Stephen Coonts - The Disciple

Tonight, as he and Ghasem shared a meager dinner-all they could afford-Abtahi launched into his favorite subject.

“My older brother has been in America for five years,” he said, as if this tidbit were really news. He had told Ghasem everything he knew about his older brother a dozen times. “He owns an automobile repair shop in New Jersey. When I get there he will hire me, and together we will repair automobiles.”

“What kind of automobilies?” Ghasem asked, to humor his friend.

“Taxicabs, mostly. Farrukh repairs a lot of taxicabs that are driven around New York by Iranians, Iraqis, Lebanese, Palestinians, Syrians, Saudis-men from all over the Middle East. They come to him because he speaks Farsi and Arabic and doesn’t cheat them too much. Some garages install used parts in customers’ cars and charge them for new ones, but Farrukh doesn’t do-”

“Why America?” Ghasem asked. He had heard about the car repair business many times before. “Why travel halfway around the world to live in a nation of infidels?”

“Ah, in America they are rich. The people may be infidels, but they are from all over the earth and they go there and make lots of money. In America, people willing to work hard can get rich. Farrukh sees rich people everywhere. The houses, the cars, the boats-”

“There is more to life than money.”

“True,” Abtani agreed, scraping the last morsel from his bowl, “and a person who has money can afford to enjoy all those extra things.”

“When you get to America, will you join a mosque?”

“Of course. The one Farrukh belongs to. He says it is a good place.”

“Are the members supporting jihad?”

Abtani eyed his friend, then said frankly, “No.”

“The Americans are fighting Muslims in Iraq and Afghanistan. Does that bother you?”

“That is not my fight.”

“What do you think of jihad?”

“I am not a holy warrior, and I do not want to be one. I think martyrs are fools.” He thrust out his lower jaw belligerently. “ That is what I think. I want to find a good woman, get married, have children, have grandchildren, feed them all they want to eat, grow old and enjoy the life that Allah gave me.” He made a chopping gesture. “Allah made the world without my help, and I think He could handle the infidels, if He wished. He could snap his fingers and transport them all to hell or Paradise, if He wished. But apparently He does not so wish. I will live as my parents lived and trust in His mercy.”

“Perhaps that is the best way,” Ghasem said thoughtfully.

“I will go to America,” Abtani said stubbornly. “As soon as they send me a visa.”

Like the president of the United States, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad used a trusted aide to keep close tabs on the intelligence community, both the MOIS and the Qods Force of the IRGC. Amazingly, in male-dominated, fundamentalist Iran, his aide was a woman, Hazra al-Rashid-not her real name but a nom de guerre . She had gotten her start during the Revolution ratting on her fellow university students, then torturing them. Her methods quickly got out of control, even for a third-world sewer like Iran, so she changed her name and was transferred to another prison. There she became a protégé of Ahmadinejad-ten years her senior-who was also earning points for Paradise by rooting out heretics and potential political enemies. He reined in her wildest impulses (which meant some prisoners lived a little longer) and drained off some of her sexual energy. They were made for each other.

Today, in the privacy of the presidential office, she told Ahmadinejad about the CIA’s approach to Professor Azari. “He has suggested that Rostram cooperate with the CIA’s spy in Tehran.”

As usual for women employed by the government in postrevolutionary Iran, Hazra was wearing a black chador and a black scarf that covered her neck and the top of her head. Only her face and hands showed.

“Who is the CIA’s spy?” Ahmadinejad asked.

“One of the new officers in the American Interests Section of the Swiss embassy. We have suspected him since he arrived, but so far he has done nothing.”

The thing about the chador, Ahmadinejad mused, was that it hid everything. Intended by the mullahs to prevent male temptation by completely shrouding a woman’s figure, it had just the opposite effect. Now everything was left to the imagination; women became mysterious figures who raised sexual tension wherever they appeared, even old women, the crippled, the lame and the grossly overweight.

“The American is named Carmellini,” Hazra said. “He is a tall, fit man who runs at least five miles a day.”

Instead of a sexless society where believers thought only pure thoughts, Iran had become the most sexually charged nation on the planet. The men thought about sex every time they saw a woman, fantasized about having sex with her and, even when she passed from view, obsessed about sex like a hormone-drenched teenage male. We are going to have to do something about chadors, Ahamdinejad mused. Even as he entertained the thought, he knew that course was politically impossible, as long as the Party of God remained in power.

“We are going to have one of our agents make contact with Azari,” Hazra said. “We must know precisely what he told the CIA.”

Mahmoud Ahmadinejad turned Hazra around, so she was facing away from him. Then he began lifting the hem of her chador.

Ahh yes, she wasn’t wearing anything under the black sack. But then, she never did. He also liked the fact that she shaved her legs in the European style.

“We must confirm that the CIA believes Azari is telling the truth,” Hazra said as Ahmadinejad pushed her gently down onto the desk and began stroking her buttocks and back. She spread her legs slightly, wanting him to stroke her vagina. She was already wet, ready for him. Ah, now she felt his hand.

“If they didn’t believe him,” she continued, “one doubts that they would want to talk to Rostram.”

“You have done well, my beloved,” Mahmoud Ahmadinejad said as he thrust his penis into her.

I was going to ruin my lungs if I kept running every evening. This evening the crap in the air hid the Alborz Mountains to the north.

I walked the last few blocks back to the hotel, trying to cool off. Occasionally I coughed, hacking up the goop from my lungs.

A block from the hotel I heard someone say my name. “Tommy Carmellini.” I turned, looking for the speaker… a skinny kid leaning against a building smoking a cigarette. He looked about eighteen. Smooth cheeks, medium-length hair, grungy trousers and a long-sleeve shirt and sweater.

I turned and walked toward him. “Those cancer sticks will kill you,” I said conversationally.

“I’m Rostram,” he said and took another nervous drag on his butt. I thought I heard a trace of a British accent.

I glanced right and left to see who was watching us. No one, apparently. I took another good look. Someone was jerking me around.

“And I’m the fucking Wizard of Oz,” I said, turning away.

“Hey,” he said. “Hey.” He stepped after me and tugged at my sleeve. “Don’t bugger this up, you bloody Yank. I’m Rostram.”

“Okay,” I said. “You picked a rotten place for a meet.”

“We must meet somewhere,” he said, sucking on that weed, “and no one is watching you. You’re clean tonight. Let’s go across the street to the park and sit down.”

I didn’t know what to think. I had been expecting some fifty-something bureaucrat or scientist who hated the regime, and instead I got this kid.

We jaywalked and didn’t get run over. Found a bench in the park. I sat on it, and the kid perched on the back. He lit another cigarette and blew smoke around. He was smoking Marlboros, I noticed, and he smoked like a beginner, nervously, very aware of the weed. I wondered where he got the damn things. His eyes were constantly moving, but at least some of the time he was sizing me up.