The Disciple

Davar held her emotions under tight control. She, too, avoided speaking to Khurram, who was busy pretending he knew nothing of the events that led to Murad’s arrest and interrogation. She watched him when he wasn’t looking at her… and saw nothing. Khurram was in his early twenties, a disappointment to his family. He preferred Basij activities to working, in his father’s business or anywhere else, which was just as well, since he had few if any skills. He was, she thought, a classic sociopath, interested only in himself, whose antisocial urges were legitimatized by the religious Nazis.

Had he really betrayed his grandfather, though? Why had the MOIS officer given Ghasem his name? One possibility, she realized, was to protect the real informant, who could be anybody. Any student at the university who took an unauthorized peek at some manuscript pages… or Murad’s housekeeper. Secrets are difficult to keep from a nosy housekeeper, Davar thought.

The more she thought about it, the more certain she became. She made inquiries. The housekeeper had stopped going to Grandfather’s house immediately after his arrest. She hadn’t been back.

Ghasem found that his emotions were not under his control. His grandfather had been a true holy man, willing to forgive anyone anything. That was clear from his writing. No doubt he would have forgiven Khurram-if he had been told that it was Khurram who had betrayed him. One suspected he was not given that information.

It was curious, Ghasem reflected, that the secret police had dropped that tidbit on him. Like his cousin Davar, he realized that the MOIS could have given him Khurram’s name to protect the real traitor. Did the police hope he would attempt to take revenge?

He was tempted. Thought about killing Khurram, because in his heart of hearts he hated the lazy, sanctimonious, bullying bastard. Thought about how gratifying it would be to slowly strangle Khurram with his own two hands, crush his windpipe, watch his face turn blue, then purple, watch his eyes glaze over in death.

Yet when he tried to reconcile his rage with his grandfather’s life and teachings, he couldn’t.

Out of this swirling cauldron of emotions came one concrete thought. He decided to meet with Davar’s spy, give him Grandfather’s manuscript-and he was going to do it sooner rather than later.

When I got the call on my cell phone from Davar, I was amazed. She wanted to meet at a mountain pass north of Tehran, she told me in English. She gave me the time, 2:00 A.M., and left it at that. We had previously agreed that any meet would occur three nights after I received the call.

I got out a map and looked for this pass. Found it, and got really antsy. The road led up a canyon, through the pass and down the other side. If Davar was followed, our only options were to drive on over the mountain, so we would be on the side away from Tehran, or to hike along the ridge in one direction or the other.

The place had no easy exits, which was very bad. Did she just not realize how wrong the place was, or was I being set up? Did someone tell her to lure me out there?

I buttonholed Joe Mottaki, Israel’s man in Tehran.

“I need a weapon,” I said.

“I have a pistol. Nine millimeter. I can let you borrow it.”

“A rifle, too, if you have one.”

“The pistol holds thirteen cartridges. If you need more than that, you’ll be in a war and had better shoot yourself.”

The guy was a real ray of sunshine. “A rifle,” I said.

So he came up with one. An old AK-47 with two magazines. I was less than thrilled. AKs are not known for their accuracy. The warriors in these parts like to shoot them from the hip, empty a whole magazine in the general direction of their enemy, spray and slay. Sometimes they get lucky-usually they don’t.

I spent the afternoon contemplating my luck and listening to tourist visa pleas. Just before quitting time, Abdullaziz Nasr Qomi came carefully down the stairs, leaning on his crutch. He saw me and his face lit up. “It’s been two weeks,” he said. “Has my visa come?”

“Sit right there and let me check.” He made himself comfortable in the visitor chair on the other side of the room divider. Fortunately my colleague Frank Caldwell was out for the day, so he didn’t have to witness my treason.

I trotted upstairs and checked with the clerk. Nothing from the State Department today, and I hadn’t seen anything this week.

I went downstairs to tell Qomi the bad news. “Not yet,” I said. “Maybe you had better check back in two more weeks. I can’t imagine it would take more than a month to get a yes or no.”

He took a deep breath and glanced around the room. Then his eyes found me again. “Why would they say yes?” he asked.

I smiled. “Why would they say no?”

He had no answer to that so levered himself up and went up the stairs. I sat there alone contemplating my navel. I had disobeyed the rules when I marked the yes box on the visa app form, and in doing so had gotten Qomi’s hopes up. If he was turned down-and I suspected that he would be-what was I going to tell him?

You didn’t get approved for a tourist visa because you are an uneducated Islamic peasant from a third-world shithole, and we have found folks like you never, ever leave the U.S. of A. if they can get there.

While I was sitting there, someone came trooping down the stairs. I knew he was an American when I saw his shoes. Now the trousers, the shirt and jacket, and the clean-shaven white face. Behind him was an Iranian male.

“Hey,” he said. “My name is Herman Strader.” He shoved his passport through the window at me. “This guy is Mustafa Abtahi. He’s been writing letters to the State Department in Washington asking for a visa and hasn’t gotten any answers. The people upstairs said to talk to you.”

I pretended to scrutinize Strader’s passport. Meanwhile Herman and Mustafa arranged themselves in the only two chairs on their side of the divider. “What kind of visa?” I asked.

“Hell, I du

Three minutes later I had it all. Strader’s wife, Suza

Finally I stopped Abtahi’s speech with an upraised palm and spoke to Strader in English. “Mr. Strader, we are not accepting immigration visa requests these days from Iranians. They have Khomeini and the mullahs to thank for that. Nor are we supposed to recommend anyone for a tourist visa unless we are absolutely certain that they will not overstay their visa.”

Strader looked at me as if I had lost my mind. “Half the taxi drivers in New York are from Iran. Where in hell have you people been?”

“I don’t run the government, sir; I merely work for it. Greater fools than I make all the big decisions. As I was saying, we are not supposed to recommend anyone for a tourist visa. However, if I do and Mr. Abtahi gets one, goes to America and overstays his visa, he will become an illegal alien. If the INS snags him, out he goes.”

Strader made a noise with his lips and tongue.

“If you are employing him, you might get in trouble. It’s a federal crime to knowingly employ an illegal alien or help him obtain false documents, such as a Social Security card or driver’s license. In fact, it’s a felony.”