Kader Abdolah - The House of the Mosque

Khomeini put on his glasses, examined the list and gave his permission for everyone on it to be arrested.

The chief of the secret police went directly from Khomeini’s house to an undisclosed location, where a cabinet meeting was being held. First he spoke with the prime minister, relaying the gist of his conversation with Khomeini, then the two of them went to the cabinet meeting to inform the ministers.

The chief of the secret police came right to the point. ‘I’ve just come from the house of Imam Khomeini,’ he said. ‘I spoke to him in private, and he knows I’m here. I’m expecting a phone call from him at any moment. I’ve also spoken with the prime minister. The Mujahideen have infiltrated our—’

Just then the phone rang. The chief set his black briefcase on the table, excused himself and went into the adjoining office to take the call. He picked up the phone. ‘Yes, it’s me,’ he said, speaking loud enough for everyone in the next room to hear. ‘I’ve just spoken to the prime minister. Yes, I have it with me. No, wait, I may have left it in the car. Would you hold on for a moment? I’ll go and get it.’ He raised his voice at the end to make sure everyone heard him. Then he put down the phone, left the room, went down the stairs, got into his car and drove off at great speed. Nobody suspected a thing, since they had no way of knowing that history was repeating itself. The explosion shook the ground for miles around.

The Mujahideen’s fight against the regime continued. Week after week, bombs went off at random places throughout the city. But the regime was still going strong, despite the fact that Khomeini’s hand-picked cabinet had fallen for the same trick. When the Mujahideen realised that, they deliberately set out to create chaos in the city, setting fire to buses, banks and government buildings, and shooting as many functionaries as they could.

After a while their strategy began to look more like political suicide, for the Revolutionary Guard retaliated by arresting scores of sympathisers and ruthlessly shooting anyone who tried to escape. Within days, hundreds of members of the Mujahideen had been summarily executed.

The Mujahideen then abandoned the streets and switched to another tactic. This time they concentrated on acts of revenge. Focusing their wrath on the ayatollahs in the major cities, they set out to liquidate them one by one.

After the ayatollahs of Isfahan and Yazd had been assassinated, the Mujahideen stunned everyone by killing Ayatollah Mortazavi. An Islamic philosopher and one of the regime’s most important theorists, he held no political office of any kind. Instead, he taught young imams.

One day, when he was walking to his seminary, he was greeted by a young man: ‘ Salaam aleikum , Ayatollah.’

‘ Salaam aleikum , young man,’ the ayatollah replied.

‘I have a message for you.’

‘Oh? What is it?’

‘Your interpretation of the Koran is about to end!’

‘What do you mean it’s about to—’

‘I mean now !’ the young man said, and he fired three shots.

The chain of assassinations sowed fear and confusion in the regime. No one knew who the next target would be or where the next assassination would take place.

The ayatollah of Ghazvin was likewise singled out. His own cousin pulled the trigger. Only a few days before it happened, the ayatollah, worried about his security, had asked his cousin to be his chauffeur.

The ayatollah had spoken out against the attacks. ‘America is killing us, Saddam is killing us, the Mujahideen are killing us. But they haven’t killed our spirit! We taught America a lesson once before, and now it’s time to teach Saddam and the Mujahideen that same lesson!’

That night, after his impassioned speech, his cousin drove him home. ‘We’re going through such terrifying days,’ the ayatollah sighed.

‘And such terrifying nights,’ the cousin said as he drove into a side street.

‘Where are you taking me?’ the ayatollah asked.

‘To hell!’ the cousin said. And he pumped him full of bullets.

Nobody was safe any more. All it took was a whisper of suspicion against your neighbour, and he or she was immediately carted off to jail. The opposition went underground. Everyone who could possibly escape tried to flee the country.

The Mujahideen weren’t the only ones behind the assassinations. The armed factions of the leftist opposition carried out their own acts of revenge.

Despite the widespread fear, the ayatollahs refused to give in to the terror. They went about their business as usual. This was also true of Ayatollah Araki of Senejan. Everyone knew that he was a potential target, so he was surrounded by bodyguards.

Araki was a fanatic who wanted to turn Senejan into a model Islamic city. He spoke with loathing of the families of the men and women who had been executed, and he had given Zinat carte blanche in the women’s prison. She tortured the women until, at a sign from her, they lined up like robots and turned to face Mecca.

The residents of Senejan held their breath and waited for this hated ayatollah to be assassinated.

They didn’t have to wait long.

The sun had just set, and the heat in the courtyard was making way for the cool evening air when the door to Aqa Jaan’s study opened softly and someone came inside. Aqa Jaan, sitting in his chair and reading a book, thought it was Lizard.

He looked up. The last time he’d seen Shahbal had been the night they’d taken Jawad’s body to the mountains for burial. Shahbal had left immediately afterwards. Now, here he was, standing in the study.

Aqa Jaan took off his glasses. ‘I wasn’t expecting you. When did you get home?’

‘Just now.’

‘Have you seen your father?’

‘Not yet. I happened to be in Senejan and thought I’d drop by.’

There was a tremor in his voice.

Fate, Aqa Jaan thought, was about to strike again.

The door opened softly a second time and Lizard crept in. He could see by the look on Aqa Jaan’s face that he wasn’t welcome, so he quietly shut the door behind him and sat down outside.

‘What do you mean you happened to be in Senejan?’ Aqa Jaan said.

‘I had a couple of things I needed to do here, so I thought I’d take advantage of the opportunity to come by and say hello.’

‘Why don’t you sit down? Here, have a chair.’

‘I can’t stay long. I have to leave soon. Actually, I came to say goodbye.’

‘Goodbye? Why? Where are you going?’

‘I’m not sure. I have to wrap up some unfinished business, then I’ll probably be leaving the country for a while. I wanted to see you before I left. I’m sorry, but I…’ He looked at his watch. ‘I’ve got to go.’

‘What are you trying to tell me, my boy?’

Through the window Aqa Jaan saw the silhouette of Muezzin, though he made no move to come in.

‘Shall I ask your father to join us?’

‘No, there’s not enough time. I’ll phone him later. You’re the one I came to see. I’m worried about you. But I’ve got to go now. Someone’s waiting for me,’ he said.

Aqa Jaan sensed that something was wrong. It was still early in the evening. Why didn’t Shahbal have time to say goodbye to his own father? Why did he keep glancing at his watch? There was something odd about his solemn goodbye.

Then suddenly it dawned on him. He knew what was going to happen. Ten minutes from now the prayer would begin in the mosque. Ayatollah Araki’s Mercedes would be arriving shortly.

‘It’s time to go,’ Shahbal said, and he gave him a hug.

Aqa Jaan hugged him back, and as he did so, he felt the hard outline of a gun. With unexpected swiftness, he pushed Shahbal against the wall and yanked the gun from his waistband.