeini's not a fool i take part in the marches for the same reason i work for the plo for our home, for equality, equality for the women of palestine... and yes, and for women everywhere." her brown eyes were suddenly fiery and he had never seen her more beautiful. "women are on the march, my darling, and by god of the copts, the one god, and by your marxist-lenin you secretly admire, the day of man's dominance is over!"
"i agree," he said at once and laughed.
abruptly she laughed with him. "you're a chauvinist you who know differently. " the temperature of the water was perfect. she took off her ski jacket. "let's shower together."
"good, tell me about the papers."
"afterward." she undressed without shame and so did he, both aroused but patient, for they were confident lovers lovers of three years, in lebanon and palestine and here in tehran and he soaped her and she soaped him and they toyed, one with another, their playing gradually more intimate and more sensuous and more erotic until she cried out and cried again, and then, the instant he was within they melded perfectly, ever more urgent now, one with another, imploding together then later at peace together lying in the bed the electric blanket warming them.
"what's the time?" she said sleepily with a great sigh.
"time for love."
quietly she reached over and he jerked, unprepared, and retreated protesting, then caught her hand and held her closely. "not yet, not even you, my love!" she said, content in his arms.
"five minutes."
"not for five hours, teymour."
"one hour..."
"two hours," she said smiling. "in two you'll be ready again but by then i won't be here you'll have to bed one of your soldier whores." she stifled a yawn, then stretched as a cat would stretch. "oh, teymour, you're a wonderful lover, wonderful." then her ears caught a sound. "is that the shower?"
"yes. i left it running. what luxury, eh?"
"yes, yes, it is, but a waste."
she slid out of bed and closed the bathroom door, used the bidet, then went into the shower, and sang to herself as she washed her hair, then wrapped a fine towel around herself, dried her hair with an electric dryer and when she came back she expected to find him contentedly asleep. but he wasn't. he was lying in bed with his throat cut. the blanket that half covered him was soaked with blood, his severed genitals were neatly on the pillow beside him, and two men stood there watching her. both were armed, their revolvers fitted
with silencers. through the open bedroom door she saw another man by the front door, on guard.
"where're the rest of the papers?" one of the men said in curiously accented english, the revolver pointed at her.
"at... at the french club."
"where at the french club?"
"in a locker." she had been too many years in the plo undercover, and too versed in life to panic. her heartbeat was slow and she was trying to decide what to do before she died. there was a knife in her handbag but she had left the handbag on the bedside table and now it was on the bed, the contents spilled out, and there was no knife. no weapon near at hand to help her. nothing but time at sunset the others came back. it was nowhere near sunset. "in the ladies' section," she added.
"which locker?"
"i don't know there are no numbers and it's the custom to give whatever you want kept safely to the woman attendant, you sign your name in the book which she initials, and she will give whatever it is back to you when you ask for it but only to you."
the man glanced at the other one who nodded briefly. both men were darkhaired and dark-eyed, mustached, and she could not place the accent. they could be iranian, arab, or jew and from anywhere, from egypt to syria or south to yemen. "get dressed. if you try anything you will not go to hell painlessly like this man we did not wake him first. clear?"
"yes." sayada went back and began to dress. she did not try to hide. the man stood at the doorway and watched carefully, not her body but her hands. they're professionals, she thought, sickened.
"where did you get the papers?"
"from someone called ali. i've never seen him befo "
"stop!" the word cut like a razor though it was softly said. "the next time you lie to us i will slice off that beautiful nipple and make you eat it, sayada bertolin. one lie, to experiment, is forgiven. never again. go on."
fear now gushed through her
"the man's name was abdollah bin ali saba, and this morning he went with me to the old tenement near the university. he led the way to the apartment and we searched where we had been told."
"who told you?"
"the 'voice.' the voice on the phone i only know him as a voice. from... from time to time, he calls me with special instructions."
